A Novel Death: a Danger Cove Bookshop Mystery (Danger Cove Mysteries Book 10) (4 page)

"Meri! It's Janie. How are you? We miss you here in Seattle."

Janie Williams was a longtime publicist in the Seattle area, and we had worked together many times when I was at HunTech. When I had the idea for the author events, I called Janie first, and she had helped me book three authors. Though I hadn't spoken to her in more than a week, I was certain that the timing of her call was not coincidental.

"Well, I'm sure you've heard the news," I started to say.

"I did. And that's why I'm calling."

I did not like the sound of that.

"I know that Dangerous Reads had nothing to do with Mr. Montague's unfortunate passing, but my client, Agatha Bartlett, is a tad on the superstitious side. So, long story short—we're pulling out of the appearance."

I sat down with a sigh. That was not a good start to the series—the first author dead and the second author canceling.

"What about the other authors?" Janie had two more authors whose tours she was organizing, and I really didn't want to lose them too.

"As far as I know, they're fine with the appearances," Janie said. "It's just that Agatha thinks it's bad luck to start her tour off right after a murder."

"Sure, I understand," I said, but I was totally lying.

"Also, the name, Dangerous Reads, makes her nervous," Janie said.

"Well, that's just ridiculous."

"I know," Janie said, and she did sound contrite.

"This is disappointing," I said. "I was looking forward to hearing her talk about"—I had to glance at the schedule taped to my office wall to remind myself of Agatha's book—"the new frontiers of fusion cooking."

Okay, I wasn't going to really miss that. My idea of cooking was throwing a frozen tray in the microwave, though I was also quite adept at calling in a take-out order.

"And I'm sorry I don't get to make a trip to Danger Cove in a few weeks," Janie said with a sigh.

"Any chance you've got another author who wants to take Ms. Bartlett's spot?" I asked, looking at my calendar.

"Sorry, kiddo. My clients are all booked up, but if I hear of anyone who may be interested, I'll call you," Janie said. "By the way, you and your incredible kiss-off email to your ex-boyfriend were the topics of my daughter's Feminist Frenzy workshop last week."

I sputtered while trying to figure out what Janie was talking about. "What? Me? Why? Feminist Frenzy?"

"Oh, you know, like Girl Scouts, but less camping, more feminist commentary," Janie said. "I'm a co-leader. Anyway, the girls really loved the lesson. We deconstructed your email, line by line, and then took turns doing dramatic readings."

"Oh God," I said, my stomach sinking. I slammed the door to the office shut.

I really had figured that two months was plenty of time for my ill-considered response to Hunter's break-up email to have faded into the mists of time. It had gotten a lot of attention in Seattle and beyond, but surely there was another minor scandal to distract people.

"If you come back to Seattle soon, we'd love to have you talk to the girls," she said.

"I'm not sure what I could talk about," I stammered. Other than the difference between "reply" and "reply all," I didn't see what sort of lesson I could impart to the young feminists in Janie's class.

"About standing up for yourself, about not putting up with a boy's bull—well, they're twelve and thirteen, so you know, a boy's bull poo."

"I'll think about it." I was totally lying. My only thoughts on the subject were how I could avoid ever doing that.

"That would be great!" she said. "You're on your way to becoming a feminist icon."

My face burned hot, and I was grateful that I'd closed the door to the office, even though no one could have heard Janie's words other than me.

"Dear Lord," I whispered. How had my rushed response to getting dumped made me into a feminist icon? I had a couple of shelves of books by women far more deserving of that title.

"You spoke for a lot of women when you told him off. It was so inspiring!"

Or humiliating, depending which side of the email scandal one was on.

We hung up, and I sat in the claustrophobic office for a long minute, trying to picture how a dramatic reading of my indignant email to Hunter had sounded reenacted by preteen girls, and a fresh wave of horror washed over me. So it sounded like returning to Seattle was still out—even if I wanted to go back there.

In the weeks following the blowup, I had been careful to avoid social media. Even then, well-meaning friends had forwarded some mentions of the incident in technology blogs—the demographic most interested in private emails from high-tech CEOs. Then it had leaked into more mainstream websites, and then to actual news organizations, and I'd unplugged my internet connection. I'd politely refused any interviews, and so had Hunter. As bad as the attention was for me, it was probably worse for him. He came off as callous, immature, and a stereotype of a rich and entitled tech bro. A couple of our mutual friends had reached out and asked if I would consider doing an interview that defended him, but I'd refused those overtures too. I wasn't in the mood to help repair the reputation of the man who dumped me and then fired me the day before my grandmother's funeral.

