Beatrice Young 7- The Paw-sitively Cheerful Poisoner Read online

  The Paw–sitively Cheerful Poisoner

  A Beatrice Young Cozy Cat Mystery (#7)

  Alannah Rogers

  Copyright © 2016 Alannah Rogers

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.

  This e–book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e–book may not be re–sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  1

  There was really nothing funny about the post–funeral reception, except that the cats didn’t know how to behave. They had no idea that the celebration of Mrs. Anita Robinson’s life was a solemn affair where they were supposed to be quiet and most importantly, stay in the background.

  But Hamish, Lucky, and Petunia were not animals that knew how to behave, nor did they particularly care. As the pets of notorious rule–breaker Beatrice Young, this was not surprising. For Beatrice was not only the owner of a local café in Ashbrook, New Hampshire, but also a part–time sleuth who didn’t mind poking her nose where it didn’t belong.

  The Beatrice in question stood where she was likely to stand at any gathering—by the food table. Dressed in a knee–length black skirt, black dangly cat earrings, and a black cardigan, she was keeping a sharp eye on the antics of her felines. There was no question of not bringing them. After all, Beatrice brought her cats everywhere—even places most people thought it was inappropriate to bring pets.

  That said, she was starting to reconsider her policy. Hamish, her buff Maine Coon cat, was tiptoeing among the precious photographs lining the mantel of the great fireplace. For a big cat, he was remarkably agile and Beatrice wasn’t really worried that he would upset the photos. He was upsetting everyone else, though. Everyone in the room seemed to be watching his progress with saucer–sized eyes.

  Petunia, her rotund Himalayan, was fascinated with the grand piano. She kept walking back and forth on the keys, resulting in a deranged tune that was as random as it was annoying. She would step, her eyes would widen at the strange noise, pause, and then test the effect again. Every so often someone tried to shoo her off but Petunia was not accustomed to the word “no.” In fact, she likely didn’t understand its meaning.

  Lucky, her sleek black cat, who could usually be trusted to sit in a corner and watch the other two wreck havoc, was behaving worst of all. He had somehow managed to wedge himself into a bookshelf stuffed with fragile shells and delicate blown glass bowls filled with smooth gray pebbles. It was the perfect perch from which to bat at unsuspecting heads—mostly ladies with topknots or shiny barrettes.

  Beatrice knew from long experience that it was best not to wrest cats from a precarious position—inevitably they would bring every precious thing crashing down with them. At least Mr. Robinson, the late Anita’s husband, hadn’t seemed to notice their antics. He sat in an easy chair in a sitting room off to the side, surrounded by his grown–up children and well–wishers.

  To distract herself, Beatrice wrenched herself away from the food table and sought out the companionship of her best friend, co–conspirator, and ex–husband (as of forty years ago), Matthew Thompson. As soon as Beatrice spotted him in the corner of the packed living room, she smiled. Tall and in good shape with wavy silver hair, a beard, and kind blue eyes, he was still handsome at sixty–three years old.

  He was standing with a little dumpy woman who Beatrice immediately recognized as Ann Smith. The forty–something nurse was as plain as her name, though she was good–natured and had a stellar reputation in her profession. She lived in Manchester but regularly summered in Ashbrook, a tiny town of only 2000 souls near White Mountain National Forest.

  “Good to see you,” Beatrice said, kissing her on the cheek. “Did you just arrive?”

  “Oh, I’ve been here a few weeks now,” Ann replied. “Mr. Robinson specifically requested I care for his wife. She was diabetic and she took a turn for the worst after Christmas. I had just finished up with another patient, so I decided I’d take my usual cottage early. The Robinsons have been renting to me for years, so of course I wanted to be here for them.” She smiled genially.

  “Was it diabetes that took Anita?” Matthew asked.

  “Doctor Saunders said it was complication from cardiovascular disease,” Ann said.

  “But hasn’t Anita been suffering from diabetes for years? Why did things suddenly get so bad?” Beatrice asked.

