The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (13 page)

Lydia was tapping her foot and Syrah found this interesting enough to paw at her boot. Lydia was too wound up to notice, but she might end up with a few scratches in the leather. I glanced around, wondering where the
other two cats were hiding. They were nowhere in sight—and I didn’t blame them.

“
I’m
calling it a crime scene,” she said. “That’s why I need to be involved. Did I see any yellow tape? No. Were there folks gathered around the fence wondering what was going on? Yes. Could bringing in those stupid cat contraptions destroy evidence? Yes.”

“Those
stupid contraptions
will save cats’ lives,” I said.

“Who cares about that?” She finally looked down and noticed Syrah, who had indeed left a long scratch on her boot. She bent and waved a hand at Syrah, saying, “Look what you’ve done. Get away right now.”

He didn’t budge.

“Jillian, control your animal,” she said. “It’s the least you can do.”

And then I saw her—Boots—sitting on Lydia’s right side. She blinked as if she’d just awoken from a nap. Ghost cats napped? I supposed all cats needed their beauty rest, whether they were alive or dead.

Lydia said, “Jillian.
Your cat?
”

But by the time she spoke, Tom had picked Syrah up and held him close. He said, “I have no say in how Mike wants to handle the mill problem. You’ve wasted your time coming here, Lydia.”

“I will
not
take no for an answer. You go over there and you tell him to let me in there and see what they’re doing.” She stomped her foot and said, “Right now.”

I realized why Tom had picked up my cat. But Boots seemed unperturbed by the temper tantrum.

Tom shook his head, stroking Syrah, whom I could hear growling from where I stood, a good five feet away.

My cat wanted Lydia gone more than I did.

“Sorry,” Tom said. “Maybe you can get your boss involved. You know—the coroner you report to? The one who just got re-elected?”

“He’s more political than Mike Baca and you know
it.” She sounded disgusted. “He’ll side with Mercy PD. And here I thought we had something special enough that you’d do this
one
favor for me.” Lydia waved a hand at me. “Maybe if your stalker here wasn’t in the room, you’d see things my way.”

The tips of Tom’s ears reddened. “Lydia, you say one more negative thing about Jillian and I will throw you out of here.”

I wanted to smile. In the past, Tom’s approach to Lydia’s ridiculous fantasy concerning her supposed relationship with him was to ignore her behavior—in hopes she’d give up one day. He’d always found the whole delusion funny. But there was nothing in his demeanor right now that indicated he was amused.

Meanwhile, Boots was sniffing Lydia’s feet and then suddenly backed up and hissed. She looked up at Lydia and hissed again. Cats are such excellent judges of character.

After Lydia left in a dissatisfied huff, Tom waited awhile before he took off, concerned she might return. Not that I needed his protection from Lydia. She was harmless. But his concern felt like a warm shawl around my shoulders. I liked it.

I spent the next few hours catching up on the few online orders I’d received after Christmas. My customers would choose one of the designs on my Web site or send in their own ideas for what they’d like for their kitties. Today was a machine-piecing day with batik fabrics in earth tones for one small quilt and a black, white and red design for the second.

The cats surrounded me in the quilting room. Chablis took a spot in the easy chair while Merlot spread his long body over a stack of new fabrics. Syrah and, yes, Boots, sat on either side of the sewing table, staring at each other. For some reason, now that I could see her, Boots was a comforting presence. But she belonged to Jeannie, who probably needed her desperately right now. Why had she chosen to haunt me during this time?

I planned a visit to the hospital later today and I sure hoped Little Miss Ghost Cat would come along. It was not as though I could just pick her up and put her in my van.

I’d just started piecing the second quilt when I heard a loud rapping and realized someone was at the back door. I hurried to answer, a crew of cats on my heels. Then suddenly, Boots and Syrah raced ahead of me.

Candace said, “Took you long enough,” when I opened the door. She came into the mudroom and stopped to pet each cat on the head before walking into the kitchen. “I hope you have tea made.”

I opened the fridge and took out a half-full pitcher, saying, “You look like you’ve been working in a coal mine.”

