The Purr-fect Crime

Chapter 11

The morning of Tony Nyman’s funeral wasn’t pretty.

For one thing, Charlotte, Angela and I had stayed up way too late on Saturday night, drinking wine and margaritas and going through possible murder suspects that got more and more insane until finally we were convinced that it was Jon Bon Jovi who had done it.

Not long after that, we all passed out. That was probably a good thing.

I woke up in the morning groaning, bemoaning the fact that I was no longer eighteen years old and that five margaritas and most of a bottle of wine wasn’t something I could pull off pain-free anymore.

Stumbling to the bathroom to grab some aspirin I ran into Sophie, who looked just as bad as I did.

“Don’t talk. Don’t say anything,” Sophie whispered to me. I nodded, squinting against the bright light flowing in from the outside and made my way back to bed, clutching my pill bottle to my body like it was the most precious thing I owned.

Three hours later I was feeling a little bit better. We made Charlotte get us McDonalds, since being the youngest of the three of us – and also the lightest drinker – she was in way better shape to go outside than Sophie and I. With some apple juice, hashbrowns and hot cakes in me, I felt a lot better, and by the time we had to leave for the funeral, I was almost back to normal.

“Really? You’re wearing that?” Charlotte asked Sophie as she looked my best friend up and down. I had to bite my lip to stop from laughing. Sophie had always had a bit of a – unique – style, but even I thought she was pushing it a little bit for a funeral.

“What?” she asked, scowling. It’s black, what’s the problem?”

Sophie was wearing shiny black leggings with a halter crop top and Doc Martens style boots. I had to admit, it looked super hot, but it was definitely not funeral material.

“It’s not… really what I would wear to a funeral where I don’t want to stand out,” I told her. “And that’s what we’re trying to do. Not stand out. The leggings are fine. But you need to change your shirt, and also the boots. Like, wear a pair of black flats or something. Please.”

Sophie glared at both of us.

“You guys get to wear what you want.”

“Our first picks were socially acceptable funeral wear,” Charlotte shot back, and when Sophie looked at me for support, I could only shrug.

“No. This is what I’m wearing.”

“I will curse you,” I told her. “I’ll make it so your leggings rip when we’re out in public.”

I stared my best friend down. I loved her, but sometimes, she just needed a bit of incentive to do the right thing. She stared right back at me, and I could see her trying to read if I was bluffing.

“Fine. But I hate both of you,” Sophie finally capitulated as she went back up the stairs to change.

Luckily, when she came back down later she’d replaced the crop top with a flowy shirt, the boots with ballet flats, and added a huge, oversized black hat to the ensemble. She looked like a grieving hippie, but that was still a lot better than before.

“There. Now if you’re both finished being my mothers, we have to go, or we’re going to be late.”

Bee was lying in a ray of sunlight by the front door and was visibly annoyed when we all stepped over her to get out.

“Good. Get out. You’re ruining my sun,” she grumbled as Charlotte opened the front door.

“Maybe you could try finding a less convenient position next time,” I shot back at her, and got my ankle swiped at for my trouble.

“I swear, sometimes Bee makes me wish I was a dog person,” I muttered as I closed the front door behind me.

“You say that, but you love that cat more than you love me,” Charlotte told me, and Sophie laughed.

“That’s so true,” she added, and I blushed.

Ok, fine. I love my cat. Even when she’s at her catty worst.

We all piled into Charlotte’s car, a 1996 Honda Civic with half a million miles on it that somehow managed to make it to and from Portland four times a week, even though I joked that it probably shouldn’t be allowed on the Interstate at all. Charlotte loved the car, though, and even gave her a name: Dora.

“Alright Dora, we’re just going down to the church today,” Charlotte told the car, giving her an encouraging pat as she put the key in the ignition. “Let’s do this, girl.”

Sophie and I giggled silently together as Charlotte gave her car a pep talk. I had offered to buy her another one, something that could actually go 70mph, but Charlotte always refused. She said she liked Dora, and she was attached. I just figured my little sister was going a bit nuts.

Ten minutes later we joined what seemed like the entire town of Willow Bay at the local church, where Tony Nyman’s funeral was to be held. Apparently the allure of a funeral from a murder was exciting enough to bring out most of the population, especially on a Sunday.

“I feel so self-conscious now, like we’re just like everyone else, looking for gossip about a dead person,” Charlotte muttered as we walked through the crowd towards the church. The inside was already so packed with people that there were no more seats, and the walls were lined with people as well.

