The Tail of the Secret Identity: A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 3) (3 page)

“But why?” the sheriff pressed. “Why would he need to trust you so badly?”

“I don’t know. For whatever reason, Bernie didn’t seem to trust
anyone
. That he ever told me anything at all was a bit of a miracle.”

There was a snuffling and then a loud meow from by her feet. Beatrice peeked over to see Hamish rooting around in Bridget’s handbag like he owned it. After a minute, he deftly picked out a small set of keys with his teeth and placed them on the floor. Bridget went to swat him away but he growled fiercely, his hair standing on end making him look like an angry raccoon.

Beatrice, who was used to the big Maine Coon’s crime-solving help, whispered to let him be for a moment. Hamish rooted about in the keys with his nose before finally stopping at one. He sneezed suddenly and then began to paw at that key. Beatrice scooped it up.

“What’s this key for?”

Bridget peered at it for a moment. “Heavens, that’s Bernie’s key. He gave it to me ages ago. Said to guard it with my life. But what was it for?” She pursed her lips. “Oh yes! A storage container. He said it was in Portland, Maine. Where exactly, he never told me, which wasn’t exactly useful. I thought it was another of his weird tests and promptly forgot about it.”

“He didn’t tell you what was in the storage unit?” the Sheriff asked.

The secretary shook her head. “Not a word.”

The sheriff looked with a pained expression over at his computer. “This is something I’m going to have to look up isn’t it? Storage facilities in Portland.”

Beatrice pulled out her tablet in a flash. “Already on it!” she said, tapping away with her stylus. “I guess we’re going on a road trip.”

6

Hamish sat in Beatrice’s lap in the front seat of the sheriff’s pickup, looking as happy as a clam. He loved riding in cars and even tried to stick his head out the window like a dog before Beatrice grabbed him and rolled up the glass.

Meanwhile, Lucky quaked in his cat carrier—he was terrified of any and all car travel. Beatrice had tried to get Hamish to stay in a carrier but he turned into a feral thing once inside, trashing about and yowling like the thing was trying to kill him.

The sheriff, who was driving, occasionally frowned in Hamish’s direction. He wasn’t overly fond of cats but Beatrice was happy he was making an effort.

About 15 minutes outside of Ashbrook, Beatrice’s phone finally whistled. A text! A text from Matthew! Where the devil had he been all day? Beatrice eagerly opened it up.

All it said was: “I have to cancel tonight. I know we were going to have dinner. Sorry.”

Beatrice quickly thumbed back. “Why????”

“Got a date.”

She immediately felt cold. “A date?” she exploded. “The, the nerve!”

The sheriff looked over, eyebrows raised. “You have a date?”

“Heavens no! Matthew just cancelled our plans tonight because he says
he
has a date.”

“Well, good for him. Time he got out there.”

Beatrice looked daggers at the sheriff. “Matthew doesn’t need to date. He has
me
. I make him dinner. We solve crimes together.”

She froze. “And who could he be going on a date
with
?” She mentally scanned through the list of available women in Ashbrook and surrounding area. None of the candidates seemed appealing, at least to her.

“Bee, we both knew this day would come. Matthew’s a human being. He wants companionship. Love. A partner. Not a best friend.”

Beatrice crossed her arms. “I thought we were too old for all this romance nonsense,” she grumbled.

“Well, apparently Matthew’s not. So are you going to be a good friend and support him or are you going to make him miserable for trying to be happy?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

Beatrice sighed and looked out the window. She reflexively grabbed Hamish and cuddled him close. He was reassuringly warm and fluffy—a giant teddy bear of a cat—and his purring gave her comfort as it resonated into her body. He nudged his head against her collarbone, as if he knew exactly how she felt.

She picked her phone back up and began calling a list of Portland-area storage facilities to see if any were registered to Bernie Sullivan. They hurtled down the highway, deep in the New Hampshire interior. There were few other cars. The road wound through the mountains and plunged through thickets of fiery sugar maples, golden beeches, and hot orange oaks. Here and there streams spilled out of the forest and sank under the highway, emerging on the other side, frothing and rushing away.

