A Twist in the Tail: An absolutely purrfect cozy mystery (The Oyster Cove Guesthouse Book 1) Read online

  A Twist in the Tail

  An absolutely purrfect cozy mystery

  Leighann Dobbs

  Contents

  A Twist in The Tail

  Other Books By Leighann Dobbs

  Blackmoore Sisters

  Lexy Baker

  Kate Diamond Mystery Adventures

  Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

  Mooseamuck Island

  Lady Katherine Regency Mysteries

  (As L. A. Dobbs)

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  [CT] A Letter from Leighann

  Untitled

  Untitled

  Lemon Poppy Seed Muffins - Serve 12

  Broccoli Quiche - Serves 4

  Brunch Egg Dish Casserole

  Ham and Cheese Bisquick Puffs

  Millie’s Famous Sour Cream Coffee Cake

  A Twist in The Tail

  by

  Leighann Dobbs

  Other Books By Leighann Dobbs

  Cozy Mysteries

  Mystic Notch

  Cat Cozy Mystery Series

  Ghostly Paws

  A Spirited Tail

  A Mew To A Kill

  Paws and Effect

  Probable Paws

  -------

  Blackmoore Sisters

  Cozy Mystery Series

  Dead Wrong

  Dead & Buried

  Dead Tide

  Buried Secrets

  Deadly Intentions

  A Grave Mistake

  Spell Found

  Fatal Fortune

  -------

  Lexy Baker

  Lexy BakerCozy Mystery Series

  Lexy Baker Cozy Mystery Series Boxed Set Vol 1 (Books 1-4)

  Or buy the books separately:

  Killer Cupcakes

  Dying For Danish

  Murder, Money and Marzipan

  3 Bodies and a Biscotti

  Brownies, Bodies & Bad Guys

  Bake, Battle & Roll

  Wedded Blintz

  Scones, Skulls & Scams

  Ice Cream Murder

  Mummified Meringues

  Brutal Brulee (Novella)

  No Scone Unturned

  Cream Puff Killer

  -------

  -------

  Kate Diamond Mystery Adventures

  Hidden Agemda (Book 1)

  Ancient Hiss Story (Book 2)

  Heist Society (Book 3)

  -------

  Silver Hollow

  Paranormal Cozy Mystery Series

  A Spell of Trouble (Book 1)

  Spell Disaster (Book 2)

  Nothing to Croak About (Book 3)

  Cry Wolf (Book 4)

  -------

  Mooseamuck Island

  Mooseamuck IslandCozy Mystery Series

  A Zen For Murder

  A Crabby Killer

  A Treacherous Treasure

  -------

  Hazel Martin Historical Mystery Series

  Murder at Lowry House (Book 1)

  Murder by Misunderstanding (Book 2)

  -------

  Lady Katherine Regency Mysteries

  An Invitation to Murder (Book 1)

  The Baffling Burglaries of Bath (Book 2)

  -------

  Sam Mason Mysteries

  (As L. A. Dobbs)

  Telling Lies (Book 1)

  Keeping Secrets (Book 2)

  Exposing Truths (Book 3)

  Betraying Trust (Book 4)

  -------

  One

  I should have known by the unsettling tone of the cat’s meows that disaster was looming. Of course, at the time I was more worried about how the guests liked breakfast. It was only the fourth one I’d served since officially becoming owner of the Oyster Cove Guesthouse.

  They seemed to be enjoying it. Now, don’t get me wrong, it was nothing fancy. Bacon, scrambled eggs, sausage, and lemon poppy seed muffins were the extent of my culinary expertise. Quite frankly, I might have misjudged whether my cooking skills were up to par when entering into this agreement. Maybe I should have read the fine print in the documents I’d received from Millie Sullivan, the elderly former owner.

  Even though the breakfasts weren’t five-star cuisine, I hadn’t had any complaints from my first batch of guests. Well, all except one. Charles Prescott. He was the reason I was now hovering in the doorway holding an antique egg cup with a perfectly warm soft-boiled egg nestled inside.

  Charles had complained about his egg yesterday. It was too cold. He was quite loud about it, too. Since I aimed to please, this morning I had perfectly timed the egg for his pre-announced 8 am arrival in the dining room. It was now 8:05 … where was Charles?

  My eyes scanned the room just in case I’d missed him. But my guest count totaled five, including Charles, and four were seated and already digging into their breakfast. It was easy to tell who was there and who was not, even in such an enormous room.

