Pawsibly Murdered Read online

  “My gosh, Treacle. Did I play right into her hands?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So much for my feeling better after the Band-Aid had been ripped off.”

  “No. You of all people shouldn’t feel that way.”

  “Why? Maybe I just blew off the best thing to ever come along for me.”

  “Just like the truth always has a way of surfacing, the universe and the Great Creator always bring things together that are meant to be. That’s how it has been since the Big Bang, right?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “If you and Tom are meant to be together, he’ll find his way back to you.”

  “You think so?”

  “Only if you are meant to be.” Treacle yawned.

  I didn’t say any more. What was there to say to this? I couldn’t go back to Tom and say, “I just wanted to give it another try in case it was your mom putting her negative mojo on us.” He’d really flip over that.

  Then there was the fact that it felt better to be free of him. He wasn’t a burden in the traditional sense of the word, but he was not happy, and that made me unhappy. It was like leaving a faucet on. The energy just kept pouring out.

  Treacle stretched his paws out on me, and I closed my eyes.

  I saw my mother in my dream.

  Usually, sadly, when I dreamed about my mother, she was reaching for me as that mysterious thing pulled her underneath my bed. Either I’d have her hands in mine and they’d slip, or she’d be just a fraction of an inch out of reach.

  Before I could make a move, she’d slip away from me, screaming, her eyes wide and terrified as she was pulled into that blackness.

  I had been only nine years old when they took her from me. It left a hole in my heart as dark as that space under my bed all those years ago.

  But this dream was different. She was not in my childhood bedroom. She was nowhere near the bed. Instead, she was sitting at Aunt Astrid’s kitchen table. She and Aunt Astrid looked so much alike, except my aunt had blond hair that was graying. My mother, on the other hand, had dark-brown hair, and it was graying at the temples.

  They were laughing about something. I couldn’t tell you what. It didn’t matter. All I saw was my mom laughing. I heard the sound of her voice as she chuckled over something my aunt had said. That voice had been the sound of safety and love since I was just a couple of weird cells in her tummy. I’d always know that sound even after so many years of not hearing it.

  She was laughing, and I started to laugh too. When I woke up, I started to cry. I didn’t want the dream to be over. Not yet. I just wanted a second to ask her what was so funny. Was it something I did or said? Did Bea do something that was funny? Were they remembering a story from their own childhood together?

  I took another deep breath and wiped my eyes. Treacle purred but didn’t dare move or pry his own eyes open. He was happy to remain in the bed, so I slid out and left him there.

  Downstairs, Aunt Astrid was up and had coffee brewing. She turned around from the fridge, holding some grapes in a bag.

  “Did you see her?” she asked.

  That was all I needed to hear. The floodgates opened, and I ran to my aunt. She folded me in her arms and held tight as I sobbed. Was this for my mom or Tom or maybe even Niles and Patrick, who had died needlessly? I didn’t know. But I felt the love from my aunt as if it were my real mother holding me.

  “What does it mean?” I sniffled.

  “What do you think it means?”

  “I want to believe it means she can see me, Aunt Astrid. I want to believe that.”

  “Cath, there are so many things in this world we don’t know. How can we ever expect to grasp what happens on the other planes of existence? The one the mud-monster came from. The one your mom is on. One thing is for sure. When they want to get a message to us, they will find a way.” She smoothed my hair back.

  “You dreamed of her too?”

  She nodded and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  Just then, Bea showed up.

  “I had a beautiful dream,” she said as she rubbed her eyes like a child just getting up.

  “Really? What was it?”

  “I dreamed that Jake built me a raised garden in the backyard, and it was so big I was growing pumpkins and zucchini and tomatoes the size of grapefruits out there. We were able to eat organic for an entire winter.”

  “That was your beautiful dream?”

  “Well, yeah. It doesn’t get much better than that.” She shuffled over to the coffeepot. “Really, mom? You know we’re trying to cut down on caffeine.”

  “I thought that was only when Jake was with you.”

  As if on cue, there was a jingle of keys in the front door. Within seconds, Jake and Blake were strolling into the kitchen, looking tired and worn out but in all other respects safe and sound.

  “Two Earl Grey teas, please,” Bea sang.

  “I’ll take the hard stuff,” I mumbled, wiping my eyes and instinctively pulling my hair back as if that were somehow going to make me look presentable. “Blake, coffee?”

  “You’re reading my mind.” He limped over to the sofa and sat down. I brought him a cup of coffee but didn’t sit down. I didn’t want to seem too interested. I wasn’t. I’d just broken up with Tom. How would it look if I just started throwing out signals that I was interested in Blake? Again? Was I interested in him? Again? Had I ever stopped being interested in him? I was getting a headache.

  “How’s the ankle?”

  “It feels like I was running full speed and stepped into a gopher hole.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Blake, I’ll take a look at that in a minute. Maybe I can help,” Bea said as she handed Jake a cup to hold as the hot water started to boil.

  “How did things turn out last night?” Aunt Astrid asked as she placed some grapes, slices of cheese, pepperoni, and French bread in the middle of her kitchen table and invited everyone to help themselves. Except Blake, of course, whom she loaded up a plate for and presented to him as if it were an Academy Award.

