The Cat, the Collector and the Killer Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING CATS IN TROUBLE MYSTERY SERIES

  “Sweeney achieves the difficult task of making the jeopardy and fates of felines as impactful as that of humans, without ever losing the humor and realism that are trademarks of this entertaining author.”

  —Kings River Life Magazine

  “Ms. Sweeney is a talented writer. . . . This series just gets better and better.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “The cats are entertaining four-legged assistants . . . [and] kitty lovers will enjoy the feline trivia.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “I cannot recommend this series enough to animal lovers and fans of a darn good mystery.”

  —Cozy Mystery Book Reviews

  “A light and easy cozy mystery that strikes a nice balance between the murder mystery and the intricacy of human relationships. . . . I give this book four paws up!”

  —MyShelf.com

  “A lighthearted, fun cozy starring an engaging cast of characters. . . . Feline frolic fans will enjoy.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “Tightly plotted, with likable characters, and filled with cat trivia, this entertaining mystery will become a favorite for cozy and cat lovers alike.”

  —The Conscious Cat

  “The characters and friends Jillian makes along the way, and the care she gives to the cats she encounters, will make her a fast favorite.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  Other Novels by Leann Sweeney

  The Cats in Trouble Mysteries

  The Cat, the Sneak and the Secret

  The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim

  The Cat, the Mill and the Murder

  The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon

  The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

  The Cat, the Professor and the Poison

  The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

  The Yellow Rose Mysteries

  Pushing Up Bluebonnets

  Shoot from the Lip

  Dead Giveaway

  A Wedding to Die For

  Pick Your Poison

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library,

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  This book is an original publication of New American Library.

  Copyright © Leann Sweeney, 2016

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Obsidian and the Obsidian colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  For more information about Penguin Random House, visit penguin.com.

  eBook ISBN 9780698410039

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  This book is for you, readers.

  Your kind words, the faithful way you follow

  this series and your friendship over ten years

  have kept me writing and, most of all,

  brought me much happiness.

  Thank you.

  CONTENTS

  Praise for the Cats in Trouble Mystery Series

  Other Novels by Leann Sweeney

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Cat, the Boy and the Bones

  About the Author

  “You can’t help that. We’re all mad here.”

  —The Cheshire Cat

  from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

  by Lewis Carroll

  One

  The sound of the shower running made me close my eyes and smile as I lay beneath the double wedding ring quilt I’d finished last week. My husband of six months, Tom Stewart, was getting ready for work as acting police chief for Mercy, South Carolina. Though not ready to admit it, this job suited him to a tee. Previously he’d been doing PI work—mostly following cheating husbands or wives—and it had worn him down. These days, he smiled more and enjoyed the camaraderie of our small-town police force.

  I couldn’t believe half a year had passed since we’d exchanged vows. I’d enjoyed the holidays more than I had in years and rediscovered that winter cuddling was something special indeed. Having someone to hold me close at night topped the marital benefits list. Having a partner to play with our feline family while I was busy in my craft room finishing quilt orders—I make little quilts for cats—made me far more productive. They seemed quite happy to stay in the living room with Tom.

  The town council kept begging him to take the police chief job permanently, but he still wouldn’t commit. I’d not given him advice on the subject because he needed time to mull it over—and over—and over. He’d ask for my opinion when he was ready.

  I pulled the quilt tighter around me. All the cats liked the rust, green and taupe fabric as much as Tom and I did. Our kitties surrounded me, waiting and watching. They wanted to make sure I didn’t fall back to sleep. If I failed to get up soon and provide breakfast, there would be face pawing and maybe even a few nose bumps—and not gentle ones, either.

  Chablis, our seal point Himalayan, nestled the closest to me. Syrah, the sorrel Abyssinian, sat at the end of the bed, his stare unwavering. Merlot, the big red Maine coon, and Dashiell, our gray tabby, huddled together on Tom’s still-warm side of the bed. Dashiell moved into this lake home with Tom, and these four cats took up almost as much space in the king-size bed as we did. We’d signed up for this, and the felines and humans here on Mercy Lake seemed quite happy with the arrangement.

  Chablis started in for that nose bump just as Tom’s phone rang. I picked my girl up and set her to one side and quickly crawled to the other side of the bed. Grabbing Tom’s mobile off his nightstand, I squinted at the screen and recognized the Mercy Animal Sanctuary number. Shawn Cuddahee,
the owner, usually called me when he needed help, so this seemed strange.

