Catnip (Dunbarton Mysteries Book 1) Read online

  CATNIP

  by

  Valerie Tate

  Copyright

  CATNIP © 2012 Valerie Tate

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  ‘CATNIP’ is published by Red Cottage Books

  ‘CATNIP’ is the copyright of the author, Valerie Tate, 2012. All rights are reserved.

  All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

  For my mom, in loving memory.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Yan Moyaux for the cover photo, Bradley Wind for the cover design and Judy Hodgkinson for her creative advice.

  The fictitious town of Dunbarton was inspired by Kincardine, Ontario, which is located on the beautiful shores of Lake Huron, and all of the best things about Dunbarton are found there. Thankfully, though, no catnappings or murders.

  But thousands die without this and that,

  Die, and endow a college, or a cat.

  Alexander Pope

  Chapter 1

  This story should open, ‘It was a dark and stormy night when the will was read in the country house on the edge of a desolate moor.’

  But it wasn’t.

  Instead it was a sunny afternoon in a law office in a restored Victorian on the sandy shores of Lake Huron.

  No dark and disturbing foreshadowing of doom. No Ides of March. No crows flying backwards. No hounds baying at a blood-red moon. Not even a black cat.

  So much for omens.

  I, Amanda Dunbar, widow of Robert Allan

  Dunbar, do hereby declare this to be my last

  will and testament.

  He’d met Amanda Dunbar only once - an autocratic old lady with a shrewd expression and an underlying core of steel that showed through in the piercing blue eyes, strength of mouth and jaw, and proud lift of her nose. A lady not to be trifled with. If he had known that meeting would set in motion events that would send him on a tumultuous ride, one that would change his life forever, would he have gone?

  Not even he could answer that one!

  Since, by the time this is read

  I shall be dead, it will be my

  final opportunity to tell my

  ‘loving’ family exactly what I

  think of them.

  The old lady had died only two days before, but her daughter-in-law, over-riding the protests of her husband, had insisted that the reading directly follow the interment.

  For the past twenty-six years the

  four of us have lived together in

  my house to the great discomfort

  of us all. That I have chosen to

  tolerate the chronic irritability

  of my daughter-in-law, the infuriat-

  ing ineptitude of my son, and the

  vague placidity of my grand-daughter

  is as much a wonder to myself as

  anyone!

  None of the family had been present at his meeting with his client in the large Victorian house in a once fashionable part of town. She had seen to it that they had been absent, unwilling for any but themselves to know of her intentions. It was with some curiosity and a little trepidation therefore, that he had anticipated the meeting in his office that day.

  Alice Mayhew Dunbar sailed into the office at precisely two o’clock with the assurance of the flagship of the fleet. Handsome - had the expression on her face and the look in her eyes been different, one might even have said, beautiful - well-preserved, and about as warm as a Huron January. There was an air about her of barely-controlled anticipation, a gleam in her Ice Queen eyes that said she was about to get everything she had been waiting for, exactly what she deserved. If she grieved, she hid it well.

  In her wake trailed her husband, James Allen Dunbar, a man of average height who seemed, following his assertive wife, smaller than he actually was. His hair that had once been black, thick and wavy, was now silver at the temples. He should have been a striking man but with his air of patient melancholy he seemed to fade into the wallpaper beside his more flamboyant spouse. There was little resemblance to his strong-minded mother.

  And then there was Alicia. She drifted in behind her parents, gazed around her with a disinterested air, then melted gracefully into a chair by the wall and waited. Her hair was the first thing he noticed - a pale gold cloud that caressed her ivory face like a kiss. But then she looked at him and... ‘Atlas Shrugged’!

  Her eyes were a pair of exquisitely matched turquoises - a rare blue-green flecked with gold - large and dreamy. Cat’s eyes … witch’s eyes ... enchantment! Fringed with dark, smudgy lashes, they were set in the perfect oval of her face under brows that arched like wings in flight. She was the stuff of fantasy, of fairy tales, of chivalric stories, the stuff of dreams and dreamers.

  Her grandmother had described her as a Sleeping Beauty waiting for her prince to come and awaken her, but he couldn’t help hoping that behind those dreamy, turquoise eyes was more than just a fairy tale.

  With that off my chest, I feel

  free now to make the following

  bequests:

  To my daughter-in-law, Alice, I

  bequeath two gallons of vinegar, in

  hopes that it will sweeten her

  disposition.

  To my son, James, who was the joy

  of my life until he married that

  woman, I bequeath a can of starch

  to be used to stiffen a backbone that

  hasn’t stood firm for the past twenty-

  six years.

  To my grand-daughter, Alicia, I

  bequeath my jewelry in the hope that

  one day she may prick her finger

  and awaken from that perennial

  slumber she now enjoys.

  There was an open-mouthed silence when he’d finished and he waited for the explosion he was sure would come. He was not disappointed.

