The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (15 page)

“Could you stop at Penelope’s house?” Candace asked. “Maybe she wants to duck these big problems, but as the lead councilwoman, she should be here. I figure you’d know how to ask the woman to come and do her job in a polite way. I’m really running short on polite talk after my chat with Morris—who told me the high school kids he’d interviewed said Kay Ellen probably wanted to get away from her mother and claimed they hardly knew the girl, anyway. He confirmed his theory she was a runaway, which is not good police work, I’m sorry to say.”

“I don’t know Penelope all that well, Candace, and I’m not sure about how to ask her what she’s been doing all day. I mean, what’s the nice version of, ‘Where have you been while all heck has been breaking out over at the mill’?”

“You’ll think of something. She lives at 116 Grace Street. On the hill. Big house with gables. You can’t miss it.” She disconnected.

She was the second person to hang up on me in the last hour. I took a nice deep breath. Candace had a lot on her plate and she was my best friend. I would cut her all the slack she needed—because she would do the same for me.

You can do this,
I told myself as I made a U-turn on the deserted highway leading to the mill. Back to town I went, practicing what I would say to Penelope Webber all the way. I finally settled on,
Ms. Webber, we’re wondering if your phone isn’t charged, because Chief Baca and Deputy Carson have been trying to reach you and the calls go straight to voice mail
. No need to mention Lucas Bartlett or Ward Stanley or the crowd of people still waiting outside that mill, I’d decided as I pulled into her driveway.

I opened my car door and hesitated. The two-story white house with its black shutters stood in unwelcoming silence in the gloom of this late-winter evening. The birds were all settled in for the night, so there were no happy chirps—and no lights on inside the house.

No sign anyone’s home,
I thought as I slid from behind the wheel. I wondered then about family. Did she have any? But perhaps she lived alone in this giant house. This inner dialogue only confirmed that I knew next to nothing about this person I was about to confront.

More questions ran through my mind as I walked toward the front door, but when I realized Boots was prancing ahead of me, her white-tipped tail curled in the air, I had to shake my head, bewildered at why this was happening to me. Was I destined to have a ghost cat follow me everywhere from now on? I climbed four steps up to etched glass double doors. Beside each door was a
Greek-style urn with green leafy plants that seemed to be thriving even in this chilly winter. I didn’t recognize the leaves, but then, I’m no gardener. The doors were beautiful, surely custom made, but why would anyone have doors where you could practically see straight into the house?

I pressed the doorbell and heard the lovely chimes ring inside. As I waited, I stared down at Boots. I wanted to ask her why she was tagging along everywhere now, but of course not only was she a cat; she wasn’t even…
real
.

I tried the bell one more time after about twenty seconds passed with no response. Nothing again.

The glass doors were too hard to resist. I mean, if I pressed an eye between some of the beautiful etched scrolls, I might be able to see inside. I remembered Tom’s visit here yesterday. Had it been to improve security? He was supposed to work with her phone and add the apps so she could watch her house while she was away. That might have involved adding more cameras. I had noticed two, mounted above to my right and left. If I pressed my face against this door, would an alarm go off?

But would that be the worst thing in the world?
I asked myself. Tom would be alerted immediately by an alarm and that might be exactly what I needed.

Go for it, Jillian
.

I still felt guilty about peeking inside a relative stranger’s home. I glanced behind me to make sure no neighbors were watching—though they’d need binoculars since the nearest house was half a block away.

I cupped my hands on either side of my eyes and peered through a space where the glass was clear.

And immediately stepped back, whispering, “Oh my goodness. Oh no.”

A hallway light must have been on because, though the living room ahead of me was unlit, I could still see
feet—feet shod in expensive-looking gray heels. The shoes looked like the pair Penelope was wearing earlier. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Mercy PD. A 9-1-1 call would pull resources away from the mill—and perhaps create chaos. For all I knew, the woman could be a diabetic and passed out from low blood sugar. B.J. answered my call immediately.

“B.J., this is Jillian,” I said, sounding as if I’d just taken speed or something. “I’m outside Penelope Webber’s front door and it looks like she’s fallen, maybe hurt herself, could be unconscious—I don’t know. Can you call for paramedics?”