“I know.” She swiped her forehead with the back of her hand but didn’t come close to erasing the smears of gray soot on her face. “They had to get this special concrete saw—heavy son of a gun. This fireman who knows how to work the contraption came from Woodcrest and cut a big enough space through those bricks and cement that we were able to carefully remove the rest of the skeleton. Thank goodness he knew what he was doing and didn’t send the whole debris tower crashing down.”

“I guess that’s good news,” I said, pouring a glass of tea for Candace.

My cell rang and I pulled it from my jeans pocket and answered.

“This is Harry Williams from the Upstate Homeless Partnership,” the man said.

“Oh, hello! Thank you so much for calling me back. I was hoping to hear from you,” I said. “I’m in Mercy and we have a problem we hope you can help us with.”

“That’s what the Partnership is about. What can we do for you?”

I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and spoke to Candace. “This is about help for Jeannie, so I need to take this.”

“And I need to make more tea. Go ahead.” She walked to the fridge to find the cane syrup I’d made up. Homemade cane syrup made the best sweet tea.

I put the phone back to my ear and walked into the living room. The cats stayed behind to see what Candace was up to. Perhaps something that involved treats or toys.

“Let me explain the situation, Mr. Williams.” I went on to tell him about Jeannie and how she was currently in the hospital with a broken hip.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “we have no ability to care for medically compromised homeless folks. But when Miss Sloan has recovered from her injury, I hope you’ll call me back and we can set up an evaluation. When we find out exactly what skills she might have, we can find a work-training program and a home that will suit her.”

“I’m disappointed, but I surely understand. Jeannie once worked in the Lorraine Stanley Textile Mill, so she probably has abilities that I know nothing about. You’ll be hearing from me again,” I said. “And thanks again for calling.”

I disconnected, feeling a little deflated. But I truly did understand. Jeannie would need continuing medical supervision and rehab once she was released from the hospital. I decided I would call the hospital and see when would be a good time to visit. But a nurse’s aide answered the phone in her room. We did a little verbal dance as she said she wasn’t supposed to tell me anything, but she finally told me that Jeannie was out of her room because she needed
something
taken care of
. I took that to mean she’d gone to surgery. The aide did tell me that Miss Sloan would probably be back in her room this evening.

I went to the kitchen where Candace had just finished
making a fresh pitcher of tea. She said, “You look like you just lost a cat. What’s wrong?”

I sighed. “Poor Jeannie went into surgery without anyone there to hold her hand and tell her everything would be all right. I feel terrible.”

“You can be there when she wakes up, though,” Candace said. “And that works out fine, considering the reason I came over.”

“So it wasn’t just for my wonderful tea?” I said with a smile.

“Well, that’s always a reason to come over.” She pulled a small clear bag from her uniform pocket. I recognized the yellow evidence tape that sealed it. Candace held up the bag, which contained a tarnished small ring with a dirt-encrusted purple stone. “We found this next to the skeleton. Think we can head to the hospital later and ask Jeannie if she recognizes it?”

“Today?” I said. “The woman is in surgery. She’ll be in pain and drugged and afraid when she gets back to her room. If this ring does belong to her daughter…well, can you imagine how she’ll feel?” Sometimes the cases Candace worked consumed her so much that she forgot to consider the emotional impact on the people who were touched by the crimes.

Candace’s features softened. “You’re right, of course. Sorry. I’d just like to identify this victim as quickly as possible and get on with the business of finding a killer. See, she was murdered.”

“How can you tell? I thought all you had was a skeleton,” I said.

“The professor was able to give us plenty of information once she looked at the bones,” Candace said. “Of course, those are preliminary findings that she’ll have to confirm once she examines the skeleton in her laboratory.”

“The ring is definitely small and feminine. But did she find a bullet hole? Or a fractured skull?” I said.

“Crushed hyoid bone.” Candace touched her throat. “From manual strangulation.”

I closed my eyes. “That’s a horrible way to die. What else did the professor tell you?”

“Female, probably late teens,” she answered. “Professor Maddison knew this because certain bones weren’t fused. And from the shape of the skull and the dentition, she believes it was a white girl. This all fits the description of Jeannie’s lost daughter.”

