A Dreadful Meow-ment (MEOW FOR MURDER Book 2), стр. 32

But it’s not Tilly that crops up in my airspace. It’s Regina Valentine and her burgeoning bosom. Regina has unbuttoned her blouse to vulgar extremes and is currently forcing the general public to ogle her perky boobs.

“You know what they say”—she lifts a shoulder my way—“you lose him like you got him.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I snip in lieu of smacking her with the hand towel sitting on the counter. “Never mind. I know exactly what you’re driving at. But I didn’t steal Shep from you. In fact, not only am I not with Shepherd, I’m not convinced you were ever with him either.”

“I was with him.” Her voice hikes as if she takes umbrage with the fact. “Ask Tilly.” She pulls Tilly in by the elbow and attempts to stride into the kitchen. “Tell her I was with Shep.”

Tilly carefully yanks herself free. “She was with him. But then again, Shep was with everyone.”

“Everyone?” I lift a brow at my newly minted bestie.

“Relax.” She lands the dirty plates she’s holding into the bin behind her. “He’s not with anyone now that you’re here.”

Regina grunts, “Except for Hilary.” She brazenly growls in their direction. “I think I’m going to offer them both a fresh cup of coffee and I’ll be sure to add a little something special to hers.”

Tilly titters at the thought. “A little secret sauce from your kisser? Before you serve it, hand it my way and I’ll hock one up, too.”

“What?” I buck in horror. “No way. We do not offer bodily fluids as an unwanted side here at the Manor Café. That’s considered battery in some states. Don’t ask me how I know.” Okay, fine. I hocked up a serving or two from my own kisser back in my donut shop days. I ran the register and dealt with more jerks than should ever be legal in the entire state of New Jersey, but I’m not proud. “And never mind Shep and his latest conquest.” I take a moment to growl in their direction myself. A lot of good he’s doing trying to clear my name off that suspect list. Figures. Leave a man to do a woman’s work.

“Come on, Tilly,” I say, taking off my apron. “We’ve got places to go and suspects to see.”

Tilly bounces on the balls of her feet and lets out a wild yelp that can rival the mating call of a yeti.

“I knew today would shape up to be a good one. Where are we off to? A bar? A tattoo parlor? A strip club?”

“I don’t know. We have to track down our suspect first. It’ll be the luck of the draw.”

“I’m feeling lucky already.” Tilly balls up her apron and tosses it to the kitchen, nearly landing it into an open flame.

Regina narrows her eyes my way. “What about me?”

“You’re the lucky one who gets to boss Thea and Flo around. Mud is prepping the ballroom for the mother-daughter dance coming up, and if you want, you could head that way and tell him what to do, too.”

She makes a face as she glances over at Shep. “I’ve got someone else I’d much rather boss around.” Her lips curl with a malevolent smile. “In fact, I think I’ll start there.”

She takes off in their direction and my stomach explodes with acid. Why do I feel as if I just let a viper into my love nest?

I watch as she speeds in his direction with two dicey cups of coffee.

Shep turns my way, those steely blue eyes freezing me solid and burning me up at the very same time. But my feet head for the door, and I take Tilly with me.

I’m not watching another minute of the Hilary and Shepherd show.

I’m tracking down whoever killed Craig Walker.

News at eleven.

The next suspect on my list is James Palmer, the dark-haired, bushy-browed deputy slash maple farm owner who, according to Hilary, might have been at odds with the deceased over a woman.

Plausible.

But then again, they were in business together, and according to Oliver Kincaid, who was also in business with the deceased, Craig Walker was a difficult person to work with. Apparently, he liked to call the shots.

The motives are present with both Oliver and James, but it sounds as if James might have been doubly motivated to see that Craig Walker had a bullet pumped into his chest.

“Ooh!” Tilly squeals from the passenger seat as she fumbles with her phone.

I was feeling brave so I fired up my Honda, Wanda, and drove her without incident all the way to Maple Grove. I figure she needs to be kick-started once in a while, or she might head off for the great automotive graveyard in the sky.

“What is it?” I ask, slowing down and pulling over. We headed straight for Maple Grove without any real idea of where to find James. The truth is, I needed to get out of Starry Falls before I walked over to Shep and Hilary and bonked them both over the head with one of yesterday’s stale croissants.

Tilly holds her phone out for me to see. “I did a little cyber stalking and voila. James just snapped a picture of his meatball sub at a place called the Grove Deli.”

“Good work.” I pull out my own phone and quickly look up the Grove Deli. “Tilly, it’s right up the street.” I take off again, and just as we’re about to pull alongside of the establishment, James strides out wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses as he hops into his truck.

“That’s him!” I squeal, and Tilly follows suit with a rambunctious sound that you might hear on the other side of the wall of a cheap motel room.

“Follow that man, Bowie. I bet he’s off to find his next victim.”

“I’m on him.”

Fortunately for us, we don’t have to follow him far. James drives about two blocks away and parks in front of a nail salon called Nifty Nails