Catnapped! (A Matchmaker Mystery Book 3) (5 page)

He climbed out of the car. “Red or white?”

“What?”

“Wine. Red or white wine?”

Annoyance bubbled up within her. She thought she’d made it clear this would be a professional, not personal visit.  “I told you. I’m working. This isn’t a date.”

“And the wine isn’t for you,” he countered. “I’m not in the habit of going empty-handed to dinner at someone’s house. So can you just tell me whether you think she’d prefer red or white?”

Alyssa blinked, slightly disappointed that the wine wasn’t for her. As much as she’d protested, she’d thought it kind of romantic that he’d wanted to woo her.

“Earth to Alyssa. Red or white?”

She swallowed her disappointment. “Red.” Mildred drank a glass of red wine with dinner nightly.

“Thank you.” He gave a little bow and then reached into his car, pulling out a bottle and a computer case.

“This way.” She led him up the staircase and through the door. Only once he was in the foyer, did she punch in the security code alarm.

She paused a moment after doing so, staring at him. Now that she could see him better under the light, she noted that he cleaned up just as well as she remembered. Hair combed, silver framed glasses perched on his nose, and wearing a navy turtleneck that cloaked his sinewy physique, he looked more like the computer nerd Mauricio claimed he was.

“Something wrong?”

She shook her head. “Just thinking. They’re this way.”

“They?”

She led the way toward the kitchen. “Mrs. M. and Roscoe. When I told Brady I couldn’t cover her twenty-four-seven, he brought in Roscoe as my relief.”

“But I’m not here for Mrs. Michelman, right?”

“Nope. You’re here for the cat.”

“Actually,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I’m here for you.”

Despite the fact his simple declaration made her feel like a shy teenage girl, she managed to call out, “He’s here,” without her voice quavering.

Roscoe, stirring something in a pot that probably cost more than a cop’s weekly salary, waved.

Mrs. Michelman slipped off the stool she’d been sitting on at the breakfast bar and eyed Pete distrustfully. “Are you really a friend of Brady’s?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then tell me, is he a Yankees or Mets fan?”

Pete shook his head. “Neither.”

“No? You’re saying he’s not a baseball fan?”

“No, Mrs. Michelman. I’m saying, despite repeated interventions by his concerned friends and family members, Brady Stewart is…” He looked around as though to make sure no one else would hear. “A Red Sox fan.”

She smiled her approval. “Call me Mildred, young man. And what do you go by?”

“Peter Hanlon. But I prefer Pete.”

“Ahhh, that will be easy for me to remember. My first husband had a brother named Pete.” She turned and pointed to the night’s chef. “And this is Roscoe.”

“Hey,” Roscoe murmured.

Pete was unable to disguise his surprise as he stared at the big man working at the stove. “Roscoe Underwood?
The
Roscoe Underwood?”

Roscoe nodded curtly, suddenly tense, and unwilling to be drawn into the conversation.

Alyssa looked from one man to the other, bewildered.

“Should we know who Roscoe is?” Mildred asked, echoing Alyssa’s unspoken thought.

“Only one of the best players to ever take the field,” Pete gushed. “I’m such a fan.”

“No kidding,” Alyssa muttered.

Mildred stared speculatively at the athlete in her kitchen. “What field did you take Mr. Underwood?

Pete answered for him. “The football field. He was the best until…” He trailed off as though he suddenly remembered the rest of his story and thought better of it.

“Until what?” Mildred asked.

Uncomfortable seconds ticked by in silence.

“Injury,” Alyssa supplied, not knowing whether or not it was a lie, but wanting to do something to save Roscoe from talking about something he obviously didn’t want to talk about with the nosy older woman. She glared at Pete, silently blaming him for putting her in this position.

He nodded once, quick and almost imperceptible, taking responsibility for his wrongdoing, before he said, “I brought wine.” He brandished the bottle. “I’m not sure it’ll go with whatever smells so good.”

“Classic beef stroganoff,” Mildred enthused, football forgotten. “I hope you’re hungry, Mr. Hanlon.”

“Pete, like your former brother-in-law,” he corrected with easy charm, bringing a smile to Mildred’s face. “And I’m starved.”

