Murder and a Song (A Pattie Lansbury Cat Cozy Mystery Series Book 2) (6 page)

            “This
is a flea collar that I believe belongs to Seth MacGowan.”

            “He
has fleas, does he?”

            “…To
his cat!” Pattie corrected. “It’s related to a fishy murder case, and something
made me want to have it scanned first in case it’s the type with a
microchip.  What can you tell me?”

            The
kindly Doctor took the translucent evidence bag and peered at the silver tag on
the collar.  Without taking the collar
out of the bag, he pointed the scanner at it. 
They both heard the beep.

            “There
we are,” said Elliott, smiling.  He
checked his computer, where the scanner was connected by USB.  Details of the cat’s owner came up on screen.
“Yep, the tag is registered to a Mrs Elaine MacGowan of Rostead Farm, Little
Hamilton.  You were right on the
money.  But where is the cat?”

            “O’Malley
is prowling around the village somewhere. 
Apparently he rarely leaves the farm, but I saw him in one of the tents
at the festival yesterday, where he’d been stealing tidbits from some suspects
of mine.  I can’t figure out the
connection between the suspects and the cat!”

            “Does
there have to be a connection?” asked Elliott, taking a sip of his hot tea and
sighing contentedly.

            “The
collar was found in the hand of a murder victim named Harry Widmore.  And
he
was our prime suspect for an earlier murder – and so was Seth MacGowan.”

            “Could
they have been working together?  Harry
and Seth?”

            Pattie
topped up her tea.  The hot Yorkshire
Blend was steaming up her spectacles. “I’m sure that Seth and Elaine have
nothing to do with it, besides a brief argument between Seth and the first
victim.  But the MacGowans have alibis,
and although Seth’s a hothead he’s not the type to hire a random festival-goer
to murder someone for him.  He hates the
festival and everyone there.  No, I think
that O’Malley is the key, not the MacGowans…”

            The
Doctor scratched his head. “Remind me who O’Malley is?”

            “The
cat, Elliott,” said Pattie.

            “Oh!  Right, of course … Like the Disney film.  Wait a sec, don’t you have a furry little
lodger who happens to be an expert sniffer-tracker?”

            “Yes,
you’re thinking of Tyson.  But I tried
with one of O’Malley’s toys and it got me nowhere fast.”

            “But
those toys are often stuffed with catnip. 
You have the collar now; surely that’s got a good, strong scent on it?”

            Pattie’s
eyes lit up.  Sometimes she could kiss
Doctor Elliott Knight! “Of course!  Oh,
Elliott, I knew it was the right choice coming to you!”

            He
looked hurt. “When is it not, Patricia dear?”

            Pattie
was already on her feet. “Sorry to dash, Elliott, but I’d better get on this
right away.  If we’ve got a serial killer
on our hands I can’t waste a minute.”

            “But,
Patricia…!  What about our tea?”

            “Just
enjoy it, dear – A cup of tea costs nothing, you know!”

            The
good Doctor got to his feet and screwed the cup back onto the thermos. “You
aren’t ditching me that easily.  I’m
coming with you!”

Pattie unlocked her front door and
gestured for Elliott to enter before her. 
She switched on the lights and went to prepare the cats’ dinners.  The Doctor waited in the hallway, looking at
the many photos on Pattie’s walls: her husband, long passed, and their two
boys.  The boys grew up with each
photo.  After a while, when they were
teenagers, the blond boy was in all the pictures, and the dark-haired boy
disappeared.  Elliott guessed that
Andrew, her disgraced Detective son, no longer had a place on her walls.

            Pattie
bustled about the place, filling bowls from foil pouches and tickling
so-and-sos behind the ear.  She called to
Tyson and gave him some extra affection when he bounded up to her.  She talked Elliott through her training
process and let him be impressed for a moment, before allowing Tyson one last
whiff of O’Malley’s collar.

            Tyson
jumped for the front door and sat down, looking back expectedly for Pattie to
open it.

            “We’d
better get ready,” said Pattie.

            “Should
we put him on a lead or something?” asked Elliott.

            “Have
you ever tried to put a cat on a lead?  Some
cats might accept one, but Tyson
definitely
wouldn’t.  We’ll just have to do our best
to keep up.  Let’s go!”

            As
before, Tyson trotted across the front lawn at a steady pace.  He turned back once to check that his
mistress was following, then sauntered casually up Shepherd’s Street.  They followed the talented little kitty past
the junction he had paused at before, crossed the road safely, and let him lead
them towards the pastures and farms at the edge of town.

            “I
hope he’s not just taking us to Seth MacGowan’s farm,” said Elliott.

            “Me
too.  Although I wouldn’t care if it
meant we found O’Malley.  This cat thing
has really got me scratching my head.”

            “If
it’s dermatitis, I can prescribe a cream,” the Doctor said with a chuckle. “Or
at least a good anti-dandruff shampoo.”

            “Do
you have anything for a mild slap?” warned Pattie with a smile, and they both
laughed good-naturedly as they followed the stripy tom.

            Soon
they came close to the MacGowan’s farm, but turned right across the bottom of
the valley towards the festival grounds. 
They passed through a narrow strip of woodland, following the main
walking path that came close to the confluence of the road, path and river,
about half a mile from the stone bridge. 
Then they emerged into the festival campsite near to a small stage on
which a sixties-style rock band were playing in stylish suits. 

            “He
must still be somewhere around here,” said Pattie. “I wish I’d worn my
wellies…”

            “You’re
telling me,” said Doc Elliott, who looked sadly at the mud up his work shoes
and smart trousers. “Why do these festivals always turn into giant
wallows?  I keep expecting to see a hippo
rolling over in the mud somewhere here…”

            “Focus,
Elliott!  Did you see where Tyson went…?”

            “There…!”

