The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon: A Cats in Trouble Mystery Read online

  Praise for the Novels

  of Leann Sweeney

  The Cats in Trouble Mysteries

  The Cat, the Lady and the Liar

  “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 Cat, the Professor and the Poison

  “A fun, entertaining story… the mystery will keep the reader guessing and the conclusion is satisfying and will leave readers looking forward to Jillian’s next adventure. I enjoyed this story so much.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “Sure to please the cat and cozy fans of the world.… After reading the first book, I just knew I was going to fall in love with this series and have.”

  —Feathered Quill Book Reviews

  “The characters and [the] 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

  The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

  “A solid start to a cozy mystery series.”

  —CA Reviews

  “The first installment of what promises to be a delightful cozy series.… Leann Sweeney presents readers with a solid mystery that kept this reader guessing through all of the plot twists and turns. Plenty of cat trivia adds to the richness of the narrative… highly recommended!”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “The cats are entertaining four-legged assistants.… Kitty lovers will enjoy the feline trivia.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Great fun for cat lovers… a lot of hometown charm.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “Fans will enjoy her amateur sleuth investigation.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “[Leann Sweeney’s] brand-new series about adorable cats that just can’t stay out of trouble is bound to be a hit!”

  —Fantastic Fiction

  “Sweet but not syrupy, sharply written and brimming with heart.”

  —Cozy Library

  The Yellow Rose Mysteries

  “As Texas as a Dr Pepper–swigging armadillo at the Alamo. A rip-roaring read!”

  —Carolyn Hart, author of Death Walked In

  “Full of emotions! Anger, sadness, fear, happiness, laughter, joy, and tears… they are all there, and you will feel them along with the characters in this book!”

  —Armchair Interviews

  “An intriguing puzzle [that] has buried layers that must be uncovered.”

  —Rendezvous

  “I adore this series.”

  —Roundtable Reviews

  “A welcome new voice in mystery fiction.”

  —Jeff Abbott, national bestselling author of Collision

  “A dandy debut… will leave mystery fans eager to read more about Abby Rose.”

  —Bill Crider, author of Of All Sad Worlds

  “Pick Your Poison goes down sweet.”

  —Rick Riordan, New York Times bestselling and

  Edgar® Award–winning author of

  The Battle of the Labyrinth

  “A witty down-home Texas mystery… [a] fine tale.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Other Novels by Leann Sweeney

  The Cats in Trouble Mysteries

  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

  THE CAT, THE WIFE

  AND THE WEAPON

  A CATS IN TROUBLE MYSTERY

  LEANN SWEENEY

  AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,

  Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632,

  New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

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  Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, April 2012

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58010-3

  Copyright © Leann Sweeney, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  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.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  This book is for Morgan Elizabeth.

  Acknowledgments

  A book is a journey never traveled alone. Without the help of my husband, Mike, my writer’s group—Kay, Dean, Amy, Bob, Laura, Heather and Millie—as well as Susie, Charlie, Isabella, Enzo and Curry, I would have been very lonely. A special thank-you to the “cozies,” wonderful readers on the cozyarmchair Yahoo group, as well as all the other readers I’ve met through Facebook. My three kitties and my wonderful dog have been beside me as I typed every word. Lorraine and Jennifer, you have wrapped your arms around me and helped me through so much. Thank you. My agent, Carol, I thank you, too; and Claire, I could never thank you enough for your support. Lastly, a special shout-out to my two friends waiting on the Rainbow Bridge. My beautiful Himalayan, Indigo, and my tuxedo cat, Archie Goodwin, are right there. Rest in peace, dear, dear friends. You’re forever in my heart.

  “It always gives me a shiver when I see a cat seeing what I can’t see.”

  —ELEANOR FARJEON

  Tab
le of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  One

  Cats don’t worry, I thought as I pulled two of the three pet carriers from my minivan and lugged them to my back door. I disabled the security alarm and carried a couple fur kids inside. Cats are brave, sometimes afraid, always curious, but they do not worry. How wonderful that must be.

  Worry had plagued me my entire trip home to Mercy, South Carolina. For the last week, I’d been on a business trip, traveling across a few Southern states selling my handmade cat quilts at craft fairs and cat shows. November can be a sweet month in South Carolina, weather-wise, and offers lots of opportunities to sell my wares. I’d had a successful tour, but my cell phone had not rung once during my journey home. I’d left at least ten messages for my friend Tom Stewart. Maybe more. Why wasn’t he calling me back? Had I left too many messages and he’d gotten tired of my calls? Or had there been some kind of emergency?

  With concern a background thrum in my head, I carried in the last cat and the suitcase into my house. As for my three kitties, their plaintive meows to be released from captivity told me Syrah, Merlot and Chablis felt only relief that their journey was over. No, they weren’t worried at all.

  I opened their crates and set them free, then watched them slink into the kitchen. I loved how cautious they were. Not worried, just careful. After all, who knew what creatures might have invaded the house during our absence? They might need to be pounced upon and eliminated. All three cats gracefully crept around the kitchen, noses and tails twitching.

  But it was the invisible invader that continued to bother me—the one inside my head. I went outdoors again. This was the first real wintry day I’d experienced in a week, cold wind blowing, gray skies above. I unloaded the quilts left unsold, again rolling through possibilities as to why Tom was not returning my calls.

