Cat's Meow

Book 2: 2 Sisters Pet Valet Mysteries

by Dane Mccaslin

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths; Mystery

Synopsis

Retired schoolteacher Gwen Franklin has a new pet project—and a sideline in sleuthing. But this new case has a dangerous sting in the tail . . .

Gwen’s calendar has been filling up ever since she was hounded by her best friend, Nora, into starting 2 Sisters Pet Valet Services. Now they’ve been invited to attend the annual Clear the Shelter event, hosted by Portland’s very own blonde bombshell newscaster, Babs Prescott. Babs is convinced she’s top dog among local celebrities, but it’s clear that someone disagrees when Babs’ body is found following a downtown press conference.

A story this juicy would be headline news at any time, but especially once local crime reporter Shelby Tucker is arrested for the murder. Gwen was Shelby’s high school teacher, and she’s sure her former pupil is innocent. But in that case, who was itching to take Babs out of the spotlight for good? As Nora and Gwen investigate, they find personal mysteries at odds with Babs’ public persona, all leading to a killer who’s not pussyfooting around . . .
 

Release date: March 23, 2021

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter 1

“Run it by me one more time, Sis. Who’s been invited to this get-together?”

Nora Goldstein, my best friend since kindergarten and the closest thing I had to a real sister, was sitting cross-legged on one of her overstuffed sofas, working on one nail (fake, of course) as though her life depended on it. I watched as she held up the nail tip for inspection and then began sawing at it again in earnest. I’d never worn anything false in my entire life, unless you counted the time I stuffed wadded-up tissues in my bra for the eighth-grade dance.

“Hang on a minute and I’ll double-check.”

As co-owners of Two Sisters Pet Valet Services, we’d received an invitation to the annual Clear the Shelter fundraiser, a really big deal in our town. Picking up my newish smartphone, I opened the Google search engine and carefully tapped in with one finger: Greater Portland Shelter Association. A colorful banner featuring adorable dogs and cats floated across the top of the page, their cute little faces making me smile.

“What’s making you grin like the Cheshire cat?” Nora glanced up from her nails, a tiny pucker between her carefully shaped eyebrows. “See any good-lookin’ men on that page?”

I ignored the comment and tapped on the menu icon. The event’s list of participants was there, and I spotted our names in the lower third.

“Looks like Miss Oregon will be there, along with the mayor, a few television personalities, and a handful of minor Portland celebrities.” I held up my phone for her to see the screen. “And us, of course.”

It felt like a dream to see my name there alongside those of well-known Portlandians. Gwen Franklin, retired teacher, mingling with local celebrities!

Nora snorted as she leaned in closer to inspect her nail, but I could tell that she was pleased. Our pet-care business was small but thriving, thanks to word-of-mouth advertising and the fact Nora lived directly across the street from Portland Pooch Park. Being included in this annual fundraiser was proof that we were making a mark in the local pet scene.

“I think I remember hearing something about the glorious Babs Prescott doing some of the presentations, but that could be wishful thinking.” Nora shot me an amused glance as she said this, and it was my turn to snort. Babs was only glorious to those who mattered, namely herself.

Babs Prescott, one half of the evening news team on the local station, had the requisite big hair and big teeth, plus a big personality to boot. The problem with her, though, was she was a legend in her own mind. Whenever she appeared on television or out in public, I did my best to avoid her. I tended to break out in hives around folks like her.

“So, you gonna try to sit at her table?” Nora glanced at me as she tucked the emery board back into her clear makeup bag. “Or is that a definite ‘no’ I hear?”

“What do you think, smarty-pants?” I crossed both arms over my chest and scowled at the image on my phone’s small screen. Even in miniature, Babs managed to appear colossal, filling the display with her big, toothy smile. Of course, it could have simply been the way she’d turned to face the camera. With big hair and even bigger, uh, female assets, she made sure she was the center of attention whenever an opportunity presented itself.

Like the time she’d come to the school I taught at to raise awareness about the pitfalls of social media. Needless to say, by the time she’d finished her speech at the assembly, I was not her biggest fan.

Of course, it might have had something to do with the way she managed to turn the presentation into a slide show starring none other than a certain blond news anchor, and some of the images were, in my opinion, not appropriate for the younger crowd. Judging by the frequent outbursts of whistles and catcalls, I’d say I was right. When the principal decided to shut the whole thing down and send the students back to class, I was relieved the show was over.

I was also very irritated because she’d pre-empted a great lesson on rhetorical devices I had worked on for days.

“Sure you’re not jealous?”

Nora’s voice was teasing, but I wasn’t in the mood. Just thinking about Babs Prescott was enough to turn me into a grump the size of Mount Hood.

