“Sylvia texted me today, too,” I said. “What a relief. I’m sure that Jim will be asking him a lot of questions.”

  “Aren’t you going to look into it?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure Paul saw anything. He stood up straight, and the gun shot went off, turning him to us, and then the second shot. He couldn’t have seen anything.”

  “Maybe he saw something earlier,” she suggested.

  “And I’ll ask him when I visit him in a few days.”

  “Are you putting off your investigation?” She seemed genuinely perplexed. “What about Klaus?”

  “Klaus is still not talking to me, and Jim asked me to step down,” I said. It sounded lame to my own ears. I wasn’t going to get her involved in this investigation. People were being attacked, and Porsche had a husband and kids counting on her.

  “Are you deliberately keeping me out of the loop?” She narrowed her almond-shaped eyes at me.

  “People are getting shot.” I waved at my sling and sucked in my breath at the pain it caused.

  “So you’re not going to tell me what you know.” She scowled at me. “Maybe my kids will be sick for the rest of the week.”

  “I love you, and I don’t want you to get hurt,” I said. Everett jumped up on the counter and meowed his agreement.

  “I’m a big girl, and I can take good care of myself and you,” she said, then leaned against the counter. “Tell me everything.”

  “But your boys—”

  “—are going to be fine, and I’ll be fine,” she said. “Now, I heard you went to see Mr. McGregor last night. What does he know?”

  I frowned. “He’s not saying. I’m not sure he even knows. He was stabbed and beaten, and after surgery . . . well, sometimes they give you drugs to forget when you go into surgery.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “In case you wake up,” I said.

  “Yikes, yes, that would be a nightmare,” she straightened. “So the meds they gave him keep him from remembering?”

  “The incident,” I said. “But I think he saw something before that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think this has something to do with Elias’s hives. Paul was shot because he was working with Elias’s hives.”

  “What are you going to do?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’d go out there and look at the hives, but the police are guarding the Reichs’ place. They won’t let me near the hives.”

  “So what are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I’m thinking that I need to make product and go to a parade today.”

  “How’s that going to help with the investigation?” she asked.

  “It’s not,” I said, “but sometimes if you give things a bit of time and space, they tend to fall into place.”

  “Okay, fine.” She sounded disappointed.

  “I know,” I said and squeezed her hands. “But sometimes it’s best to let things ruminate in the back of your mind.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Porsche said.

  “So do I,” I said. “Okay, I’m off.” I went out the back, leaving Everett with Porsche. The first stop on my supplier list was Anderson’s Bees. Doris Anderson worked with Klaus and Barry Goldbloom. Together, the three did a significant percentage of the bee business in the state of Oregon.

  My cell phone rang. It was Aunt Eloise. “Hello?”

  “Oh, good,” Aunt Eloise said. “Are you at the store?”

  “No, I’m headed toward Anderson’s for a supply run. Why?”

  “Because a call came into our Havana Brown rescue group. There is a report of a kitty mill. We’re going now to check it out. Can you come?”

  “To save kitties? Yes, of course,” I said. “Send me the address. Do I need to pick up some carriers?”

  “Do you have any?” she asked. “I filled my car with carriers, but we might need more.”

  “I don’t have any with me,” I said. “I don’t need one with Everett.”

  “Hmm, stop by my place and grab some, please,” she said. “I heard there might be close to fifty kitties.”

  “Oh, no, that’s terrible,” I said. “I’ll run by your place.” Aunt Eloise lived on the edge of town, near a bluff that had the most amazing walkway down to the beach. She had bred Havana Brown cats for years, and one day, it dawned on her that her time was better used rescuing Havana Browns. She had a comfortable shed behind her house. I teased her that it was her “she shed” because it had heat and light and was well decorated in cat motifs. I got out of my car and grabbed the spare key that I had and opened the shed. It was surprisingly empty. Aunt Eloise had had her last foster adopted last week.