  “Dolores Eversol confessed, in a way. However, she holds you responsible for her actions.” Jake chuckled as he looked at Aunt Astrid.

  “Me?”

  “See, I told you it was her who tipped off the cops that Aunt Astrid had something to do with bumping off Niles,” I said with a mouth full of cheese.

  “You sound like a character in a Sam Spade movie.” Bea laughed.

  “She claims that you were tormenting her in her sleep because she was going to take over Niles’s business and be the top psychic in town if not the entire state,” Jake said.

  “Everyone has to have a goal.” My aunt shrugged and took a bite of bread.

  “She confessed to using that weapon Cath saw in Niles’s house to stab Niles and Patrick. That would ensure they wouldn’t come back.”

  “Come back?” I asked.

  “From the dead,” Jake replied.

  “Of course. How silly of me. I should have known,” I replied, nodding and tapping my finger to my temple.

  “We have every reason to believe she was planning to use it on you, too, had we not confiscated it,” Blake replied. “Not that it mattered since she had a Plan B.”

  “There is still one strange thing we can’t figure out,” Jake added. “How she was able to subdue both Niles and Patrick? Niles was old, so a lucky blow could have easily done it. But Patrick, he was young, healthy, and strong. It is a real mystery.”

  “I tried to explain to Jake that individuals under certain strenuous circumstances, whether they be self-imposed or from an outside source, can exhibit unnatural strength,” Blake said.

  “Like being possessed,” I added.

  “Exactly. If she sincerely thought she had some kind of paranormal gift that gave her the strength to lift a car, she just might be able to lift a car.”

  I looked at Blake and wondered what he was thinking. He had seen the muddy golem. It had given him a nasty
thing on his ankle to remember him by. He didn’t seem shaken up by it, but he didn’t appear to be in any hurry to discuss it, either. What was wrong with him? If it were me, I’d be repeating the story to anyone who would listen and going into graphic detail about how the thing stank, had red eyes, and looked a little like poop.

  “So what’s going to happen to her?” Bea asked.

  “She’s looking at third-degree murder. They will probably try to say she is mentally unfit for trial or use the insanity defense. They might get it. She’s pretty far out there.”

  It didn’t take long for me to shove six slices of salami in my mouth, along with several pieces of torn bread and a dozen grapes—all before I had my first sip of coffee. After my beautiful dream, some good food, and my entire family around me, I was feeling pretty good.

  When I looked up, I noticed that Blake was looking right at me. I looked back at him without the usual giddiness or awkwardness or even the hatefulness I sometimes felt around him when it seemed as if he was talking down to me. I was sure I’d feel that way again. Give it twenty minutes. But as for right now, I looked back at him, knowing that he’d experienced the paranormal with me. He saw it. I saw it. We didn’t need to talk it to death. Not right now. Maybe not ever. I was going to let him take the lead. That was an idea I really liked.

  As the second cup of coffee was being poured, the phone rang.

  Aunt Astrid answered and exchanged a few pleasantries before handing the phone to me.

  “Who is it?” I asked with my back to the rest of the group as Bea fussed over Blake’s ankle.

  “It’s Tom.”

  I swallowed hard, but my mouth had already gone dry.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Cath. Do you have a minute?”

  “Sure,” I lied. I would much rather have been with my family. But what were a few minutes for an ex-boyfriend I still wanted as a friend?

  While you wait for book 9 of The Wonder Cats Mysteries, check out my new mystery series, Secret Agent Granny.

  In book 1, Barbara Gold, a retired CIA agent, is bored out of her skull in Cheerville, a small town in New England—until a man is poisoned during a book club meeting for seniors. Buy the book now or read an excerpt at the end of this book.

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  About the Author

  Harper Lin is a USA TODAY bestselling cozy mystery author.

  When she's not reading or writing mysteries, she loves going to yoga classes, hiking, and hanging out with her family and friends.

  For a complete list of her books by series, visit her website. Follow Harper on social media using the icons below for the latest insider news.

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  A Note From Harper

  Thank you so much for reading Pawsibly Murdered. If you were entertained by the book, please recommend it to friends and family who would enjoy it too. I would also really appreciate it if you could write a book review to help spread the word.

  If you like this series, you might also enjoy my other series:

  • The Cape Bay Cafe Mysteries: When Fran moves back to her idyllic beach town to take over the family café, she also develops a knack for solving bizarre murders. Each book includes dessert recipes.

  • Secret Agent Granny: 70-year-old Barbara, a sweet grandmother—and a badass ex-CIA agent, is bored in retirement, until someone in her small town is murdered.

  • The Pink Cupcake Mysteries: A new divorcée sells delicious cupcakes from a pink food truck, to the chagrin of her ex-husband. Each book includes cupcake recipes.

  • The Patisserie Mysteries: An heiress to a famous French patisserie chain takes over the family business, while using her status as a Parisian socialite to solve murders in high society. Each book includes French pastry recipes.

  • The Emma Wild Mysteries: a 4-Book holiday cozy series about a famous singer returning to her small Canadian town. Each book includes holiday dessert recipes.