“Positive,” I said firmly. “Now, what’s up with next week’s schedule?”

“It’s on my iPad.” Nora unwound herself from the sofa and stood up, lifting both arms over her head and arching her back in a feline stretch. “By the way, is Brent back from his trip down south?”

Brent Mayfair, one of my many ex-students and our official dog walker, had taken a road trip down through California with his girlfriend, Rachel, and precious dog, Aggie, in tow. I missed him horribly, but only because I’d been stuck with most of the dog-walking duties while Nora took on the various pet-sitting assignments. Too much of Brent on any given day was grounds for sainthood.

“The last text I got from Rachel said they should be back in town sometime late tomorrow.” I glanced at my phone and opened the message. “Says here they’re staying at Mount Shasta tonight.”

“Nice.” Nora nodded in approval as she walked over to her desk and retrieved the tablet. “I’m glad to see them having fun together.”

I laughed. “And I’d love to have been a fly on the wall when Rachel told her folks she was going on vacation with Brent.”

“Right? Especially that tough cop dad of hers.” Nora curled back up on the sofa, reaching up to pat her blond curls. After a disastrous escapade with a perm-happy hairdresser last year, she was finally able to go out in public without a scarf or a hat.

“Speaking of tough, what’s the latest on Marcus?”

Nora tossed her head, losing one hoop earring in the process. “If I never see him again, it won’t be too soon for me.”

Same song, second verse. Or perhaps it was verse five. Nora and Marcus Avery, her on-again, off-again beau, were the talk of the luxury apartment building where she resided. I made sure to drop a few juicy tidbits now and then for the new concierge to share with the other residents. I saw it as my duty to liven up the place, especially since the average age of those who lived there was well over sixty-five. I saw it as my contribution to the collective heart and circulation health of Nora’s neighbors.

“Well, you’ll have to see him tomorrow.” I scooted closer to her so I could see the iPad’s screen. “Isn’t he coming by to drive us to the fundraiser?”

“We could Uber it.”

Taking an Uber was something of a private joke between us, thanks to Brent and his one and only attempt at being an Uber driver. We liked to say we’d single-handedly saved the good folks of Portland when we hired him and got him off the road.

“Or I could drive. Of course,” I added doubtfully, “I’m not sure my car will start. It’s been in the garage since I retired last year.”

“That’s all right. I’ll handle Marcus.”

Smiling, I read over the upcoming pet-walking and -sitting jobs. It was clear our business was growing, and it was probably time to hire another walker. I wasn’t fond of the end result of a walk—having to clean up after the little darlings. My own dog, Hercule, was another matter. He was home at the moment, enjoying the good weather and barking at the squirrels.

“Have you thought about taking on another employee to help Brent with all the dog-walking jobs?” I glanced up from the tablet and swiveled around to face her. “Maybe Rachel?”

“Maybe. Isn’t she still in junior college?”

“Yes, but only two days a week. And the dog-walking job she had last year ended a few months ago, so she might consider joining us.”

“I’m sure Brent would love that, but it’s tough enough keeping the kid focused on his duties as it is.”

“Rachel wouldn’t mess around.” I sounded more confident than I felt, but I was determined to get myself free of the walking end of our business. “That girl has more common sense than most folks twice her age.”

Nora nodded. “True. Particularly one certain private investigator I know. He’s such a nitwit, Gwen.” She shook her head in disgust. “Why I even bother with that man, I have no idea.”

Marcus Avery was a private detective whose business had been bankrolled by her. I hadn’t liked that arrangement then, and I didn’t like it now. The less my pal was connected to him, the better off she’d be. Of course, she listened to me about as well as Hercule did whenever he spotted a cat in our yard. The difference was that my dog was probably trainable. Nora definitely wasn’t.

“Amen to that,” I muttered as I looked at my phone. I’d received another text, this time from Brent. “Hang on a sec. I need to check this message from the boy wonder himself.”

Hey Miss F We’re having a good time except maybe Aggie since she got stung by a bee. OK see you tomorrow.

Dear goodness. Had the boy been absent the day I taught punctuation? How he’d managed to graduate was a puzzle, but he had, and now he and I were coworkers in one of those weird universal flips.

“Well? What’d our resident genius have to say?” Nora’s words might have been sardonic, but her tone was soft. She’d really taken to Brent, something that never ceased to amaze me, especially since I’d never known her to suffer fools gladly. That might have had something to do with her five (or was it six?) marriages.

“They’re enjoying themselves, but it sounds like Aggie might be under the weather a bit. Blame it on a bee.”

“Oh, poor baby.” Nora grabbed the tablet and began scrolling. “Can dogs die from bee stings?”

