Purrfectly Framed: A Mobile Cat Groomer Mystery

By Ruth J. Hartman

When mobile cat groomer Molly Stewart asks her friend Evan to photograph her new feline clients, they both get more than they bargained for when the body of Evan's old art teacher is found bludgeoned to death in his photography studio darkroom. After one of Eva

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781685126513

Ruth J. Hartman

Ruth J. Hartman spends her days herding cats and her nights spinning mysterious tales. She, her husband, and their cats love to spend time curled up in their recliners watching old Cary Grant movies. Well, the cats sit in the people's recliners. Not that the cats couldn't get their own furniture. They just choose to shed on someone else's. Ruth, a left-handed, cat-herding, farmhouse-dwelling writer, uses her sense of humor as she writes tales of lovable, klutzy women who seem to find trouble without even trying. Ruth's husband and best friend, Garry, reads her manuscripts, rolls his eyes at her weird story ideas, and loves her despite her insistence all of her books have at least one cat in them. See updates about her cozy mysteries at Ruthjhartman.com.

Book preview

Chapter One

When a cancellation from a black and white tuxedo cat’s mom gave me a break in my cat grooming schedule at Fabulous Felines, I took the opportunity to visit my friend, Evan, at his photography studio. He’d phoned earlier, saying he had proofs of kitty pictures he’d taken for some of my clients. I couldn’t wait to check them out. And who better to take along with me than my own two felines?

A tug came from my fingers. One of my cats, Jasper, was pulling against his harness, ready to run. Percival, his adoptive brother, was finally becoming alert after his long nap. He yawned, licked his paw, then looked up at me as if to say, okay, let’s do this. The short walk had us there in no time, even with both cats feeling the need to sniff, rub against, or paw at everything that was at their eye level. And that was a lot of things. Grass, pebbles, park benches, and cracks in the sidewalk—nothing was safe from wet kitty noses and twitchy whiskers.

When I opened the door to Evan Lakes’ photography studio, I blinked, always forgetting how dim he kept his main room, with small spotlights positioned so that his work was beautifully on display and caught the admirer’s attention.

When my vision adjusted to the low light, a movement caught my eye. It was Evan, who stood near an open doorway to his darkroom.

Hi Evan. I waved.

He didn’t answer. His usual wide grin had been replaced with a scrunched brow and glassy-looking eyes, as if he couldn’t focus.

Something was wrong. I stepped closer. Evan? Are you all right?

He jerked. Had I startled him? Maybe he hadn’t heard me come in, although that seemed odd considering the loud bell on the front door and the sound of my voice.

Oh. Um, Molly? he asked, like he wasn’t quite sure who I might be.

Wow, he really was out of it. Concerned, I reached out and touched his arm. Are you ill? Can I help you ?

He shook his head slowly. I… His throat moved as he swallowed. It’s…

Maybe he’d gotten some bad news. Or didn’t feel well. What happened? Do you—

In there, he whispered, his voice raspy.

What is it? Now I was really worried. What had I walked into?

Evan pointed toward the open doorway.

Something is in there? I asked. Had an animal gotten in overnight and destroyed his photos? Or maybe our recent rain caused a roof leak and ruined his beautiful work. What a terrible loss that would be.

"No. Someone," he said. He took in a quick gulp of air. Was he having trouble breathing? Maybe I should take him to see our local doctor.

Evan, do you need to sit down? I pointed to a grouping of chairs set against his front wall.

He shook his head, causing strands of his light-colored hair to brush against his forehead. Somebody—he shivered —is in there.

So we were back to a person in his darkroom. But why weren’t they coming out? Um, is it a customer? Who—

He grabbed my free hand, something he’d never done before, and towed me behind him into the room. I nearly stumbled as he tugged me harder. What was going on? I squinted against the bright lights, such a change from the dim front area. In here, the lights were ablaze, making the term darkroom seem inaccurate. Percival and Jasper’s leashes bounced in my other hand as the cats trotted behind me, the shrill sound of their claws scraping against the wood floor planks making me shiver.

Evan dropped my hand, then pointed again, this time to his right and toward the floor.