  There was a rattling noise and then a series of gasps. Beatrice saw a photo frame teetering on the shelf. Lucky was wrapped around it, frozen, as if he knew he’d put himself in a tight spot. Beatrice averted her gaze, unwilling to watch the possibly catastrophic outcome.

  “Oh, she’d had cardiovascular issues for years,” Ann said, completely unaware of the travesty unfolding behind her. “But you know how it can be. She was getting on in years, and she had other health issues.” She sighed. “The poor dear was suffering, anyway. It was probably better she passed on.”

  Beatrice gave her an annoyed look. “Well, that’s your opinion. Anita Robinson might have thought differently—that despite her suffering she wanted to live.”

  Ann smiled mildly. “Ah Bee, you haven’t been around the sick and dying like I have. All they want is peace. Death brings that.”

  Matthew grimaced at this. He wasn’t fond of funerals or anything to do with death; he didn’t like the reminder of his own mortality. Beatrice, on the other hand, was quite fond of funerals, if only for the lavish spreads of food. That said, she wasn’t having a great time on that particular day. She’d been feeling a bit off for weeks, though she wasn’t exactly sure why.

  “Seems like rather morbid talk for a funeral reception,” Matthew said. “Shouldn’t we be celebrating Anita’s life?”

  “Or at least not speculating whether Anita wanted to go or not,” Beatrice said hotly.

  Matthew put his arm around her waist firmly. “I really fancy a salmon pinwheel, don’t you?” he said abruptly, and gently forced her to walk off with him.

  The Robinsons lived in a big white house with black shutters, three floors, and multiple gables. It was just outside of Ashbrook. The house had been in the family for generations and was one of those old–fashioned places with shady maples lining the driveway and an expansive front porch. The Robinson family had amassed their fortune in leasing commercial property within the state. Mr. Rich Robinson was known to be an eagle–eyed fellow who was strictly no–nonsense.

  His wife, Anita, had been involved in all sorts of local organizations from the Rotary Club to the church to the school board. But, they were now both in their mid–seventies and had been in poor health for some time. Beatrice had known them both her entire life and visited whenever she could.

  She and Matthew sat down on a wooden swinging bench on the porch. As it was April, spring was still slow to come. She could see the first crocuses peeking up in Anita’s neatly tended gardens. Beatrice kicked off her pumps despite the chill in the air and massaged her feet.

  “The nerve of Ann,” she said. “She barely knew Anita! Who’s she to say when it’s someone’s time?”

  “Bee, it’s okay. You’re just upset. She’s upset. We’re all upset. It makes people do and say funny things,” Matthew said.

&
nbsp; “I guess so.” Beatrice sighed. “I miss Anita already. That’s the one thing I really don’t like about getting to be our age: you’re constantly saying goodbye to great people.”

  “And attending funerals,” Matthew put in. He looked uncharacteristically gloomy. “When I go, I don’t want any fuss.”

  “Nonsense! I’m going to organize the biggest party you’ve ever seen. And you know it’ll be up to me, because statistically men die before women. So we’ll have the party at my house with all your favorite foods: pumpkin pie, roast chicken, those little meringues you like with Nutella inside…”

  “You’re planning a party I can’t attend full of food I can’t eat? You really know how to cheer a guy up.”

  Beatrice nudged him. “We’re still young’uns yet. We have years ahead of us of drinking too much wine, eating too much cake, and taking long hikes to work it all off. Anyway, I’m the one who needs to be cheered up.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Matthew said. “You’re so quiet lately. What’s going on?”

  Beatrice shrugged. “Can’t tell you if I don’t know myself. Must be a mid–life crisis. Or a three–quarter life crisis.” She laughed a little.

  Matthew started to reply but he was interrupted by Hamish tearing onto the porch, golden eyes wide, whiskers standing straight out. A second later, screams came from inside the house.

  “What the heck…?” Beatrice leapt to her feet and, with Matthew by her side, rushed into the house.

