Shitake Happens: (A Shitake Mystery Series Prequel) (4 page)

“Of course you can’t.”

“You agree with me?” Mo was shocked.

“Yes. We'll dye your hair."

"I told you, I'm not dying my hair," Mo shouted. "Even if I did dye my hair, this wouldn't work. We don't have a plan for me to even meet this guy."

Clarence’s eyes lit up. “I thought of that.” He took a paper from his back pocket. “Look at this. I did some research and found a Facebook photo of Wallace Williams. When he was a boy he had a Corgi dog named Bonaparte."

 
“So a boy had a dog. How’s that going to help us now?”

 
"Just a sec." Clarence smiled and then dashed to a chair in the corner to retrieve the magazine Tracy had left with them. He opened it and pointed to a photograph of Wallace posed next to a fountain.

 
“Hey," Mo said, nodding. "I recognize that fountain's spitting swan. That's in a park not too far away from here.”

 
“Yeah, Forsyth Park. And the article says Williams enjoys an early morning jog."

 
“Okay. But I’m still not understanding the plan,” Mo said.

 
Clarence sighed. “Wallace Williams must run at Forsyth Park. So, you're going to walk a Corgi named Bonaparte around there until he jogs into you.”

“I'm going to walk a dog? I'm a cat person.”

"You can become a dog person for a couple days," Clarence replied with a huff.

"Just where are we going to get a Corgi named Bonaparte?”

 
“I’m going to rent the Corgi. He doesn’t have to actually be named Bonaparte. You'll just call him Bonaparte. Wallace can’t help but stop and talk when he sees the Corgi. Men love dogs like kitties love tuna. And think how interested Williams will be when the dog has the same name as his childhood pet.”

“I don’t know. It sounds far-fetched to me. Is there even a dog rental place around here…or around anywhere? And Corgis are a pretty rare breed of dog, aren’t they?”

Clarence cast her a narrow-eyed glare. “Why are you pooh-poohing on my parade here?”

“I think the cliché you want is 'raining on your parade'. But I’m not poohing or raining. I’m just being logical and realistic here." Mo snapped her fingers in front of his face. "Wake up, man. Your plan is full of maybes. Maybe he’ll go to the park to jog. Maybe I’ll be there at just the right moment. Maybe he’ll notice the dog. Maybe he’ll stop to talk to me. Maybe, maybe, maybe.”

"I'm sure it'll work," Clarence insisted. "You just need a different name. Imogene Tuttle sounds like a granny and Mo sounds like a man with an ugly bowl haircut—No offense."

"Oh no. Every girl loves to have her looks compared to one of the Three Stooges," she grumbled. Why was she even listening to this...this...receptionist? Mo was an experienced operative. She knew how to operate a honey trap. Besides, she'd been planning to use a pseudonym so Wallace Williams couldn't check and find out she was a private eye. She just hadn't settled on the exact one to use yet.

"What name do you suggest?" Mo asked.

"Something exotic. Something like Angelina Jolie."

Mo rolled her eyes. "So your plan is for me to walk a dog while looking like Dolly Parton. And when Wallace Williams talks to me I'm supposed to tell him my name is Angelina Jolie?"

Clarence pointed at Mo. "Yes. Exactly."

"Why don't I just put the guy under surveillance and see if he hits on anyone while Tracy is supposedly out of town?" Mo asked.

"Too risky. What if he never sees any bait? You
have
to be the bait."

“You think it’s more likely that he’s going to fall in lust at first sight with someone wearing a ridiculous get-up that makes her look like a transvestite?”

“You do
not
look like a transvestite.”

Mo quirked a doubtful eyebrow.

Clarence smirked. “Okay, maybe just a little vestite, but definitely not trans."

"I'm taking the rest of this stuff off," Mo said. "I'll work on a better costume and you work on a better plan."

* * * * *

The next morning, Mo decided to stake out Forsyth Park as a sort of dry run of the
accidental-meeting
plan. Did Wallace Williams really jog or was that just something he told the magazine to enhance his profile? When asked, Tracy said she thought he jogged but she'd never actually seen him running.

Since a stakeout could potentially be lengthy, and she didn't want to be arrested for loitering, Mo needed an excuse to hang around. That had been the idea, anyway, when she brought Talley out for a walk and took up a position mid-way down the wide path that divided the twenty-acre park. Mo soon found, however, that a cat on a leash wasn't exactly inconspicuous.

Talley—a fluffy, black Main Coon—strained against his harness, trying to get to a squirrel at the base of the nearby live oak tree. The squirrel scampered toward Talley and then cut back to the tree before running up the trunk. He stopped three feet above the ground. His tail twitched and his teeth chattered in excitement, taunting the cat.

"Mrrrrrrrrrow," Talley protested against Mo's restraint.

"Don't pull. I'm trying to clean up here," Mo shouted at the cat as she bent to pick up a stinky pile from the grass with a paper towel. Once she had the mess in the towel, she straightened and started to push the bundle into a plastic baggie. Talley tugged again, trying to make a break. The jolt on her hand caused the bundle to flip out of her grasp. It sailed two feet before landing on the sidewalk near the park bench on which she'd been sitting minutes earlier.