  Several small dining tables with white linen tablecloths sat atop a massive moss-green and gold oriental rug. Curtains in a complimentary green and gold silk framed the ten-foot-tall windows that offered a birds-eye view of the sparkling Maine Atlantic ocean and craggy rocks of Oyster Cove. It was summer, and Flora—who I was coming to realize was the world’s worst maid—had opened one window. A soft breeze fluttered the drapes and carried in the salty scent of the ocean and the cry of gulls in the distance… or was that the cats?

  Ron and Iona Weatherby sat a small table located by the window. The adorable elderly couple had binoculars dangling from their necks and cameras at their sides. Ron was slathering the muffin with butter while Iona picked daintily at the fluffy scrambled eggs. They were a delightful couple who had come here for birdwatching and photography. Perfect guests with no complaints.

  Near the buffet, Ava Grantham sat alone at a table for four. Ava was in her mid-60s. A society columnist, she was a thin, bird-like woman who noticed everything that went on. She was pleasant enough to talk to and told me she’d been vacationing in Oyster Cove since she was a child, even staying at the Oyster Cove Guesthouse a few times when Millie owned it. Her plate was loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages. I wondered how she stayed so thin.

  Over by the door was the fourth guest, Tina Reeves. She was younger than the others, probably in her mid-30s, a bubbly blonde with wide blue eyes. She said she’d come to visit relatives, but I had suspicions that she had another agenda, of what I just wasn’t exactly sure. Nor did it matter. As long as the guests paid the bill, I didn’t care what they were up to. Tina had flawless skin and a figure like an hourglass, and no wonder. She only had about a tablespoon of scrambled eggs and three blueberries on her plate.

  Still no sign of Charles. I was just deciding what to do about the rapidly cooling egg in my hand when I heard the front door open. Maybe Charles had gone out for a walk before breakfast? I backed up and stuck my head into the hallway.

  Darn! It wasn
’t Charles. It was Barbara Littlefield, the town building inspector, and the last person I wanted to deal with right now. She’d been a thorn in my side ever since I started renovations on the old mansion. Nothing I did pleased her, and she’d already fined me for two violations that a nicer person would have overlooked. It was too late to duck back into the dining room. She’d already spotted me and was marching down the hall toward me, a sour look on her face. I stepped into the hallway to head her off so she didn’t disrupt the guests’ breakfasts.

  ‘Barbara, how lovely to see you,’ I lied.

  Barbara’s scowl deepened. ‘I just came to double-check the permit for the gazebo outside and I noticed—’

  Merow!

  Barbara jerked her head toward the dining room. ‘Do you have cats in the dining room?’

  I stepped aside to let her see in. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Good, because that would be a health code violation.’

  Merooo!

  Was it my imagination or were the cats’ cries getting louder and more insistent?

  Barbara frowned down the hallway, where it sounded like the cats’ latest cry had come from. ‘Wait a minute. That sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. That’s even worse!’

  Barbara stormed down the hall. I hurried after her, still balancing the egg cup in my hand. Some things are more important than Charles Prescott and his egg – like making sure the board of health didn’t shut me down for having animals in the kitchen.

  ‘It’s not coming from the kitchen.’ At least, I hoped it wasn’t. It actually was coming from that direction, but I was pretty sure it was from the West wing of the mansion, which had been closed off for extensive renovations. Not that the cats didn’t hang around in the kitchen—they did. I just hoped they weren’t in there right now.

  ‘I think you’re right.’ Barbara stopped and frowned at me. ‘I thought I made it clear that decrepit wing was supposed to be closed down so no one could get in there.’

  See what I mean? I just couldn’t win with this woman. You’d think she’d be happy the cats weren’t in the kitchen, but no, she’d found something else to complain about.

  ‘It is blocked off. To people. Cats are sneaky and can get into anything.’ Couldn’t they? I wasn’t exactly sure. I’d only owned the guesthouse, and, thus, the cats, for a short time, and had no idea what those furry little monsters could get up to. They’d been fairly well-behaved so far, but the way they stared at me -- with their luminous, intelligent eyes -- always made me feel like they were up to something behind my back. I didn’t have much experience with cats, but Millie had assured me they made great companions. Thus far, I’d been too busy learning the ropes of running the guesthouse to spend time getting to know them.

  Feelings of guilt crept in. I promised Millie I would take good care of the cats, but judging by the sounds of their meows, they were in some sort of distress. I hoped one of them hadn’t found its way into the closed-off wing and been hurt. It was a mess in there, and not safe.

  Mee-yow!

  We continued down the hall. It felt like it was taking a long time to traverse, but that was because it really was quite long. The place was a mansion after all. Gigantic. It had been built by shipping magnet Jedediah Biddeford 300 years ago. I’d bought it from Millie Sullivan—my mother’s best friend—whose family had owned it for the last 125 years. Judging by the looks of the West wing, that was the last time that section of the house had been updated too. Don’t even get me started on the condition of the caretakers’ cottage and carriage house.