  The scene unfolding in the sitting room was painful to behold. Beatrice elbowed her way through the crowd to find Mr. Robinson’s grown–up daughter, Janet, bent over her father, who had slumped onto the floor.

  “Oh my goodness,” Beatrice said. “Where’s Dr. Saunders? He hasn’t left yet, has he?”

  “He’s here,” Matthew said. He helped the elderly doctor through the mob of people as Beatrice dialed 911 on her cell.

  Dr. Saunders knelt down by his patient, his knees cracking, and took his pulse. From the silence that followed, Beatrice knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

  “Has someone called an ambulance?” the doctor asked, his voice flat.

  “I just did,” Beatrice replied. “Is there anything else we can do?”

  “Just get everyone out except for family. And Ann.” Beatrice and Matthew immediately herded everyone into the living room.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on?” Matthew muttered.

  Beatrice met his eye. “Matt, I’m pretty sure it’s good. You know the doctor, he’s always the jovial sort. If Rich had just fainted, he would have tried to reassure everyone. But he didn’t say a thing.”

  Ann came out of the sitting room, her doughy face pale. Beatrice cornered her, trying to push aside her earlier dislike. “How is he?”

  “Let’s just say I hope the ambulance comes shortly.” She sat down heavily in a padded wooden chair. “Poor Mr. Robinson. He has been ailing something awful lately. I’ve been so worried about him, especially with the shock of his wife passing.”

  Matthew and Beatrice exchanged surprised looks. “I know he hasn’t been in great health. Is it diabetes, like Anita?” Matt asked.

  “Not in this case. Heart troubles. Runs in the family—their eldest daughter suffers the same. But recently he’s had these sharp pains, though neither Dr. Saunders nor I could find what was causing them. He’s been on bed rest lately; I thought maybe it was grief that was bringing him so low.”

  Just then, the front door slammed open and an emergency crew marched in, their boots sinking into the soft pile carpet. A hush fell over the crowd. Not long after, the paramedics went back out, the body on a stretcher, hidden under a sheet.

  “I suppose this is the kind of thing that happens,” Beatrice said slowly, trying to push aside the overwhelming sadness that was rising inside her. “Being older and in poor health and all. Still, it's so hard to see. I knew Anita and Rich when they were teenagers, full of mischief and plans for the future.” She shivered.

  "They've certainly been good to me," Ann said. "I first met them when I came up to rent their cottage, which is on this very property. I’d say that’d be a good ten years ago. I’ve always loved the park nearby and I was doing well enough as a private nurse that I finally decided to take the plunge and live here, or at least part–time. Both of them had health problems, but they were still quite active. I’ve never had to care for them until recently. Dr. Saunders has been their primary doctor.”

  Beatrice’s gaze narrowed. Dr. Saunders was her long–time doctor, too. She trusted him unconditionally. But working as a part–time detective over the past few months had made her a lot more suspicious about her neighbors. After all, she’d figured out their mayor was an FBI–wanted criminal, that a couple of local kids were running a counterfeit operation, and that the Business Association president was an amateur bomb maker. Things like that really put a person on their toes.

  She didn’t have time to follow that thought, however, because another familiar worry replaced it: Where were the cats?! Worried that they’d gotten trampled in the fray, she made her excuses to Ann and began to weave through the thinning crowd, looking for a sign of a bushy tail or a pair of fuzzy ears. Nothing.

  After five minutes of running around, she managed to locate Petunia in the kitchen, face first in a platter of cold cuts. Throwing her over her shoulder, Bee spotted Lucky at the bottom of the stairs looking worried. She peered up. “He didn’t, did he?”

  But, of course he did. Hamish was the very definition of curious. “Off–limits” was not a concept he understood. Beatrice carefully walked up the stairs and peeked around. Nothing. She paused, listening. There was a faint rustling noise off to the left. Creeping into the room, she spotted Hamish in the study sitting on top of a large sturdy oak desk. One tawny paw was batting furiously at a large stack of paper.

