The Tail of the Secret Identity: A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mysteries Book 3) (9 page)

“Why?”

“She asked to go on a second date with me this weekend. I said it wasn’t a good idea.” He sighed. “She’s a really sweet person and we had a great date together but honestly, we don’t have a lot in common. At this point in my life I don’t just want a warm body, I want a companion. Someone I can share my life with.”

Despite herself, Beatrice felt sceptical. “And you figured all this out on the first date?”

“Bee, I’m not new to this dating game. I know pretty much right away what I want. Plus, I don’t want to waste my time or hers. So, it’s better if we stop now.”

Beatrice tried very, very hard not to feel happy about this. After all, a bigger person would have been a little sad that it hadn’t worked out yet glad that Matthew had made the right decision for himself.

She couldn’t help but celebrate the fact that she wasn’t going to have to go drinking again while Matthew went out on another date. Age had perfected Beatrice in some ways but it sure hadn’t made her an angel. She could live with that.

The organist began the first few chords of a hymn and everyone rose to their feet as the notes reverberated through the lofty church. The minister walked to the front of the church, dressed in a simple black suit and collar, his baritone voice ringing out.

The service itself stretched to over two hours. There were plenty of speakers. Bridget Miller, Bernie’s secretary, gave a touching speech about how her boss had believed in her so much that he had refused to let her quit when she’d made a terrible accounting error. That he always invested in training and courses for her and taught her everything he knew about management and dealing with people.

As she talked about his good-heartedness and selfless nature, Bridget welled up and there was the sound of sniffling and blowing into tissues throughout the church.

Bernie’s friends at the golf course, the head of the Ashbrook Business Association, and many more people got up to talk. Notably absent among the speakers, though, was Nancy (though Beatrice didn’t blame her, she probably wanted as much privacy as possible) and Noah.

Noah Sanders sat at the front of the church on the opposite side from Nancy. Stunned was probably the best way to describe him. He stared up at the speakers as if he didn’t have the faintest idea what any of them were talking about. He didn’t look upset exactly, just completely bewildered.

Beatrice could only imagine how strange it must have been for him—to lose his brother for so many years and then suddenly attend his funeral where everyone knows him as a completely different person.

Surreal couldn’t even begin to describe it.

19

As the final hymn of the service finished, Beatrice and Matthew got up and went out of the church. The cats hurried ahead of them as if glad to get out.

“Do you want to go to the burial?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Too morbid for me. I prefer the service and talking about the person’s life.”

The sheriff and Noah came out soon after. The latter was dressed in a too-big dark suit that hung off his thin frame. Beatrice guessed the sheriff had lent it to him.

“How are you doing?” she asked, putting a hand on his arm.

Noah shook his head. “Things sure feel strange. All these people talking about what a great man this Bernie was. The man I knew—John Henson—well, he was my brother but he was also a con man. He lied, cheated, and stole from everyone he knew.”

“Maybe he wanted to make amends for his past life,” Beatrice said. “Ashbrook was his fresh start.”

“Maybe, but John had lots of opportunities to do that—he moved around so much, after all. No, I think he just found a job that was so lucrative that he didn’t have to steal. He probably cooked up some side deals, got a raise. Or the attention fulfilled him so much he didn’t care as much about the money. Either way, Ms. Young, knowing John as I do, I can’t be as optimistic as you lot.”

He tipped his hat. “I’ll go change and get out of your hair, sheriff,” he said.

The sheriff patted his shoulder. “Don’t bother. Suit doesn’t fit anyway. You keep it.”

“In that case, it was nice to meet you all. Take care.” He shook their hands and hurried off.

Beatrice turned to the sheriff eagerly. “What’s the latest with Avery Henson?”