  I went back in the house and set my suitcase by the washer. Before the trip I’d left a large box in the utility room and now, as I carefully packed away the remaining quilts, I recalled what had happened the night before I’d left town. Tom and I had enjoyed a nice dinner and then watched a DVD while cuddled on my couch. He said he would miss me. I knew I would miss him too.

  I talked to him on the phone the first five nights while I was away. Then my calls started going straight to voice mail. Was it something I said? Problem was, I was so tired during our last conversation, I couldn’t even remember what we’d talked about. Did he think I was blowing him off?

  Merlot pressed against my calf, his warbling meow pleading for me to quit standing around and provide him with food and water. He’s a big boy, a red Maine coon cat with a giant appetite. I opened the pantry and took out three cans of tuna cat food, thinking how I should have followed through—phoned my stepdaughter, Kara, and asked her to see what was up with Tom. Kara worked part time for Tom’s security business when she wasn’t running the Mercy Messenger, our small-town newspaper—or when she wasn’t supervising the construction of her new house on the outskirts of town.

  I snapped open each can, and the noise brought the other two cats racing from wherever they’d been. Chablis, my seal point Himalayan, and Syrah, my amber Abyssinian, were as hungry as Merlot. They never ate much when I took them with me on business, but their semifasts ended as soon as we arrived home.

  Why not call Kara now? I thought, setting three dishes of food and a stainless-steel pan of water on the floor in the utility room. I always used stainless or glass because plastic dishes are toxic to cats and can give them mouth sores or make them sick.

  Kara is my stepdaughter, my late husband’s only child, and though she was an observant young woman and probably knew exactly how I felt about Tom, I never wanted to seem too romantically interested in him. She liked him, worked well with him, but the whole thing between Tom and me seemed awkward when it came to Kara. I felt as if calling her to ask about Tom would be like saying, “Hey, have you seen my boyfriend? The one who is slowly taking your father’s place?” No one could ever take her father’s place in my heart, of course, but it might seem that way to her.

  “Oh heck,” I said aloud. “Quit with the mind games and do something.” I had to find out what was going on. Now.

  I took my phone from my jeans’ pocket and stared down, gripping it as tightly as Chablis hangs on to her banana catnip toy. Call Kara. Do it.

  She answered on the second ring. “Hi, Jillian. You home yet?”

  “Just got in. Listen, I have a question. Is there something wrong with Tom’s phone?”

  “Why?” she said.

  I explained about the unreturned calls.

  She said, “Maybe he didn’t take his phone with him, or forgot his charger.”

  “Take it with him where?” Even though I couldn’t remember much from our last talk, I was certain he’d never mentioned a trip.

  “He called me a couple days ago, asked me to handle any jobs or clients. Said he had to go away for a few days.”

  “Oh.” A quiet “oh,” a small word that failed to hide the surprise and disappointment I felt that he hadn’t shared his travel plans with me.

  Kara must have picked up on the emotion because she quickly said, “I got the feeling it was a last-minute thing, and he didn’t offer me any explanation. He sounded rushed or distracted or… something.”

  “Oh,” I repeated. The worry was back. If there was one thing I’d learned since my husband’s death two years ago, it was to rely on my instincts. I knew Tom. I trusted him. Something was definitely wrong.

  “You’re sure he’s not back in town?” I said.

  “I’m sure. He’d call to find out about any new customers, Jillian,” she said. “I expect we’ll hear from him soon.”

  “Maybe I’m overreacting,” I said, “but I’m concerned. What if he never got out his front door?” Thoughts of my husband’s collapse right here in this house, his instant death from a massive heart attack, flashed through my mind.

  “Really? You’re jumping to worst-case scenarios?” I could picture her lovely, indulgent smile, so like her father’s.

  “Maybe, but—”

  “Okay,” she said in a take-charge tone. “Clearly you’re beyond stressed about this. Did you try his landline?”

  “I didn’t have the number with me. He hardly uses that phone. But maybe his cell is damaged or lost. Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll call his house right now.” An ounce of relief washed away some of my anxiety.

  “Call me back after you talk to him—either now or later,” Kara said. “I don’t like to hear such strain in your voice.”

  I hung up, the chill in the house making me shiver. No afternoon sun to warm things up. The murky, cloud-dulled day meant the cold would linger on. After I turned the thermostat up to seventy, I went through the living area and down the hall to my home office. I took my address book from my desk drawer. All three cats followed and jumped up on the mahogany surface to check out what I was doing.

  Merlot crooned his concern—he has a special sound for intense interest in my state of mind. When I’m upset, all three of them seem to sense it and follow me everywhere. If I were to sit down on my sofa right now, they would be all over me.

  First thing I did was add Tom’s landline
number to the contacts on my cell phone. Then I hit call. His answering machine picked up.

  Darn it.

  I didn’t bother to leave a message, just disconnected. His voice on the answering machine greeting, so engaging and cheerful, made my stomach clench.

  Trust your instincts. This disappearance isn’t like Tom.

  I looked at the three curious feline faces staring up at me. “I have to do more than make phone calls, friends. I’m sure you’ll take much-needed cat naps while I’m gone.”

  Tom lives about a five-minute drive away in a secluded neighborhood within walking distance from his mother, Karen’s, place. His mother. While I was traveling home, I’d considered calling her. But Karen is an odd bird. If I alarmed her unnecessarily, Tom would end up receiving endless visits from her when he did come home—or she might even take up residence in his guest room for a while. No. I couldn’t call her. Not yet.