  I answered with, “Hey there, Shawn. What’s up?”

  He didn’t bother saying hello. “Oh. It’s you, Jillian. This is Tom’s number, right? Is he there?” Shawn sounded a tad confused, probably surprised that I’d been the one to answer.

  “He’s in the shower. Can I have him call you back? Or maybe I can help?”

  Shawn blurted, “I’m gonna kill Chester. I swear I will, Jillian.”

  Chester was Chester Winston, the county animal control officer.

  I said, “Do you need Tom to intervene because of the restraining order?”

  Chester did have an order of protection against Shawn. Those two had seen their share of conflict. With Shawn being in the animal rescue business, and Chester being in the round-’em-up-and-send-off-to-somewhere-else business, they definitely didn’t care for each other. Shawn was louder and bigger than Chester, and I suppose that was the reason for the restraining order. But Shawn would never hurt Chester, despite what he’d just said. He’d never hurt anyone.

  “I guess if I don’t want to end up in jail,” Shawn said, “I better let Tom get hold of that good-for-nothing man. I’ve left messages and he’s not calling me back.”

  According to what I understood, Chester and Shawn could communicate only by phone, about animals in trouble, a step he’d tried to take. “Why do you need him?” I asked.

  “Kind of a long story. There’s this sweet lady with a bunch of cats over on Mill Creek Road. I’ve known her for a long time. Anyway, the neighbors say that they couldn’t reach Chester, either. Seems she’s letting her cats outside, and she’s never done that before. They’re worried about her. Her mental health’s not exactly what it was a year ago.”

  “Are we talking about a hoarding situation, Shawn?”

  “I don’t call seven or eight cats a hoarding situation. I’d call her a collector. I’m sure Chester would beg to differ, and in a way, maybe I should be glad he’s not returned calls from me or anyone else. Still, I can’t go over there and risk Chester showing up at the same time. You and me both know he’ll have me tossed in jail for violating the protection order. Long story short, I was hoping Tom could help me out.”

  Sitting cross-legged, I rested my back against the deep red padded headboard. Chablis immediately crawled inside the triangle my legs made. “You sure you need the police? Because I’d be glad to help—that is, if you’re being absolutely straight with me about her not being a hoarder. I couldn’t bear to walk into her house if that’s the true situation.” Hoarding bothered me because, though I had sympathy for folks suffering in those situations, the cats were usually wallowing in filth and neglect, something I couldn’t bear to see.

  “I swear she’s not a hoarder. Her house was always neat as a pin, with all sorts of space for her babies, as she called them. When she applied to get this tuxedo kitten from me late last year, I brought up how many cats she already had. I told her I’d have to check the premises before I’d let her have a new one.”

  “Everything was fine?”

  “She’s a great kitty momma, Jillian. She’s devoted to those animals. Never lets them outside, neither. So when this neighbor called me—”

  “A nice neighbor?” I understood some people became very upset when stray cats took up residence on their doorstep.

  “Super nice. Mrs. Applebee. You know her?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Anyways, when she said she’d left a message for Chester, I figured I could get in some real trouble if I decided to round up those cats myself. The young lady at the county shelter where Chester takes strays was no help whatsoever. She said she didn’t have time to walk out to the animal prison they got over there and check up on Chester. I can’t be snooping around because of that stupid restraining order. It’s not my fault if no one cares about this but me.”

  “You know I care. Sounds like you have a dilemma. I could go to the county shelter and talk to Chester if you want.”

  “Waste of your time and mine. Can we maybe drive by Minnie’s house? That’s her name—Minnie Schultz. This could be a big to-do about nothing.”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t go to the county facility? I’ve donated cat quilts several times to that place and—”

  “You won’t get anywhere. Their funding’s been slashed. They’re so understaffed and overworked it’s made the people who kept their jobs wary and tight-lipped. Okay, maybe we also shouldn’t go there because I’ve been kind of judgmental and made a few suggestions they didn’t appreciate.”

  I sighed. Shawn’s passion for animals who needed help could often come across as anger. I understood this all too well. “Okay. But if no one’s home at Mrs. Schultz’s house or I don’t see a problem, we can go to the county shelter and ask for Chester—or at least I can ask to talk to him.”

  Shawn reluctantly agreed and we made the arrangements. I’d made the decision to drive because Chester would recognize Shawn’s truck if he happened to show up at the same time we did. I hung up just as Tom walked into the bedroom. His dark hair was wet and he had a towel wrapped around his waist. Four cats made a beeline for him. After all, this human was actually upright and moving. That meant he might get them their breakfast.

