Bethany gasped and took a step back. “Affair? You couldn’t possibly think…”
“What else am I supposed to think?” I demanded, actually wishing she’d offer up another answer. I’d been quite happy working for Fulton, Thompson, and Associates until this recent turn of events. I’d never be able to look at Fulton or Bethany the same ever again, not without picturing that awful purple bra, his hand at her back and—oh, yeah—the murder of a sweet, old lady who definitely didn’t deserve it.
Bethany frowned and shook her head. “I thought you knew me better than that by now, Angie.” It almost looked like she might cry. Who was this frail woman before me, and why was she suddenly so different than the office shark who would sink her teeth into anyone to get ahead?
“I hardly know you at all. And I guess I don’t know Mr. Fulton very well, either.” I laughed bitterly. “You know, you guys did a great job hiding it. I actually had no idea until I came in early and found you two alone in the office. Then there was that bra—”
“A bra?” Bethany asked aloud, then mumbled something to herself that I couldn’t quite make out. Maybe now that she knew she’d been caught, she’d finally start telling me the truth here.
I crossed my arms, narrowing my gaze at her. “Yeah, your bra.”
“Wow.” She stared at me, unblinking. “Just wow.”
“You honestly thought no one would ever find out? Just because I’m a paralegal doesn’t make me any less intelligent than all you know-it-all lawyers.” All my grievances were coming out now, all the things I’d kept to myself over the months in the name of creating a positive workplace environment. The way Bethany just stared at me with something that resembled hurt in her eyes was quite unsettling, though. I’d almost rather be dealing with Brad and his obnoxious come-ons right now.
Bethany kicked at the pavement in frustration. When her eyes snapped back up to mine, they were cold and unyielding. “Yes, and just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you’re not being terribly sexist right now, either. It’s one thing for me to get this from the guys, but from you? I expected more of you, Angie.”
“Oh, don’t give me that whole ‘I’m not angry, I’m disappointed’ spiel. I heard it from my nan a million times growing up. And don’t go placing the blame on me when you’re the one sneaking around with a married man—who just so happens to also be our boss.”
She widened her stance as if bracing for impact, then enunciated each word as she insisted, “I am not having an affair with Mr. Fulton.”
“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “You two looked mighty cozy in there.”
She glanced over her shoulder demurely. “That’s different.”
“Yeah, right.” I smirked and gave her a sarcastic thumbs up. I wasn’t normally such a confrontational person, but for some reason, Bethany just got under my skin, especially today at the viewing when emotions already ran high.
“It is,” she insisted through gritted teeth. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” I yelled. There was nothing I hated more than being condescended to—well, except maybe murder and adultery.
“No, you don’t,” she shouted back, then dropped her voice several notches. “And you’re starting to make a scene.”
What Bethany didn’t understand is that I’d never been bothered about making a scene. I was raised by a retired stage actress, for crying out loud! As far as we were concerned, making a scene was a good thing just so long as it didn’t get us into trouble.
I could tell Bethany was getting ready to put an end to our exchange, so I finally decided to ask the million-dollar question. “Hey, you’re the one who stopped me from leaving. But, okay, tell me this: if you’re not having an affair, then what are the two of you doing?”
She wrapped both arms around her own waist and looked toward the ground as she murmured, “I can’t tell you that. At least not yet.”
“How convenient,” I muttered while shaking my head.
When Bethany didn’t say anything else, I charged the rest of the way across the lot and tossed my bag onto the passenger seat of my car, forgetting momentarily that Octo-Cat was stowed away inside. Oops.
“Do you mind?” he shouted after making the same terrible sound he most often uses to wake me up in the mornings. “Some of us are trying to avoid losing lives unnecessarily here.”
Despite his irritation, he seemed to be okay.
But me? I was so angry that my hands shook and turned bright red. I needed a moment to re-center myself, but Octo-Cat did not like being ignored.
“Uh, hello, I’m talking here!” he shouted, taking a swipe at my arm with claws extended, which made me angrier still.
“Don’t you ever shut up?” I yelled back at him.
“Wow, who pooped in your party?”
“That’s not the expression,” I said, still seething from the confrontation with Bethany. I just wanted to get home, but I didn’t trust myself to drive safely yet.
My tabby nuisance put his two front paws on my leg and began to knead the muscle as he spoke. “It fits, though. Now you’re the one who dragged me into this, you can at least include me. What was that back there?”
“Me? Dragging you? Yeah, that’s not how I remember it.”
“Semantics.” He waved a paw dismissively and sat back down on his seat. “Who started this isn’t what’s important. What I want to know is why you got so hung up on a human that wasn’t even there that night. Don’t you care about finding Ethel’s murderer?”
Suddenly, all the fight drained out of me as if Octo-Cat had twisted a spigot. No matter how scandalized I felt about the affair, Octo-Cat, no doubt, felt far worse. He’d lost someone important to him, and here I was making a circus out of her viewing.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, feeling like the worst friend in the world.
“Hey, it’s okay. Humans get emotional sometimes.” He licked at his paw idly, then added, “Okay, a lot of times. But we can work through this.”
His words were oddly comforting and just what I needed.
“Okay,” I said, letting out a slow, shaky breath. “Okay.”
Octo-Cat nodded. “We need to go back in,” he informed me. “We still haven’t found everyone who was there that night.”
“I think I already know who killed Ethel,” I confessed. “All signs point to Mr. Fulton.”
“The man. My boss,” I clarified when I noticed he still looked confused.
As it turned out, what my kitty companion said next shocked me with its wisdom and depth.
“Look,” he said. “He could very well be the one, but we can’t know for sure until we rule the others out. It’s like how sometimes you might think that the chicken pâté is your favorite flavor of Fancy Feast, but then the next day you have the salmon and shrimp blend and it tastes even better than the chicken. When you think about it some more, you may have just been extra hungry before which made the inferior flavor of the chicken seem extra delicious, or you mistakenly thought chicken was best only because you hadn’t tried all the other wonderful flavors yet. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Strangely, I did. “That Mr. Fulton could be our salmon and shrimp blend, or he could simply be chicken pâté, but we won’t know until we’ve finished our meal?”
“Exactly.” He seemed to glow with pride, but maybe that was just his eyes glinting in the waning sunlight. “This meal’s only just getting started, so make sure you save some space in that belly of yours.”
“Thanks, Octo-Cat. I needed that.”
“And I may need you to swing by the store after this and grab some chicken pâté. I know, I know. I usually don’t eat the poultry flavors, but suddenly I find myself with a craving.”
I scratched him between the ears. “You’re a good cat.”