What was going on? Was there an injured or ill customer back here? Evan, I don’t under—

Right. There.

I edged closer and then I saw it. Or should I say, saw her. And gasped.

Agnes Temple, a woman in her early sixties, who was a high school teacher, lay in a crumpled heap beside a counter filled with bins of finished photographs. Her gray cotton pantsuit, normally without wrinkle or blemish, had a dark stain on the shoulder, and a tiny rip at the sleeve. A large bottle of something I couldn’t identify lay near her head. Jasper strained against his harness, obviously wanting to get closer, but I gently tugged him back. Percival stared at the body, his whiskers twitching, but he stayed parked next to my feet.

My mouth went dry, and I swallowed. What happened?

Evan shook his head. I don’t know. I mean, she was here when I opened up a few minutes ago.

I glanced down to make sure the kitties were still sitting at my feet. This wouldn’t be a good time for them to explore. Even though they were on leashes, they were sneaky enough to occasionally escape and go their merry way. Okay…have you called the sheriff?

No, I guess it hadn’t sunk in what I was seeing. I’d only just found her when you walked in. I don’t understand. How… how did she get in here? And what…happened to her? He rubbed his forehead.

Poor guy. He was obviously going into shock. I doubted his thoughts were making much sense right now. Want me to call him for you?

He nodded. I…yes, if you don’t mind. I don’t seem to be able to… think clearly.

Believe me, I understand. After having found one of my pet parents in a similar state a few months ago, I remembered the feeling of shock, like my mind and body were sluggish, refusing to work properly. It had taken a while for me to have coherent thoughts afterward.

I dialed 911. The sheriff’s assistant, Betsy Jones, answered. Sheriff’s office. How may I help you?

I kept a watchful eye on Evan as I spoke, hoping he wouldn’t keel over right next to me. Hey, Betsy, it’s Molly Stewart.

I heard a smile in her voice when she said, Hi Molly, how are you?

Well… There’s been an incident at Evan Lake’s studio and, long story short, Agnes Temple is dead.

Silence came from the other end of the line. Then, Betsy said, Uh… um… Let me alert Sheriff King. He’ll be there… as…as soon as he can.

Thank you. I ended the call, frowning at the phone. Betsy was normally so efficient, so professional when doing her job for the sheriff. Maybe I’d caught her on a bad day, although she’d sounded cheery enough when I’d first called.

Had she been friends with the deceased? I didn’t know of any connection between them, but in a small town it was hard to tell. So many citizens were related or had a past history and the details came out later on. Like when somebody turned up dead—that always shook skeletons out of closets.

Is the sheriff on his way? Evan asked, his face pale and hands shaking.

I placed my phone back inside the purse hanging from its strap on my shoulder. Yes, Betsy said he’d be here as soon as he could.

Evan nodded, but his pupils were dilated, and a sheen of sweat showed on his face.

Hey, I said, grabbing his hand as he’d done mine a few minutes earlier. Why don’t we go and wait outside? Maybe get some fresh air. He’d still be in the same situation, but at least he wouldn’t have to look at Agnes in her current state for a little while. Although from what I’d gone through, that image would play again and again in his mind for quite some time.

Evan blinked. Air. Yes. Air is good. He took a step, then faltered, grabbing onto my arm for support. Poor guy. It wasn’t every day someone discovered a body in their workplace.

While I’d been speaking to Evan, the cats had sidled closer to Agnes. Though they couldn’t touch her because of their leashes, both had their necks stretched out, nostrils flaring, as they tried to take in all the strange new smells. Jasper reached out his paw, but contacted only air. Percival didn’t bother with trying to touch Agnes, instead he let out a long, loud hiss at the woman’s body. Yeah, kitty, that’ll show her.

Agnes hadn’t been a nice woman. Even though Percival hadn’t known her personally, he must have sensed she hadn’t been a human he wouldn’t have liked. Or maybe he hissed simply because she was no longer breathing, and it freaked him out. I never knew with cats.

