Chapter 2 #3
Once Arthur had shown Hailey to her room—which she deemed utterly adorable, like, so going in her Instagram story—he made his way to the kitchen, where Sal had set up an impromptu art studio, replete with an easel, scrapbooking station, and more glitter glue than Arthur was aware they owned.
Sal had completed several posters already with varying levels of legibility.
Arthur was going to have to implement a full glitter-decontamination protocol after this.
He was already itching to get out the vacuum attachments.
“Ah, there you are!” Sal exclaimed, gesturing to the table full of posters. “What do you think?”
Sal had printed off pictures of Rumble with the usual Missing: Cash Reward beneath, but he’d also added Will Consider Giving the Gift of Eternal Undeath to Anyone Who Returns Our Precious Daughter to Us, which Arthur hoped was a joke.
The last thing they needed was someone alerting the FPI—Federal Paranormal Investigators—to their presence…
again. The feds hadn’t ended up stepping in with the mayor’s case, since Arthur had solved it before they could arrive on the scene, but he still didn’t want to tempt fate in that regard.
They wouldn’t be so lucky twice, surely.
“You’ve got to stand out in today’s fast-paced world of Missing Pet posters,” Sal explained without prompting as Arthur examined his work. Around the text, Sal was adding glittery paw prints and hearts.
“Would you really turn someone who found Rumble?” Arthur asked.
“If they want the curse, sure. I’m offering any incentives I can.”
“At this rate, it’ll take you too long to decorate each one.” Arthur sighed wearily and slid into a chair beside Sal. “Pass me the glitter.”
Sal stared at him, eyes wide and shining. “Really? But you always say it’s too much, and that understated is better, and—”
“You’re right, we’ve got to make sure the posters stand out,” Arthur said solemnly as he accepted the neon blue glitter pen. “And when it comes to standing out, I’ll concede that you are the expert.”
“That I am!” Sal booped Arthur on the nose with the end of his glitter pen (red), undoubtedly leaving a mark, before getting back to work with renewed vigor.
Arthur had only sparklefied (Sal’s word) his third poster when Sal’s cellular phone rang. Sal fumbled his bottle of glue in his haste to pull his phone out of his pocket, but Arthur managed to catch it before it landed in the decorative floral centerpiece of the table.
“Did you find her?” Sal asked breathlessly into the phone—though he didn’t need to breathe anyway.
The phone wasn’t on speaker, and it was still daytime, so Arthur’s hearing was only as good as the average human’s, but he could hear Lore’s voice on the other end. Her words were garbled, but Sal’s face fell into a deep frown, indicating that perhaps, no, Lore hadn’t found Rumble.
Arthur started to ask what was going on, but a sharp knock came from the front door.
He pushed back his chair and got up to answer it.
Before he could even reach the lobby, the front door swung open hard enough to bang it against the doorstop.
Perhaps a guest had returned, and they didn’t seem too happy.
He rushed forward, ready to turn on the customer service charm, but there was no need.
The man standing in the doorway wasn’t a guest, but he was familiar all the same, with his frosted tips, orange summer spray tan, and stiff brown uniform.
It was Sheriff Patrick McMartin, the inept cop who’d suspected Sal and Arthur of murder only two months ago, refusing to look at any evidence to the contrary until the real murderer was quite literally right in front of him, confessing.
Despite it all, McMartin had never actually been inside the Dead & Breakfast before.
Arthur couldn’t help but feel this was a very bad sign.
“Arthur Miller,” the sheriff growled by way of greeting.
“Sheriff!” Arthur masked his disdain only slightly better than his visitor. “Hope you’ll excuse me if I don’t say it’s good to see you.”
“I want to be here as much as you want me to be.” The sheriff paused, as if uncertain that what he’d said had actually made sense.
“Wonderful news, darling,” Sal crowed from the kitchen, his voice carrying to fill the silence.
“Did they find Rumble?” Arthur asked, wondering if that was why the sheriff had come to call. There was no sign of the cat in the windows of McMartin’s green Mustang, though. Light glinted off something the sheriff was holding, and Arthur spied the unsettling steel wink of handcuffs in his hands.
“No, but the second-best thing. That horrible pet psychic got what was coming to her!” Sal said as he came to join them in the lobby, a blinding grin on his face. “She’s dead!”
Arthur grimaced and rubbed his eyes. Not again…Please, no. But no amount of silent wishing would change what Arthur knew was about to happen.
“Well, that makes this a mite easier,” McMartin said, clinking the handcuffs rhythmically. “Salvatore Conte, I’m here to arrest you for murder. Again.”