  “Well of all the ...!” Alice Dunbar, who had initially gone very white, was purple now, with rage. “That old witch ... She made our lives a living hell for almost thirty years and now this ... this ... this outrage! My God, when I think of how I waited on her! Vinegar indeed! Twenty-six years of that harridan’s bad-tempered ...!” Fury momentarily deprived her of speech - could she be on the verge of a stroke? And her husband was finally able to get a word in.

  “Alice, don’t!” James’ eyes pleaded for understanding. “She was always very good to us, or tried to be. It was just her way, her values.” There was a world of weariness in his voice and a lifetime of failure in his eyes.

  “For God’s sake, James, you know how she treated us. She could have helped you out but she didn’t. Just because she couldn’t forgive you for marrying against her wishes. For marrying me.” It was as if she’d forgotten there was anyone else in the room. “You know you’ve worked your fingers to the bone for that company, for her, for your father. And always in his shadow. Never your own man.”

  James, looking ill, sank even deeper into his chair.

  The lawyer glanced over at Alicia, but she seemed as indifferent as ever, as if neither the contents of the will, nor her mother’s outburst, concerned her at all. “A sleep-walker through life,” her grandmother had said.

  “Mr. Mallory!” Mrs. Dunbar drew him back to the matter at hand. “What do you have to say about this ridiculous state of affairs?”

  “If you’ll allow me, I’ll get on with the reading and I think things will become quite clear.”

  She
nodded irritably.

  “At this point it becomes necessary to bring in a fourth beneficiary.” Ignoring outraged gasps of protest from Alice, he pressed the intercom button. “Miss Scott, would you please bring in our client.” Then he sat back to watch what was going to happen next.

  Suzanne entered slowly and in her arms she carried a large, orange cat. There was a wheeze from Alice Dunbar, like the sound of air slowly exiting a balloon. She darted a suspicious glance from the cat, to him, and back again. As for the cat, he spat furiously at the woman, scratched the secretary who promptly dropped him, and proceeded to strop himself against Alicia’s leg. The latter smiled gently, stroked his head, and then turned a quizzical look at him.

  “Would you put Marmalade on my desk please, Miss Dunbar? Thank you.”

  She gathered the now contented cat in her arms and moved with languorous grace towards the desk, while Marmalade peacefully batted a strand of hair that hung before his face. When placed on the desk he settled himself comfortably on a pile of briefs and then proceeded to wash his already immaculate face.

  He was a long-haired cat the color of orange marmalade, hence the name, with a silky white stripe starting below his chin and running down his stomach. He had a sassy, self-satisfied triangle of a face, with one ear crooked roguishly forward. His eyes were brilliant green almonds balanced over a small pug nose. All in all he had an air of being totally in command of the situation which, as things were about to become apparent, he was.

  Finally, what you’ll all have

  gathered to hear, I give, devise,

  bequeath and appoint my

  entire estate, including all

  financial assets, properties

  and personal possessions

  to my only true friend

  and companion, my cat,

  Marmalade. Furthermore,

  since I know my family only too

  well, should anything happen to

  Marmalade that even suggests foul

  play on the part of or at the

  instigation of my family, the estate

  then goes to the Animal Protection Society

  to be used take care of creatures

  who are unable to care for themselves.

  However, whenever he does pass away

  from natural causes, the estate

  will revert to the only member

  of my family that I have any use for,

  my grand-daughter, Alicia.

  Until that time I appoint Christopher

  Mallory of the firm Henderson, Jukes,

  Conroy, and Mallory as executor of my

  estate and trustee for Marmalade.

  He will administer all finances. My

  son and his wife are free to

  continue living in the house provided

  that they care for Marmalade. Mallory

  will pay all household bills and

  provide James, Alice and Alicia with

  a monthly allowance to be worked out

  with Mr. Mallory, the sum to be subject

  to cost-of-living increases. If at

  any time it is determined that any of

  them has mistreated Marmalade in any

  way, the allowance will cease and they

  will be asked to leave the house.

  Should this happen, a companion for

  Marmalade will be employed.

  One last word, family. Be warned!

  I have filled Mr. Mallory in on the

  exact details of our household and

  family relations. He knows it all!

  So perhaps I’ve had the last laugh

  after all!

  Amanda Dunbar

  Chapter 2

  Mrs. Amanda Dunbar, widow of the late financier, Robert Allen Dunbar, had lived for sixty-four of her eighty-seven years in a large brick house on Glengarry Lane. Once the most fashionable street in the small furniture town of Dunbarton, Ontario, it had, in later years, fallen to the fate of other such streets, becoming an area of expensive flats and offices. Fourteen Glengarry Lane was its one remnant of the glory that was.

  Dunbarton was named, of course, after the Dunbar family whose celebrated ancestor, Angus Dunbar of Glengarry, Scotland had made the arduous voyage across the Atlantic in the latter part of the eighteenth century and braved the perils of an alien land to carve a home out of the wilderness on the shores of Lake Huron. The village that had grown up around his homestead bore the name of that first family, and ‘First Family’ they had remained for the almost 250 years since. Many Scots were to come to that storm-tossed yet beautiful shore and the Bruce Peninsula boasts of its proud Scottish heritage in names such as Lucknow, Kincardine and Kinloss.

