Fur the Win: Piper Robins Cozy Mystery Series, #2

LICENSE STATEMENT

Copyright © 2018 by Ed Lynskey and ECL Press. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

This e-Book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-Book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Photo Close up of a black and white tuxedo cat courtesy of photos-public-domain.com.

Other Books by Ed Lynskey

Isabel and Alma Trumbo Cozy Mystery Series

Quiet Anchorage

The Cashmere Shroud

The Ladybug Song

The Amber Top Hat

Sweet Betsy

Murder in a One-Hearse Town

Vi’s Ring

Heirloom

A Big Dill

Eve’s Win

Piper and Bill Robins Cozy Mystery Series

The Corpse Wore Gingham

Fur the Win

Ginny Jones Cozy Mystery Series (as Lyn Key)

Nozy Cat 1

Nozy Cat 2

Private Investigator Frank Johnson Mystery Series

Pelham Fell Here

The Dirt-Brown Derby

The Blue Cheer

Troglodytes

The Zinc Zoo

After the Big Noise

Other Novels

Lake Charles

The Quetzal Motel

Ask the Dice

Blood Diamonds

Topaz Moon

Short Story Collection

Smoking on Mount Rushmore

Chapter 1

Etta Garagiola glimpsed the Baltimore oriole just as the orange-and-black bird flew out of sight into the leafy branches of an elm tree. She’d spotted the shy oriole only twice before while on her birdwatching trips. Lowering the pink binoculars, she felt a spark of joy leap up in her chest.

She couldn’t wait to share the exciting news. The first person who popped into her mind was Bill Robins, her neighbor and friend. She liked to kid around with him, and he was a good sport. The tall, lanky Bill was married to the slim, short Piper who watched over him like a hawk.

The June afternoon had clear, blue skies—ideal weather for birdwatching. Since Etta could log in her rare Baltimore oriole sighting, she decided she’d had enough birding for one day. It was just a fun hobby, not an obsession. She craved a tall glass of the fresh squeezed-lemonade from the pitcher she’d left chilling in the fridge. Two glasses served with a generous slice of pound cake with orange glaze icing sounded twice as nice.

Etta turned off the shady nature trail before she huffed and puffed along the sidewalk. Unlike many of the residents transferring into or out of Beverly Park, Etta and the Robinses were the old timers. No home in the 1970s subdivision was old enough yet to become a teardown to free up the space for the popular McMansions she saw built in the other established neighborhoods.

Etta swiped a wrist across her perspiring forehead and glanced up the sidewalk to see how much farther she had left. She startled at what she saw. The figure lay sprawled out on his side, his arms and legs twisted in awkward positions.

It can’t be a dead body, she muttered with a shiver. Maybe it’s just a mirage.

A hobbyist such as her didn’t go out birding and stumble over a dead body. Such a terrible thing never occurred in Beverly Park. Only it had at least once. Not that long ago, Piper and Bill had discovered their neighbor Anna Davenport murdered inside her split-level. The case had ended when the Robinses, investigating the murder as amateur sleuths, captured Anna’s killer in the most ingenious way.

Closer up, Etta observed the corpse wore a single-breasted dress jacket made of custard yellow poplin. She couldn’t remember seeing it modeled on the incredibly buff mannequins while she shopped at Macy’s or J.C. Penney.

Yellow isn’t a good look on a corpse, she said.

Her thrill over spotting the Baltimore oriole had vanished. She would’ve skipped the thrill if it meant she didn’t have to find the poor dead man. His craggy face showed he was a half-decade older than her. She wondered if he’d been taking his daily walk on what turned out to be his final one. She only glanced once at the grisly wound from the fatal head blow he’d sustained.

Etta took out her smart phone. Pausing, she sought to order her rattled thoughts. How did a citizen go about reporting a dead body? The 911 center took her phone call, and the dispatcher handled it with a professional, confident voice. She directed Etta to remain at the scene.

Easy for her to say, Etta said. I need a little moral support. Who am I going to call? Then she smiled. Bill Robins is the right man.

He’d had recent experience with alerting the authorities about Anna’s murder. He’d be happy to help Etta baby-sit the corpse. Somehow, she knew he’d answer her first ring, and she was right when he did. They exchanged greetings.