“Sure. The address?”

After I gave it to him, he said, “I’m dispatching to them right now on the computer. Is there any sign of foul play? Broken windows or locks or—never mind. I’ll send someone, but if the door’s not open—you tried the door, right?”

“No. Should I?” I truly didn’t want to. I had a bad feeling about this and so did Boots. She was crouched where the double doors met, seemingly sniffing the air coming from inside the house for clues.

“Maybe you can help her,” B.J. said. “Everyone is so tied up with all that business at the mill. Just try the door. I’ll stay on the line.”

Thinking how Candace would handle this, I said, “I’m putting you on speaker.” After I did, I set the phone on the concrete porch, pulled my leather gloves from my jacket pocket and put them on. If there was even a hint of foul play, Candace would expect me to not leave my fingerprints. I pressed down on the curving latch-style handle and the door cracked open. “It’s open, B.J. I’m going in,” I said as I picked up my phone.

“Paramedics are a few minutes out,” he answered. “Tell me what’s wrong with her so I can relay any information to them on their computer.”

Boots hurried in ahead of me and made a beeline for Penelope Webber. I took a more cautious approach, my heart thumping against my ribs.

“Ms. Webber,” I called to the prone figure. Her upper body was blocked from view by a white leather sectional sofa. “Are you okay?”

Dumb question,
I thought. Nothing was okay about any of this. Not her on the floor. Not me being inside her house. Not a ghost cat rushing to Penelope Webber’s side.

“Jillian?” B.J.’s voice came out of my phone and startled me. “Can you tell what’s wrong with her?”

I was staring down at Penelope Webber, lying in the murky room. Staring at the blood blossoming like a giant red poppy on her white blouse. Staring at the splatters of blood marring the white leather sofa. A large pool of almost-black blood beneath her neck had soaked into a white looped carpet.

“Everything’s wrong, B.J.,” I said in a shaky voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Her eyes are wide open. And there’s blood. So much blood.” My voice seemed as if it belonged to someone else. But the words were mine. This was indeed real and so horrible. “I can’t help her. No one can.”

The sound of a siren jarred me and at the same time brought a sense of relief. Even though this poor woman was dead, she would be taken care of by the paramedics and then by others trained to deal with violent death.

B.J. said, “Get out of the house, Jillian. Don’t disturb anything.”

“Yes. I’m leaving this instant,” I said.

But before I left, I noticed a familiar object lying on that spattered carpet.

It was an old, and probably very sharp, heddle hook, the kind they would have used at the mill. And it was covered in blood.

When paramedics Marcy and Jake arrived, I quickly told them what I’d found and then they rushed inside the house. Unlike me, they flicked on lights and I stood on the now-illuminated porch for a few seconds. But I was so cold. So chilled, inside and out. I went to my van and got behind the wheel, started the engine and hoped the heater would warm up faster than it usually did.

I still had my gloves on but had to pull one off to tap the cat cam icon on my phone. I needed to see my friends at home. Needed to see peace and beauty and familiarity—and erase the images in my head of poor Penelope Webber. My cats still slept and I wanted to hold one, feel soft fur against my cheek. That was when I felt the pressure on my lap, the warmth I so needed right now. Boots was a mind reader, too, it would seem. Her presence was not as comforting as one of my own fur friends, but it was enough for now.

It took only another minute before Marcy and Jake came out of the house. They looked stoic and Jake was talking on the phone. As Marcy took her unneeded emergency bag to the ambulance parked behind my van, she passed my window and shook her head when our eyes met. We shared a look of despair. There was nothing to be done to help here. Nothing.

I waited for the interview I knew would come after the police arrived. And oh dear—after Lydia showed up. She wouldn’t be shut out of
this
case.

Candace and Morris drove up fifteen minutes later. They didn’t come with sirens blaring, but they did draw their weapons before entering the house. I’d not thought about a killer still hiding in the house or anywhere nearby. I had no clue why I hadn’t considered this except that my mind didn’t work like a cop’s. I didn’t believe danger lurked around every corner. Jake and Marcy hadn’t come rushing out of the house, so maybe they’d checked for intruders.