  The cats were really starting to caterwaul now, and I was getting worried. Barbara surged ahead of me, then stopped at the doorway to the West wing and turned to scowl at me.

  ‘I thought you said this was blocked off.’ She gestured toward the door, which was cracked open. I swore I’d locked it shut several days ago.

  The large black and white tuxedo cat, Nero, stood in the doorway looking up at me with his striking green eyes, as if to ask ‘what took you so long?’ The tortie, Marlowe, rubbed her face on my ankle. At least they weren’t hurt, even though the thought of hurting them myself for causing all this trouble did briefly cross my mind.

  ‘I don’t know how this got open. Maybe the handyman?’ The handyman was Millie’s nephew, Mike Sullivan. I’d known he was bad news since fifth grade and would never have engaged his services, but Millie had hired him to fix some things up before I’d bought the guesthouse. The work was already paid for and I couldn’t afford to turn that down. I couldn’t wait to get rid of him, though. ‘He’s probably working in here. I’ll check.’

  ‘Nice try, but this still violates code 401 of the state statute.’ Barbara whipped out her notebook, presumably to write up a violation.

  Great. This was just what I didn’t need. And to top it off, the stupid soft-boiled egg was now cold. I switched it to my left hand and reached out my right to shut the door. ‘Maybe you could overlook it just this once? It wasn’t open that long and—’

  Nero let out a wail and launched himself at the door before I could pull it shut. The door crashed open, revealing the run-down state of the West wing. Dust mites floated in the air, cobwebs hung from the chandeliers, water stains marred the walls. But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was what lay at the bottom of the stairway. It was a body. Charles Prescott’s to be exact. And he was deathly still.

  Two

  I rushed over to the body. You may think most people would be put off by a body, and that the natural inclination would be to run in the opposite direction. But I’d been halfway to a promising career as a medical examiner when I’d given everything up in favor of my ex-husband’s culinary career and raising our daughter, Emma. I didn’t regret staying home for Emma. The marriage was another story. Apparently, my old medical training had kicked in. I wanted to see if anything could be done, even though it was evident by his pasty skin tone and blankly staring eyes that it was too late.

  I felt for a pulse. Nothing. Charles was gone. At least he wouldn’t care that his egg had cooled, which was a good thing because it was now rolling around the floor. I must’ve dropped it in my haste to get to the body.

  Talk about inconvenient. Not only did I have a dilapidated mansion and no money to repair it with, two cats I barely knew how to care for and a building inspector salivating to write me up for even the most innocent of violations, I now also had a dead body on my hands.

  Of course, it was inconvenient for Charles too. A wave of sadness washed over me. Sure, they guy had been a bit of a pain, but he didn’t deserve to die. I felt selfish worrying about my own problems when poor Charles had lost his life.

  A momentary depression descended over me as I saw my plans for success evaporating right before my eyes. And not just financial success. There was much more than money at stake here. I’d spent most of my adult life in the shadow of my ex-husband, Clive Stonefield, a semi-famous chef. His parting words about how I was nothing without him still stung. I had been determined to prove him wrong.

  The Oyster Cove Guesthouse was my opportunity to shine. My chance to prove that I, too, could be successful. I’d put all my money and hopes into this purchase and it had to work. At forty-six, I wasn’t getting any younger and this could be my last chance.

  How much could a dead body hurt business? Didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let this signal my defeat. I was going to consider it an opportunity to prove that I could succeed no matter what. After all, my daughter was just making her way in the world and I had to be a good role model.

  The rustle of paper brought me out of my reverie. Barbara had whipped out her notebook and was flipping through it, probably trying to find the exact section of the building code that a dead body violated so she could write me up.

  ‘He’s dead. We better call the police,’ I said.

  Barbara looked up from her notebook, her hawk-like gaze focusing on the stairway. ‘It’s no wonder. Look at how the stairway collapsed.’ Her eyes narrowed, she
craned her neck forward, pulling her phone from her pocket. ‘Looks like dry rot to me. This place is uninhabitable.’

  I glanced at the stairs as Barbara dialed the police. She had a point. Jagged edges of splintered wood stuck up where the treads had broken through. The entire banister lay on the floor, though half of it had fallen away before I even bought the place. The stairs hadn’t been in good condition before this. Now, they were a disaster. But that was why I had this section of the house blocked off. Only a fool would try to navigate those stairs, which brought up two questions… how had Charles gotten in here? And why?