  Beatrice had enough experience with Hamish’s behavior to know that he wasn't just amusing himself. Clearly something of value lay in this pile of documents. Approaching the desk, she gently swatted him aside and picked up the envelope Hamish had uncovered. Inside were two plane tickets to Myrtle Beach. They had Mr. and Mrs. Robinson’s names on them and the departure date was still in the future, in May.

  Taking the tickets with her, Beatrice sank into a wing–backed armchair in the corner. She had thought that the Robinsons’ health problems were so bad that they wouldn’t be able to travel. But clearly, if they had planned to go on vacation, that couldn’t be the case.

  So why had both of them so suddenly taken a turn for the worst? It was easy to dismiss Anita's passing as old age but Beatrice had a funny feeling that that wasn't the whole story. She looked over at Hamish, who was still sitting on top of the old fashioned desk. His head was cocked, his eyes were bright, and his ears with the black tufts stood straight up, as if he was listening to something only he could hear. It was his classic look when he’d sniffed out a new case.

  Anita and Rich were very old friends of hers. Beatrice decided she owed it to them to investigate exactly what had happened to them.

  2

  Days after the funeral, Beatrice’s attention had turned to preparing the café for the busy summer season. It was a time to reflect and plan, or in Beatrice’s case to procrastinate as much as humanly possible. Lately, that meant researching diabetes and all of its complications online. Spending time on medical websites had given Beatrice a horror of illness, and she was now convinced that she had at least five different diseases. It didn’t help that Rich had passed on the day of his wife’s funeral.

  Unfortunately, Beatrice wasn't making a lot of headway with her research because the best person to ask would have been Dr. Saunders, who was her principal suspect—even though this was based on absolutely no concrete evidence except for the fact she didn't know who else to mistrust.

  Sitting at her office desk on a sunny spring morning, Beatrice tapped her pen on a pad as she stared at her computer. There was so much to think about: live music nights, th
e possibility she could send set up a satellite café at the White Mountain National Forest, revamping their ancient website, or, her favorite activity: thinking up new seasonal treats.

  “Doesn’t look like you're doing any work,” said a voice behind her. It was the pastry chef and her good friend, Zoe, grinning at her with a knowing look. Zoe seemed to pride in catching Beatrice at unproductive times, whether that was checking Facebook or secretly scrolling through the dating app she’d told everyone she’d deleted.

  “I can’t focus for the life of me,” Beatrice complained, leaning back in her chair.

  She was happy to see Zoe because so far the cats had not been receptive to her complaints. Lucky had spent a good part of the day trying to fish his pipe cleaners out from under the armoire. Hamish and Petunia were engaged in the age–old dance of flirtation, rejection, and tentative attempts to make up. The two of them had had a rocky history. Hamish liked Petunia, but the latter took his affections for granted. However, since Valentine's Day Petunia had been expressing a bit more interest.

  “What’s going on?” Zoe asked, flopping down in the chair opposite Beatrice’s desk.

  “I still can’t get the Robinsons out of my mind. It was enough that she passed on, but then for him to go? I don’t know why it’s bothering me so much. My usual policy is that I’ll drink as much wine and eat as much cake as possible before my time is up and when it’s up, well there’s no bargaining with that, is there?”

  “That’s the spirit,” Zoe answered, blowing her dark bangs out of her face.

  “Yes, well, easy for you to say. You’re all of twenty–four–years–old. All this end of life stuff isn’t even on your radar. Not that I wish I was your age again. Newly divorced, no education, no idea what I wanted to do with my life. No, I’m much happier being sixty–two. Anyway, talking about this stuff isn’t doing Rich and Anita any good. And I mean to do right by them.”

  Zoe groaned. “Bee, I know you’ve seen some pretty shady stuff in Ashbrook. You’ve earned the right to think that any one of your neighbors could be a murderer. But I can’t help feel that you're looking for something here that doesn't exist. Who would want to kill the Robinsons?”