  She had her own kitties, of course, but they stayed in the main house with her. Fosters and rescues had to be acclimated to the she shed before she allowed them in the house. This meant Aunt Eloise spent a lot of time in her shed.

  It had a small loft, and I climbed the ladder and brought down ten kitty carriers. Hopefully, that would be enough because I had a sedan, not an SUV, and I didn’t want to stack them. I climbed back down and stopped when I thought I saw movement in the trees beside the shed. I went to the window and looked out. It must have been a trick of my eyes because there was nothing there.

  Then I loaded up my car with the ten carriers. Four had to go in the trunk and six in the seat areas. Then I headed out to the country address Aunt Eloise had texted me. When I arrived, there were several cars lined up in front of the house. The door was wide open, and a policeman and an animal control officer stood on the porch and talked to a little old woman, who appeared confused.

  “Oh, good, you’re here,” Aunt Eloise said as she came around the house with a cat carrier in each hand. “How many carriers did you bring?”

  “I was able to fit ten in my car,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “This is Mrs. McDougal,” Aunt Eloise said, pointing her head toward the old woman. “Her husband used to breed cats, but he died two years ago. No one’s been out to check on her, and things have gotten out of hand.”

  “You said it was a kitty mill?”

  “At first, that’s what we thought, but it turns out it’s just a cat collector who went too far,” Aunt Eloise shrugged. “She kept the cats in her house and her barn. They weren’t spayed or neutered, and she let them run wild. They are practically feral, especially the barn cats. Best count we can get is forty-nine kitties. I don’t know what she was thinking.”

  “She looks confused,” I said and grabbed two cat carriers.

  “Yes, they’ve called the EMTs to evaluate her mental state.” Aunt Eloise put the carriers in the back of her SUV and grabbed two more. “Come with me.”

  The smell hit me first as we drew closer to the house and barn. My eyes watered from the sulfur of cat urine. “Oh, poor things.” There were five people, all members of the rescue group, wearing heavy gloves, chasing cats, and putting them into carriers. The place was filled with kitty meows and protests.

  “Careful where you step,” Aunt Eloise said.

  The floors of the barn were covered in straw and cat poop and urine. Some of the kitties were just babies. Others were older, with torn and healed ears and battered tails. It was clear they had been through a lot.

  “Did she let them out?” I asked.

  “No,” Aunt Eloise said and picked up a cat who protested the action by biting Aunt Eloise’s hand. My aunt wore thick leather gloves, so the bite didn’t break her skin, and she placed the cat in the carrier. “Do you have gloves? These poor things are not taking well to being picked up, and it’s a beast to get them in the carriers.”

  I pulled gloves out of one of the carriers I had. “I remember the last time we did a rescue,” I said and put them on. I found a huddle of kittens in the back corner and carefully collected them. Kittens could go three to a carrier, and I hauled out the two carriers, deposited them in my car, and brought in two more.

  We worked for three hours, right through lunch, and finally were able to collect nearly all the cats. Five rescue cars and vans full, plus those transported by animal control. It was a lot of hungry, anxious, sad cats. The racket was off the charts as they made their complaints.

  Mrs. McDougal was taken away by ambulance. The word among the volunteers was that she was dehydrated and showed signs of dementia.

  I stopped near my car full of kitties and studied Aunt Eloise’s worried face. “Why didn’t anyone find out about these poor cats?” I asked.

  “Mrs. McDougal didn’t have any children. Her husband died, and no one visited her.”

  “Oh, the poor thing was alone out here?”

  “It happens sometimes,” Aunt Eloise said. “She got depressed after Alfred died and gradually stopped going to church. She had food delivered, and once things started to get out of hand, she just worked harder to hide it.”

  “How did you find out about the cats?”

  “Lucy Anderson from the church came out this morning for an annual welfare check. Mrs. McDougal wouldn’t let her inside. But a glance in the window gave her concern, so she called social services and the police. They called animal welfare, who called the rescue group.”

  “What’s going to happen to the cats?” I asked.