For the first time in a long while, Beatrice wondered if it would be a good idea to rent a cabin in the woods and get away from it all.

They crossed the Maine state line. Beatrice ran through the list of big storage facilities and started reaching out to the smaller ones. Finally, after many frantic phone calls, the owner of a tiny place on the waterfront said it had a unit belonging to Reggie Sullivan.

They rolled into the outskirts of Portland. Initially, there were the usual big box stores and subdivisions but as they entered the center of town urban sprawl gave way to cobblestone streets and low-rise red brick shops with arched windows and dormers peeking out from on top. Beatrice could smell the salty tang of ocean far out, which made her want to eat a lobster roll immediately.

But, they were on a mission. No lobster for her.

The storage facility was in a forgotten corner of the waterfront, away from the ice cream shops, lobster shacks, and strolling tourists. Rusted shipping crates were stacked close to monster boats. Rather quickly, clouds fogged up the harbor and a light drizzle started. The streets soon became slick and the old brick buildings darkened with moisture.

The sheriff parked in front of a squat building at the end of a one-way street. He shut off the ignition. “Now why in the blazes did Bernie choose this little shack to store his stuff?” he said, twisting his moustache with his fingers.

Beatrice’s stomach clenched with excitement. “I suppose we’re about to find out. Hamish, Lucky, you both stay close to me. No monkey games.”

There wasn’t even an on-site proprietor. An ancient bent man in a greasy ball cap waited for them outside.

“I got instructions not to open this thing for no one,” he snapped, without a word of greeting first.

The sheriff snapped open his badge. “I’m not no one. And Bernie Sullivan’s dead. We’re investigating his murder.”

The man pursed his withered lips. “You’d be surprised how often I hear that. Alright then, let’s get on with it.”

Bernie’s unit was at the very end, inside a brick building that seemed to be crumbling from the inside. The owner opened a rusted lock with the key and pulled up the steel grate.

“I’ll be outside,” he grunted. “Don’t take your time.”

The sheriff turned on his flashlight. At first, it all looked like a huge pile of junk that smelled stale and musty.

“Am I the only one who was expecting dead bodies in here?” Beatrice asked.

“You’d smell it,” Jake said. “Also, Bernie
just
died, Bee.”

She shrugged. “Creepy storage facility in the middle of nowhere? That no one’s allowed to enter? That only Bridget had a key to? Doesn’t add up to prize stamp collections or rare antiques.”

The sheriff sighed and swiveled the flashlight around. The cats cautiously crept into the dim room. Their bodies were low to the ground and the ends of their tails twitched as they slunk in.

“What’s that? Computer equipment?” Beatrice turned on the flashlight on her phone and focused the dim beam on the jumbled dark contents within.

“Looks like. Files too.” The sheriff’s beam caught stack upon stack of banker boxes, looking full to bursting with paper. Then his flashlight settled on a large object tucked into the back. “What is that—is that a car?”

They carefully picked their way through the mounds of stuff. It was utterly quiet in the unit, with the unmistakable smell of heavy dust. After some careful maneuvering, they managed to make their way to the old sedan.

It was a compact blue-gray car, boxy, and obviously not used for quite some time. They stood by it, puzzled. The sheriff tried the door. Locked. He pulled out a tool in his pocket and began fiddling with the lock.

“How’d you learn how to do that?” Beatrice asked.

“One of the best carjackers in Ashbrook. Well, he was the best until I caught him. Got him to teach me a couple things they don’t show you in the police academy.”

Beatrice shook her head. Jake opened the door. The stale smell of trapped air and old upholstery wafted out. To her surprise, Hamish jumped right in without delay and began sniffing around the front seat.

“Better than a police dog,” she said proudly, arms crossed. “Look at him go! You ever considered adopting him—as the department mascot, I mean?”

The sheriff narrowed his eyes. “We’re a police office, not a college sports team, Bee.”

There was the sound of nails scratching—Hamish was pawing frantically at the passenger glove compartment. Beatrice gave the sheriff a meaningful look. He sighed, reached into the car, and snapped open the door. After fishing about for a few seconds, he drew out what looked to be a rather tatty wallet. Jake shone the flashlight over it, then flipped it open.

