The Salmon Burger Murder by Rosie A Point

Author:Rosie A Point [Point, Rosie A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-09-18T16:00:00+00:00

12

It had been a long day after receiving the note. I’d clung to concentration with all my might, but I’d still managed to mess up a few orders. Eventually, Grizzy had sent me home to get some rest—or so she thought. I didn’t feel much like resting.

What I wanted to do was get to the bottom of this so I’d never have to worry myself about notes delivered by strange children again. Or the eating habits of my neighbors.

I took a leisurely walk back home through Sleepy Creek at noon, the sun baking the top of my head, and sweat gathering on my brow. The note was in my pocket, practically burning a hole in it. Who had sent it? Where were they? Were they the person who had left footprints in the flowerbed on the day I’d first found Poirot?

Finally, I opened Grizzy’s front gate. Poirot waited for me on the front step. Curly Fries watched from the front window, her sharp black face particularly unimpressed this afternoon.

I paused midway down the path and peeked over at Donovan’s house. It appeared empty, the curtains drawn. Clearly, Betsy and Cole hadn’t come back here after their intensely awkward meal.

What if they were working together?

“There you are!” The shout came from my right.

Ray Tolentino leaned his hairy arms on the fence parting Grizzy’s home from his. He was the cat-hating neighbor, the one who’d once chased Curly Fries with a broom, and he loved wearing stained vests that exposed his hairy chest.

“Hi Ray,” I said, and approached the fence. “What’s up?”

“Don’t you ‘what’s up’ me.” Ray’s bald spot glistened. “I know what you’ve been up to.”

“Huh?”

“Littering.” He lifted a piece of paper and foisted it on me.

For one nightmarish split-second, I was sure it would have another threat scrawled across the page. But no, this was one of the flyers I had pasted on the lampposts in the neighborhood. Poirot’s picture stared back at me, the glasses and mustache pattern making him pensive.

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, I put these up because I found a stray cat. You wouldn’t happen to know who—?”

“Well stop throwing them into my yard!”

“I didn’t throw anything into your yard, Ray,” I said. “I’ve been putting them up on the lampposts. Maybe one of them fell off and the wind blew it into—”

“I don’t care. I make a habit of keeping my house clean. Just because you and that friend of yours want to live in squalor doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

“Squalor?”

“Two cats.” Ray put up the corresponding number of fingers. “I don’t believe it. Two! Do you know what this means?”

“You’ll have to buy an extra broom?”

“Don’t kid around with me, young lady.”

“Ray,” I said, “it’s been a pleasure. But I’ve got things to do.” I backed away from the fence, gave him a quick wave then hurried toward the steps. I swept Poirot into my arms, and he started purring.

“I’m watching you, Watson,” Ray called. “I’ve got my eye on you and your thieving cats.

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