The Tail of the Secret Identity: A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 3) (7 page)

“Aren’t you the local sleuth?” she chirped. “We’ve heard that you’re helping to solve the case.”

“No comment,” Beatrice said. She felt pleased as punch—she’d always wanted to say that, just like they did in the movies.

The sheriff let them in the door and promptly slammed and locked it behind them.

“Gracious!” he exclaimed, wiping his forehead with a tissue. “What a circus. They’ve been camped out there all day and all yesterday too. I practically had to body check my way out of here yesterday.”

He set his eyes on Noah. “Sheriff Jacob Roy,” he said, holding out his hand. “You must be Noah. Well, we have a lot to talk about. Come into my office where we can have some privacy.”

They settled into the sheriff’s cramped office. Hamish and Lucky crept into an old cat bed that Beatrice had sneaked in the week earlier. It was big enough for two, but sharing was obviously not high on their fun list because they glared at each other, while trying to stake out as much of the fuzzy bed as possible.

Due to his sheer size and fluffiness, Hamish looked to be the clear winner but Lucky was trying his hardest by pushing his little pink feet hard against Hamish’s bulk. Petunia looked on at these proceedings with what could only be described as amusement.

The cats stopped their fighting for a moment and looked up at Petunia. A gentlemanly instinct must have gripped them because they both slunk out, letting Petunia in to sit in the big bed all by herself. She licked her paw delicately with a rosy tongue, looking like the Queen of Sheba on her throne.

“Let me give you my regrets, first off,” the sheriff said, settling behind his chipped desk, his eyes serious under heavy salt and pepper brows. Beatrice and Noah sat opposite him.

The reedy man nodded, all elbows as he sat in the fraying office chair. “Thanks sheriff, but as I told Beatrice here, it’s been some time since I’ve seen my brother. And the last time we parted was under bad circumstances.”

“Well, why don’t you give us some background,” said Sheriff Roy. “Anything you could tell us about Bernie,
er
, John, might be helpful.”

All three cats perked up their ears, eyes bright, listening intently.

“You got it. Well, John was always a smart kid. We started living together with a foster family in North Port, Florida, when we were about 10 years old. Obviously came from a bad situation. Scared of his own shadow. But wily as anything. We were bunkmates and we quickly decided to band together and have each other’s back. There were eight other boys in that foster home and none of them were particularly nice. We fought those hell-raisers tooth and nail for five years.”

“But then John escaped, isn’t that what you said?” Beatrice asked.

Noah nodded solemnly. “Couldn’t take it anymore. The foster parents were extra hard on him because he had a sass mouth. Too smart for his own good. He couldn’t wait until he came of age. Told me he’d keep in touch and then one early morning he just lit out—probably had one other shirt to his name and a bunch of stolen books from the library.”

“What’d he do then?” the sheriff asked. “Seems like it’d be awful hard for a kid of fifteen to make it on his own.”

“Well, John’s smarts saved him. From what I could tell he bounced around, getting jobs washing dishes, cleaning cars, helping at a construction site. He’d come meet me after school and give me spare change, take me out for a hamburger. And I never told anybody that I knew where he was.”

A nostalgic, dreamy look crept over Noah’s dishwater-brown eyes, as if he was remember the best time of his life.

“But things went badly?” the sheriff asked.

The happy look faded. “Things started to go wrong. He started writing bad checks and stealing from his jobs. Once I began working, he borrowed money from me. Never paid me back. He always had these tall tales about where he’d been and what he was doing—said he’d been working on an oil rig up in Alaska, racing cars in the Utah desert, going undercover for the cops in L.A. drug rings. Even that he finally settled down and married some sweet girl from New Jersey. I had no idea what to believe.”

“Well, from his file it seems like he really was involved with the drug trade, but more on the side of selling drugs than anything else,” the sheriff said.

Now this was news to Beatrice. Bernie a
drug dealer
? This she had to hear.

“That’s when it really started to go wrong.” Noah fidgeted with his fingers. “I knew something was up. But I didn’t know how bad it was until I read about it in the papers. The report said that police had seen a stolen Porsche at a motel outside of Los Angeles. They knocked on the door and there was John. Searched the car. Of course there were drugs inside. So they cuff him, put him in the back, and drive off towards the station. Except that John was a cunning thing. He was fidgeting the entire time, trying to get loose from his cuffs. They stopped at a stop sign and he finally got free. Grabbed the cop’s weapon and points it right at him…”

“…and then what happened?” Beatrice jumped in, unable to contain herself. The sheriff gave her a sharp look. She didn’t want to be rude but she was a sucker for a good story.