A grave matter has just arisen. Etta hadn’t intended to make the pun. She went on. It’s a problem right up your alley.

I’ll be glad to help you if I can, Etta. What’s the matter?

I found a dead body on the sidewalk.

Bill chuckled. Oh, quit it, Etta. Stop kidding me. This joke even coming from you is a bit over the top.

Who’s making a joke, Bill? I’m looking at him. Do I need to send you a picture worth a thousand words?

I believe you. That’s awful. Are you okay?

Well, I’m doing a lot better than he is.

He’d probably agree. Just give me the rest of it.

The poor fellow is wearing a yellow poplin dress jacket. He’s lying along the shady part of the street right after leaving the nature trail.

I know the spot. Maybe he suffered a fatal heart attack.

A thug clobbered him over top of the head. It’s hard to miss.

Who is he?

I don’t know him from Adam’s house cat. You and Piper had better come on.

Bill sighed. Hang loose and remember you’re not supposed to touch anything.

No worries. When can you get here?

You’d better give us five minutes, maybe less.

Will Piper terribly mind the imposition, Bill? Etta asked.

Not in the slightest, Bill replied. She loves a knotty murder mystery to liven up her day.

Chapter 2

Snoozy Q had shed his black hair everywhere in Noreen Robins’ condominium, and she teetered near her breaking point. She fumed he was the naughtiest tomcat at the Nguyen Condominiums, and she still loved him. Moreover, he knew she did because she told him. They held regular conversations throughout the day. Living alone, she never felt lonely with Snoozy Q around for a pet.

Kneeling on the floor, she used the whiskbroom to sweep off the black hair stuck to the bottoms of the drapes over the sliding glass doors. Snoozy Q liked to tuck in behind the drapes where he could spy on the pair of chipmunks playing on the brick patio. He could sit and spy on them with his mouth watering for hours at a time.

Noreen heard an ahem, and she stopped sweeping. It wasn’t necessary to turn around to see who it was. No person stood there. However, her tuxedo cat wished to chat, so she had to stop her chore and do so.

Yes, Snoozy Q, Noreen said as she twisted and faced him sitting there. What’s on your mind?

I’m bored out of my feline gourd. There’s nothing to do in the condominium. You don’t even have any spiders or millipedes for me to bat around and play with.

I’m sorry to hear that.

Well then, here I am, so you can amuse me.

I’m too busy having a ball cleaning up your black hair.

You and I are so much alike. Just as you ladies are cursed with putting on makeup, we cats are also cursed with shedding hair.

You draw an odd comparison between us.

I’m feeling my oats today. Is Rick coming over later?

We haven’t talked. If he does, I expect you to follow the same ground rules as we previously established. Do not speak to him except with the expected meows and purrs. Understand me?

He’s already suspicious of me. That’s how cops are. Why keep our secret any longer from him?

I guess it wouldn’t hurt anything to tell him.

Let me be the one who breaks it to him. Pretty please with a cherry on top let me tell him I’m a talking cat.

Okay, but you have to be nice about it. I’ll also be there with you.

Oh sure, we don’t want Rick to mount up and ride off into the sunset.

Noreen squinted at Snoozy Q. Have you been watching the Westerns on TV after I go to bed? she asked.

Does Cookie serve up pinto beans with sourdough biscuits from the chuck wagon to the cowpunchers?

The Good Lord created the cats to play with catnip toys, look cute, and act finicky. They do not tune in Westerns.

You know I purr to the beat of a different drummer. Hark, do I hear your smart phone ringing?

Noreen sprang up, hurried to her purse, and got out her smart phone.

You’ll never guess what happened to your brother and me, the breathy Piper said.

Your excited voice can only mean it’s something big.

Our friend Etta Garagiola phoned Bill. While she was out birdwatching, she found a dead body lying at the curb. He’d been murdered.

That’s terrible. Who is it?

The murder victim is an elderly man we don’t know.

Did Etta notify the police?

Yes, and you’re not going to believe it, but one of the cops who responded was Rick Novak.

Noreen laughed. Do you mean my Rick Novak?