“It’ll be a little while,” Roscoe announced, relaxed now that the attention wasn’t on him.

“Then let’s get to work.” Pete lifted his computer bag into the air. “Where would you like me to set up?”

“In the study,” Mildred suggested. “But I don’t understand how you expect to find Mr. Burberry with that thing.”

“You’d be surprised.” He followed Alyssa out of the room. As soon as they were out of earshot of the kitchen, he said, “I’m sorry.”

Alyssa glanced back at him, but didn’t stop walking, deciding to use an old cop tactic of pretending to know what was going on, and letting the guilty keep talking, hopefully inadvertently revealing the truth.

“I certainly didn’t mean to upset Roscoe. It was thoughtless of me to bring it up.”

“Maybe you owe
him
the apology,” she suggested.

“You think so? You don’t think it’ll make things worse?”

“Hard to say.” Especially since she had no idea what they were talking about. Still, she couldn’t help liking Pete a little bit more for being so concerned about the other man’s feelings. She pushed open the door of the study, flicked on a light, and pointed him in the direction of an ornate desk.

Pete fell silent as he unpacked his computer.

Realizing he wasn’t going to say anything else regarding Roscoe, she asked, “How do you expect to catch the catnapper with that thing?”

Pete raised his eyebrows. “Catnapper.”

“Kidnapper. Catnapper. Same basic concept.”

“Well, I could come up with a list of suspects for you.”

“Suspects.”

“People who have reason to want Mr. Burberry.”

She frowned. “Why would someone else want him?”

“He’s got quite the pedigree. Plus, I’d imagine that certain people might enjoy having the mascot for Burr & Berry in their possession.”

Alyssa closed her eyes, trying to absorb what he was saying. She’d heard some crazy stories when she’d worked the streets, but the one he was telling made her head spin. “Are you saying that the Michelmans own Burr and Berry?”

“When you want a candy with a sweetness that sticks to your tongue,” Pete confirmed, quoting the candy company’s slogan as his fingers flew over the keyboard of his computer.

“Wow.”

“But actually, it’s just Mildred who owns it,” he elaborated. “She inherited the company from her first husband.”

“That might explain why she keeps him near,” Alyssa murmured, thinking of the picture of her first husband standing by her pillow.

“What?”

“Nothing. So the cat’s really the mascot?”

Pete nodded. “It’s his little face licking the lollipop.” He flipped his computer around so she could see a picture of a cat that did look a lot like Mr. Burberry licking an oversized rainbow lollipop.

“So you think it’s a rival candy company that catnapped him?

“Could you please stop saying that,” Pete teased. “It’s making me sleepy.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“It could be a rival company or maybe someone wants him for his pedigree.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

He shook his head. “No. I did some research, and a cat with his pedigree is in high demand.”

Alyssa moaned. “So basically our main suspects are sugar addicts and crazy cat ladies?”

“Could be.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Roscoe bellowed from the kitchen, effectively ending their conversation until the meal was through since Mildred outlawed shop talk at her table.

Instead, the older woman quizzed Pete on how long and how well he knew Brady, and compared recipe tweaks with Roscoe. Alyssa would have found the situation maddening if she ’weren’t also enjoying the most delicious meal she’d had in months, maybe years.

Pete might be a fan of Roscoe, the football player, but Alyssa liked him for something else entirely. The man could cook.

She was just swallowing her last mouthful of stroganoff when the doorbell rang, souring her stomach. “Expecting anyone?” she asked Mildred.

The older woman shook her head.

Alyssa looked to Roscoe. “You’ll stay with her?”

The big man nodded.

Jumping up, Alyssa ran toward the front door, dimly aware of Pete keeping pace just behind her.

Without bothering to use the peephole, she raced out, hoping to catch whoever it was. A car’s brake lights flashed, pulling out onto the street. Breaking into a full-out run, she chased after it, but it had disappeared from sight by the time she reached the end of the driveway.

She slowly walked back to the house, where she spotted Pete crouched down, intently studying something on the ground.

“What is it?” she asked, fervently hoping it wasn’t a dead cat.

“A note.”

“What kind of note?”

“A ransom note. You were right. Mr. Burberry has been catnapped.”

