The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (25 page)

“But if you ever need help—”

She held up her hand. “Same goes for you. We’re family and we’ll always help each other.”

“You’ve offered a fitting segue,” I said. “I could use your help—but not with money issues. It concerns this cold case, the one you agreed not to write about yet. At least I think it’s about the cold case. I’m not sure.”

Kara turned a little more in my direction after grabbing a lap quilt from the shelf under the coffee table. She spread it over her knees. “Oh, good. Tell me.” Her brown eyes sparkled with interest.

By the time the pizza arrived, I’d pretty much caught her up to speed on everything that had happened in the last few days. I was hungrier than I thought and when we were both full, only two pieces of pizza remained. Merlot, as usual, ate a bit of cheese, but the other two cats seemed quite disappointed in our supper choice. Chablis would have definitely preferred ice cream.

I wrapped up the remaining pizza slices and put them
in the fridge while Kara made coffee. Usually this time of day I go for decaf, but my stepdaughter never did. She always said, “Go for the real thing—in every aspect of life.”

We settled back into the living room with our mugs of Kona and the cats in their usual spots—Syrah on the top of the sofa behind me, Chablis in my lap and Merlot stretched out between the two of us.

I said, “As I was telling you, Beatrice Stanley wants something from Jeannie—seems desperate to talk to her. Whatever it’s about, I have this gut feeling it has to do with Kay Ellen. I was wondering if you could visit Beatrice and tell her you wanted to do a story about the Stanley legacy now that the mill is making news again.”

Kara considered this, her hands clutching her mug chest high. “You know, that might be a compelling human interest piece. But you have to remember, this is a family that feels humiliated by its circumstances. If I upset her even the tiniest bit, hint that the family would be shown as downtrodden in this article, I’d lose her cooperation.”

“What if I go along and offer to be there while she talks to Jeannie? Do you think that would work?” I said.

“Dangle Jeannie like a carrot, you mean?” Kara said, her surprise evident.

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “See, this woman is determined. I could read it in her eyes. One way or another, she’ll get to Jeannie. I’m thinking it would be far better if we try to control the meeting by making sure I’m present when it happens.”

“I see.” Kara gnawed on a cuticle, obviously thinking about all this. “Okay, but there’s something I want out of this if I give the cold case lots of front-page exposure—which is what you want, right?”

I nodded.

“If I do the Beatrice interview, this boyfriend you mentioned—Earl Whitehouse—has to be part of our deal. I want to talk to him, Jillian. I want to talk to him more than I want to talk to Beatrice Stanley. Whatever his role is in all this, it will sell more papers than anything about the Stanleys because, let’s face it, they’re old news in this town.”

I closed my eyes. Kara was smart and even though we loved each other, business was business. I said, “But I don’t even know if Morris had a chance to interview him yet. We can’t go to him before he gets his shot.”

Kara pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket. “I’ll ask Candace.”

“No,” I said, wanting to snatch the phone from her hand. “She won’t be happy I’ve been talking about this.”

“She’s been unhappy before,” Kara said. “It’s not like everyone in town isn’t discussing why one of the Franklin twins returned to Mercy and was seen talking to the police inside Belle’s Beans.”

I sighed. This wasn’t going as planned and yet I couldn’t blame Kara. At least she’d agreed that finding Kay Ellen’s killer was worthy enough to use her ink and newsprint.

She made the call and I had to get up and walk into the kitchen where I couldn’t hear any strident notes from Candace coming from Kara’s phone. Maybe I’d regret spilling everything I knew to her.

But when Kara was finished talking, she said, “You’re safe, Jillian.”

I walked back into the room, Chablis on my heels and sat back down. “What did she say?”

“She’s cool with me interviewing Whitehouse,” Kara said. “Said Morris got absolutely nowhere with him. The guy stonewalled, said he never knew Kay Ellen Sloan. So now Morris is having to hunt up more kids—now adults, of course—from that high school class and press them
for information. She’s thinking that maybe a visit from the local press will make him reconsider his earlier statement.”

“Ah. So Candace thinks publicity might force Whitehouse to come clean?” I said.

