A Purrfect Alibi

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It’s not every day that the guesthouse you own is filled with tarot readers, crystal-ball gazers and psychic mediums, so one needs to take advantage of that when it happens. Which is how I found myself seated at a small antique mahogany table in the parlor across from Madame Zenda, who was laying out a row of colorful tarot cards.

“That’s a lovely card, look at those reds and the blues!” Millie Sullivan, my mother’s best friend and the woman I had bought the Oyster Cove Guesthouse from, leaned over my shoulder and pointed at a card that depicted a dashing knight on a horse waving a sword. Millie had sold me the old mansion, which was badly in need of repairs, because she wanted to retire. To “get out and do things”. Things that, so far, mostly consisted of getting into trouble alongside my mother. But the truth was, since I’d taken ownership, it seemed as if they’d both been here more than when Millie had owned the place.

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