Is there more than the one? He’d been riding around with Detective Bigelow who was off-duty. They responded to the dispatcher’s call and rushed over to find us waiting there.

Noreen felt a furry tap on her calf.

A thousand pardons for horning in like this, but I had to get your attention. I’m burning up with curiosity to know who you have on the phone.

It’s Piper Robins, Noreen said.

Sweet. Is there another murder mystery we need to solve?

Yes, there is, but can’t you wait until I get off the phone? Noreen asked.

Patience isn’t one of my virtues. You should know that about me by now.

You must be talking to somebody else, Piper said.

Indeed I am, and the rude party won’t let me finish our conversation, Noreen said, looking at Snoozy Q.

You must keep me apprised of anything pertaining to a murder mystery.

Could the rude party be none other than our Snoozy Q? Piper asked.

He’s getting nosier than we are if that’s possible, Noreen replied. He fancies himself a four-footed Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe with a furry tail and wet nose.

Actually, I take after Mike Hammer if you must liken me to a fictitious private eye.

You’d better clam up, tough guy, Noreen said.

That will be the day.

Piper laughed. I’d love to adopt a cat for the Robinses’ household. Is there any chance Snoozy Q will sire a litter of kittens?

Will Snoozy Q sire a litter of kittens is a good question, Noreen said.

Hey, I go wherever duty calls, ladies.

Snoozy Q, just shush up, Noreen said. Piper, let’s focus on this new murder and leave the kitten idea alone until later.

Killjoy.

Bill isn’t in any hurry to get a cat, anyway, Piper said.

How long have you been discussing it with him? Noreen asked.

It’s been seven long years, Piper replied.

He’ll get there, Noreen said. We come from the same Irish stock, and kid sisters can be persuasive when they want to be.

That goes double for us Irish tomcats.

Maybe we have enough feline with just Snoozy Q around us, Piper said.

Snoozy Q is plenty of cat, all right, Noreen said.

I’m all the cat you’ll ever need. Besides, I don’t play well as the second banana cat.

Snoozy Q, if you don’t zip it, I’ll take away the TV remote, Noreen said. You’ll watch no more Westerns.

That would put a kink in my lariat. Okay, I’ll pipe down.

Did Rick give you any particulars on the decedent? Noreen laughed. Listen to me sounding like a cop talking. I’ll try sticking to using plain English.

The police just ordered Bill, Etta, and me to stand outside of the yellow crime scene tape they’d tied up, Piper replied.

I’ll get the inside skinny from Rick. Be listening for my ring, Noreen said.

It looks as if we’re back in business, Piper said.

We’re sleuthing on a murder case again, Noreen said.

Yippee! That’s right in my wheelhouse.

Chapter 3

Piper’s guilty pleasure wasn’t her perfume, handbags, or clothes so much as it was her shoes. She felt as if no lady could acquire enough of them. Her buying so many shoes drove Bill crackers. He just didn’t get it.

She’d tried to clarify how ladies and shoes went together like hammers and nails, drawing an analogy he should be able to understand. He just threw up his hands and, muttering, trudged downstairs from their bedroom. He was off to catch the latest episode of Pawn Stars in the den a.k.a. Bill’s man cave.

Bill knew about the shoes Piper stored in the walk-in closet. She’d hired a professional closet organizer to outfit the walk-in closet with a warren of racks and shelves. Every time he stepped into it, her collection of sneakers, slingbacks, and lace-ups that matched with any outfit she wore overwhelmed him. He did fine with three (!) pairs of shoes. On his birthday, he grumbled about making his one annual trek to the shoe store. Little did he know Piper’s visible shoes were the tip of the footwear iceberg.

She stowed her older shoes (who got rid of still perfectly good shoes?) inside the long plastic tubs she slid under the bed. Bill also never ventured into the vanity sink cabinets. The kitchen’s remote cabinets afforded her more shoe locker space. She was picturing their attic floor soon to resemble a mushroom patch of her old shoes. If he peeked in any of her prime hiding spots, she knew he’d fling a dying duck fit. She had a fond memory associated with each pair of shoes, and she couldn’t bear to part with any of them.

The salespeople knew Piper on a first-name basis. Good day, Piper, they said as she ambled in, swinging her purse on its strap. "How nice to see you