  “I’ve got contacts with some shelters in Oregon and Washington,” Aunt Eloise said. “For now, we’re going to get them to shelters for veterinary care, spaying, and neutering. Then the foster system will sort the more feral ones from those who can get placement.”

  “It’s a lot of cats,” I said sadly. “What happens to the feral cats?”

  “Once they can’t have kittens anymore, they will be released to people who need barn cats,” Aunt Eloise said and touched my arm. “We will do everything we can to save them all. Can you drive your cats to the Benton veterinary group? Doctor Benton said she can see some today and tomorrow.”

  “I will,” I said. “Then I need to go pick up supplies for new product. I take it we aren’t going to the parade?”

  “Oh, we’re going,” Aunt Eloise said. “Don’t think you’re getting out of it.”

  “But the cats?”

  “I have been on the phone all morning. They will be safe and warm and in vet care by four p.m. Just in time for me to pick you and Everett up for the parade. Porsche is still going, right?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She and her boys are looking forward to it.”

  “Good, well, get on with taking those cats to the vet. See you shortly.” She waved her fingers at me, and I got into the car. The kitties were protesting their containment loudly. “Sorry, babies,” I said in a soft, singsong voice. “But this is all for the best. You are going to be happy and healthy in no time.”

  I kept my fingers crossed that it was true. This many cats are known to overload the system. Maybe it was time to get a second cat. Everett could use the company, right?

  Easy Baklava Bites

  Ingredients:

  ½ cup finely chopped walnuts

  1 tablespoon butter, cut into 8 cubes

  1 tablespoon sugar

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  ¼ teaspoon vanilla

  1 pinch salt

  1 package of 15 mini phyllo shells

  ¼ cup water

  ¼ cup honey

  3 tablespoons lemon juice

  Directions:

  Heat oven to 350°F. Mix walnuts, butter, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, and salt. Mix until a ball forms. Place phyllo shells on a parchment-lined cookie sheet. Pack 1 heaping teaspoon of the mixture into each shell. Bake for 10 minutes. While that’s baking, combine the water, honey, and lemon juice in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Simmer for 10 minutes to form a thin syrup. Remove shells from the oven, and carefully spoon the honey syrup over the baked baklava, letting it soak in. Refrigerate until ready to serve. Makes 15 bites. Enjoy!

  Chapter 15

  “You make an amazing alien!” Porsche said to Aunt Eloise. We stood on a corner in McMinnville, waiting for the parade to start. The skies had cleared, and the parade watchers would be able to stand outside without umbrellas or raincoats.

  Aunt Eloise was dressed in a silver-lamé leotard, silver tights, silver boots, and gloves. Her face was covered with silver makeup, and her eyes had been drawn large to look like alien eyes. She wore her gray hair with silver sparkles in it along with two antennae attached to a head band. Her two kitties were leashed, one to each of her wrists, and wore silver alien suits.

  “Thanks,” she said. “I’m the pet to my cats.”

  “Ah, a twist,” Porsche said. Porsche wore a white jumpsuit with a tool belt that had ray guns and various space necessities attached.

  “Where are the boys?” I asked.

  “I sent them off to get snacks,” she said. “I’m holding our places here. Where’s your costume, Wren?”

  “Aunt Eloise made me this ‘space suit sling,’ ” I said. “Everett loves his costume,” I said and gathered my kitty into my arms, trying not to wince, to show off his metallic hat and cape. “Courtesy of Aunt Eloise.”

  “Everett, you look quite dashing,” Porsche said and stroked his ears.

  Meow.

  “Oh, I heard about the massive kitty rescue,” Porsche said to Aunt Eloise. “I hope they are all going to be all right.”

  “I’m sure the vets will do thorough exams,” Aunt Eloise said. “I’ve been calling rescue groups in three states to ensure we have enough homes for them. Right now, I’m waiting for a call from Channel Five. I’m hoping putting this on the news will help raise awareness.”

