The Tail of the Secret Identity: A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 3) (8 page)

“You never talk much about your marriage.”

“And there’s a very good reason for that. You’d have to get me pretty tipsy for that to happen. On second thought, don’t. I’ve had enough of being hung over for one year.”

Beatrice’s back pocket vibrated. She took out her phone. She didn’t recognize the number but answered it anyway.

“Uh hi, is this Beatrice Young? The cat woman?” a young voice said.

“Um, yes, I guess—and this is?”

“It’s Madison. ‘Member, from the grocery store? You interviewed me about Amy.”

The memory came flooding back. Madison was the best friend of Amy White, part of a counterfeiting operation Beatrice had cracked open in September. “Listen I am so sorry about Amy…”

“Yeah, let’s not talk about that. It’s just, my girl Alisha works at the Mountain View Motel. She’s called the cops but she told me to get a hold of you too because apparently, like, your cats are magic or something. Anyway, I’m only calling ‘cuz I’m worried about her. There’s some nutty lady making trouble at the motel and she’s scared.”

“Madison, I’m glad you called me. I’ll be right over.”

Zoe rolled her eyes as her boss hung up. “Super Beatrice to the rescue? Next thing you know, people are gonna be calling you to resolve their marital disputes.”

“Believe me, that’s one thing I’m not qualified for. I’ll be back soon. I kind of feel like I owe Madison one—after all, I did help put her best friend behind bars.”

“Fair enough. Don’t get shot.”

“It’s
not
that kind of situation.”

Yet as Beatrice pulled up to the Mountain View Motel, a ramshackle L-shaped building with peeling white paint that was on the main road that led into town, the situation didn’t appear so simple.

The sheriff’s cruiser was parked there, lights flashing. A black Land Rover nearby indicated the FBI was there too. Noah stood next to the car, looking lost. Beatrice pulled up next to him and jumped out.

“Noah, what are you doing here?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t have anything else to do. Thought I would tag along. Hey, cats.”

Hamish meowed loudly in response.

“Where’s the sheriff? And the men in black?”

“Looking for the woman. FBI decided to tag along—sheriff’s mad. Anyway, she’s hiding somewhere in the motel. The desk clerk said that she had something like a psychotic break. Checked in a few days ago and the clerk barely saw her. But today, people started complaining because it sounded like she was throwing things around the room. The clerk tried to get in but the woman put the chain on. From what she saw inside, the place was completely destroyed. No idea what happened. Woman refused to talk.”

Beatrice scratched her head. “You’d think there was a full moon right about now. Do we know her name at least?”

“Fay DeWitt.”

“So, obviously a fake name.”

Noah cracked a weak smile. “Imagine so.”

“Alright, well, I got two, sorry,
three
of the best sniffers in the county here. We’ll sort this out.”

She heard a crash and then a woman darted out from a room at the far end and ran by. She was a slight thing with stringy blonde hair. She was wearing ripped clothes that looked like at one point they had been fancy—an expensive tracksuit and sneakers that had seen better days.

“Stop!” yelled Agent Croft.

But the woman showed no signs of stopping for anyone. She darted into another room and slammed the door shut. They could hear the bolt sliding into place.

“Alisha, we need the key!” said the sheriff.

A girl with brown hair and hot pink highlights poked her head out of the office at the far end. “Nope, I’m not coming out there for nothing.”

The sheriff whistled in frustration. “Then at least go get the key and we’ll come get it.”

“Oh. Okay.” She disappeared. There was a crashing sound within the room that sounded like a lamp smashing. Her head popped out again. “Don’t have that key, sorry.”

“No wonder the rates here are so cheap,” Beatrice mumbled. “They don’t even have keys to their own doors.”

“Can’t you just break the door down?” Alisha yelled.

“You want us to break down a
deadbolt
?” the deputy asked.

“Yeah, like with a karate kick or something.”

Beatrice looked at the agents. “They teach you fancy karate kicks at the FBI academy?”

“We don’t really call them that, but sure. Move aside.” He stepped back, pushed up his sleeves, and charged at the door before delivering it a resounding shove with his powerful leg.

It didn’t budge.

“Who knew for such a crappy motel they’d have such strong doors?” Beatrice muttered.

“Stop trying to kick down my door!” wailed a voice from inside.

