A Mew to a Kill Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  A Note From The Author

  About The Author

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  “I just know I’ll win first prize with these,” Paisley Brown's red-tipped nails clawed the pages of the binder open to reveal the most unfocused and unappealing photographs I’d ever seen. “Don’t you think so, Willa?” She searched my face with heavily mascaraed eyes.

  “Umm … sure.” I stared at the photos. Win? I didn’t think so. The pictures were horrible, but I couldn’t say it to her face no matter how abrasive and annoying Paisley was.

  Besides, I was just there to collect the portfolio, not to pass judgment. That would happen next week at the fifth annual Mystic Notch Art Show, of which I’d had the unfortunate honor to become one of the judges. We had a last-minute spot open up and Paisley seemed to be under the impression that her work was just the thing to fill it.

  “I’ve titled the series Main Street Reflections.” She flipped the binder shut and held it out to me. “The photos are all of reflections in the Main Street windows during some of the town events.”

  “How clever.” That explained why they were so blurry.

  I took the binder and she brushed past me, her cheap perfume tickling my nose as she wriggled down the aisle of her photography store in a tight jean skirt and short-sleeved pink cashmere sweater bursting at the buttons. My brows jumped up a fraction of an inch as I watched her. I was no prude, but her clothing choice was a bit revealing for someone her age, which I guessed to be mid-forties. But then, I’d heard Paisley liked to flaunt it.

  I couldn’t help but glance down at my own choice of attire. The faded jeans and loose gray tee-shirt provided a sharp contrast to Paisley’s outfit which, I had to admit, didn’t look all that bad on her. She had a good figure. Curvy. Mine, while not as curvy, wasn’t too bad either, especially considering I had a good six or seven years on her.

  I could have looked good in her outfit if I’d wanted to. It just wasn’t my style.

  I brushed a smudge of dirt from the hem of my shirt. Being a bookseller that specialized in used and antique books, I came in contact with lots of dirt and it frequently found its way onto my clothes. You wouldn’t believe the condition of some of the books people brought into my store—straight out of the attic or basement and loaded with decades of grime. But that was what made the job so much fun. You never knew when you’d find a rare book under all that dirt.

  I glanced across the street at Last Chance Books, the bookstore I’d inherited from my grandmother. The name was a clever play on our last name, ‘Chance’, and the fact that the store sold used books, giving them a last chance at being read.

  A feeling of pride washed over me as I admired the books stacked in the squeaky-clean display windows. The oak door sat in the middle of the two windows with my name, Wilhelmina Chance, Proprietor, proudly displayed. My feelings of pride soon turned to trepidation as I saw my cat’s face pressed against the glass of the bay window to the left of the door. She was glaring back across the street at me, a gleam of malice in her golden-green eyes that promised some sort of retribution for leaving her alone in the store.

  That reminded me—I’d better get going to the meeting so I could get back in time to open my store before the morning rush of tourists looking for something to read was over.

  “I’ve already bought the tents and tables for my display and am putting these frames together so they will all match.” Paisley had made her way to the center of the studio and was pointing to a pile of wide, black lacquer frames.

  “Those look expensive.” I inched my way backward toward the door.

  “They were, but I think the investment will pay off in spades, especially if I win the blue ribbon.”

  I took another step backward, my heart tugging just a little for Paisley because I knew she had probably wasted her money. I didn’t know why I felt the urge to help her out. I barely knew her and what I did know, I didn’t like. Guess I was getting soft in my old age.

  “Maybe you should wait until we award that last spot before you spend more money,” I suggested.

  The art show was a juried show that ran for a week before the judges voted and awarded the twenty thousand dollar prize to the best in show. We’d actually already picked twelve artists, but one had to bow out and we had a last-minute opening. There had already been several prospective applicants whose portfolios we’d reviewed. Paisley was the last one we would look at before making our decision.

  I thought of Neil Lane, the reclusive artist. Rumors abounded about his secretive past. I didn’t know what he had done before, but now he painted gorgeous watercolors. He was the favorite so far for that open spot and I was sure he would beat out Paisley.

  “Oh, don’t be silly. I know I’ll get a spot in the show,” she said with the certainty of a snake charmer who has an ample supply of anti-venom.

  “Well, I’m just saying…”

  She leaned toward me, her lips parted in a smile that didn’t quite reach the rest of her face. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, but not in a wrinkled-from-years-of-smiling way … more in a wrinkled-from-years-of-manipulating-people way.

  “Honey, I’ve learned that to get ahead in life a girl has to do whatever it takes to get what she wants.” She winked one mascara-clumped eyelid at me. “I want that spot in the art show, and I’m pretty sure I’ll be getting it.”

  The door to her shop opened and she turned her attention to her new customers, leaving me free to make my getaway. I gladly exited and crossed the street to my Jeep. I tossed her portfolio on the passenger seat, my forehead wrinkling as it flipped open to one of the pictures—a shot of the reflection from the double windows behind the sidewalk tables in front of the Mystic Café. It must have been taken during the Founders Day parade because I could see the sign announcing the café's Founders Day specials. The photograph was neither artistic nor interesting. Barely better than a child could do. There was no way this work would be chosen for the art show, would it?

