A Twist In The Tail

Several small dining tables with white linen tablecloths sat atop a massive moss-green and gold oriental rug. Curtains in a complimentary green and gold silk framed the ten-foot-tall windows that offered a birds-eye view of the sparkling Maine Atlantic ocean and craggy rocks of Oyster Cove. It was summer, and Flora—who I was coming to realize was the world’s worst maid—had opened one window. A soft breeze fluttered the drapes and carried in the salty scent of the ocean and the cry of gulls in the distance… or was that the cats?

Ron and Iona Weatherby sat a small table located by the window. The adorable elderly couple had binoculars dangling from their necks and cameras at their sides. Ron was slathering the muffin with butter while Iona picked daintily at the fluffy scrambled eggs. They were a delightful couple who had come here for birdwatching and photography. Perfect guests with no complaints.

Near the buffet, Ava Grantham sat alone at a table for four. Ava was in her mid-60s. A society columnist, she was a thin, bird-like woman who noticed everything that went on. She was pleasant enough to talk to and told me she’d been vacationing in Oyster Cove since she was a child, even staying at the Oyster Cove Guesthouse a few times when Millie owned it. Her plate was loaded with scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages. I wondered how she stayed so thin.

Over by the door was the fourth guest, Tina Reeves. She was younger than the others, probably in her mid-30s, a bubbly blonde with wide blue eyes. She said she’d come to visit relatives, but I had suspicions that she had another agenda, of what I just wasn’t exactly sure. Nor did it matter. As long as the guests paid the bill, I didn’t care what they were up to. Tina had flawless skin and a figure like an hourglass, and no wonder. She only had about a tablespoon of scrambled eggs and three blueberries on her plate.

Still no sign of Charles. I was just deciding what to do about the rapidly cooling egg in my hand when I heard the front door open. Maybe Charles had gone out for a walk before breakfast? I backed up and stuck my head into the hallway.

Darn! It wasn’t Charles. It was Barbara Littlefield, the town building inspector, and the last person I wanted to deal with right now. She’d been a thorn in my side ever since I started renovations on the old mansion. Nothing I did pleased her, and she’d already fined me for two violations that a nicer person would have overlooked. It was too late to duck back into the dining room. She’d already spotted me and was marching down the hall toward me, a sour look on her face. I stepped into the hallway to head her off so she didn’t disrupt the guests’ breakfasts.

‘Barbara, how lovely to see you,’ I lied.

Barbara’s scowl deepened. ‘I just came to double-check the permit for the gazebo outside and I noticed—’

Merow!

Barbara jerked her head toward the dining room. ‘Do you have cats in the dining room?’

I stepped aside to let her see in. ‘Of course not.’

‘Good, because that would be a health code violation.’

Merooo!

Was it my imagination or were the cats’ cries getting louder and more insistent?

Barbara frowned down the hallway, where it sounded like the cats’ latest cry had come from. ‘Wait a minute. That sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. That’s even worse!’

Barbara stormed down the hall. I hurried after her, still balancing the egg cup in my hand. Some things are more important than Charles Prescott and his egg – like making sure the board of health didn’t shut me down for having animals in the kitchen.

‘It’s not coming from the kitchen.’ At least, I hoped it wasn’t. It actually was coming from that direction, but I was pretty sure it was from the West wing of the mansion, which had been closed off for extensive renovations. Not that the cats didn’t hang around in the kitchen—they did. I just hoped they weren’t in there right now.

‘I think you’re right.’ Barbara stopped and frowned at me. ‘I thought I made it clear that decrepit wing was supposed to be closed down so no one could get in there.’

See what I mean? I just couldn’t win with this woman. You’d think she’d be happy the cats weren’t in the kitchen, but no, she’d found something else to complain about.

‘It is blocked off. To people. Cats are sneaky and can get into anything.’ Couldn’t they? I wasn’t exactly sure. I’d only owned the guesthouse, and, thus, the cats, for a short time, and had no idea what those furry little monsters could get up to. They’d been fairly well-behaved so far, but the way they stared at me -- with their luminous, intelligent eyes -- always made me feel like they were up to something behind my back. I didn’t have much experience with cats, but Millie had assured me they made great companions. Thus far, I’d been too busy learning the ropes of running the guesthouse to spend time getting to know them.