“Ma’am, we need to know if you’re okay,” said Agent Macklin, ear to the door. “You’ve got a lot of people worried.”

“I’m fine, damn you. Just leave me alone.”

Beatrice walked up to the door, despite the sheriff’s warning gaze. “Ms. DeWitt, listen my name’s Beatrice Young and me and my cats are kind of like, well, community watchdogs. Or community watch cats. I’m not the police. If you just want to talk to a woman, maybe about woman things, I can totally do that.”

The deadbolt slid back and the door opened, though the chain was still on. “Cats you say? I love cats. Just lost mine, in fact. I’ll talk to the cats. That’s it, though.”

“You don’t want me to come along?” Beatrice hedged.

“Nope, just the cats.”

Beatrice looked down doubtfully at her three friends. “How do you feel about doing a little recon work?” she asked them. “I mean, this could be pretty dangerous.”

Hamish and Lucky hesitated for a moment, fixated on the concerned look in their owner’s face. Petunia, on the other hand, who seemed to be used to taking orders from nobody, promptly darted into the room. The door slammed shut.

The humans looked at each other, perplexed, while the remaining cats charged the door and scratched at it frantically.

“Croft, that woman, or what I saw of her—she looks familiar,” said Agent Macklin all of a sudden.

He paused, thinking. “You’re right, she does. Where have we seen her before?”

The female cop snapped her fingers. “Why, she’s John Henson’s ex-wife, Avery! He left her when he skipped town in New Jersey. We interviewed her a couple of times, trying to get some idea of where he might be. But she was real unstable. Kept raving on and on about how John had left her with nothing, that he owed her, that he’d promised to take care of her, that he’d pay for what he did…”

He paused. They all looked at each other.

“Oh my God, I think Petunia’s in there with a, with a,
murderer
,” Beatrice said.

“Now ma’am, we don’t know if she’s the killer…” began Agent Croft.

“Don’t ma’am me! We have a disturbed ex-wife kilometers from a dead ex-husband. Didn’t you learn anything in cop school?”

As if sensing Beatrice’s distress, Hamish began to scratch eagerly at the door. Lucky soon joined him. They both started to yowl. Even worse, there came an excruciating series of screams from the other side of the door.

“We have to break down this door!” said Agent Macklin. “It’s not made of steel, after all.”

The cats ducked aside as he charged the door again and again. The two agents took turns throwing their full force against the door. After many tense minutes, the door crashed down.

Everyone froze as they took in the sight within. Fluffy Petunia sat on top of the small blonde woman, paw outstretched, occasionally batting at the cowering woman underneath her in a playful way. The woman was whimpering.

“Help! My cat’s attacking me!”

“
Your
cat?” Beatrice said. The agents rushed over to cuff the culprit. “Petunia’s yours?”

“Who’s Petunia?” the woman sniffed. “This here’s Lady. Lady was my cat until the stupid thing ran out on me a couple of days ago. She was my only friend, and now she’s turned on me.”

She looked up at the agents. “Hey, I know you guys.”

“You bet you do,” said Agent Macklin grimly. “And we know your ex-husband too.”

“Ex-husband? John? John and I never divorced,” she said, as the agents made her stand up. “How is a ghost supposed to sign divorce papers? I never had anywhere to send them. Couldn’t even get rid of the sad sack, never mind get an ounce of alimony. And then when I heard that he was some fancy-pants mayor with lots of money and another wife…”

Beatrice’s hand clapped over her mouth. “Ohhhhh. Nancy is going to be so mad!”

“John’s a bigamist too?” Noah asked. “Well of all the stupid things he’s done…”

“Yeah and he’s done a lot of them,” the woman spat. “You didn’t think I knew about the money laundering when you talked to me?”

“Well, if we can’t get you on murder, we can get you on obstruction of justice,” Agent Croft said.

“Murder! Ha! I’d love to see you prove that!” she spat.

“So you know John Henson was murdered?”

She faltered. “Yeah it was on TV, dummies. ‘Bernie Sullivan was murdered.’ Ha! Who’s Bernie Sullivan anyway? What a joke! Him and his fancy-schmancy office, when he’s nothing but a common criminal…”

“How do you know what his office looks like?” Agent Machlin asked, eyes narrowed. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mrs. Henson.”