Candace came out of the house after a few minutes and walked over to my van. I rolled down the window.

“Sorry we took so long getting here,” she said. “Had to get help from the sheriff’s department to take over guarding the mill. Given half a chance, I believe all those gawkers would have stormed that place for a look at what we were doing. You’d have thought we had King Tut hidden in there.”

Her joke was meant to soothe me. Candace could read me well and probably knew I was hanging on to my composure like a baby clings to a precious piece of an old blanket. I forced a smile. “It’s an awful scene in there.”

She gave a curt nod. “Tell me everything, from the minute you arrived.” She had her little notebook ready.

I explained what happened, about calling B.J. and walking inside, and then said, “But that heddle hook creeped me out. Do you think someone took that from the mill?”

“Heddle hook? Is that the funny-looking tool with the wooden handle next to the body?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Weavers use them for threading or even to reach in and grab loose threads on the looms. That one I saw is a long version—for a large loom.”

“I thought it was some kind of weird ice pick with a hook on the end,” she said. “Thanks. You’ve just given us our first lead.”

She went to her patrol car then and grabbed her evidence kit. She paused at the front door and put paper booties over her shoes and disappeared inside the house.

I couldn’t leave. The ambulance had pulled out and was parked on the street, but now the Mercy PD patrol car blocked me in.

That realization—that I couldn’t drive away—made panic take hold of me.
No. No. I have to get away from here
. I picked up my phone and called Tom.

“Please. Can you come and get me?” I said when he answered.

“Sure, but you sound like you can’t catch your breath. What’s wrong?”

I explained in a brief and halting dialogue what had happened and ended with, “I can’t sit here thinking about what I just saw.
I can’t
.”

“Take a deep breath. Take twelve of them. I’m on my way,” he said.

He made it to Penelope Webber’s house before Lydia arrived, thank goodness. As we drove away from the murder scene in Tom’s Prius, we passed my stepdaughter, Kara, speeding toward the Webber house. This was the second time today we’d passed and exchanged brief waves. She’d obviously heard about the murder, which meant that perhaps the crowd at the mill would soon shift its focus to this once-quiet street.

I called Candace as we drove to my house and she answered with a tense, “Yes?”

I told her Tom had picked me up and if she had more questions, we’d be at my place.

She said, “Sorry I left you outside. I was still upset with B.J. for telling you to go into the house, but I can’t blame him. He’s still learning. He should know Marcy
and Jake would have arrived within five minutes. There’s just way too much going on in this little town with only a half dozen cops to handle everything. I’ll be in touch.”

As soon as I hung up, I thunked my head with the heel of my hand. “Turn around, Tom.”

He looked over at me. “No way. I’m getting you away from that place. You look exhausted and should go home.”

“I was supposed to take cat food to the mill. But it’s all in my van and—”

“We’ll stop and buy every bag of cat food they have at the Pig,” he said.

The Pig was what the locals called the Piggly Wiggly.

I said, “But there’s no one to let us inside the mill and Allison told me where I was supposed to put the food inside the feral shelters and—”

Tom rested his right hand on my knee. “It’s all right, Jilly. Shawn is probably free now. I’ll call him and take care of this once I get you home.”

I wanted to protest—but then…I didn’t, not really. I prided myself on being strong and independent, but right now it felt okay that Tom was taking care of what I’d forgotten to do. “Good idea,” I said quietly.
Good idea, indeed
.

*   *   *

After we returned home, Tom phoned Shawn about the cat food problem and they worked out a solution. Then he called for a pizza delivery and I had to admit it was the best pizza I could remember eating in a long time. As soon as I’d finished my third piece, I felt my brain begin to clear. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten.

The cats sniffed around as we ate, but only Merlot decided to try a little bit of cheese. Chablis wanted to sleep and Syrah was, well,
preoccupied
with the invisible visitor.

As we sat on the couch enjoying the decaf Tom made,
he noticed Syrah acting as if he was stalking a bug or mouse and said, “Seen any rodents or spiders lately? Syrah sure does seem interested in that far corner.”