“Kind of like you,” he said, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Yeah, sure,” I joked, but snuggled closer to him all the same. If he wanted to believe I was perfect, then I refused to stop him.
It was Harmony of all people who finally gave the info that would solve the case. Remember that mean masseuse? Yeah, her.
Turns out Trish had visited Serenity day spa because Stone—whose real name was Declan—also worked at the Dewdrop Springs branch of the First Bank of Blueberry Bay. He’d helped Mr. Leavitt cash his stolen checks and then frame Trish for it.
And Harmony—whose real name was truly and legitimately Harmony—heard enough to testify against him. From there, he cracked wide open and confessed everything.
Paisley hadn’t seen Trish before because Trish didn’t technically work for the shelter. The sweet but forgetful front desk attendant Pearl was her grandmother, and for weeks Mr. Leavitt had been threatening to let her go due to her age and the suspicion she had early onset dementia. He’d used that threat along with a few carefully constructed lies to con Trish into carrying out his dirty work.
And when he sensed me and Nan hot on his tail, he set Trish up to take the fall for all of it. He’d sent her to cash the checks with Stone. He’d also sent her to buy the stolen supplies, instructing his lackey to purposefully end up in the wrong lot and force her to walk all about town with the hopes someone would discover her suspicious behavior.
And, yeah, I’d played right into his hand.
If it weren’t for my pets and that disgusting dead mouse, I may have never realized that we’d accused the wrong person.
Luckily, my pets were gross, and Mr. Leavitt—whose first name is Alex, by the way—would be going away for a long, long time. Now someone who really believes in the animal shelter’s mission will be taking over as the Community Outreach Coordinator.
Pearl.
A doctor quickly dismissed the dementia diagnosis and ruled her completely in good health and of sound mind. So now, she runs things, and her devoted granddaughter Trish has taken over as the first face you see when entering the facility.
Nan and I, for our part, plan to continue organizing fundraisers to help the shelter get back on its feet.
So I guess you can say we all lived happily ever after.
Well, until the next case anyway…
What’s Next?
Lately my life has seemed pretty perfect—great house, great gig as my own boss, great new boyfriend, and the world’s most awesome talking cat. Turns out I shouldn’t have let my guard down…
Even though my private investigation firm is brand new, I’ve already got some not-so-friendly competition, and it’s coming from the sticky-fingered raccoon who lives under my front porch. I have no doubt he’s robbing his clients, since he’s stealing from mine, too.
Things go from irritating to downright dangerous when he foists a little trinket from my attic, one that suggests dark secrets and spells big trouble for my beloved Nan.
I need to learn more, but that’s not going to be easy since the person of interest lives under the same roof. Can I trust this raccoon racketeer with something so dear? Unfortunately, I haven’t got any other options.
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Sneak Peek: Raccoon Racketeer
Hey, my name’s Angie Russo, and I own one-half of a private investigation firm here in beautiful Blueberry Bay, Maine.
The other half belongs to my cat, Octavius—or Octo-Cat for short. It may not seem like his nickname keeps things short, but trust me on that one. Every time he tells anyone his full name, he always adds at least one new title to the end. The most recent version is Octavius Maxwell Ricardo Edmund Frederick Fulton Russo, Esq. P.I.
Like I said, it’s a mouthful.
And he’s kind of a handful, too.
While my spoiled tabby is undoubtedly my best friend, he does have a way of making my life harder. For instance, he’s been catnapped, ordered to court for arbitration, and even repeatedly threatened to kill our new dog.
Did I mention that all happened in the span of just one month?
But that’s Octo-Cat for you.
Love him or hate him, there’s no denying he’s a true individual.
And even though he’s just about as stubborn as they come, he does occasionally change his mind about things.
That new dog we adopted? She’s a sweet rescue Chihuahua named Paisley. She liked him from the start, but it took Octo-Cat much longer to warm up to her. Now I am proud to report that the two have become close friends. One of my cat’s favorite hobbies has become stalking and pouncing on his dog and then wrestling her to the ground.
Yes, his dog. That’s how much the tables have turned in these past few weeks.
Together, the three of us live with my grandmother, Nan. Although she’s the main one who raised me, she lives in my house.
And I live in my cat’s house.
Yup, Octo-Cat is a trust fund kitty, and his stipend is more than generous enough to pay the mortgage on our exquisite New England manor house.
It’s a bit ridiculous, I’ll be the first to admit that. But, hey, when life gives you lemonade, it’s best if you drink up and enjoy!
Speaking of, I’ve been dating my dream guy for about seven weeks now. His name is Charles Longfellow, III, and he’s my dream guy for good reason. Not only is he the sole partner at the law firm where I used to work, but he’s also incredibly smart, kind, attentive—and, okay, I may as well just admit it—sexy.
Not that we’ve…
Anyway!
I can talk to my cat. I probably should have mentioned that earlier, seeing as it’s the most unusual thing about me.
I can talk to my dog, too, and most animals now.
Long story short, I got electrocuted at a will reading, and when I regained consciousness, I heard Octo-Cat making fun of me. Once he realized I could understand him, he recruited me to solve his late owner’s murder, and the rest is history.
From there, we realized two things. One, we make a really good crime-solving team, and two, we were stuck with each other for better or worse. Usually, things are better, but he still has his hissy fits on occasion—and so do I, for that matter.
And I guess that brings me to today.
Today marks the two-month mark since we first opened our P.I. outfit for business, and in that time, we’ve had exactly zero clients. Even my normally optimistic nan can’t spin this one in a positive light.
No one wants to hire us, and I’m not sure why.
I’m well-liked in town, and it’s not like people know I can actually talk to animals. They think including my cat as a partner is just a gimmick, and I prefer it that way, honestly.
But I’m starting to worry that we’ll never bring any business in.
At what point do we give up on our entrepreneurial enterprise?
Octo-Cat is pretty happy sleeping in the sun most of the day, but I prefer to have more in my life. I even quit my former job as a paralegal to make sure I had enough time for all the investigative work I felt certain would fall into my lap the moment we opened for business.
Yeah, I was more than a little wrong about that one.
I need to figure out something, and fast, if I want to keep my operation afloat, but how can I trust my instincts when they were so wrong before?
Here’s hoping Octo-Cat has a bright idea he’d be willing to share…
It was Wednesday morning, and I’d spent the better part of the last two days handing out flyers to any person, business, or animal who would take one. Out of desperation, I’d even visited parking lots and shoved the brightly colored papers touting my credentials under the windshield wipers of each car in the lot.