  Yet, Paisley had been so certain and I got the impression it wasn’t just her overly inflated self-confidence talking. Glancing back across the street, I couldn’t help but wonder just what Paisley Brown had done to be so sure the judges would vote for her.

  Chapter Two

  The Mystic Notch town hall was a two-story wooden building with long, tall windows. It sat at the end of town in a lot filled with giant oaks and maples—trees that were mature even when the hall was built in the mid-1800s.

  I parked in front and let myself in. The two-story-high foyer reminded me of school field trips that I’d attended as a child. It still looked the same as it had back then. In fact, it hadn’t changed much in over a hundred years except for the recently painted mural depicting the town that ran along the corridor leading to the back rooms. The front of
the building still had the original wide, pine plank floors and old wooden moldings, now scarred with age. The white trim paint around the windows had been applied in so many layers over the years that the corner details on the moldings were slightly rounded now instead of the sharp angles they’d once been.

  I headed toward the back of the building, pausing to look at the mural as I passed. It had been painted by resident artist Maisie Beardsley who must have been a hundred if she was a day. A smile tugged at my lips as visions of her standing on a ladder to paint the tree tops flooded my mind. At her age, she probably should have kept her feet planted firmly on the floor, but anyone that offered to help her was admonished with a whip of her brush and harsh words.

  “I’m not an invalid!” she’d barked at anyone who'd dared try to get her to stop climbing up on the ladder.

  No one knew how old Maisie actually was. She’d been around since anyone could remember. I knew she’d been friends with my neighbor Elspeth Whipple since they were young. As Elspeth put it, they’d been friends ‘since before they put the bell in St. Mary’s church’. Whenever that was.

  I ran my fingers over the surface of the painting, feeling the thicker blobs that made up the tree tops. I marveled at how Maisie had captured the whole town in amazing detail with seemingly few brush strokes. I continued down the hall, my eyes on the map following the street from my bookstore downtown through Mystic Notch to the house I’d inherited from my grandmother.

  A pang of sadness pierced my heart as I remembered Gram. When I was a little girl, we’d been close and I’d been racked with guilt when she’d died. Guilt over being too obsessed with my job as a crime journalist down in Boston to come back and visit rustic Mystic Notch in the White Mountains of New Hampshire much more than once a year.

  But then, my former life had changed suddenly. A near-fatal car accident had given me a reason to question the direction my life was taking as well as a few odd side effects, including an injury to my leg that was starting to hurt now as I walked down the hall.

  Gram's death shortly after the accident and her bequest of the house and bookstore in Mystic Notch had sealed the deal and I’d moved home for good.

  I had been back a few years now and was fitting in well, though I wasn’t sure how I’d ended up judging the art contest. I really wasn’t qualified, but apparently someone thought my crime writing days in Boston lent me an air of celebrity and here I was.

  I turned from the mural and continued down the hall. The wide pine flooring turned to manila-colored utilitarian tile and the doors from quarter sawn oak to metal with square windows in the center.

  I stopped in front of one of the rooms. The other judges were already seated in metal folding chairs around a Formica table. They looked up as I opened the door.

  Maisie Beardsley narrowed her eyes at the binder in my arms. Her lips puckered, the crosshatched skin on her upper lip wrinkling like a prune. “What’s that?”

  I slid the binder onto the table. “It’s the portfolio from Paisley Brown.”

  “Paisley Brown?” The pencil thin brows of Nina Lovejoy, the high school art teacher, tugged together. “What would we want with that?”

  George Witt cleared his throat. “She’s submitting her work for the art show.”

  Brenda Parrish pulled the binder in front of her and bent over it. Her long, brown hair which was severely parted on the right shadowed the left side of her face as she flipped slowly through the book. The charms dangling from a dainty bracelet on her wrist glinted in the light.

  Maisie turned her puckered look on George. She wore a white blouse, buttoned up high with her usual silver pin clasped at her throat—a fancy letter 'B'. It must have been a family heirloom as she wore it often. Her gray-streaked hair was fashioned into a tight bun at the top of her head, giving her an even more severe look than she normally had.

  “What do you mean she’s submitting her work for the art show? Her work is not anything we would want to show,” Maisie huffed in her usual abrasive manner.

  “I think we should at least consider her,” George said. “I believe her work is quite innovative.”

  “Innovative?” Maisie scoffed. “Are you kidding me? It’s not even good enough to be classified as amateur.” Maisie gestured toward the portfolio. “You can barely even make out the subject matter.”

  “Why, that’s no different than some of your paintings, Maisie. Some of those are pretty obscure.” Opal Winters snapped her gum at Maisie, eliciting a sharp look from the artist.