Once Evan had found his sea legs and didn’t seem as wobbly or confused, we headed toward the door. Percival came willingly, but Jasper needed convincing with a gentle tug on the leash. Finally, we all stepped outside.

Good morning, came from behind us. I jumped and turned, relieved to see Jillian Wells, my best friend.

Hey, I said. We, uh, he… I tilted my head toward Evan.

What’s going on? Jillian frowned in concern, pushing her long hair over one shoulder. Then she placed both hands on her hips, giving her signature stern look she’d perfected after years of scolding wayward library patrons.

Waiting until two women passed by us on the sidewalk, I leaned closer to Jillian and whispered, Evan just found a body in the—

A body! she screeched.

Not so loud, I whispered, not wanting anyone else passing by to know about the death before the sheriff got here.

Sorry. Who…

Agnes Temple.

Jillian’s mouth dropped open. I just spoke to her yesterday. She came into the library to get some information on… She eyed Evan, then clammed up.

On what? I asked.

She shook her head, causing her long gold earrings to dance. I’ll tell you later.

What did she want to tell me about Evan? I looked in his direction, but he wasn’t paying attention, still appearing befuddled and lost. Would he even notice we were talking about him?

I tugged her to one side, a few feet away. Tell me what’s going on.

She glanced at Evan, seemed to make a decision, then whispered, Agnes was in the library a couple of days ago. She asked for help using the internet on one of our computers.

Okay, I said. That doesn’t sound too strange. Some of our senior townspeople often needed assistance with the newer technology at the library.

What’s strange was the subject matter she looked up. She typed in Evan’s name.

I frowned. Why would she do that? If they know each other, couldn’t she just have asked him what she wanted to know?

Jillian shrugged. Not sure. I wondered that, too. But once she had what she needed, she told me in no uncertain terms to go away. I couldn’t very well stand there and snoop. Her eyebrows lowered. Well, I could have, but honestly, that woman scares me a little. And you know I don’t scare easily.

I guess she’s not so scary anymore, I glanced over at Agnes’s still form.

No, I guess not. Jillian stared at Evan for a few seconds, then at me, shook her head, and let out a sigh.

Without warning, Evan let out a loud gasp, headed our direction, and collapsed right onto Jillian. She was quick enough to wrap her arms around him before he sunk to the sidewalk.

My eyes widened as I rushed to help her hold him up. The adrenaline after finding Agnes on his floor appeared to have left Evan feeling weak.

A siren wailed as it turned the corner and headed in our direction. Naturally, it got everyone’s attention who was walking nearby, and also those who were working or doing business in surrounding buildings. Office and shop doors opened as people spilled out to see what the latest excitement was. In a small town, anything happening that was different was bound to add excitement to an otherwise quiet day.

Sheriff Lawrence King opened his car door and stepped out, giving a wave to his impromptu audience, as if he were some sort of celebrity. When I glanced at Jillian, I caught her in the middle of an eye roll. I hadn’t given one, but I wanted to. The sheriff rubbed me the wrong way. But that might be due to his hounding me during a previous murder when he all but accused my uncle Russ of doing the deed. Thank goodness the real killer was apprehended, and my uncle was spared any of that awfulness.

Aside from that, Sheriff King liked to ridicule my profession—a mobile cat groomer— as if what I did for a living wasn’t valuable or worthwhile. I had lots of kitties and their pet parents who would stand behind me and give their support. Some of them might even purr.

The sheriff adjusted his hat, hitched up his pants, and strolled over to us.

He eyed us one by one. Evan, Jillian, Molly. When he glanced down, he let out a small gasp, taking two steps backward. One more step and he would have tipped off the sidewalk and ended up on the street in a tan polyester-covered lump. A tiny part of me wished…. No, Molly, play nice.

Besides, I knew the reason for his gasp and partial retreat. It was due to my little furry friends who were at the moment staring up at the sheriff. In the past, his actions made it clear he not only didn’t like cats, but was afraid of them.

After gaining his composure, the sheriff, while avoiding glancing down again, said, What’s the emergency here? Betsy said something about a body?

His voice was loud enough, it carried down the sidewalk and across the street. A collective gasp sounded before pointing and whispering took over from those watching the developing spectacle.