I shrugged. “If she has an allergy, she probably could. Brent didn’t seem too upset about it, though.”

“Wonder if Marcus has any allergies?”

I stared at her, one hand on my chest. I’d love to say “on my bosom,” but that part of my anatomy had recently begun its own trip south and hadn’t returned. “I hope you’re kidding.”

“About what? I only said—”

“Oh, forget it. You’d better play nice tomorrow, though. We might need a ride home as well.”

She wrinkled her nose at me but turned her attention back to the tablet.

I absentmindedly reached down to pat Hercule and then remembered I’d left him at the small bungalow he shared with me. I’d finally gotten brave enough to have a doggy door installed after a couple of break-ins last year. Of course, one was perpetrated by my best friend, trying to prove a point, but I still hadn’t wanted to give anyone else carte blanche to enter my house. Waking up to Nora skulking in my dark living room had been more than enough to turn my gray hair white.

Hercule was something special, though, and well worth a doggy door. He’d come into my life one rainy night and had never left. With a sleek black coat and a white front and paws, he looked as dapper as the fictional detective Hercule Poirot, hence the name. Having a dog could be a chore at times, but I wouldn’t have traded Herc for anything in the world.

“Earth to Gwen—come in, space cadet.” Nora snapped her fingers in front of my face, and I jumped. “I asked if you wanted to take a walk to The Friendly Bean.”

“The Friendly Bean?” My mind was still on break-ins and bee stings. “Right now?”

“Yes, Gwen. Now.” Nora mimed drinking a cup of coffee. “We need caffeine, and lots of it.”

“Sure. I guess.” I pointed to the iPad. “Shouldn’t we make up our minds about another employee?”

“We can do that on the way.” Nora jumped up and headed down the hallway toward her bedroom. “Give me a sec, all right?”

I sighed and settled back on the sofa. A Nora “sec” could be anywhere from two minutes to thirty, depending on how dolled-up she was getting. My friend loved heels, the higher the better, and any clothing made from stretchy material. Her typical outfit of black, yoga-type leggings and neon-colored tight tops was in direct contrast to my preference for cotton capris and loose, flowy shirts.

And Birkenstocks. I did love my sandals, no matter the weather. Rain in the forecast? Add thick socks. Snow? Even thicker socks. Going by the number of similarly shod feet I saw around town, I wasn’t the only one who felt this way.

“Hurry up,” I called out. “You’ve got me craving a latte. And a croissant.”

Or three. I loved my food as well, that was for sure, and our local coffee hangout made the best croissants this side of the Columbia River: buttery, flakey, and absolutely delicious.

As I waited for her, I idly thumbed through my social media accounts. I’d only recently joined Instagram and Facebook; those seemed to be the common platforms my ex-students used. Call me nosy or unable to let go, but I loved being included in their postings and commentary. Seeing the pictures of their own sweet kiddos made me feel nostalgic.

And old.

I was about to close my Instagram account when something in the feed caught my eye: a picture of none other than Miss Babs Prescott herself, one tanned arm slung over the shoulders of a sullen-looking Shelby Tucker. Shelby, also a former student, was a journalist with the Portland Tribune and my go-to for help with all things digital.

“Catching flies, are we?”

Nora, dressed in all-black Lycra, came teetering into the front room in the highest pair of heels I’d ever seen.

I snapped my mouth shut and silently held out my phone to her. Taking it, she peered at the screen, and her own mouth gaped open in shock.

“Holy guacamole, Sis. What in the world was Shelby doing with that piece of work?”

I shrugged. “No idea. I’m thinking we need to give the girl a call.”

“Indeed we do. And there’s no time like the present.” Reaching into the front of her top, Nora pulled out a slim cell phone and began scrolling through her contacts.

I had to shake my head. Why a woman of fifty-something would carry a cell phone in her bra was beyond me, especially since her clothing was usually tight enough to reveal even the smallest freckle.

“Shelby, this is Nora Goldstein.” Nora gave me a thumbs-up, perching on the edge of the sofa as she spoke. “Listen, Miss Franklin saw something on Instagram that has us both a tad curious.” She paused, listening, one eyebrow lifted slightly. “That’s right. Any idea why she would post that?” Nora’s eyebrows rose and her eyes widened as she listened to Shelby’s response. “I see. Well, isn’t that a hoot, considering the source. I wouldn’t give any credence to a word that woman says.” Another pause.

I could hear Shelby’s voice clearly, although I couldn’t make out anything she said. Maybe I needed to have my prized supersonic teacher’s ears checked.

“Well, keep your chin up, girlie. Karma can be a powerful you know what in the you know where.”

By the time Nora had ended the conversation and replaced the cell in her secret carrying case, I was wound up tighter than an eight-day clock.