  “My paintings are not obscure,” Maisie shot at her. “Some of them are impressionist art. Not that you would know much about art. Besides, we have an application from Neil Lane and his work is much more appropriate for the show.”

  I looked at Opal, who was busy studying her blue, sparkly fingernails. Maisie had a point. What did Opal know about art, anyway? I wasn’t sure what Opal was doing judging an art show … my guess was that it had something to do with her job on the town council which, rumor had it, she’d secured in an unorthodox manner.

  Her eyes slid over to the portfolio Brenda was still leafing through. “I like Paisley’s work better. It’s new and fresh. I think we should consider her.”

  Maisie and I stared at her incredulously. Was she serious?

  Then I remembered that I’d seen Opal and Paisley together quite a few times. They were friends. My mind replayed Paisley’s words about doing what she had to do to get what she wanted. Did she and Opal have some sort of scheme going? Maybe Paisley was planning on splitting the money with Opal if Opal got her into the show and then voted for her work to win first prize.

  Opal turned to Nina, who had been silently listening. “What do you think, Nina? You’ve seen both applicants’ work. Who do you think we should award the slot to?”

  Nina squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. Her eyes went from Opal’s face, to Maisie to the binder that Brenda was still studying.

  “Yeah, Nina. What do you think?” George stared at her and I could sense Nina getting more uncomfortable.

  “I … ahh … well … they both have merits.” She looked uncertainly at George and I remembered that Nina worked for George’s real estate firm in the summers. He was her boss. But surely that wouldn’t sway her opinion.

  “I guess we could give her a try,” Nina said finally.

  Maisie flapped her hands against her sides.

  “I don’t know what is wrong with you people. I think we need to pick a new set of judges since some of you are obviously biased.” Maisie glared at Opal, Nina and George. “It’s a big responsibility to choose the finest examples of art from our town. Not to mention the grand prize of twenty thousand dollars. We can’t bow down to favoritism.”

  I nodded my head vigorously. Beside me, Brenda had been quietly scanning the photos in Paisley’s portfolio. She slammed the book shut.

  She looked up at us, seemingly distraught. “I agree with Maisie. This work is not worthy of the artist festival. Surely we have other entries?”

  George straightened in his chair, his ample stomach jutting out over the top of his belt. “I don’t think there’s anyone that fits the need we have for this particular type of work.”

  “And what particular type of work is that?” Maisie asked.

  A red stain crept across George’s face. He loosened the tie constricting his thick neck. A layer of sweat plastered his comb-over against his forehead. “Something different. Unusual. We can’t fill the whole art festival with stuff like yours, Maisie.”

  “Well, I hardly think it’s filled with my stuff. I’m just one of the artists. There is a huge variety. Oil painters, watercolorists, wood carvers, stained glass artists and even another photographer. But they are all artists.” She narrowed her eyes at George suspiciously. “Just why are you so fixated on getting Paisley Brown’s work into the show?”

  “I’m not.” George drew himself up indignantly. “I’m the head judge here and I think I know what kind of art we should have. I think we
need to put it down to a vote.”

  We all looked at each other and murmured our agreement.

  “Okay, all in favor of including Paisley, say Aye.”

  Opal’s hand shot up. “Aye!”

  George raised his hand. “Aye.”

  Nina’s hand hovered in mid-air. Her top teeth worried her bottom lip. She turned her head to avoid Maisie's glare and looked uncertainly at George, who nodded. She raised her hand.

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” Maisie blew out a breath. “All in favor of giving the spot to Neil, raise your hands.”

  Brenda, Maisie and I shot our hands up.

  Maisie turned to George. “It looks like we’re tied.”

  “So it does.” George rubbed his chin. “And if I remember correctly, in the case of a tie, the head judge decides. That’s me … and I decide the spot goes to Paisley Brown.”

  “What?” Brenda slapped her hand on the table. “You can’t do that!”

  “Unfortunately, he can.” Maisie shot up from her chair and stood directly in front of George, glaring down at him. “You don’t fool me, George Witt. I know what’s going on and I’ll tell you right now I won’t have you ruining the Mystic Notch art show.” She stomped toward the door, whirling around to face George as she reached for the knob. “Paisley Brown’s work will be included in the artist show over my dead body.”

  Chapter Three

  The rest of the meeting ran into overtime despite Maisie’s absence and I was late getting to my shop. Along with my inheritance of the bookstore and the cat came a group of regulars who had been gathering at the shop in the mornings for decades to discuss current town events with Gram. Even though Gram was gone now, the tradition continued and I found the four elderly citizens standing outside my door with Styrofoam coffee cups in hand. I noticed Josiah Barrows, the retired postmaster, had an extra cup in his hand and I hoped it had my name on it.

  I pulled past them into the little parking lot behind the building. I got out, then noticed Paisley’s portfolio, which I was supposed to return to her, on the passenger seat. I was already late opening the shop—I’d have to return it to her later. I left it on the seat and trotted out front, the keys to the shop dangling in my hand.