And that was his loss, because once upon a time, I'd been actually really good at repairing reputations, smoothing over bad news, and spinning a report to make my employer look good. His new public relations director could tackle Hunter's image problem.

What I needed to do now was repair Dangerous Reads' reputation—smooth over the bad publicity from having an author murdered at the store and spin it to make the bookstore come out ahead. And do all that before Detective Marshall began asking other people in the community about my propensity for violence.

I just wasn't sure how to do that yet.

A soft knock sounded on the door, and I opened it to find Alicia standing with two iced sugar cookies.

"Need one of these?"

That was probably the last thing I needed, but I took the cookie anyway. She squeezed into the office with me and closed the door behind her.

"Was that bad news?"

"It was," I said. "How did you know?"

Alicia gave me a sad smile. "Your grandmother used to do the same thing. If she got a troubling phone call, she'd shut the door to take it, and that was our clue to expect bad news."

"There isn't a lot of privacy here. It was this or the break room."

"What happened?"

I sighed and set the cookie on the junior-sized desk. "Agatha Bartlett canceled her appearance because of the murder. She's superstitious and thinks that it's bad luck to start her tour here."

Alicia wrinkled up her nose. "She's a loon anyway. Have you seen her cookbook?"

I shook my head.

"She's trying too hard to make Swedish East Indian fusion a thing. Let me tell you, her recipe for curried lutefisk was
not
a hit in my house."

I shuddered at the thought. "She wasn't going to do a cooking demonstration. But it would have been a nice chance to get a new kind of Dangerous Reads customer into the store. Now I have a hole in my calendar to fill."

I didn't even get into the whole email–Feminist Frenzy issue with Alicia.

"Don't worry about that," she said. "We'll find another author who appreciates the boost that a Dangerous Reads' event can bring."

I wasn't entirely sure of that or that we could promise a boost. But I appreciated Alicia more than ever—not just for the cookie either.

"Did the detective have good news?" Alicia asked, her voice hopeful.

"No. There's a gap in Cal's schedule that he can't account for. And I'm pretty sure he still thinks I'm the murderer."

"Haven't they read his book? I'm sure there are plenty of people who wanted to kill him."

This day wasn't getting any better. I decided to pull the ripcord. "I'm going to go home and finish the bookkeeping there. Thanks for the cookie."

"Anytime, Meri," Alicia said, opening the door. She waited while I locked the office door and then followed me back to the break room. "So I was thinking that you should come over to dinner this week. Say, Thursday?"

There was a tone in Alicia's voice, a forced lightness. I'd heard it before, but it had been a while. And the last time someone had used that tone on me, I'd ended up in a three-year relationship that ended with my self-inflicted trauma and humiliation.

"Are you trying to set me up?" I asked, gathering my bag and book from the cabinet beneath the break room counter.

Alicia laughed sheepishly. "It's just that you're so delightful, and there's a young man who just started at Doug's firm. You two would really hit it off."

I frowned at her, equally put out that she was trying to set me up with her husband's coworker and that I had to turn down a home-cooked meal. "I'm sure he's great, but I'm not interested in dating."

Opening the closet, I reached past Burt's slick down parka, Alicia's expensive dove-gray pea coat, and Katya's letterman jacket, trying to find my coat buried in the back.

"He's very smart. A little quiet, but you know, cute enough," she said.

"Don't oversell him, Alicia," I said, grabbing the sleeve of my coat from the depths of the closet.

But when I pulled the garment out, I saw that it wasn't mine. It was a man's blazer, and it was covered in cat hair.

"Oh yikes!" I said, leaping backward.

"What?"

"Cat hair," I said, dropping the jacket on the table and washing my hands in the sink to avoid triggering an allergy attack. While I soaped up my hands, I studied the fabric from a safe distance. "Is that Cal Montague's jacket?"

Alicia poked at it and then nodded. "I think it is."

With a pen, she opened the pocket and peered in. "Hey, there's stuff in here."

I dried off my hands and joined Alicia at the table, where we studied the garment as if it contained clues to Cal's murders.

"That's a lot of cat hair," I said, trying not to get too close. "Maybe there's something in there that would help the police figure out where he was before he came here."

Alicia reached into the inside pocket and eased out a gold pocket watch.

"He must have been someplace with a cat," I said, eyeing the thick mat of pale hair stuck to the sleeve of the coat.

"You poor thing," Alicia said, watching me skirt around the coat and avoid touching the cat hair. "You must be terribly allergic."

I nodded. "Yes, but I'm really careful to avoid cats, so it hasn't been a problem."

Alicia walked to the cabinet and pulled out a plastic zip-top bag. She opened it and handed it to me, then scraped a bunch of the hair up and deposited it into the bag. I zipped it up and then breathed a little easier.

