The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (32 page)

“Not too bad,” I whispered, hoping she’d take the cue and keep her voice down.

But Tom called out a sleepy, “Hi, Candace,” and I turned and saw his hand raised in greeting.

“Hey, Tom.” She looked back at me. “Glad you weren’t alone last night. What an ordeal that lowlife put you through.”

“I don’t know about the two of you,” I said, “but I need coffee. Then you can tell me what happened after I left the station last night.”

Fifteen minutes later we all sat in the living room. After Candace took her first sip of coffee, she said, “He confessed. People would be amazed at how criminals fold when confronted with the evidence. He spilled everything—but then, he’d already admitted most of it to you. He thinks his confession will get him a reduced sentence. It won’t.”

I did a fist pump and said, “Yes. Go, Candace.”

“He’ll be charged with assault on Jillian, too, right?” Tom said.

“He will. He’ll be charged with as much stuff as we can come up with along with the murder charge—multiple counts of breaking and entering, accessory to Kay Ellen’s murder. It’s a long list,” she said.

“Tell me about what you found in the office,” I said.

“Wonder boy Dustin led me to a fortune,” she said. “He told me the small room we found had probably been there for decades—that old buildings often have secret spaces. A small door had been plastered over and painted—probably by the elder Stanley after he hid the bonds and jewels from his wife and son. There may have even been a safe in there at one time, though all we found was a steamer trunk filled with his fortune. We collected this evidence and we don’t yet know the exact worth of what the elder Ward Stanley squirreled away. Of course, once the mill renovation got under way, someone would have found it.”

“Who’ll get the money?” Tom said.

“Beatrice Stanley’s husband died before their divorce was final,” Candace said. “I imagine it will go to her unless we find out she was complicit in either of the murders. Her son swears she knew nothing about any of it.”

“Do you have any indication of her involvement?” Tom asked.

“Not a thing,” she said. “Unless her son turns on her, she’s free and clear. And will be rich again.” Candace looked at me. “We have to go through the tedium of your formal statement. You up for that?”

“Sure. Down at the station?” I asked.

She said, “We can do it here. I brought my trusty notebook and tape recorder.”

Tom stood, his coffee mug in hand. “In that case, since you’ll be with Jillian, I’ll head home to shower.” He came over to where I sat and bent to kiss me gently. “I’ll be back, though, making a pest of myself.”

I laughed and found that laughter did hurt my face a little.

Candace spent an hour taking me through last evening’s events step by step. I found myself trembling at
one point as I relived it. She noticed, stopped and put her hand over my clenched fist. “You did amazing. And look who helped you? Cats, of course.”

I smiled, thinking about Boots. I would always think of her not as a ghost, but rather as my guardian angel from this day on.

When we were finished with the statement, I told her I had to call Jeannie, see if I could come over and break the news to her about who had murdered her daughter.

Elizabeth Truman answered the phone and said I was welcome to come by. Jeannie would be back from her rehab treatment within the next half hour.

After I hung up, Candace said, “Do you want me to go with you?”

“You’re in uniform,” I said. “You know how Jeannie feels about that. Besides, Tom said he’d take me to pick up my van. I’ll ask him to go with me.”

Once Tom arrived, Candace departed after giving me a gentle hug. I told him the plan and after cat treats were dispensed, we were on our way to the mill village one more time. I was grateful for daylight and relieved a certain someone was locked up.

In fact, the morning was turning out to be bright and beautiful, the sun happy to shine on the truths that had been exposed.

Jeannie smiled when Elizabeth showed Tom and me into the parlor. She was sitting with both feet propped on a footstool and the quilt I’d made her across her lap.

Elizabeth said, “If we could make that quilt into a coat or a dress, I swear Jeannie would wear it all day.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Jeannie said, her voice filled with concern.

I said, “Nothing’s wrong. Why do—”

“Your face,” Elizabeth said. “I was wondering what happened, too.”

“A bad man hit me, but he’s in jail now,” I said.

Elizabeth said, “He hit you? I read about the incident in the paper but it didn’t mention you were assaulted. What a terrible man he turned out to be.”

“Jail for him. Good,” Jeannie said.

