The young, tatted, girl in the Susan’s Pet Emporium T-shirt was still filming on her phone. Annie rested the pet carrier on top of the checkout counter and handed her five bucks. “That’s for the catnip banana. I’m not buying this eyesore of a pet transporter.” The lime green color was so bright it was practically making her eyes bleed and a headache bore down on her making womp-womp sounds in her ears, making her temples throb. What had she been thinking wanting to buy this monstrosity? Was she on drugs? “Whose cat is this?”
“I think that’s the Gunk’s Grub cat, but I don’t really know for sure,” the clerk said and handed her back change. “I wasn’t the one in charge of producing today’s product launch. Frankly, now I’m glad I didn’t. This whole thing creeps me out.”
“I hear you,” Annie said, and clamped one hand nonchalantly on top of the three-inch blob of fat that had squeezed out of the side of her dress like an alien head poking out of some space traveler’s stomach. She checked her watch on her other wrist. There was a seamstress at the beauty shop right down the street on the way to the trattoria. If Annie slipped her a ten, she bet she could repair the zipper, or at least duct tape her into this ridiculously tight dress.
“As much as I love being a Good Sam and all, I’ve got Valentine’s plans for tonight. I have to go. Someone needs to step up to the plate and take care of this cat.”
“Someone will claim him eventually,” the clerk said and took one strap on the pet transporter. “I’ll put him behind the counter.”
“Someone? Eventually? How long will he be behind the counter?” Annie seized the other strap.
“Again,” the clerk said, and tugged on her end. “I’m not in charge of producing the Gunk’s Grub event.” She enunciated producing like Annie was hard of hearing or she’d asked her something in a language that had been lost to the world for thousands of years.
“Sweet,” Annie said and pulled back on the other strap. “I’m not worried about producing the event either. I’m worried about the cat.”
“Mr. Gunk chose the self-produce event option,” the clerk said, and gave her strap a little yank. “Which means Mr. Gunk handles all the details regarding his launch. That includes the cat.”
“That’s problematic,” Annie said and tugged harder. “Because Mr. Gunk is dead.”
The clerk released her grip and the cat carrier catapulted back toward Annie. She claimed both straps possessively.
“Why don’t you go ask his girlfriend?” The clerk pointed to the bouffant blonde with the spray-tanned chicken legs at the display table talking to a paramedic. She turned back to shooting her video.
“And Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.” Annie slung the pet pouch over her shoulder and tucked it firmly against her side to cover the errant fat blob. The cat meowed, a thin cry, and her heart melted a little. This was the first time he’d made a peep during this whole debacle. She paused, hoisted the carrier up to eye level and peered through the mesh. “How are you doing Bubbles?” That heart-shaped pendant looked super heavy. Like it might be just too much weight for his neck.
Meow, he said, but it sounded more like Meh. Then he nodded his head toward his feet, his eyes became slits, and he looked like the most sad and forlorn animal on the planet. Annie couldn’t blame him. “I’m sorry you poor sweet thing. You’re having a worse day than me.”
Tell me about it, a man’s voice said, and all the little hairs on the back of Annie’s arms stood up like soldiers on parade. She nearly dropped the carrier. She got that chilly sensation on her neck that happened every time she ventured into haunted territory. No. There would be no ghost whispering today. Annie had already volunteered as a Cat Mesmerist. She was not pulling double duty as a Ghost Whisperer.
It was too late…
Thanks for coming to the Gussie Gunk’s Cat Grub launch, a disembodied male voice said. Annie hadn’t even seen him yet, but she’d bet her last stack of chips that it was the ghost of Gussie Gunk. He materialized next to her, patted his overly-teased pompadour layered like one of those mile-high stacks of pancakes at IHop. How’s the launch going?
Dang. Annie frowned like a petulant teenager. “There’s been a few unexpected surprises,” she said. Her stomach sank. She wasn’t a heartless person. She wasn’t a wicked person. But she could already predict how this conversation was going to go down:
1. Mr. Gunk wasn’t going to believe he was dead.
2. She was going to have to convince him he was.
3. He was going to nag Annie to find his killer.
4. Any and all semblance of a normal Valentine’s Day was going to fly out the window.
I hope people are buying the food. I see a lot of samples on the table, even some on the floor, Gussie said. What kind of person throws samples on the floor? Heathens?
Annie’s phone pinged in her purse.
“Definitely heathens,” she agreed. She pulled out her phone. It was a text from Rafe. She didn’t want a present for Valentine’s Day. No baubles. No flowers. No cards. All she wanted was to hang out with a normal guy and enjoy something tasty like calamari and Cabernet and kissing.
Raphael: Sorry, Annie. An emergency. I’m going to be late.
Annie: U OK?
Raphael: I’m fine. Unexpected work. Not the good kind.
Annie: Ugh. Anything I can do?
Raphael: Call the restaurant and tell them we have to cancel.
Annie: I hate doing that to them last minute.
Raphael: You’re right. Apologize profusely—blame me. Order takeout. Tip the waiter.
Annie: Got it. What do you want?
Raphael: A normal Valentine’s Day for a change.
Raphael: Not interviewing some dead guy’s girlfriend.
Oh no. Oh crap. Annie glanced around at the crime scene. It couldn’t be….