Cat Scratch Cleaver

hers clutched to her chest.
“Kiki.” I run over. “Did you see anything? Was anyone upset with Heather?”
She swallows hard. My God, everyone hated the girl, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t the time to share that bit of non-news.
“No.” She closes her eyes. “I don’t know.” A flash goes off and her eyes dart in that direction. “Are people really taking pictures?” Her voice breaks. “Has anyone called her family?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Oh goodness, I’d better see if I can figure this out.” She lowers the board and her chest is covered with the rubber goo from the bloody prosthetic she’s been toting around. “Oh goodness,” she repeats in a panic as she turns and heads back toward the café.
I give a shudder just as Georgie and Macy come upon me.
“Oh, thank God.” Georgie takes Fish right out of my arms. “The last thing I want is for something fishy to happen to you.” She cranes her neck past me and gasps. “I gotta get out of here. Juniper Moonbeam is heading this way to meet my new man, and there’s no way I want to expose my baby to this.”
Juniper Moonbeam, or Juni as I call her, was once married to my father. She’s twice as quirky as Georgie but in a whole other direction.
Georgie takes off and Macy lifts a finger in her direction. “Don’t forget about dress shopping!”
“Would you shush?” I pull my sister to the side. “Are you nuts? Someone was just slaughtered. I’m not going shopping for anything tomorrow, let alone shouting it from the rooftop in the middle of a homicide investigation.”
Macy rolls her eyes. “Believe me, nobody cares.” Her lips part as if she were about to say something else, but her attention has been hijacked by something behind me.
I glance that way to find Bates Barlow standing near the waterline to get a better look at Heather and he’s holding his phone out, his arm ticking a notch every few seconds.
“He’s taking pictures of her,” I say.
Macy grunts, “He’s probably going to sell them. That’s what they all do. It’s a part of the Hollywood culture.”
“I certainly hope that’s not what he’s up to.” I focus all of my mental energy his way and yet his thoughts seem to be muddled and snowy.
Ring, caught, end of it.
That’s all I can get. Cryptic words for sure.
Sherlock barks and nods with his nose behind me. She’s back, Bizzy. And she looks determined to find you.
I turn and spot Fish flying this way, quick as lightning.
Bizzy—Fish stops short, out of my reach—I was heading back with Georgie, but I heard arguing. Come quick. I think you’ll want to see this.
Sherlock barks and we follow as Fish leads us back toward the café, but just before we head on in, Fish slows down and the sound of escalating voices drifts through the night.
“You chose a fine time to tell me this,” a decidedly male voice bellows.
“Don’t worry,” a female voice gives an incredulous laugh. “I won’t ruin your reputation or your fun. Go on, get out of here.”
I am getting out of here. As far away as I can, until this whole thing blows over.
Peter Olsen darts past me before pausing to turn my way. He glances to the crowd murmuring at the edge of the cove.
Great. I’ve been seen. I can’t just leave now. He scowls over at me.
“What’s going on?” He nods to the cove.
“You haven’t heard?”
His crystal blue eyes begin to bulge.
It’s not going to look good if I say yes. “Heard what?”
“Someone attacked Heather,” I say. “She’s gone.”
Peter takes a deep breath as if I had thrown a glass of water over his head.
“I’d better see about this.” He stalks off and Fish and Sherlock twitch their heads up at me.
Told you. Fish yowls.
Sherlock groans. She told you nothing. I saw the guy in the kitchen just a little while ago, right before I ran down to find you.
“Sherlock, what was he doing?”
Fish scoffs. What all human men do. He was probably eating a donut.
Sherlock growls. He was washing his hands. And Jasper only eats donuts in the morning—with bacon, because he’s smart.
Washing his hands?
The sound of whimpering and sniffing comes from behind the café and I step into the sand as I make my way around the building, only to find the figure of a woman looking for something in the bushes.
I can only surmise it’s Peter’s wife, Jane Olsen. That conversation sounded intimate. And judging by that tall, thin body and that dark hair glinting in the night, I’m right.
“Can I help you?” I ask as I turn on the flashlight on my phone.
Her hands are already buried in the shrubbery.
“Oh,” she says as she jerks something out of the bushes. “You could have, but you’re too late.” She pulls out a couple of ballet flats and quickly puts them on. I shine my flashlight down over her legs and her feet are covered with sand. It’s late and the sand we’re standing on is bone dry. The only way she could have sugarcoated her feet in that manner is if she got them wet—if she was at the waterline.
Those footsteps in the sand near Heather’s body come to mind.
“What were your shoes doing in the bushes?” A dull laugh bounces from me in a weak attempt to sound as if I was making light conversation, but I fail by a mile.
She slaps them together before putting them on.
“Went for a walk.” She makes a face as she strides past me and takes a look down at the activity near the edge of the cove. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lawyer to call.”
“A lawyer?” I try to block her path, but she circles around me.
“You know what they say—when the dead come a knockin’, the vultures come a flockin’.” She takes off and she doesn’t pause to examine the scene taking place at the edge of the sandy beach.
No. I have never heard that expression.