“I have some correspondence to take care of,” Elizabeth said, “but I can make tea or coffee—”

I raised a hand. “We’re fine. We need to tell Jeannie a few things.”

Elizabeth nodded knowingly. “I understand. But if you need me or the pastor, just ring us over at the church.”

Tom and I sat on the sofa across from Jeannie and I felt butterflies in my stomach. This wouldn’t be easy. Tom sensed my anxiety and took my hand.

“He likes you,” Jeannie said. “That’s good.”

“He does,” I said, smiling at Tom.

And then there she was. Boots had crawled into Jeannie’s lap, ready to be
her
guardian angel again.

“There you are, Bootsie. I been missin’ you.” She stroked the cat and I noticed Boots was translucent, not as fully visible as she’d been last night.

Tom shifted uncomfortably.

Jeannie said, “You don’t see her. Just me and Jillian can.”

I cleared my throat. “Many things have happened in the last week and a lot of them weren’t good. The creepers you’ve been hearing all these years?”

She nodded vigorously. “Yup. Are they in jail, too?”

“Turns out it was only one person,” I said. “Ward Stanley.”

She paled. “But you told me he’s dead. Don’t go tellin’ me I was seein’ more than a ghost cat.”

“His son.
That
Ward Stanley,” I clarified.

Her mouth formed an
O
.

“But that’s not all I have to tell you, and some of this might be difficult to hear,” I said. “But you need to know.”

In a soft, profoundly sad voice, Jeannie said, “I know she died by another’s hand.” Tears began to slide down her cheeks. “I don’t need to know who done it. Don’t want to.”

“Are you sure?” I said.

“I am.” She swiped at her tears with the back of her hand.

“There’s more,” I said. “They had to move Kay Ellen—so she can be put to rest in a proper place. So you won’t have to stay by yourself and watch over her anymore.”

Tom tightened his grip on my hand. He’d heard my voice crack and knew I was close to tears myself.

“They moved her when I wasn’t there?” Her grief seemed even more magnified. “Why’d they go and do that?”

“You were in the hospital, Jeannie,” I said. “But now, she can be put in the ground and you can visit her there. Isn’t your mother in the ground?”

She waved her arm in the direction of the kitchen. “Right behind the church in the graveyard.” She was quiet for a minute and then her expression changed. She began to smile. “I can lay my girl right beside my mama.”

Just then we heard the kitchen door open and Pastor Mitch and his wife talking.

“Pastor Mitch,” Jeannie called, “come quick.”

He hurried into the room with Elizabeth right behind him.

“We can lay my girl to rest right by my mama, Pastor. And you and me and Miss Elizabeth can say a prayer for her every day.”

He smiled broadly. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”

Boots gave me one of her smiles, too, and then ever so slowly, she disappeared—at least to me. But I saw Jeannie’s
hand resting oddly in midair. It seemed the cat was still there for her.

I would miss Boots, but I was glad Jeannie would always have her precious companion.

Not long after, Tom and I left. As he drove me to my van, I let out a huge sigh of relief.

“People amaze me,” I said. “She took the news far differently than I imagined.”

“Because the person who delivered the news did such a beautiful job,” he said. “One more reason to love you.”

I looked over at him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Know something? I love you, too.”

He didn’t speak until we were out of the car and he’d walked me to my van. “Last night was the scariest night of my life. I heard you scream from behind that locked door and I couldn’t do anything, couldn’t help you.” He took my face in his hands, being careful to avoid the bruise. “Thank goodness you’re okay, because I don’t want to live without you.”

I felt tears sting my eyes. “You know, when I was in that kitchen, I thought about you and Kara and Candace and my cats and all the love that surrounds me every day. I had to get back to you. I knew I would.”

“You didn’t panic. You kept your wits. You are amazing.” He kissed me.

Then, in the shadow of a ruined mill and a culture I hoped this country would never revisit, Tom spoke softly.

“Jillian Hart, will you marry me?”

My cat is allergic to people—yes, odd, I know—so when I came in the back door and heard Chablis sneeze, I stopped dead. Why was she sneezing? This couldn’t be a reaction to me. I use special shampoo, take precautions. Chablis and I are cool.