“Well ma’am,” Noah said, as unruffled as ever. “The cop was no fool either. He knocked away that gun and managed to wrestle him back to the station where he was charged with attempted capital murder. And that’s when I find out about the whole business.”

“You bailed him out,” the sheriff said.

“I did, and Lord knows what I was thinking. He was my brother—I wasn’t thinking. Even after all his hijinks I still remembered that little boy in the foster home. John went through a lot of bad stuff. What’s more, he was the only brother I had. So yeah, I bailed him out and took him back to my apartment so at least he’d have somewhere homey to stay while he waited for the trial. Then one night we went to play pool. He stepped out for a moment and next thing I knew he, and the car, were gone.”

“The car we just found in his storage locker,” the sheriff put in.

“Yes sir. I was just a hotel desk clerk. Didn’t have a lot of cash. Had to ride around on buses for a year after that until I could afford to buy a car again. I was right mad at him. It was at that point I decided that John and I needed to part ways. Not that he gave me a choice—he never contacted me again. Maybe he knew how angry I was.”

Noah sighed and leaned back, his angular form fitting uncomfortably into the old chair. “Well, that’s what I can tell you. After that, the FBI kept in touch with me. There were all these random reports: oh, he’s in northern California. He’s been spotted up in Canada. They just missed him in New Orleans. One cop told me they went to his apartment and fresh toast popped out of the toaster, just made. He’d slipped out seconds before. There were lots of different names, different jobs, but he moved around so much he was always one step ahead of the police.”

Beatrice was so stunned about what she had just heard that she did what a cat owner naturally does when confused—looks to their cats for advice. But Hamish, Lucky, and Petunia weren’t any help. Petunia was busy washing her leg, which stuck straight up in the air like a chicken drumstick. Hamish and Lucky were trying to look interested in what the sheriff was saying but they kept sneaking looks back at Petunia.

“Thank goodness I got you both fixed,” Beatrice said, despite herself.

“What was that?” Noah asked.

There was a sharp rap on the front door. The cats immediately straightened to attention.

16

Deputy Parker Smith opened the door. “Sheriff, we’ve got the FBI here to see you.”

“Well, that doesn’t happen every day,” he replied, one eyebrow aloft. “Let ‘em in.”

A man and a woman walked in, both trim, tall, and in dark suits. The former was African-American with a shaved head, the latter a redhead with her hair tightly pulled back into a bun. They both looked surprised to see so many people in the sheriff’s office—well, several people and three cats.

“Sheriff, I’m Agent Croft, this is Agent Macklin,” the man said. “Might we have a word with you? Privately?”

The sheriff crossed his arms. “I don’t see why they can’t stay. This here is Noah Sanders, John’s brother. And this is Beatrice Young, my subcontractor.”

Beatrice choked back a laugh. Subcontractor? It sounded like he’d hired her to renovate his bathroom. The agents apologized to Noah, who they hadn’t recognized immediately—after all, they’d worked with him before to try to track down Bernie.

“And the cats?” asked the woman. Hamish and Lucky nosed her pant legs like a couple of drug-sniffing dogs.

“I’m pretty sure these beasts here won’t tell a soul about what’s said within these four walls,” said Beatrice.

The redhead gave her an odd look. The two of them settled into chairs at the side of the room. The cats followed them, sitting at their feet like little guard dogs. Petunia, who remained in the cat bed, was momentarily forgotten in the excitement.

“Your friend in Portland tipped us off that you’d found John Henson—dead, not alive unfortunately,” said Agent Macklin, crossing her legs. “We’ve been tracking him for years. You can imagine how surprised we were that he’s been living under the name Bernie Sullivan, as the mayor of your town, no less.”

“Let me tell you, we’re just as shocked,” the sheriff said. “To us here in Ashbrook, Bernie was a good guy. Loved his community.”

“Well, that’s certainly new to us, because he did a lot of bad things before that,” said Agent Croft.

