A Purrfect Alibi

“Yep, we’re downtown shopping.” I moved further away because my mother looked as if she was going to grab the phone. Mom was in the habit of blurting out all kinds of things to Emma that I really wished she wouldn’t. Like things about dead bodies in the guesthouse and my non-existent love life.

“I talked to her earlier. I hear you have another dead body, another murder,” Emma said.

See what I mean?

“Oh that? It’s nothing to worry about. The police have it under control.” I glanced back at Mom and Millie who were obviously listening in. The raised brow look they shared didn’t escape me and I moved further away.

“Well, if you say so, Mom. I guess by now you know how to handle them.” Emma laughed. “I just wanted to check in and make sure you were okay.”

I couldn’t help but smile. I was touched that my grown daughter, who now worked for the FBI, was checking in on me. “I’m fine!” I hoped my forced, chipper tone didn’t come across as sounding false. “You know me, steady as she goes. Same old, same old.”

“Uh-huh. So things are going good at the guesthouse? You’re getting a lot of bookings?”

My stomach churned remembering the cancellation this morning. “Yes, it’s going really well. The renovations are on track and pretty soon I’ll have made back my investment and be sitting pretty.” A slight lie depending on one’s definitions of pretty soon and sitting pretty.

“That’s great, Mom.”

“How are things going with you?” I steered the conversation to her, which was much more interesting for me anyway.

“Work is going great! I’m getting a vacation in a couple of months and I thought I’d come out and visit.”

Panic shot through me. What would happen when she came to visit? Would there be a dead body? Would she and my mother gang up on me about Mike? I took a deep breath. She’d said a couple of months. No need to panic now. Besides, my desire to see my daughter outweighed everything else. “That would be great.”

“Okay. Good. We’ll make plans later on. Gotta run, break time is over.” She clicked off and I put the phone back in my pocket.

“Emma is doing good, it seems,” Mom said.

“Yes, she is.” I knew Mom wanted to know more about the conversation, but I wasn’t going to give her that satisfaction. Besides, she’d already overheard everything on my end.

Millie had wandered down two stores and was gesturing toward the window. “Boodles is having a huge purse sale!”

Mom rushed over and I followed at a more sedate pace. The store was a cute boutique with a pink-and-yellow striped awning and displays of designer purses in the window. A little red leather clutch with a studded butterfly design caught my eye, but the last thing I could afford was to buy a purse—especially now that someone had cancelled.

“You guys go ahead and shop. I’m going to visit with Jen at the post office.”

“Okay, dear, we’ll meet you there in a half hour,” Millie called over her shoulder, as she disappeared into the store.

Jen Summers had been my best friend all through school. Even when I’d moved away, we’d kept in touch. One of the positive things about moving back was reconnecting with her and it was as if the decades in between had never happened.

Jen was the postmistress for Oyster Cove, and I have to admit that did come in handy when investigating a murder, as I’d found myself doing all too often this summer. The post office was the grapevine for the town and if there was anything to be learned about this movie producer or the murder at the guesthouse, I’d hear it there.

As I opened the door to the old brick post office, Mrs. Pennyfeather was leaving. I held the door and she scooted as far away from me as she could, crossed herself and rushed out into the street.

Jen was behind the counter.

“What’s with Mrs. Pennyfeather?”

Jen’s left brow quirked up. “Words gotten out you had another murder and something about a ghost. I think she’s a little worried you might be the devil.”

“Great. Is that what people are saying?” I crossed the old black-and-white marble floors to the counter. The Oyster Cove post office was a wonderful throwback to the 1930s, with its oak-paneled doors, wainscoting, brass fixtures, gold stenciling and frosted glass. It even had the vanilla-tinged scent of old paper.

Jen was replacing the roll of labels in the machine that printed out priority mail stickers. “It’s no secret that you have all those psychics and mediums up at your place. They’ve been running around town telling fortunes and offering to contact deceased relatives.”

“Yeah. But no ghost.”

“So you say. People seem to think there really is one, though. What happened?”

I told her all about my unusual guests and included the details of how we’d found Madame Zenda with the note and buckle.