  “Hey, Jilly. You’re tempting me to be late for work, sitting there, looking so gorgeous.” He tilted his head and squinted at me. “But something else is going on. What’s up?”

  I held up his phone. “I answered your phone. Seems Shawn needs a little help.”

  Tom pushed hangers around in the closet as he looked for a shirt. “Am I supposed to call him back?”

  “I can take care of it. He’s worried about violating the restraining order, but I don’t think he needs police assistance with this one.”

  “Chester’s involved, then. That’s never good. What’s the problem?” Tom chose a pale green shirt and removed a pair of trousers from a dry cleaner’s bag.

  I explained about the collector, Minnie Schultz, while Tom dressed. I enjoyed the scenery and had a hard time staying on track. He agreed this was more my territory than his. Once he had his trousers on, I jumped out of bed to lead the cats to the kitchen before he found himself covered in cat hair. Dashiell needed his insulin shot, too. I’d gotten quite good at giving the diabetic boy his medicine.

  The new programmable coffee machine we’d gotten as a wedding gift offered up its magical aroma as three cats raced ahead of me down the hall and into the open-concept living, dining and kitchen area. Merlot, my big boy, never joined any races he couldn’t win. He ambled alongside me.

  By the time insulin had been administered and four cats were served breakfast, Tom joined me, his police shield dangling from a lanyard around his neck. As I stood at the coffeepot, he leaned in close from behind and wrapped his arms around my waist. I poured us each a mug of coffee. This brand had been specially roasted in New York City and was sent to us by a professor we’d met a while back when he’d come to visit his mother in Mercy. When the man’s visit was over and he left for his home in New York, he took with him a special cat I’d fostered. I received frequent updates about Clyde, that big orange tabby, along with a bag or two of this amazing coffee.

  Tom kissed my neck before he let me go and headed for the small mosaic-topped table that offered a wonderful view of Mercy Lake. Morning sun spread its promise of a beautiful day in shimmers of color. “You’re sure you can handle Shawn and this woman? Mrs. Schultz, you said?”

  “I’m happy to do it. I asked Shawn to let me check up on these cats and the owner by myself, but he insisted on riding along to her house.”

  “When Shawn is determined, there’s no dissuading him. I could send Candace to help you out.”

  Candace was the newly promoted Detective Candace Carson, and also my best friend. She was originally supposed to go by sergeant, but she pleaded fo
r detective, mostly because in her mind, detectives could wear street clothes. Yes, she wanted to give up that uniform and Tom and the town council approved her request.

  I said, “You mean Candace should be there in case Chester shows up and he and Shawn come to blows? That won’t happen.”

  “If you’re comfortable—oh, wait. There might be cats in trouble that need rescuing.” He grinned, his blue eyes smiling, too. “You’ll be more than comfortable.”

  I laid my hand over his. “Glad you understand.”

  Two

  I pulled up to the office entrance of the Mercy Animal Sanctuary after driving on the gravel road through heavily wooded property. Maybe once Shawn’s wife, Allison, hung up her “vet” shingle this summer, they’d have enough money to actually pave the road. The shelter itself could use a makeover, too. For now, Allison remained in North Carolina, finishing her veterinary internship.

  I stayed in my air-conditioned van watching Shawn’s animated gestures as he gave last-minute instructions to the two volunteers who would tend to the shelter in his absence. It might have been spring but the temperature would probably rise to at least eighty degrees if the weather person was right.

  Once we took off, Shawn gave me a little more of Minnie’s story. I learned she’d brought many strays and litters of kittens to Shawn’s shelter in the last decade. He called her eccentric and said as far as he knew, she had few family members in the area and had been widowed several years. She loved to garden, but her greatest passion was her cats. She doted on them, and for any one of them to be outside, well, there had to be something amiss. He’d noticed she’d been more forgetful than usual the last time he’d visited her a few months back. Perhaps she’d taken ill.

  “Is she a senior?” I asked as we parked at the curb in a quiet middle-class neighborhood where all the residents seemed to be in competition for a “prettiest landscaping” award.

  “I’m not a great judge of a woman’s age, but not really. I’d guess she was in her late fifties, maybe?”

  “A little early for dementia, then. Though I hear there’s early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.” I touched Shawn’s arm as he reached for the passenger door handle. “What do you think you’re doing?”