Kara smiled. “Exactly.”

I don’t know how Kara convinced me it was a good idea to visit Beatrice Stanley right away. I guess I told myself that my stepdaughter was correct in her assumption that since the woman showed up at the pastorium today, she probably had the day off. Plus, Kara wanted to do a little research on Earl Whitehouse before she talked to him. “If Mrs. Stanley happens to be working the evening shift tonight, no problem. We’ll catch her tomorrow,” Kara had said while pulling her boots back on.

With help from a little Internet sleuthing, we found her address, and we also discovered her old address in the process. Kara decided to get some perspective for her story—old versus new—by first swinging by the old Stanley mansion not that far from where Penelope Webber had lived and died. We couldn’t get close enough to see the place because not only was it pitch-dark outside, but the mansion’s driveway was fronted by an arching wrought-iron locked gate. The neighborhood was about as upscale as Mercy had to offer. This gave us
both
plenty of perspective when we arrived in front of Mrs. Stanley’s aging duplex, which was literally across the railroad tracks. How many people had lost everything and ended up downsizing to this degree after the economic mess this country had been in? The contrast between where
the Stanleys once lived and this place gave me a clear picture of what they’d lost, that was for sure.

A porch light led us up the walkway to the aging duplex’s “B” unit. Kara knocked with authority.

The door opened almost at once, but it wasn’t Beatrice standing before us, but rather her son, Ward. He wore a flannel shirt with frayed cuffs and looked surprised. But if he’d shown up on my doorstep, I’d have been surprised, too.

“Um, hello, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “And it’s Kara, right? I’ve seen you at several council meetings covering the mill issues for the
Mercy Messenger.
What can I do for you?”

“We came to talk to your mother,” I said. “Is she home?”

He grew wary at the mention of his mother. “My
mother
? What do you want to talk to her about?”

“Is she here?” Kara asked.

“She’s gone to bed. She has to be up by five tomorrow morning for her job.” The muscles in his jaw tightened.

“When does her shift end tomorrow?” Kara asked.

“What’s this about?” he said tersely. “I mean, you’re a reporter. What would a reporter want with my mother?”

“Maybe
you
can help us understand something,” I said with a smile. His features had darkened and I hadn’t come here to upset anyone. “A little publicity for your mill proposal wouldn’t do any harm, right?”

He seemed to ponder this and finally opened the door wider and let us in. “Please keep your voices down.”

The duplex seemed to match Ward Stanley’s appearance: worn out, run-down and shrouded in gloom. A TV in the corner was tuned to a basketball game, the sound muted. He picked up a remote from an end table by the reclining sofa and turned the set off.

Besides the sofa, there was only one other seat—a tapestry wing chair that seemed to be the only pristine
item of furniture in sight. I wondered if it had been rescued from their foreclosure.

Ward said, “Okay, tell me what this is about.”

I sat on one end of the sofa, Ward on the other, leaving the wing chair for Kara. I didn’t bother to take off my jacket, hoping Kara would take this as a cue that we weren’t staying long. I didn’t like the man’s vibe and besides, we hadn’t come here to talk to him.

He spoke to Kara before either of us could ask the question we’d come to ask Beatrice. “Did I hear right?” he said. “Did you indicate you might give the condo proposal a nice boost with a little publicity?”

“Not exactly Jillian’s words,” Kara said. “Do you think the proposal
needs
a boost?”

He laughed. “Can’t hurt. I’m a desperate man.”

I wanted to ask if he was desperate because he’d lost Penelope’s support when she died, but I couldn’t. That question was police business.

“
Desperate
is a strong word, Mr. Stanley,” Kara said. “Why is the mill so important to you?”

“Because we created it. Owned it for generations. It belongs to us,” he said.

“I believe Mercy owns that mill now,” she said. “But tell me more about your interest in reviving it—and why you think residential real estate is the way to go.”

This isn’t why we came here, Kara,
I thought. But she was making our visit seem about a topic he had a keen interest in. Probably a good idea before we asked about Beatrice. And for all I knew, maybe this was exactly the kind of story she wanted to run:
MILL ROOTS RUN DEEP FOR STANLEY FAMILY.