“Let’s get her downtown and properly interview her,” said Agent Croft. “I think I need a coffee too. Breaking down a door is hard work.”

“I got the remedy for that,” Beatrice said. “Hey, so what about Petunia?”

“Well, she and Avery look to have parted ways,” the sheriff said. “So Bee, I guess she’s all yours.”

Petunia waddled up to her, sat down and meowed, her little pink tongue showing. Beatrice’s already squishy heart melted even further. She picked up the tawny cat and nuzzled her face.

“I’ve always wanted a girl cat,” she said smiling for the first time in a while.

18

The streets were doubled parked the day of Bernie/John’s funeral the following Sunday. Though word had spread by then that the former mayor was a wanted criminal and bigamist, people still came out in droves to pay their respects.

Matthew and Beatrice walked together towards the white church with its tall, pointed steeple in the middle of town. It sat on a block with a park at its center. It was a trim, well-maintained place with a white gazebo, wrought iron streetlights, and wooden benches.

The fact that it was a sunny fall day set off the scene very nicely. The sky was a brilliant blue with a few fluffy-sheep clouds floating through it. Orange maple leaves drifted down onto the street where they caught in the gutters.

Beatrice had closed the café for the day out of respect. Plus, almost everyone she knew was going to the funeral anyway, so there was really no point. If any tourists wanted to spend the day in Ashbrook, they would have found it hard to find anything to do except go to church.

It also happened to be Matthew’s day off, so he’d gallantly offered to pick her up to go to the funeral. Beatrice had almost asked him if he didn’t want to go with Joan instead, until she realized that maybe a funeral wouldn’t be a good second date. She was resigned to being Matthew’s non-fun date, and was even a little crotchety when he showed up at her door.

But when he’d come in, it only reminded her how little she’d seen him lately and how nice it was to spend time with him again. Besides, he looked really, really nice in a suit.

So, she shook off her bad humor, made him tea, and finished dressing to go out. Beatrice hauled out a little black dress and tights, seeing as Matthew was so dressed up. Good thing too—everyone in Ashbrook was bedecked in their finest garments.

Matthew gently tucked her arm through his as they walked towards the church. Beatrice felt a flush of pride. Hamish and Petunia walked together in front of them while Lucky unsuccessfully tried to squeeze his skinny body between them.

A crowd milled outside, talking in hushed voices. Beatrice nodded at the people she knew best, including Ryan Jackson, the manager of the Ashbrook Old-Fashioned Grocery who had helped her solve the counterfeiting case. He was there with his wife and two young daughters.

Hannah Moore, a young legal assistant who she’d worked with on the same case, was also there, her blonde hair blown dry impeccably as always and a designer bag on her arm. She smiled broadly at Beatrice. There was a young, handsome man on her arm Beatrice hadn’t seen before—she had to resist the impulse to give the young woman a thumbs-up. Probably not the most respectful thing to do at a funeral.

They entered the church. Though the outside was impressive, it was simple inside. It was airy and painted white with tall, narrow arched windows and pews of solid maple. Tattered Anglican hymn books bound in red and black cloth stuck out of shelves on the back of the pews. An ancient oak organ sat at the front of the church and on the wall above it a wood placard displayed the hymn numbers with slide-in cards. Next to the organ, on a pedestal, was a blown up photo of Bernie/John, surrounded by arrangements of white lilies, orchids, roses, and tulips.

Matthew and Beatrice slid into a pew near the back—all the better to keep an eye on the crowd. The cats sat on the cushioned kneeling benches at their feet.

They could glimpse Nancy sitting at the front, veiled in black like a Victorian mourner and flanked by the yoga ladies. Beatrice felt sorry for her. Ever since Avery had been arrested for Bernie’s murder, the press had been having a field day with the story. It had quickly leaked out that Avery was his first—and really
only
wife.

And of course there was the matter of Bernie (John’s) colorful past.

There was going to be a lot of coffee and sweets on the house for the yoga group in the next few weeks.

Joan looked back and scanned the crowd. Her hair was twisted into a smart chignon and she wore a tasteful, tailored dark suit. Spotting Matthew, her eyes locked on his. He nodded slightly in her direction. She turned around quickly.

“What was that?” Beatrice whispered.

Matthew grimaced and ran a hand through his wavy silver-white hair. “Maybe she’s a little ticked at me.”