"This is important," Alicia said with a nod. "If we can figure out where this cat hair came from, we can find out where Cal was. And then that will help the police focus on real, actual murder suspects."

That was a good plan with just one flaw. "How do we find out what cat this is from?"

Alicia gave me a huge smile. "I know someone who can tell us."

I had lived in Danger Cove until I was nearly 20, and in all that time, I had never set foot in the town's animal clinic. I'd never had any need to, since I was allergic to cats, and my mother had a residual fear of dogs that stemmed from a childhood incident with a Rottweiler. The clinic sat back from the road, and the parking lot was nearly half-filled.

Alicia parked her BMW between two minivans that each had windows smudged with nose prints.

"Maybe I should get a dog," I mused out loud as we walked toward the clinic.

"You're not allergic to them?"

"No, just cats, I think. I've never had a problem with dogs. Except my mother is afraid of them," I said. "I do have a yard now though. And a house."

"So you've never had a dog?"

"No, I've never had any pets."

Alicia looked alarmed. "Not a hamster? Not a bunny? Not even a fish?"

I shook my head. "No, you've met my mom. She's a neat freak. Even a fish would probably throw her for a loop. How many pets do you have?"

Alicia looked up, as if counting in her head. "Three dogs. Two cats. A guinea pig. Jessa has an aquarium with several fish. John has a gecko. And Maggie has a pair of cockatiels."

I glanced at her, my eyes widening as she ran through the inventory. "That's a whole lot of pets."

"Well, we have a big house. And five kids to pick up after the pets," she said. "It's why I know Dr. Whitaker so well, even though he's only been in Danger Cove for about six months."

The lobby wasn't nearly as chaotic as I would have expected. The animals were all on leashes or in carriers, and their owners chatted among themselves and browsed the magazines that were distributed around the seating area. The receptionist greeted Alicia with a big smile and warm welcome. With all those pets, I suspected the Holmes were the veterinarian's favorite customers.

"Meri, this is Holly Cantrell," Alicia said, introducing me to the woman behind the counter. She had warm brown eyes and short dark hair with streaks of bold purple extending back from her temples. Her cat-eye reading glasses were the same shade of brilliant violet, giving her the look of a superhero librarian. I liked her immediately.

"Oh, our new bookstore gal," Holly said, pumping my hand. "So nice to meet you. I just joined the book club, so I'll see you at the next meeting, right?"

"Yes, I'll be there," I said. Alicia ran the Dangerous Reads book club, but I was looking forward to seeing if there was anything I could do to bolster the attendance. There was a steady group of a dozen women who met monthly at the store, but I was sure we could improve that or expand to attract new readers with a second book club. I hadn't yet convinced Burt to host a monthly book club meeting though, and Katya had too much homework to burden her with additional reading assignments. It looked like I'd be the second hostess, so I needed to learn more about our existing group.

"What brings you ladies in?" Holly looked around for any animals that we might have brought in, then gave us a confused look. "No pets today, Alicia?"

"No, not today. Meri has a question that requires Dr. Whitaker's expertise," Alicia said. "Is the doctor…available?"

She and Holly exchanged a glance, then Holly the superlibrarian looked me over and smiled. They seemed to be in agreement on something—something they were not telling me.

"Oh yes. I'll go get him," Holly said, tossing a wink toward Alicia.

She disappeared into the back of the clinic, and I turned to Alicia. "What's going on here?"

My coworker gave me a look of poorly feigned innocence. "Nothing."

I didn't buy it for a minute. And then the back door opened, and Holly led a man wearing a white coat out to the reception counter. He towered over the receptionist by a good foot. He had dark-blond hair and a couple days' growth of beard on his jaw, and his expression was gruff, almost grumpy. I wouldn't exactly describe him as handsome, but I could not take my eyes off him. He was compelling. His nose was slightly crooked, like he'd taken a punch in the past, and it hadn't quite healed correctly. He was broad shouldered and lean. And his dark-blue eyes were focused on me.

Probably because I was staring with an open-mouth gawk.

I snapped my jaw shut and tried to act normal, but that ship had pretty much sailed.

"Dr. Whitaker, this is Meri Sinclair, the new owner of Dangerous Reads. She just moved to Danger Cove also. You two have so much in common," Holly said with a smile that revealed she and Alicia were sisters-in-arms when it came to matchmaking. And I had walked right into that trap.

Though I had to begrudgingly admit, the trap had a tremendous view. I couldn't help but compare him to my ex-boyfriend Hunter, who was handsome in a more boyish way. This was a man. A man who could apparently take a punch. I imagined Hunter taking a punch. I imagined punching Hunter. It felt good. But those thoughts were distracting me from the intriguing man in front of me.