            Tyson
was moving quickly now, employing all of his feline dexterity and speed.  He hoped over beer crates and coolers; he
ducked under barbeques and beach chairs; he slunk between the legs of picnic
tables and the assorted revellers, dancers, buskers and socialisers that filled
the spaces between the labyrinth of tents. 
His lithe little body soon disappeared amongst all the people and
clutter.

            “I
don’t see him…” said Elliott. “Where did he go?”

            “Blast!  We’ve lost him!”

            They
kept searching amongst the campsite, but Tyson had been too eager.  Pattie was happy knowing that Tyson would be
able to find the way back home by himself, even if it meant they hadn’t found
O’Malley.

            “Well,”
said Elliott, “at least we know O’Malley is somewhere around here, right?  Assuming Tyson didn’t just get a whiff of
grilled chicken and take off to satisfy his belly…”

            “We
aren’t going to find out standing here,” Pattie replied.  She was looking at her filthy shoes. “But
since we’re all the way down here, I think I’ll pay a visit to our suspects on
plot 369 and see what they know about poor Harry’s death … Oh, would you mind
hanging back for a while?  I really
shouldn’t take anyone with me if I’m asking questions…”

            Elliott
smiled warmly. “I understand Pattie, of course. 
I’ll wait for you by that hotdog van over by the stage, there.  That band sounds like a Beatles cover group.”

            “I
love the Beatles!” said Pattie with a grin. “It’s a date!”

            “A
date it is,” said Elliott, and he strode towards the hotdog van with his hand
in his pocket, no doubt fishing for loose change.

            Pattie
waited for a while and watched him go. 
She’d grown very fond of Elliott Knight over the years they’d known each
other.  He had moved to Little Hamilton
four years ago for a fresh start. 
Unfortunately the village’s previous doctor had been locked up by the
police – that was an interesting little story, and Pattie’s first case in the
village – and Doc Knight filled an empty space that sorely needed it.

            It
struck Pattie again how she was different in his company: a brighter, happier
Patricia Lansbury, who she much preferred to her usual self.  Cats were perfectly adequate company, not to
mention cute as buttons, but they weren’t particularly good at conversation.

            Pattie
made her way to plot 369, where she expected to find Toby Draper, James Farrell
and Tim Jeffries, but the only person there was an officer on duty.

            “D.C.
Downey took them to the station,” he said. “He said the whole situation was
much too suspicious.”

            “I
thought Constable Palmer was managing the legwork – what does she think?” asked
Pattie.

            “She
agrees with Downey, of course,” the officer replied with a wink. “The three
guys haven’t been formally charged yet, but I hear they’re really getting
grilled.”

            “Has
anything come to light?”

            “Not
that I’ve heard, but the D.C. told me to fill you in if you showed up.  Oh, he also asked if you were done with some
evidence?  He gets antsy when the
consulting detectives wander off with things.”

            Pattie
handed over the cat collar in the evidence bag. 
There was little good in keeping it now that Tyson had made his best
effort, wherever he was. “Of course, here it is.  I have a new mobile telephone; would you mind
giving me a call if anything comes up?”

            “Sure,”
said the officer, and took her number.

            Pattie
left, happy that the three suspects were being properly interviewed down at the
station.  It was very worrying that Harry
Widmore had shown up dead so soon after the first murder.

            She
was deep in thought when suddenly a modern smartphone was thrust into her face.

            “Pattie
Lansbury, I’m Laura Conrad, for YTV News? 
Could I ask you a few questions?”

            Pattie
recoiled from the young red-haired woman who had leapt out from behind a large
tent.  She batted the phone away, which
was being used as a recorder, and scowled at the reporter. “I know who you are,
Miss Conrad: we’ve met several times. 
You don’t have to introduce yourself every time you approach me for
something.  And it’s Patricia, if you
don’t mind terribly.”

            “Mrs
Lansbury, you’re consulting on the murder case of Daryl Hardy, is that right?”

            “I
really don’t want to discuss an ongoing case with you, Miss Conrad,” Pattie
said shortly.  Having the recorder in her
face really bothered her; she considered it the height of rudeness.  If there was anything she couldn’t stand, it
was rudeness.

            But
the reporter was as insistent as always. “But you
are
consulting on the Hardy murder case?”

            “Laura,
if you want to talk to me, it will have to be off the record.  Okay? 
I’m not speaking into that thing.”

            The
young lady hesitated for a second with her lips pursed, then tapped her
touchscreen and said, “Alright.  It’s
off, see?  Let’s talk.  I just want some basic details to run on the
evening slot, but the chief is like a headless chicken with the whole festival
thing…”

            Pattie
gestured to a nearby bench, and they both sat. “Yes, it’s a lot for them to
handle.  I’m happy to give you the bare
facts, but I can’t discuss any of our enquiries, okay?”

            “Sure.  Daryl Hardy was murdered?”

            “Yes.”

            “As
well as this other person, Harry Widmore, who was one of the suspects in the
first murder?”

            “Mr
Widmore has also been found murdered, but I can’t comment on who our suspects
are for either crime.  The police have
arrested three people who are associated with both victims.”

            She
watched patiently as the reporter scribbled down some notes on a small
pad.  Pattie had been aware of the young
woman since she’d been little; her father, Matthew Conrad, was a local media
tycoon whose name cropped up suspiciously often in national police cases.  He was also a benefactor of small local
businesses and worldwide philanthropist. 
It was no wonder that Laura was so beautiful; Pattie had often thought
that Matthew Conrad was distractingly handsome, and he was known as something
of a ladies’ man.

            Laura
stroked some hair behind her ear and licked the tip of her pencil again.  When she looked up, her green eyes were
bright with intelligence. “So, spill the beans, Patricia.  What has Seth MacGowan got to do with all
this?”