  “You are such a dear,” Porsche said and hugged Aunt Eloise.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “I printed up posters to put along the parade route.” I dug through the bag I carried and pulled out twenty posters. “This is just to build awareness.” The picture was of the group of kittens I had first pulled from the barn. The title was CAN YOU HELP? And I went on to explain, in as few words as possible, that kittens needed good homes and urged people to call the rescue hotline.

  “These are wonderful!” Aunt Eloise said. “I’ll take some and go to where the parade starts. Wren, you post them where it ends.”

  “Sorry, guys, but I have to stay near my boys,” Porsche said and pointed to them in the line at the snack bar.

  “It’s okay,” I said and gave her a quick hug. “You can hold our place. We need to hurry because the parade starts in fifteen minutes.”

  I followed behind the gathering crowd and stopped on every block to staple or tape a poster. I could hear the bands as they started to come down the parade route.

  “Excuse me.” A lady with a young girl stopped me. They were both dressed in costumes from the ’90s and held a sign that said ROSWELL on it, along with a picture of the cast of the show from the ’90s. “Are you giving away kittens?”

  “I’m building awareness,” I said. “We just rescued nearly fifty cats from an overcrowding situation. They’ll be ready for adoption next week.”

  “I want a kitty, Mommy,” the little girl with blond hair said.

  “How do we get one of the cats?” the woman asked.

  “Call the number on the sign, and the rescue group will give you more information.”

  “Wonderful,” she said and took a picture of the poster with her cell phone. I stapled the last of my posters at the end of the parade route.

  “Hey, aren’t you the bee lady from Oceanview?”

  I turned to see a group of three people, two women and one man, staring at me. “I’m Wren Johnson.”

  “You own that bee shop,” one woman said. She was wearing a Star Trek uniform, and her face was painted half blue.

  “Yes,” I said. “I own Let It Bee.”

  “You worked with Elias, didn’t you?” the man said. “You found him dead?”

  “Yes,” I said, slightly confused. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m Atlas Annie,” said the second woman, who was dressed like Princess Leia. “This is Krystal Sage and Crash Waves.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “We were friends of Elias,” Atlas said. “He said if anything happened to him to talk to you.”

  “Oh,” I said, still confused. “Did he think something would happen to him? Because he didn’t mention anything to me.”

  “Can we get a beverage?” Atlas asked. “We really want to talk to you.”

  “Sure,” I said and followed them to the coffee shop on the next block. We ordered drinks and sat down. “I can’t stay long. I have friends waiting for me on the parade route.”

  “Yeah, we figured,” Crash said. He was dressed as a red-shirted Star Trek character with orange skin and pale blue eyes. “We’ll keep things brief. We belong to a watchdog group.”

  “A watchdog group?” I echoed.

  “Yes, we meet once a week to look into mysteries. You know, things the press is overlooking, like the vandalism of beehives across the state,” Krystal said. She wrapped her hands around her cup of coffee.

  “Elias was one of our members. He brought the plight of the beehives to our attention,” Crash said. “He said that if anything happened to him, we needed to find you and tell you what we know.”

  “What do you know?” I asked, my curiosity on edge.

  “Elias was looking into the beehive vandalism up and down the coast,” Atlas said.

  “Yes, I know. I think that’s why he was killed,” I said.

  “We think it’s a government cover-up,” Crash whispered as he glanced around the shop. “They don’t want people to know that Bigfoot is stealing honey from beehives.”

  “Oh,” I said and felt my heart sink.

  “Well, some of us are divided on the whole Bigfoot issue,” Krystal said. “But we’re pretty sure there’s a cover-up. Think about it. If we have no bees, then we have no produce. Without produce, we are all subject to dwindling food supplies.”

  “We will have to eat algae and fish,” Atlas said. “There’s a big push for farm-raised fish.”

  “No, no, no,” Crash said. “Bigfoot is trying to dwindle our numbers because we are encroaching on their land.”

  “Is this what Elias thought?” I asked.

 

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