Cat Scratch Cleaver

And by the sound of what Jane Olsen just said, it seems she very much knows about Heather Kent’s untimely demise.
That’s funny. Her husband denied it.
It’s almost as if they can’t keep their stories straight.
Fish looks up at me and whimpers. She did it, didn’t she, Bizzy?
“I have no idea. But it certainly seemed fishy. No offense.” I wrinkle my nose down at my sweet cat.
Sherlock makes a grunting sound as if he were about to sniff out a nefarious creature. I sense something, Bizzy. Something in the café. He trots back and takes a look in the window as Fish and I do our best to scurry after him. He lets out a soft bark. There’s someone in there.
I amble up, and sure enough, he’s right. In an otherwise desolate café, Faith Grayson, the production assistant, is wiping down the front of the counter with what looks to be a paper towel before she stuffs it into her purse and heads out through the entry that leads to the inn.
What was she doing? Sherlock barks.
“Cleaning,” I say. The exact spot where I last saw that cleaver before it made its way into Heather Kent’s back, I’m presuming.
I sincerely doubt Faith Grayson felt the need to tidy up the café. But what I don’t doubt is the fact she was wiping down her fingerprints.
Somebody murdered Heather Kent tonight, and the signs of suspicion point just about everywhere.

Chapter 4
The morning air is humid and searing, a sure sign that we’re about to coast to the top of the thermometer.
It’s not unusual this time of year for Cider Cove to feel as if someone just tossed the entire lot of us into the dryer and forgot to turn it off. The weather might be unpredictable in other parts of the country, in other parts of Maine for that matter, but it doesn’t take a fortuneteller or a weatherman to let you know what you’ll experience in our end of the world at any given day. And this day happens to land in the middle of a sweltering summer.
As much as I’d like to believe the guests of the inn don’t have a clue as to what transpired last night, I know that’s not the case. No sooner did Jasper and I step into the café than I noticed that the guests were already clustered among themselves, whispering with long faces. Unfortunately, I’ve learned one too many times that word of a homicide travels fast. I should know. We’ve had our fair share of homicides right here at the inn over the last few months. Okay, fine. It’s bordering on a year—a year of dead bodies piling up. I shudder just thinking about it.
I wonder how long it will take for the owner to hear of this and give me my walking papers? The owner is a wealthy earl in England and he has little to nothing to do with the place other than having his accounting firm handle the bills. And I rather like it that way. This inn very much feels like my own. It was me who implemented Critter Corner, a pet daycare facility open to guests and townies alike who want to ensure their pet has their needs met during the day while they’re at work or on vacation.
In fact, I was the one that opened the rooms to pets as well. The internet lists it as the most pet-friendly resort in Maine even though technically it’s not a resort.
“Tell me everything that happened when you went to the station last night,” I say as I pour Jasper a cup of coffee and quickly dish up a handful of s’mores bars for him as well. I let him know about the missing cleaver last night, and he had the forensics team dust the counter for prints, but it was after the fact Faith wiped it down.
The sheriff’s department cleared the café to open today, so there’s that.
Jasper has donned a fresh suit, his hair is still damp from the shower, and he looks heart-stoppingly arresting in just about every way. About five female guests nearly tripped over their feet as they tracked him with their eyes on our way over. I’ll admit, Jasper’s good looks are so caustic they can cause a traffic accident on the road or right here inside the inn.
Sherlock lets out a bark before Jasper has a chance to answer. He just got home two hours ago. I doubt he’ll remember much of anything today.
Jasper lands on a barstool at the counter and takes the coffee I give him.
“I just got home two hours ago,” he moans. “I doubt I’ll remember much of anything today. You wouldn’t have this in a gallon to go, would you?” he says, toasting me with his mug.
A little laugh strums from me. “Sherlock all but said the same thing, sans the coffee. I’m betting he wants bacon instead.”
Sherlock vocalizes a happy little yip, ensuring me I’m right.
Emmie strides by with her apron in place, holding an empty carafe of orange juice as she heads toward the kitchen. She wishes us both a good morning. Her hair is up in a messy bun with wisps falling around her cheeks, softening her face.
“Why does Sherlock look as if he hasn’t had his bacon?”
Jasper looks her way. “Because you’re a mind reader,” he teases as he looks my way.
“That I am,” she chirps as she heads into the kitchen. “I’ve got you covered, Sherlock.”
Thank heavens someone is thinking about me. The adorable pooch curls up into a ball at the base of Jasper’s feet.
Fish is still up front at the reception area greeting guests—or more to the point, napping on the marble counter where it’s nice and cool.
I lean toward Jasper. “So what happened down at the station? Any updates on the case?”
Jasper is the lead homicide detective down in Seaview County. He worked tirelessly last night alongside the coroner, and apparently, didn’t sleep but an hour.
Jasper sighs. “Bizzy, I