There wasn’t much in there—mostly crumpled receipts and old store membership cards. But there was one item of interest: a plasticized driver’s license. Recently issued, or at least newer than the paper one they had found in the mayor’s office. It had Bernie’s picture.

And it showed a completely different name: John Henson.

7

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Detective Woods said. His eyes bulged as he took in the sight of Hamish and Lucky trotting into the Portland Police Department’s lobby, right after the tough sheriff.

“Literally,” Beatrice said. She stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Beatrice. Crime-solving consultant. These are my two associates. Best clue detectors in the business.”

“I didn’t think crime-solving cats were a thing,” the detective said, his gaze swiveling slowly towards the sheriff. “What the heck is going on in Ashbrook, Jake? I know you said you needed help but I didn’t realize how
much
help.”

The sheriff clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. He was a tall, beefy man with the look of a footballer. “Look Woods, I know it appears a little strange. But did you hear about our local counterfeiting case? And the extortion one?”

“Yeah, sure been a busy fall for crime up in Ashbrook.”

“Well, Bee and these cats here helped crack both those cases.”

The detective whistled slowly. “I’ll be darned. Alright, let’s go in my office before the rest of the force catches wind of this. I’ll be the laughing stock of the department.”

They wound their way through endless cubicles where officers sat hunched over laptops and phones. It was your typical office with tightly woven gray carpeting, glaring florescent lights, and the constant hum of people talking.

Detective Woods led them into his windowless, cramped office. He sank down behind his desk and cracked his thick fingers. “Alright, so you said your mayor was
murdered
?
This morning
?”

“That’s right.”

The detective shook his head. “Counterfeiting, crime-solving cats, and now stone-cold murder? Remind me not to take my kids to see the fall colors in Ashbrook any time soon.”

The sheriff handed over the license. “Clues led us to the mayor’s storage space in your city. We found this. Same man, different name. I was hoping you could run it. I didn’t want to wait until we got back to Ashbrook. It seems this case is going to need a lot more than my limited resources.”

The detective scanned the license quickly. “Doesn’t ring any bells but let’s run it and see what comes up.” He tapped at his computer and within seconds, his eyebrows shot straight up. “Holy mother of…” He stared at Jake and Beatrice.

“What, what?” Beatrice slid forward in her seat, all eagerness.

“You’ve got a wanted man here.
FBI
wanted. The alert came up as soon as I entered the name.”

“Our former mayor was a wanted man?” The sheriff frowned. “There must be some mix-up. He’s been in office for
seven years
. People love him. He’s met the governor, for heaven’s sake.”

The detective was shaking his head. “That may be so, but this profile says he’s wanted by the Feds. Has a long rap sheet. Assaulting a police officer, possession of an unregistered firearm, narcotics possession and trafficking, resisting arrest. Oh this is a good one: apparently he swindled five guys down in Florida. They all chipped in money to buy a used car dealership and he took off with their cash. Here’s another one—in Louisiana. Some kind of get-rich scene he concocted. Skipped town with the investment,. And here’s another…”

He stopped and looked up. “Why did all these people give him their money? These incidents happened all over the south. He didn’t seem to stay anywhere for long. Yet he got these perfect strangers to trust him.”

“You haven’t met Bernie,” Beatrice said. “He was a charismatic guy. Always organized fun runs for charity and ran in them too. Promoted the heck out of Ashbrook and brought in investment and tourists. Went door to door and talked to people. I’ve never heard anyone say a negative thing about him. Well, except for his secretary, who said he was awfully private. Big trust issues.”

“Yeah well I can imagine why when he had a rap sheet like this. The question is how he managed to evade us for so long. I mean, he was
right under our noses
.”

The sheriff rubbed his head. “The press is going to have a field day with this one. Oh boy oh boy.”

“You notified next-of-kin yet?” the detective asked, leaning way back in his creaky chair, rubbing his ruddy neck.

“Doesn’t have any, except for his wife.”

“Not according to this profile. He’s got a foster brother in Florida. You’re going to want to call him.”

8

The sheriff drove and Beatrice managed the call to the brother, Noah Sanders.