  It was on a crisp autumn morning several months before her death that Mrs. Amanda Dunbar had summoned him to the fawn-colored mansion that was her home. Actually, she had summoned Mr. Arthur Henderson, the founder of the firm, but as he had been dead for several years and both Mr. Jukes and Mr. Conroy were inescapably tied up, it fell to him, the newest partner in the firm to answer the call.

  Dunbar House was one he’d passed many times since his flat was in a converted house a couple of blocks away, and was one which he admired very much. It spoke of a gentler, more gracious age with its gracefully bowed windows and touches of gingerbread. It was a two-story structure with a third floor attic under a sloping mansard roof. As old as the house was, the original copper tile-work was still in place, shining softly in the sun - semi-circular slate tiles like the sweep of a bird’s wing in shades of blue and green. On the right side of the house a large bay window rose into a tower topped by a wrought-iron widow’s walk. A glassed-in conservatory extended into the garden. The wide front steps led to a covered verandah, supported by elaborately-carved pillars, which ran from the left side of the house to the back. An ice-cream and cake concoction, it brought to mind hot summer afternoons and croquet on the lawn.

  An older, grey-haired gentleman in dusty overalls was busy tending the flower gardens, hilling up the roses in the oval bed. A bale of straw stood ready to be spread over top once each bush had been tenderly pruned and covered with soil. The last of the mums still bravely faced the chill breeze off the lake. Pink and yellow, rust and burgundy vied for attention with the now crimson maple leaves. Vines, which climbed the columns and inched across the verandah roof, and which in spring and summer were covered with purple flowers, were now bare and lifeless.

  “Morning, Wilf.”

  The gardener looked up and smiled. He was a well-known figure in town, always quiet and reserved, doing the work he loved.

  “Morning, Mr. Mallory. Miz Dunbar is waiting for you. Tell her just to call when she needs me.”

  Intrigued, he nodded and walked up the verandah steps to the front door.

  Mrs. Dunbar’s suite, as everyone in town knew, was on the third floor and so when he pressed the button and a voice from the intercom said to enter and come up, he proceeded straight there.

  His swift passage through halls and upstairs gave him brief glimpses into a bygone time and way of life - Persian carpets covering gleaming cherry floors, ornately carved sofas, mahogany tables and rich velvet draperies in an almost overwhelming array of colors and textures.

  A spacious, richly paneled foyer rose into a gently curving staircase that lead to the second floor. From there he followed the hall to a second, less grand stairway that brought him to the third floor, and Amanda Dunbar.

  For more than ten years, since arthritis had confined her to a wheelchair and made even the most elementary of endeavors a painful struggle, Mrs. Dunbar had lived in the third floor suite of rooms. The cattier of townsfolk had said, “the better to look down her nose at all of us”, but the more charitable had replied it was more likely that she wanted to be able to enjoy the view of Lake Huron which was, he saw for himself, quite magnificent.

  Once the domain of the house-servants, the third floor had been completely renovated to create a spacious, airy, wheelchair
-friendly apartment. There was none of the over-abundance of downstairs, but rather a tasteful collection of a few treasured pieces. The tones were mellow, with here and there a dramatic touch of color such as in the cherry-red screen behind the sofa, brought from the Far East by a sea-faring ancestor.

  It was there she spent her days and nights, rarely venturing beyond her lofty domain, although, he was to learn later, a small elevator in what had been a closet connected the three floors, so that if she were a prisoner of the house it was by choice.

  All of those impressions were gathered at a later date for, from the moment he entered the room, his attention was drawn to and held by the determined gaze of a small but regal woman seated in a wheelchair. She had soft white hair, a fresh complexion and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Age had not treated her kindly, arthritis crippling once forceful hands and confining her to the chair but, he was to soon learn, it had not succeeded in cowing her spirit or weakening her will. From that first moment he realized that this was a woman who had met life on her own terms and bent it to her will.

  “Mr. Mallory!” There was a certain satisfaction in her voice, as if she had been right about something. “Come into the light and let me get a good look at you.” And she proceeded to, quite thoroughly. “Yes, you’ll do. I thought you would by your voice, otherwise I would never have let you come. The nerve of that fool Henderson, dying just when I need him. Why did he think I kept him on retainer for all these years?” Before he could protest, she went on. “I like the look of you. You’ve a good firm jaw and a nice straight nose, and somehow I was sure you’d have brown eyes. Brown eyes and a mellow voice just seem to go together. I didn’t imagine the curly hair though. Does it run in the family?”

  “No, much to the annoyance of my sisters.”

  “Sisters? How many?”

  “Three.”

  “Do they live in Dunbarton?”

  “No, they’re back in Toronto with my parents. Penny’s completing her M.A. in Anthropology at the University of Toronto. Angela’s studying television journalism at Ryerson and Connie is in Veterinary Science at Guelph. She wants to be a horse doctor. I moved here a couple of years ago to join the law firm.”