“The answer is simple,” he said. “Real estate is coming back. Textile production will
never
come back. But go ahead. Ask anything you want. It’s my favorite subject.”

He grinned and I realized he’d completely forgotten
we’d come here expecting to talk to his mother. This was all about him and he liked it.

“How do you think Penelope Webber’s murder will affect the town council’s decision on which proposal will win approval?” Kara said.

He leaned back, considering the question. “Terrible thing, her dying. But from what the police are telling me, Penelope must have had a past that involved discord. The woman had no friends and not one person has come to town to mourn her death. I believe her murder had nothing to do with the mill and will not affect any future outcome.”

He made it sound like the woman was a stranger to him—which I knew to be untrue. And he also seemed smug, as if he were already running a multimillion-dollar business. But was it all bravado? Penelope had been helping him get his wish and now she was gone. That had to hurt.
Yes,
I decided.
This attitude is all for show. Bet he’s worried sick about what the town council will decide
.

Kara asked him more questions about his plans for the upscale condos, asking if he’d developed any floor plans—she got very specific.

He seemed happy, excited, but grew guarded when she started asking about his investor group. He said, “They want to stay in the background. I handle all the questions about financing. We
have
the money.”

And one person wants to stay so far in the background, we don’t even have a name—yet,
I thought. I glanced at the hallway where Beatrice lay sound asleep in her bedroom—or so her son said. We came to talk to
her
and my eyes were starting to glaze over now that the interview had turned to a discussion about architectural firms interested in joining the project. Finally, Kara glanced my way and gave me a tiny nod as if indicating now was the time to ask about Ward’s mother.

“How does your mother feel about your plans?” I
glanced around. “By the way, we had no idea you lived here, too.” But from the men’s running shoes on the floor and the collection of baseball caps I could see in the open closet hall door, he
did
live here.

“This is only temporary,” he said quickly. “Once the council votes my project through, I’ll be getting a place of my own. So, what
do
you want with my mother?”

“I ran into her today outside the pastorium in the mill village. She wanted to talk to Jeannie Sloan and—”

“Jeannie Sloan? She doesn’t even live here anymore.” He’d paled. “Does she?”

Oh boy.
I hadn’t anticipated I’d be giving out information he knew nothing about. No going back now. “Your mother seemed to think she was in town.”
Knew
she was. And I’d confirmed as much to Beatrice. She’d tell her son what I’d said sooner or later.

Kara came to my rescue. “If Jeannie is back, why would your mother want to talk to her? Your family and hers didn’t exactly run in the same circles ten years ago.”

“Good question. I don’t know,” he said absently. He glanced at the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Maybe I do need to wake her up.”

I stood. “No. Please don’t. Maybe it’s just something she heard in town. Maybe—”

“Sit down, Mrs. Hart,” he said coldly. “I want to know what you’re holding back. See, I know my mother would never have gone to the mill village—not in a million years—if she didn’t have a good reason, not to mention good information.”

I sighed heavily and sat back down. Since Beatrice Stanley knew about Jeannie’s whereabouts, about her story, then the word was out around town. It was only a matter of time until Ward found out.

I said, “Jeannie Sloan has been living in the mill, hiding out there, since not long after her daughter disappeared.”

“Really?” he said. I wasn’t sure what the look in his eyes meant. Realization? Surprise? Anger? Maybe a combination of emotions. He went on, saying, “She was there because she was homeless? Like we once were? Is that it?”

I’d forgotten to add bitter to the previous list of emotions. “Yes,” I said softly. “Homeless.” I wasn’t about to add a word about Kay Ellen’s skeleton. Beatrice hadn’t mentioned it, so maybe that particular discovery remained a secret to the general public.

He blinked, looked at his hands and seemed to be thinking about this information so long that I grew even more uncomfortable. But Kara was studying the man, fascinated.

Finally he said, “Did my mother give you any idea what she wanted with that woman?”

“Not really,” Kara answered for me. She knew I couldn’t lie, but she’d been a tough investigative reporter once, used to getting answers any way she could. “Do you know what your mother might want with her? Because that’s
why
we came here.”