Besides, she hadn’t been near any humans for more than twenty-four hours, since I was just arriving back from an overnight business trip to Spartanburg, a two-hour drive from my upstate South Carolina home. I’d left her and my two other cats, Merlot and Syrah, alone in the house, as I’d done many times before when I took short trips out of town. So how did human dander, better known as dandruff, find its way up her nose?

I released my grip on the rolling suitcase and started for the living room, thinking there could be a simple explanation for a sneezing cat other than allergies. Like an illness.

The thought of a sick Chablis pushed logic down to the hippocampus or wherever common sense goes when you have more important matters to attend to. I dropped my tote on the counter and hurried past the teak dining table. Since my kitchen, dining area and living room all blend together, the trip to where I’d heard Chablis sneeze wasn’t more than twenty feet. But before I’d
taken five steps, I stopped again. Something else besides a sneezing cat now had my attention.

Silence. No background noise. No
Animal Planet
playing on the television. I always leave the TV tuned to that station when I go away. If the cats were entertained by
The Jeff Corwin Experience
or
Heroes
or
E-Vet
, I’d convinced myself, my absences were more tolerable. Okay, I’m neurotic about my three friends. Not cat-lady neurotic. At forty-one I’m a little young for that. But cats have been my best friends for as long as I can remember, and the ones that live with me now have been amazing since my husband, John, died ten months ago. They take care of me. So I try my best to take care of them.

Could the TV be off because of a power failure?

Glancing back at the microwave, I saw that the clock showed the correct time—one p.m. Perhaps the high-def plasma TV blew up in a cloud of electronic smoke? Maybe. Didn’t matter, though. Not now. I’d only heard from Chablis, and none of my cats had shown their faces. I was getting a bad vibe—and I can usually rely on my intuition.

“Chablis, I’m home,” I called. I kept walking, slowly now—didn’t want to panic them if I was overreacting—and went into the living area. “Syrah, where are you? Merlot, I missed you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when I found Chablis sitting on the olive chenille sofa, her blue eyes gazing up at me. Himalayans look like long-haired Siamese cats and Chablis was no different. Her gorgeous crystal blue eyes and her champagne fur were accented by deep brown feet, and she had a precious dark face and a fluffy wand of a tail.

Her nose was running and she seemed awfully puffed out—even for an already puffy cat. Was she totally swollen up by an allergen other than dandruff?

I knelt and stroked the side of her cheek with the
back of my fingers, ran my hands over her body, looking for the mass of giant hives I was sure I’d find.

Nothing. She was simply all bloated fur and loud purrs.

“I am truly sorry for leaving you overnight. Are you telling me you have feline separation anxiety?”

Chablis blinked slowly, opened her mouth and squeaked. How pitiful. She’d lost her voice. She
had
to be sick. With a virus? Or leukemia? Cats do get leukemia.

Quit it, Jillian. Call the vet
.

When I stood to pull my phone from my jeans pocket, I heard Merlot’s deep, loud meow and saw him perched on the seat cushions that line the dining area’s bay window—a spot that provides a spectacular view of Mercy Lake. He knows the entire lake belongs to him, despite never having been closer than the window. But he hadn’t been sitting there when I first came in, and he wasn’t gazing out on the water. No, Merlot was looking right at me and his fur was all wild and big, too.

Since he isn’t allergic to anything, dumb me finally realized that they were both scared.

And then I saw why.

Broken glass glittered near Merlot’s paws—paws that could each substitute for a Swiffer duster.

My heart skipped. Broken glass…a broken
window
. “Merlot! Be careful.” Fear escaped with my words. I attempted to mask my distress by smiling as I walked over to him.

Yeah, like Mr. Brainiac Cat would buy this fakery.

I petted his broad orange and white tiger-striped head while making sure none of his paws was bleeding. He seemed fine other than that he reminded me more than ever of one of those huge, shaggy stuffed animals at a carnival.

I hefted him off the cushions—he’s a Maine coon, a
breed that weighs four times more than the smallest felines. Merlot stays lean, usually hovers around twenty pounds. I was hoping to keep him clear of the glass, but he was having none of that. He squirmed free and jumped right back on the window seat and proved himself amazingly nimble by staying away from any shards. While I examined the damaged window, he intently examined me as if to ask, “How will you rectify this now that you’re finally home, Miss Gadabout?”