I tried to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat—but it stayed there, perhaps to remind me that I was lucky enough to be alive. “I suppose it does. How sad. Jeannie camped out a few feet away from her dead daughter.”

“You know me,” Candace said. “I don’t believe in coincidence. I’m willing to bet Jeannie knew exactly where her daughter was—maybe because she put her there.” She swallowed what was left of her tea and put her glass in the dishwasher. “I need to wash my face. Got any less-than-your-best towels?”

“Um, sure,” I said, concerned about Candace’s assumption that Jeannie killed her own daughter.

After I handed Candace a washcloth and towel from the linen closet, she closed the door to the powder room and I heard her give a little screech and say, “My gosh, I look like a hobo.”

I would have smiled if Candace hadn’t just voiced her renewed suspicions about Jeannie. Coincidence or not, I was certain the woman hadn’t hurt her daughter. There was so much we didn’t know about Jeannie and Kay Ellen, so much we needed to learn before deciding Jeannie stuffed her daughter’s body in a fireplace. While Candace followed the evidence, I promised myself I would
learn more about both of them. In the meantime, I felt a strong need to protect the woman, at least for today—starting with that ring.

I had an idea, so when Candace came back into the kitchen, all fresh-faced with her blond hair pulled back neatly again, I said, “I know a person other than Jeannie who might recognize that ring.”

Dusk muted the landscape as I drove behind Candace’s patrol car back to the mill village. At least she was more careful driving the town’s vehicle than when driving her own car. We first stopped at the mill so Candace could let the chief know she and I planned to get help with the identification from someone other than Jeannie.

The lack of crime scene tape that normally would have surrounded the area had apparently fooled no one in the Mercy grapevine. Plenty of gawkers had gathered outside the fence. In the mill village houses in the surrounding area, faces peeked from behind curtains and the children playing in their yards couldn’t seem to keep their curious gazes off the crowd.

Apparently the investors decided they weren’t leaving until they knew what was going on because Lucas Bartlett came up to Candace the minute she slid from behind the wheel. I actually took him in for the first time—things had been too crazy earlier for me to even pay much attention to those who were here only about money. Now I noted he was maybe late forties with graying temples and deeply creased worry lines on his forehead. Someone had made a coffee run at some point, because he held a Belle’s Beans coffee. Steam swirled out of the drink opening.

“What is going on inside that mill, Deputy Carson?” he said. “No one will tell us anything.”

“All in good time, Mr. Bartlett,” Candace said, scanning the surrounding area for the chief.

“My investment group and I have money we’re willing to spend to help this town get out of debt.” He gestured pointedly with the hand holding the coffee. “Shouldn’t that mean you’d have the courtesy to keep us informed?”

Candace, seemingly distracted by her hunt to find Mike Baca among the sea of faces, said, “I suggest you talk to Penelope Webber. We’ll be funneling information through her.”

His cheeks, burnished by the sharp winter wind, seemed to grow brighter. “Penelope Webber seems to have better things to do than hang around here. Should I send my fellow investors home? Or are we going to be able to talk to that engineer—or at least speak with the police chief about a new timeline? I am assuming whatever has happened will seriously disrupt the timeline as far as a vote on whose proposal wins.”

I pulled my jacket more tightly around me. When Candace didn’t answer—she was still hunting for Mike, I assumed—I said, “Mr. Bartlett, I can’t speak for Ms. Webber, but I do have her phone number. Would you like me to give it to you so you can call her?”

He sighed, seemingly frustrated. “Don’t you think I’ve called her a dozen times already? And who are you, anyway, to be so involved in all this? You make cat quilts, last I heard.” He sounded angry—but then I knew there was fierce competition for this mill property and venting at me was about the only option he had right now.

“I’m simply a volunteer helping Shawn Cuddahee with the feral cats,” I said evenly.

Candace must have spotted the chief, because she left
without a word, making a beeline into the center of that cluster of onlookers.

Bartlett rolled his eyes at the sky. “Where is she going? Why can’t I get answers?”

In a quiet and I hoped soothing voice I said, “This must be upsetting. I guess you were told to come out here today and a circus broke out. Is that why you’re here—because Penelope or someone—”