I shook my head. But what had I expected? Whitewater Valley likedspicy news, and it didn’t get spicier than murder.

Wait. How did I know Agnes hadn’t died accidentally?

Was it because her body was crumpled in such an unnatural position? And she’d bled from a wound on her head, but the way she was lying, it hadn’t appeared she’d fallen against anything to cause her injury. But mainly, it was because, having previously discovered one of my pet parents murdered in his garden, I had the same strange vibe I had that day. Yep, I felt it in my bones. Agnes had been murdered.

Evan was in a sort of stupor at the moment, unable to communicate. Jillian watched him. Was she wondering if he’d fall on her again? Apparently, it was up to me to answer the sheriff.

You heard right, Sheriff, I said. There’s a body. In the photography studio. I tilted my head toward the front door.

Who is it? he asked. Betsy wouldn’t say. She just turned red and refused to look at me. Strange girl. The sheriff had no right to call anyone else strange.

Why don’t we go inside? I eyed the growing crowd. It looks like we’re attracting a lot of attention. I didn’t add that his yelling out about a dead body was a partial catalyst for the gathering, and also his use of car sirens.

His frown told me he didn’t like me making suggestions as to what he should do. But I didn’t care. The sooner this was over, the better. I glanced at Evan, who was indeed leaning heavily on Jillian again. She had him held tight against her, her expression of concern focused on his face.

Sheriff King and I stepped inside, and I motioned for him to follow me to the dark room.

She’s in here, I said.

She? He adjusted his hat, which had gone askew.

Yep. I pointed toward the body. Agnes Temple.

His eyes bulged out. Agnes? He quickly regained his composure and bent over to see her better. Next he reached into his shirt pocket for a pair of gloves and put them on. He touched her neck, took in her immediate surroundings, clicked some pictures with his phone, then made a phone call. I could make out from his end of the conversation that he was speaking to Tyson Berry, our local funeral director, who doubled as our medical examiner.

Tyson will be here soon, he said. Until then, why don’t you tell me what you know about all of this? His expression was one of judgment. As if I had something to do with how Agnes ended up here, cold as a pant-suit-wearing mackerel.

Hey, I said, I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her.

Seems like you’re protesting awfully loud for someone who’s not involved.

My free hand landed on my hip. Let’s not go down that road again.

What road would that be? His mouth formed into a smirk. He knew very well I referred to Whitewater Valley’s previous murder.

The one where you automatically assumed that I, or someone I’m close to, committed murder, I said.

Close to? He turned his head toward the doorway. Yeah, You’re really tight with that other girlie, the librarian, huh?

Girlie? Honestly, the man was a prehistoric troll. Jillian Wells is a close friend, yes.

And the guy who runs this place. He pointed his thumb toward the entrance.

You know his name is Evan Lakes.

He shrugged. Doesn’t matter what his name is. All I care about is finding who did this. I need to speak to both of them. Go invite them to join us, why don’t you?

I glanced toward the doorway to the main area. If I wanted to get to the bottom of Agnes’s murder, what choice did I have? Might as well get the awfulness over with.

Chapter Two

Rolling my eyes, and not caring if the sheriff saw me, I speedwalked through the main room and to the sidewalk. Jillian and Evan sat on a wooden bench positioned outside, beneath an old-fashioned streetlight, which sported a gorgeous hanging red geranium from a side hook.

Guys, I said. The sheriff has requested our presence inside the shop.

Evan, who seemed to have regained some color in his face, gave a reluctant groan.

Jillian patted his arm. I know. Doesn’t sound fun, does it? But let’s see what the troll, I mean sheriff, wants to say.

I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. Jillian’s sense of humor was so dry that often, people didn’t get it right away. But I always did. I held out my hand to take one of Evan’s, tugging him so he could stand.

Everybody ready? I asked, trying to keep my voice upbeat. I doubted it had the desired effect.

Jillian nodded, and Evan gave me a bleary-eyed look that would have fit on a man who’d worked a sixteen-hour day without the benefit of any caffeine.