Jake leaned in. “Well, the case officially belongs to the FBI now but Agent Croft is keeping me filled in. Ms. Henson still denies she had anything to do with the murder but they found a tossed pistol just off the highway between town and the motel. Had her prints on it and ballistics matched what was found at the crime scene. Court psychiatrists are evaluating her now. I’m no shrink but anyone can tell the woman isn’t totally there.”

“Well, I hope she gets the help she needs if that’s the case,” Beatrice said. “She sighed. “What a week. Poor Bernie. Whoever and whatever he was, he didn’t deserve to go like this.”

“That we can agree on. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to be back at the office.”

Matthew and Beatrice were left standing together outside the church. Suddenly, she felt tired right down to her very bones.

“How about a coffee at the café?” she asked. “I could do with a pick-me-up.”

They found themselves not long after inside the closed café, tucked into a little love seat in the corner. Dust danced in the beams of sunlight that stretched over the floor. Beatrice had rustled up two coffees and leftover raspberry sticky buns with a lemon cream cheese glaze.

They sat munching and sipping as Lucky chased the sunbeams on the floor and Hamish and Petunia sat in the window seat exchanging sly glances.

Beatrice suddenly realized how tired she was and how much she needed some time off. She resolved to do nothing for the rest of the day except put her feet up and snooze.

“What do you think, Matthew?” she asked, leaning back and putting her feet on the table. “You think Bernie was a bad man through and through?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s so black and white. You can’t say he was a saint or a devil—he was too complicated for that.” Matthew put his arm on the back of the sofa and looked directly into her eyes.

“I think maybe John was once a good guy. But he had a complicated past and he ended up making a bad decision. That turned into more bad decisions and then he was permanently on the run. Having to escape the cops all the time meant he had to constantly get quick cash and that led to more trouble. Maybe he was always looking for a normal life and in Ashbrook he found it.”

“That’s an awfully generous interpretation, though I don’t disagree with you.” Beatrice slurped her coffee and then cradled the warm mug in her hands. “Though part of me can’t stop thinking about what Noah said—that he was a con man. He came to Ashbrook, he saw an opportunity and he took advantage of it, just like he took advantage of a lot of less legal opportunities before. We all benefited from it but maybe he really didn’t change that much at heart.”

“I guess we can’t know.” Matthew downed the last of his coffee. “That’s one mystery even you and the cats can’t solve.”

He chuckled and leaned his head towards Hamish and Petunia. “Look at those lovebirds. I’ve never seen Hamish acting like such a suck. That girl cat has him good.”

Hamish butted his head against Petunia’s face. She looked nonplussed for a moment but then delicately put a paw on top of his head, as if holding him in place, and began to clean around his eyes.

“Well, I certainly know who’s boss in that relationship,” Beatrice said. She realized Matthew was looking at her intently. “What? Do I have sticky bun on my face?”

He smiled and the corners of his blue eyes crinkled. “It’s just nice hanging out with you, is all. We haven’t done enough of that recently.”

Beatrice didn’t know where to look. “Yeah well, um, definitely…”

“What are you doing today?”

“Hopefully moving as little as possible and eating my weight in flour and sugar.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Matthew said and he smiled again, as if the idea made him the happiest man in the world.

Beatrice was about to reply when someone walked by the café. Matthew turned to look. It was a woman in her mid-fifties who was being trailed by a camera crew—a reporter. She was fully made up and had bottle blonde hair, sky-high heels, and a gym-toned body.

Matthew’s eyes followed her as she walked by, resting on her figure for what Beatrice thought was a little too long. Once she had passed by he turned around again and fixed that charming smile on her again.

“What were we just talking about?” he asked.

Beatrice collected both their mugs and stood up. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. You want a refill?”

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About the Author

Alannah Rogers is a retired librarian living in rural New Hampshire. She has three cats, all named after authors: Charlie, Wilkie, and Jane.

Alannah is an obsessive knitter and Scrabble player who loves a strong cup of English Breakfast tea. She makes a mean strawberry rhubarb pie and enjoys tinkering in her garden when time permits.

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