“And? What did she have to say?”

“You’re not gonna believe it.”

“Until I know what it is, I have no idea whether I will or not.” I gestured impatiently. “Spit it out already, slowpoke.”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, woman. I’ll tell you on the way to get coffee.”

“Fine,” I grumbled. “And don’t forget we still need to discuss hiring another dog walker, so get busy talking.”

Nora, much to my chagrin, chattered about insignificant topics until we exited the lobby of the luxury apartment building.

When I was beginning to think I couldn’t stand it any longer, she reached over and clutched my arm, stopping me in mid-shuffle. I was wearing Birkenstocks, after all, and that required a slight toe curl to keep them in place as I walked.

“Okay, Sis, listen to this. The Wonderbra Woman of television has dissed our sweet Shelby so badly she’s considering murder.”

“Who is? Wonderbra or Shelby?” I couldn’t picture Shelby killing anyone, not really, and I certainly could not picture Babs Prescott doing so either. It might wrinkle her Botoxed face and designer dresses.

Nora poked me in the side irritably. “Shelby, silly. Babs had the nerve to suggest Shelby needed to book herself into a spa for a makeover. She even suggested one, some place called the Fabulous Fattie Farm.”

I had to hand it to her: Babs certainly had some nerve. Knowing her, she’d probably flashed her teeth and wiggled all the way through the conversation. No wonder Shelby had been glaring in the Instagram post.

“Well, I don’t blame her for being upset.” I nodded a greeting to a pair of whispering women and pulled my arm from Nora’s grasp. “And let’s start walking. People are beginning to stare.”

Shelby, in my opinion, was far from overweight. Sure, she’d never be found on a catwalk or wear a size triple zero, but she definitely wasn’t in need of a makeover. What had possessed Babs to make such an idiotic suggestion?

As if reading my mind, Nora said, “Apparently, Shelby was at the state capitol at the same time Babs and her cronies were, covering a new bill about food labeling. Isn’t that the craziest thing you’ve ever heard?”

“I’m not sure I’d call it crazy. More like commonsensical.” We’d reached the corner across from the coffee shop, and a light breeze coming in from the river ruffled my hair. “Don’t you want to know what’s in the food you’re eating?”

“Of course I do.” Nora spoke impatiently, jabbing one finger on the button to activate the walk signal. “What I’m talking about is why those two were sharing the same oxygen, Babs and Shelby. I call that crazy.”

“Probably because both of them are in the news business. You know, television and newspaper?”

“I know that, goofy. I meant I’ve never heard of the Great One actually speaking with other reporters before. Something must’ve happened to cause that. Or not happened. Maybe she didn’t get her daily dose of public admiration or something.”

The light turned green, and the sign lit up, allowing us to cross safely. I trudged along as I normally did, but Nora was giving every driver an eyeful of undulating black Lycra and strutting heels. I ignored her, hoping no one could tell we were together. She could be an entire headline herself, and I wanted no part of it. Retired teachers didn’t cavort with people like that.

“Hey, you,” she called out loudly, and I groaned, turning around to watch her prance the last few steps. “Mind waiting up for me?”

“Trust me, there are times I wish I didn’t have to.” I headed for The Friendly Bean’s entrance, stepping aside to let a giggling gaggle of teens exit. “Do you always have to walk that way when we’re in public?”

Nora preened, patting her curls and putting one hand on an outthrust hip. I held back an eye roll, pushing her inside ahead of me. Apparently, Babs Prescott wasn’t the only publicity hound in these parts.

“And deprive the good folks of Portland? I think not.” She grinned over her shoulder, dropping one eyelid in a playful wink. “Now, how ’bout that coffee?”

I snagged an empty table near the rear of the café while Nora placed our orders. In our town, coffee was almost a religion, one I tended to follow with unwavering devotion. I liked my coffee dark and black and hot, although I’d recently ventured into the froufrou land of cappuccinos and mochas. By the time Nora had swayed back to the table, carefully balancing a pair of steaming lattes, I was ready for my daily dose of caffeine.

“The barista says she’ll bring our croissants over when they’re heated.” Nora took a sip from her coffee cup and closed her eyes. “Ah. That hits the spot. Nothing like a latte made with almond milk.”

I paused, holding my mug in midair. “Please don’t tell me you put that stuff in my drink.”

Nora merely smiled.

“Fine. I’ll handle it this time.” I glared at her over the rim of my cup. “Next time I’ll order my own coffee, thank you very much.”

“It’s much better for you, Gwennie. You know, healthy and all that jazz. Don’t you want to live to be a hundred?”

I snorted. “Not if it means drinking milk made from nuts. If God meant us to drink almond milk, he’d have g. . .