"Shitake!"

The homeless guy lying on the park bench on the opposite side of the sidewalk lifted his head and opened one eye to cast a glare in Mo's direction.

"Haven't you ever seen someone walk a cat before?" she asked, placing a hand on her hip.

"You don't have to yell. A man's trying to sleep here," he said before closing his eye and settling back against the bench's slats.

In order to get the poo off the sidewalk, Mo would have to get the cat. Without releasing tension on the leash, she grabbed Talley up by the midsection before he knew what was happening and then headed back to sidewalk.

This morning was chilly by Savannah standards—fifty degrees.
 
And staying in one place was a cold business. Stupidly, Mo hadn’t worn a hat or coat. She should give up. Surely, Wallace Williams, being a weatherman and all, was smart enough not to go jogging in these conditions. Besides, it was after ten a.m. If Wallace was going for a run today, she must have already missed him somehow.

Mo sat Talley down next to the bench and retrieved her coffee cup from where she'd set it before beginning the clean-up operation. The stink pile could wait a minute. When she took a sip, she found the coffee bitter and tepid. Might as well dump it. She’d be able to hit the trashcan five feet from here. Lining up her shot, she pulled her arm back in an arc and then swung it forward, giving her wrist a flick at the end of the motion. But before her fingertips released the cup, a tug from Talley on her opposite arm pulled Mo off balance. The cup hit the rim of the basket and then fell to the ground.

"Pickles," she swore

“Mrrrrrrrrrrrrow," Talley yowled.

“Shit,” a male voice shouted.

Mo looked back to see a runner stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, inspecting the rubber sole of his shoe. Unfortunately, she could also see a brown stinky substance mashed into its treads.

“Mrrrrrrrow,” Talley cried from where he cowered under the park bench.

“Dammit,” the runner shouted again. “These were new shoes.”

The angle obscured his face as he contorted to view the mess on his sole. She couldn’t tell the color of his hair because of the scull cap he wore. Finally, the runner lifted his head and straightened, turning furious blue eyes on Mo. Without the red face, the guy would have been called handsome.

“Are you the one responsible for this crap, lady?” He pointed toward the partially flattened pile of doo-doo on the sidewalk in front of him.

“Of course not.
I
didn’t make that mess,” Mo lied. Gumballs! She hadn't cleaned up the stuff
before
dealing with the coffee.

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse,” the runner said.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Obtuse means slow to understand.”

“I know what obtuse means," Mo replied. "I just don’t know what you're implying by calling me obtuse. Are you saying I’m stupid?”

“Well, if the shoe—or in this case, shit covered shoe, fits—” He took off his scull cap in one sweeping motion, revealing damp blond hair.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” Mo said.

The runner was good looking but seriously lacking in the charm department.

Hey. Wait a minute.

The runner looked like—Oh my goodness. It couldn’t be him. Not Wallace Williams. But the features were too much like those in the magazine for this to be anyone else. This was her target. She was certain of it.

Crêpe.

Wallace Williams huffed in exasperation. “Is that your cat or not lady?” He made a stabbing gesture toward the tail that was now the only visible part of the Maine Coon under the bench.

“I’m holding his leash aren’t I? Now who's being obtuse?”

“Then you’re responsible for this mess on my shoe. And you’re a lawbreaker. The law requires you to scoop poop. And why in the hell do you have a cat outside on a leash anyway?”

"How do you know it was my cat? It could have been any dog or cat because I know you didn’t see my cat poop that poop."

His gaze narrowed on her. “How do you know I didn’t see it?”

“If you’d seen it, you wouldn’t have run through it." Mo asked. "And if you did see it, and still ran through it, then you’re more stupid than you want to claim I am.”

“Touché.” For a few moments he stood there silent. He cocked his head as he examined her up and down. Finally, a smile spread across his lips. “I’m sorry about the yelling. I’m sure I can clean the shoes.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, smiling back at him. “The poo was just there for a few seconds.” She indicated the pavement and then held up the plastic baggie. “I really was going to get it.”

“What’s his name?” Wallace squatted down and tried to lure the frightened cat out with a smoochy sound and snapping fingers.

“Ummm…" Mo's mind raced for a few seconds before finally sputtering, "Bonaparte. His name is Bonaparte.”

“Really?” His head snapped up and his eyebrows rose.

“Yes of course,” she said in what she feared was an overly defensive tone. “I do know my own cat’s name.”

“I’m sure you do. It’s just that our family had a dog named Bonaparte when I was a boy."

She grinned. “What an amazing coincidence.”

"We thought it was cute because of dogs loving bones,” Wallace said. "Seems unusual for a cat."

"He was named because...ummm...I'm such an admirer of Napoleon."

Wallace stared at her, blinking a couple of time. Then he laughed and crouched down in front of the bench where Talley Bonaparte continued to quiver in hiding. “Bonaparte, Bonaparte,” Wallace coaxed to no avail so he rose to a standing position. “I don’t think he likes me. Either that or he doesn’t know his own name.”