Pete had to admire the young uniformed police officer who was taking Mrs. Michelman’s statement about Mr. Burberry’s disappearance. He doubted Officer Anderson, who looked to be straight out of the police academy, had imagined her career in law enforcement consisting of taking a statement from an eccentric old lady railing about a missing cat. Still, the officer managed to keep a straight face while she jotted down notes.

“Want to explain why you had her call the cops?” Pete asked as Alyssa showed up at his side in the library.

“Her property was stolen.”

“A cat, not diamonds.”

“You’re the one who pointed out his value,” she replied coolly.

He glanced quickly at the beauty beside him, her attitude reminding him of Jackson’s concern about freezer burn. “Is that how you’re spinning it to the police?”

“Spinning what?”

“That a cop and a former NFL player are just here to guard a cat.”

“I’m no longer a police officer,” she informed him through gritted teeth. “But I assume you know that. That you know everything.”

The unexpected anger coming off her in waves made Pete step back a step. “Whoa”.” He held up his hands defensively. “What are you accusing me of?”

“Snooping. Spying. Invading my privacy.” Her eyes flashed with fury. “What do you call it?”

“I haven’t. I wouldn’t do that.”

She glared at him. “You know my middle name, Mr. Hotshot Cyber Sleuth.”

“A fourth grader could find out that information. That’s not snooping. It’s idle curiosity.”

She frowned.

“Look”…” He stepped closer to her, lowering his voice. “I don’t know why you’re no longer a police officer. I’m interested, but I wouldn’t violate someone’s privacy like that. And I certainly wouldn’t do it to someone I hope to get to know better.”

Her gaze roamed over his face, searching.

He waited, hoping she’d see the truth.

“Fine,” she muttered.

“But if you want to tell me,” he suggested gently, “I’d like to hear.”

Something flickered in her eyes, and he thought she was going to confide in him, but she shook her head.

Sensing she wanted to change the subject, he repeated, “I think you may have a tough time convincing the cops that you, a cop, and a former NFL player are just here to guard a cat.”

“Well, considering we weren’t able to do that,” Alyssa bit out, making it clear her failure irked her, “maybe Brady should have arranged for better help.”

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on,” Pete said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

She turned a cold stare on him.

He dropped his hand, but met her gaze steadily, more than a flicker of annoyance burning in his blood. “Hey,
you
asked
me
to come here.”

He wasn’t sure how long they glared at each before the officer interrupted them. All he knew was that the harder she tried to freeze him out, the angrier he became.

“She wants to pay the ransom,” the cop said, strolling up to them.

Alyssa snapped her attention to the young woman. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

The cop shrugged. “Me neither. But that may be because I’m a dog person. I’ll write this up and you can pick up the report tomorrow.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll show you out.” Alyssa led the cop away, leaving Pete alone in the room with Mrs. Michelman.

“Can I get you something?” he asked, moving toward the older woman. “A glass of water or a cup of tea maybe?”

“Whiskey.”

Pete grinned. A woman after his own heart.

“It’s in the study.”

“I’ll be right back.” As he walked toward the study, he saw Alyssa deep in conversation with the uniformed officer, who was taking additional notes. A surge of frustration added speed to his steps.

He knew that something, other than the cat, was going on. No way would Brady hire someone like Alyssa to babysit his boss’s cat.  What he didn’t know was how to get the Ice Princess to confide in him.

Finding the whiskey, he poured a drink for Mildred. Realizing it was Jameson 18 year, he poured one for himself too. Alyssa was nowhere in sight as he returned to the library, glasses in hand.

There he found Mildred sitting on a chair, and Roscoe standing, looking over her shoulder, as she flipped through a thick photo album that appeared to only have pictures of a cat. Roscoe’s gaze already had a pained glaze.

He put Mildred’s drink down on the table beside her as she waxed nostalgic about how sharp Mr. Burberry’s claws had been, even as a young kitten. Silently, he offered the drink he’d poured for himself to Roscoe, who looked like he needed it.

The chef/bodyguard took the glass and drank its amber contents in one swallow.

Pete, thinking it was a huge waste of a great sipping whiskey, winced as he carefully crept out of the room.

He froze, just like he’d done as a kid playing freeze tag, surprised to find Alyssa in the hallway, watching him.