“I know,” I replied. “Me too. Even though I know we’re just looking for clues about who might have killed him. Do you see anyone that doesn’t really belong here?”

Sophie nudged me and I looked to my left. Standing about ten feet away from us were some very, very shady looking dudes.

I had never seen them before. Hell, I’d never even seen people like them before. There were three of them, all men. Two of them looked to be in their 50s or so, with greying black hair that was gelled back from their heads in a way that somehow made them seem balder than they actually were. The third one’s hair was a little bit messy, and he looked around constantly, like he was a little bit more uncomfortable being here.

All three of them were wearing bespoke black suits that probably cost more than what most people in Willow Bay made in a month. They were wearing sunglasses, which fit the fact that it was a nice, sunny day out, but just the way they were wearing them made it seem like they were doing it to be more threatening and hide their faces.

Yeah, there was definitely something weird about this trio. They definitely didn’t belong here, and they didn’t seem like the type of people that came to Willow Bay. Not even the rich people from Portland looked like that. These were outsiders.

“Maybe let’s try and subtly take a picture of them,” I told Sophie, when suddenly Charlotte grabbed my arm.

“Hey, Angela, look!” she told me, pointing about a hundred feet to my right. “Isn’t that the Jason Black guy that you were telling us about?”

I squinted for a better look. Sure enough, Jason Black was coming over this way. Suddenly, though, he saw me looking at him. He stopped, and looked around, then turned around and started going back the other way.

No way. Absolutely not. I was so not going to let him get away from this. I wanted answers, and I was going to get them.

“You guys stay here. Watch the weird guys. I’ll be back.”

“Angie, wait!” I heard Sophie hiss behind me, but it was too late. I was already on the move. I could see Jason moving away from me, and he had a pretty big head start, but there was no way I was letting him get away.

He was heading back up the road, but he also wasn’t looking behind him. I made my way around the few people still heading towards the church, gaining ground on him slowly but surely.

Finally, after around 300 yards, I caught up to him. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he spun around faster than I was expecting, his fists clenched and his face angry, like he was about to punch me. As soon as he saw me though, his face softened. I couldn’t help but notice just how damn good he looked with sunglasses on and the sun shining on his face, but I forced that thought out of my head.

“You!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“I was going to Tony Nyman’s funeral.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“Yeah, you do. You’re sneaking around, asking about the dead guy, and I’m curious as to why you care so much, seeing as you’re not from around here.”

To my surprise, Jason burst out laughing.

“Who made you the Willow Bay police chief?” he asked. “Maybe I knew the guy. Maybe I’m just from Portland up the road. I should be asking you the same questions. Why do you care so much?”

“Because I was the one who found the body. At least I have an excuse.”

“That doesn’t mean you should go around trying to find out who killed him.”

What? How did he figure that out?

“I’m so not doing that,” I replied, crossing my arms across my chest, hoping the lie sounded more convincing than it felt.

“Of course you’re not,” he conceded sarcastically. “Fine. But trust me, some things are better left alone. Let Tony Nyman’s murder go unsolved by you. It’s better that way.”

“Why, because that way you don’t have to spend a single day in jail?”

This time, the expression on Jason’s face turned to shock.

“Wait, you think I killed him? Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. Kill the guy, then wander around town asking about him instead of just getting out of dodge. Good work there Sherlock Holmes.”

This guy was starting to annoy me. Why are the hot ones always so annoying?

“Hey, I don’t know what you’re doing here. For all I know you are the killer. After all, I know you were at Nyman’s house yesterday afternoon.”

It was a total bluff, but I hoped it would work.

“What? What are you talking about?”

Damn. I studied Jason’s face, trying to see if he was genuinely surprised.

“Someone broke into Tony Nyman’s house yesterday. I know it was you.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Nope. Wasn’t me.”

Now the question was whether or not I believed him.

We looked at each other, neither one of us blinking. This was quickly turning into a staredown.

“Look,” he finally said. “You’re not going to tell me why you’re looking into Tony Nyman’s death. I’m not going to tell you what I’m doing here, because frankly, it’s none of your business. So why don’t we just agree to disagree, and each go our own way?”

“Fine,” I snapped, not breaking eye contact with him. He did have a point. And if he wasn’t going to tell me anything good, I wanted to get back to the funeral, where I might actually find something useful.

“See you around,” he called out to me as I walked away from him.

“You won’t,” I called back, and I could practically feel his dumb grin boring into my back. His dumb, stupid, gorgeous grin.