A Dreadful Meow-ment (MEOW FOR MURDER Book 2)

gift her imaginary kitten. It truly is special to be me.
But regarding those visions—I should probably highlight the fact I have a penchant to misconstrue those peepholes into the future more often than not. Just last month there was a body that I all but predicted with my hit-and-miss psychic abilities, and because of the tiny detail I was found holding the murder weapon, I landed myself the top spot in a homicide investigation as a suspect. Thankfully, I was able to plow through the real list of suspects and winnow out the killer. Suffice it to say, whether I understand what they’re trying to tell me or not, I take my visions quite seriously.
Opal Mortimer, the owner of the ritzy manor, strides into the café with an orange frilly dress and a thick black feathered boa strung over her shoulders. It looks more like something you might wear in October as opposed to May, but in the short time I’ve been here I’ve learned that nobody tells Opal a thing about anything. Opal is somewhere in her mid-eighties, gorgeous, and as my Nana Rose used to say, “the woman has got hutzpah.”
“Bowie.” She fans herself with her fingers. Her sliver hair is smooth and neatly coiled around her neck. Her makeup is a bit on the dramatic side each and every day, with lots of black kohl rimming her eyes, dark red lipstick, and a dot of blush on each cheek. “Do see about turning up the AC in this place. It’s a bit of a warm day and the cats don’t care for the heat.” She drawls out each word like only a true socialite can.
“Will do,” I say just as she bends over and picks up King, a tan striped and spotted Bengal cat who seems to be more or less in charge of the menagerie of felines that linger in and out of the manor itself. Opal is your quintessential crazy cat lady and both her passion for crazy and for cats is what I like best about her.
“Oh”—she lifts a well-polished fingernail my way—“and when you put in an order for more supplies for the café, do add cat food to the list. I’ll need kibble for the strays, and both wet and dry for the boys and girls right here at the manor.”
I wrinkle my nose at her. “Opal, the restaurant supply store only has people food.”
“Put in a request to change that, would you?” She gives a wink and takes off to greet the guests enjoying their lunches.
I’m pretty sure if rumor got around that the Manor Café is stocking up on cat food, it won’t exactly earn us a Michelin star. Not that we’re gunning for one either.
I’ve made a few small menu changes since I’ve been managing the café, but both the menu and the décor could use a major overhaul. The tables are chipping, the red Naugahyde booths and chairs are splitting despite the fact the stuffing is being held together with duct tape, and the black and white checkered wallpaper border looks as if it’s fainting off the walls.
Tilly bounces back my way.
“I took care of table three for you.” She sets the coffee pot back where it belongs and pops up next to me. “Mother’s Day is coming up. Are you going back to Chicago, Connecticut to see your mama?”
I bite down on my lip. I’m not from Chicago, Connecticut like I told everyone when I arrived. I’m pretty sure Chicago, Connecticut doesn’t even exist. I’m from Hastings, New Jersey, and seeing that my mama is probably too embroiled with the young men she likes to run around with to notice I’m gone—not to mention the small detail of landing myself on every wanted list in the country—no, I’m afraid I won’t be going back.
“I don’t think so.” A thought comes to me. “Hey? We should have a mother-daughter brunch right here in the garden. We can sell tickets and shake down the local businesses to donate prizes and everything.” And I’m pretty sure I can siphon a nifty little profit off the event myself.
Since Opal’s cheating ex left her with nothing to her name but this manor—and she’s pretty hard up for cash—I told her I’d find creative ways to increase her bottom line if she cut me in on the take. So far it’s working swimmingly. The cat therapy program we have is a winner, and the program where kids come into the library and read to the felines among us is killing it, too. But the real bread and butter is coming from a little crafts group called Stitch Witchery.
Stitch Witchery has been going on a lot longer than I’ve been around. It’s basically a bitch and stitch with tea and crumpets. But as soon as I caught Opal spiking her tea with whiskey, I had the brainstorm to add a spot of what Opal likes to call comfort to any and everyone’s teacup who needed it—for a small fee, of course, and voila. Winner winner, whiskey dinner. We’ve been riding high financially ever since.
“Mother-daughter brunch?” Tilly shrugs. “Sounds like fun. Get the okay from Opal, and I’ll spread the word.”
Opal nods as she walks by. “Whatever it is, consider it done. Bowie here is my new financial advisor.”
I’m about to thank her when in walks that tall, arrestingly handsome ex-homicide detective turned best-selling thriller author I just had that dark vision about.
Shepherd J. Wexler strides in and stands before me just the way he did a little over a week ago when he called me by my given name, Stella Santini, and shocked the living heck out of me.
I feigned a stomachache and retched all the way to the cabin I’m renting, which happens to be right behind his—and seeing that he owns the place, that makes him my landlord. He sent me a text and let me know he would be on a book tour for the next solid week—and thankfully, he assured