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  I’m also on Facebook, where I’ll be holding giveaways, sharing recipes, and posting about what I’m reading at the moment.

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  If you’d like to get in touch with me directly, you can email me at [email protected]. I would love to hear what you think about the books. Do also drop me a note if you happen to catch any mistakes. While each book is edited and proofread by professionals, errors can still slip through sometimes. As an indie writer, I want to provide readers with the smoothest read possible.

  Last but not least, visit my website for the latest news and my blog.

  Thanks and much love,

  Harper

  Excerpt from “Granny’s Got a Gun”

  I was at the weekly meeting of the Cheerville Active Readers’ Society, the closest thing to pass for entertainment in this sleepy little New England town. I found myself living here after I retired from the CIA.

  I’m Barbara Gold. Age: 70. Height: five feet, five inches. Eyes: blue. Hair: gray. Weight: none of your business. Specialties: undercover surveillance, small arms, chemical weapons, Middle East and Latin American politics. Current status: retired widow and grandmother.

  Addendum to current status: bored out of my skull.

  Like my retirement, forced down my throat by the government three years before, the book selection for that month was not going down well.

  Endless Beach was a classic romance novel from 1912 that had recently been reissued as part of a major publisher’s “Forgotten Female Authors” series. It should have remained forgotten.

  An obvious Jane Austen knockoff, written in an era when a wee bit more physical contact was permitted (Kissing! Gasp!) but lingering Victorian morals ensured a tepid read, it came off as old fashioned even in a reading group in which the youngest member was sixty-five, reading glasses were universal, and wrinkles had long stopped being a source of worry. Despite the story being a snore, it had managed to enthrall most members of the reading group, although for different reasons.

  The seven members sat around the coffee table in Lucien and Gretchen Rogers’s living room, a circle of gray hair, wrinkles, and persistent aches and pains. Gretchen’s prize-winning lemon cake sat on the table, with only one piece left.

  I stared at the cake with annoyance. As usual, Gretchen had used some delicious icing to write her favorite line from that week’s reading assignment. This week it said: Like the sand on the beach, our love is renewed with every crashing wave. That corny line, which didn’t make all that much sense, epitomized both the novel and Gretchen. A bit corny, a bit nonsensical, so it came as no surprise that it stuck out to her, a beach-obsessed hopeless romantic.

  She and her husband, Lucien, had both turned sixty-five that year, and while Lucien had settled into placid retirement, Gretchen was going through something of a late midlife crisis or a really late puberty. She dreamed of being whisked away by a handsome stranger to some gorgeous beach somewhere. Their house was adorned with photos of the Bahamas, the Seychelles, the Maldives, and other exotic locales, all taken by someone else. As far as I could tell, the couple had never been farther than Maine.

  Gretchen, as usual, had cut the cake into eight pieces. Why she did this, I could never figure out, because that last slice of cake always ended up sitting on the plate for the rest of the meeting. No one ever took it. Not that anyone was watching their figures too closely at this late stage of life; it was simply that taking a second piece would be rude, and rudeness was something that just wasn’t done in Cheerville. You wouldn’t want to irritate anyone, after all.

  But that extra piece irritated me almost more than I coul
d bear. I hadn’t made it through a Cold War and several hot ones by being sloppy and wasteful, and leaving an extra piece no one had the gumption to eat was the epitome of sloppy and wasteful.

  So I frowned at it again. The icing spelling out the words “crashing wave,” the only words left, seemed to mock me. In a few minutes, Lucien would clear the table and toss out the spare piece.

  I had received the piece that read “renewed,” but Cheerville was doing anything but renewing me. In fact, I had developed a deep fear of fossilizing.

  I wished the reading group had continued with Behind Open Curtains, this month’s first choice until everyone cracked the cover. It had been billed as “romantica,” a subgenre everyone thought was some new spin on romance. Nobody had bothered to Google it. If we had, we would have found out that it was an amalgamation of “romance” and “erotica.” Pearl, another member of our group, who at ninety-six years of age should have seen it all by now, had nearly had a coronary at the phrase “throbbing man root.”

  “Throbbing” was a word often seen in Behind Open Curtains, as was “pulsating,” “yearning,” “moaning,” and “clenching.” There were even a few yelps and ululations. Just who the heck ululates in bed, anyhow? And there was so much fire symbolism in Behind Open Curtains that those curtains must have been made of asbestos.

  I fully intended to finish reading that one. I needed to get to the bottom of this ululation business. Had I been doing it wrong all these years?

  “Barbara?”

  The voice sounded insistent, as if it had spoken my name before.

  I looked up to see everyone staring at me. How long had they been saying my name? How long had I been thinking about that stupid slice of cake and strange bedroom noises? I was losing my edge, getting soft. When I still worked for the CIA, nothing ever went unnoticed around me.

  “Yes?” I answered.

  “What do you think about Victor’s betrayal? How could he leave his wife after twenty years?” asked Pauline, a plump woman of seventy-two with thick cat’s-eye glasses. The ache in Pauline’s voice told me that she’d felt that same betrayal in her own life, meaning the question was loaded and couldn’t be answered the way I would have liked.