I shook the vet's hand and composed myself. "Nice to meet you. We have some cat hair we're trying to identify. Can you help with that?"

He gave me a curious look—not quite a smile but a softening around his mouth. "I suppose I can. Come on back here," he said.

Alicia and I walked around the counter, following Dr. Whitaker to an examination room. When I walked into the small space, I realized that Alicia had taken a detour and was still chatting with Holly. She waved at me to go on without her, leaving me and the too-interesting veterinarian alone.

Damn it. That was no accident.

"What do you have for me?" he asked, settling on a stool and waving me toward the matching one next to him.

I pulled the plastic bag from my purse and handed it to him, then climbed up on the stool. Dr. Whitaker pulled a gooseneck lamp close and turned it on to look at the fur through the sandwich bag, mushing it around.

"It's definitely cat fur," he said, as if he were talking to himself. Then he looked up at me. "Where did you find it?"

"On a jacket," I said, omitting the part about the murder victim.

He opened the bag and took out a tuft of fur, examining it under the bright light.

"Are you trying to find out if your husband is running around with a tabby?"

He looked up at me with a bemused expression—though still no smile.

"What? No! I'm not married," I said, flustered by his direct gaze.

"Boyfriend?"

"No. It's not from any romantic partner."

He almost smiled, then returned his attention to the fur, and my attention was drawn to a box that was squeaking in a corner. I peered over to where the high-pitched squealing was coming from, then hopped off the stool and went to investigate. The box contained a half-dozen kittens. They were so little that they looked like furry jelly beans with legs. Their blue eyes blinked up at me, and their little mouths opened in protest.

"Oh, kittens!" I said, surprised at how cute they were. Of course, I knew kittens were cute. I mean, I've been on the internet. But I hadn't ever been so close to some myself.

"Yeah, found them this morning on the front steps," Dr. Whitaker said.

"Someone just tossed them away?" I was disgusted and outraged that someone would leave six defenseless babies in a parking lot.

"It happens a lot. I'll take them over to the Second Chance Animal Rescue later," he said.

"It's so sad," I said.

"You're welcome to take one home, if you're interested. Or take two—they're small."

"I can't. I'm allergic to cats," I said.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Cats are great pets."

I sighed. I'd always wanted a cat growing up, but my mother's protective streak extended to keeping me away from anything that made me sneeze. We'd gone several rounds on the issue, with me promising that I didn't mind sneezing that much and her insisting that it just wasn't healthy for me to be around cats. Being the parent, she'd won that battle.

"Don't worry," Dr. Whitaker said. "They're cute. They'll find homes."

He tucked the fur back into the bag and handed it back to me. Then he walked over to the box and picked up one of the mewling kittens. He grabbed a tiny bottle from the counter and then coaxed the little black kitten to take the milk from it. Within a few seconds, the mewling had stopped, and the baby was happily sucking away at the bottle.

"Your suspect is a buff-colored, long-haired domestic cat," Dr. Whitaker said. This time the hint of a smile did reach his eyes. "Does that help you?"

I frowned. "No. Don't you have, I don't know, a database of buff-colored, long-haired domestic cats who live locally?"

Dr. Whitaker shook his head. "No. No database. I have filing cabinets."

"Can you look through your filing cabinets and find all the matching cats in Danger Cove?" I honestly had no idea how this worked, but that seemed like a good place to start.

"I could, but I won't."

"Why not? Are there privacy issues? I mean, they're cats," I said.

"I have several patients who fit this description. It's not an uncommon type of cat. But I'm not sharing their addresses with you. I don't want you barging in on them. And they won't be able to tell you anything anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because they're cats."

"I meant the owners," I said. He wasn't taking me seriously, and as much fun as it was watching him play with the cute kittens, I was starting to get a little insulted.

"I'm fairly new to Danger Cove, and I'd like to not alienate my patients or their owners, if you don't mind," he said.

"How about this—if I find out where the, uh, jacket was, can you tell me if that location hosts a buff-colored, long-haired domestic cat?"

Dr. Whitaker tilted his head and studied me. Then he gave me a slow nod. "Maybe."

"I'll take that as a yes," I said, tucking the bag back into my purse. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Whitaker."

"Call me Adam," he said.

For some reason, that made my stomach a little jumpy.

"I'll see you soon, Adam."

"You will?"

"Oh yes." I was going to find out where that jacket had been, and I would be back to see him as soon as I could.

"Then good luck on your investigation," he said, and then he actually smiled, and the warm expression lit up his face, softening it and making him so gorgeous that my stomach did a cartwheel.

Yikes.