We shuffled in through the door and back to the scene of Agnes’s final moment of life.

Sheriff King leaned against a nearby counter, close to Agnes. She, unfortunately for her, hadn’t moved.

He tapped his foot against the floor. What I’d like to know is, what’s the large bottle that’s lying a few inches from Agnes’s head? Appears to have blood on it. I’ll send it off to the lab for verification, of course, but I know blood when I see it.

Evan stared at the bottle as if he’d never seen one before. He jerked, seemed to focus, and finally gave his attention to the sheriff. That’s fixer.

Is that something you normally keep around here?

Sure. It’s essential for processing photos. There’s a whole cabinet of it right behind you. Evan pointed to a spot over the sheriff’s shoulder. I use it all the time.

Sheriff King angled around and opened the door. Yep, looks like the same thing to me.

Jillian and I raised our eyebrows at each other. Right, as if the sheriff knew anything about film developing. Probably less than I did, which wasn’t all that much.

Sheriff King eyed Evan, making him squirm. So, Mr. Lakes, any reason you can think of that Agnes might have ended up dead on your floor?

No. I have no idea. Evan glanced at Jillian, then me. Was he wanting confirmation of what he’d told the sheriff? I had to admit, when I was on the hotseat with the sheriff a few months earlier, all logic did tend to fly out of my head when feeling as if interrogated.

Maybe you just need more time to think about it, said the sheriff. I’ve found that a trip down to the local jail often loosens people’s tongues. Makes them remember things they might have overlooked.

Evan’s face paled. You want to arrest me? His voice squeaked at the word arrest.

He held up his hand. Now, don’t get yourself in an upheaval like some hysterical woman.

My mouth dropped open. Jillian’s expression mirrored mine. Good thing my assistant, Veronica, wasn’t here. She might have beaned the sheriff with a bottle of fixer just to make him stop saying asinine things.

I crossed my arms over my chest. Sheriff, why can’t Evan just answer your questions here?

You sure do know how to take the fun out of everything, Molly, replied the sheriff.

I shrugged. And I wasn’t sorry.

Now, he went on. "Why don’t you explain to me what happened here?

I can’t explain…I mean, she was dead when I got here, said Evan.

The sheriff’s eyebrows rose. Can you prove that?

Jillian stood up straighter next to me. Can you prove he didn’t, Sheriff King?

The stink-eye the sheriff gave my friend would be enough to cause lesser people to shrink. But Jillian was a librarian. She dealt with all sorts of people in her line of work. She had developed a pretty good stink-eye of her own when it came to argumentative patrons. Or someone who didn’t want to pay their library fines.

Sheriff King watched Jillian, shrugged as he seemed to decide her comment and facial expression either wasn’t worth his time, or he was a little afraid of her, then focused again on Evan.

Continuing on, Mr. Lakes, he said. Did you know the deceased?

If possible, Evan’s face grew even paler. I…. uh, yes. I knew her.

Jillian stood to her full height next to Evan. Sheriff, be realistic. Whitewater Valley is a small town. Evan has lived here his whole life. So had Agnes. Doesn’t it make sense they would have crossed paths somewhere along the line?

He rubbed the back of his neck. I suppose. But that doesn’t get me any closer to why or how this woman here—he pointed down as if there might be a second body in the room, and he wanted to clarify—ended up splattered on the floor.

I winced at the word splattered. Did he had to be so macabre when describing the recently departed?

All right, the sheriff said, Did Agnes often come into your shop?

Evan avoided looking directly at Sheriff King. As far as I know, she never came in here.

Never? He widened his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, as if Evan’s revelation was astonishing.

Not once, insisted Evan, as he crossed his arms. Even though he’d had trouble giving his answers to the sheriff before, he seemed completely certain that Agnes had never darkened his door. But with everyone who came and went over the years, how could he know for sure?

So how did you know Agnes, Mr. Lakes? The sheriff glanced at Jillian, who opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand to silence her. When Evan didn’t reply, the sheriff repeated his question.

With slumped shoulders, Evan finally said, I knew her from high school. She was a teacher there.

The sheriff tilted his