“I filled them in on everything that happened before he stole my car,” Noah told the agents.

“Well then, maybe we can shed light on what happened after. Especially one incident that we think might be connected to his murder. ” The redheaded agent leaned in, elbows resting on her knee. There was a smattering of freckles across her nose.

“John was in New Jersey for a time, running a laundromat. He even got married. Then he became friendly with a member of the local mafia who frequented his favorite bar. The guy offered to make his business a front to launder mafia money, told him he’d get a big cut of the proceeds.”

“And we all know John was never one to waste an opportunity,” said Noah.

“Well, that’s just it,” said Agent Croft. “Our sources told us that he ran that laundromat for many months as a front for the mob. But John wasn’t satisfied. He started buying up other businesses nearby, converting them into money laundering joints in partnership with the mob. The problem started when the mafia caught on that he was skimming their cash.”

A ghost of a smile slid over the agent’s face. “It’s funny because those mafia guys seriously trusted him. They’d hang out, drink together. He became real buddies with them. And as soon as he got wind that they were onto him, he lit out and left everything behind. Too bad, because we were onto him too and planning to swoop in and finally make an arrest.”

“So you think these mob men finally figured out that Bernie Sullivan was John Henson, came in and offed him?” asked the sheriff, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“That’s the best lead we have. We talked to the crime scene investigators. Seems like a pretty clean job,” Agent Croft said, his dark eyes intense. “A professional job.”

“Well, the sheriff and I were thinking that John likely knew his killer, since there was no sign of struggle,” Beatrice said. “Though you’d think that if a mob man you’d screwed over walked into your office, you’d put up a bit of a fight.”

Agent Macklin shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe John was so overconfident that he thought he could talk his way out of it. After all, he managed to get himself elected as a public representative all while being wanted by the FBI. Who knows? We’re waiting for the DNA evidence back to see if it matches any number of mob men who used to be affiliated with John.”

“So what’s next?” Noah asked.

“Well, we’re taking over the case,” Macklin said, gaze levelled at the sheriff.

The cop put up his hands. “Be my guest. Got my hands full rescuing cats from trees anyway.”

Macklin frowned. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep you in the loop. Now if you don’t mind sheriff, I’d like to learn everything we can about this ‘Bernie Sullivan’ and his life here.”

17

Beatrice took that as her cue to go back to the Cozy Cat Café. She’s promised herself that, as wrapped up as she became in her mysteries, she wouldn’t let the business slide. Zoe and the waitresses could handle things well enough but they still needed a guiding hand from time to time.

She pushed her way back into the café, the cats running ahead of her. It was a chilly, overcast day and Beatrice was happy to get back to the warmth of the café. The spicy scent of cinnamon, with an undercurrent of sweetness, wafted towards her. Zoe appeared out of the kitchen, cinnamon buns dripping with white icing held aloft on a tray.

“How’re you feeling, boss?” she asked, sliding the tray into the display case.

Beatrice shed her navy pea coat and scarf. “Better. I took some ibuprofen and my head cleared up a bit. I’ve definitely had better days, though. Please remind me the next time we go to the Ashbrook Grape that
one glass
is my limit?”

“Aw, you’re no fun,” Zoe said, smiling crookedly. She wiped her floury hands on her chef’s whites. “Did you hear from Matthew?”

“Hear from him? He showed up at my house last night!” she said, going behind the case to fetch a cup of coffee. The earthy aroma floated up to her nose, immediately jolting her awake.

Zoe’s brown eyes widened in alarm. “Uh oh. Were you in trouble?”

Beatrice sighed as she added a splash of milk to her cup. “That would be easier. He started going on that he thought I felt bad about the divorce. That maybe this whole friendship thing was about me gunning for a second chance? I dunno, he really blew me out of the water. I didn’t know what to say.”

Apparently Zoe didn’t either because she simply stared at Beatrice as if she’d never seen her before. Her boss frowned.

“Why are you being so quiet? It’s freaking me out.”

“Matthew liiiikkesss you!” she said, all moon eyes.

“Oh God no. No. Matthew is confused and lonely. Aren’t we all? Listen, you weren’t there when we divorced, Zoe. We definitely weren’t best friends right away. There were a lot of hurt feelings.” Beatrice took a long sip of coffee for fortification.