The Cat, the Collector and the Killer Page 2

  “I don’t see Chester’s prisoner wagon, so—”

  “His what?” I asked.

  “The vehicle he uses to cart animals off to critter jail. I hate that truck.”

  “He may not be here right now, but you said you’d wait in the van. I am perfectly capable of making friends with cats—and even people, sometimes.”

  Shawn grinned. “You’re sure better with people than me. But—”

  I gripped his arm a little tighter. “No buts. Wait here and if no one answers the door, I’ll check the backyard.”

  I noted the grass needed cutting and the front shrubs could use pruning. Drawn shades and curtains shrouded the front windows and I felt a tickle as the hairs on the back of my neck raised. This place seemed almost too quiet. What was that book Tom told me about? The Gift of Fear. My instincts definitely warned me something wasn’t right here.

  I rapped on the front door, and when no one answered, I knocked again. A minute later, I followed a stone path leading to a fenced backyard. Though tall, even this fence wouldn’t contain a cat if it wanted to escape. But a fence didn’t matter since the gate stood wide-open. Had the neighbors been here to check things out? Should we talk to them first? I glanced back toward my van and decided I couldn’t offer Shawn any excuse to join me—and he would if I came into his sightline.

  A pitiful meow erased my thoughts and I continued on. More kitty cries came from a holly bush beneath a large window. Holly is a mean plant to tangle with, and I hoped the cat wasn’t stuck or too afraid to come out. I could use a pair of long leather gloves about now.

  I sensed a presence behind me and my heart sped up. I whirled.

  Releasing the breath I’d withheld, I said, “Shawn Cuddahee, you gave me the fright of my life. You shouldn’t be back here.”

  “Couldn’t stand it, Jillian.” He glanced beyond me at the holly bush. “Great. I knew I shouldn’t have left my gloves in the van. Too late now.”

  He marched past me and knelt in front of the holly. In a soft, gentle voice he said, “Come on, baby. It’s gonna be fine.”

  While Shawn was coaxing that kitty, more cats began to appear from beneath bushes and from behind the tall pampas grass lining the fence at the back property line. There had to be a dozen cats—tabbies, tuxedoes, gingers, long-haired, short-haired and even a few purebreds. I spotted a fluffy orange Persian, and right behind that one, a Siamese slinked between daisies and mums. More than the seven or eight Shawn had mentioned—that’s for sure.

  I knelt and extended one hand. “Um, Shawn. Take a look.”

  “Holy crap. You’ve got to be kidding me. She didn’t adopt these from me.” He then returned to his task. The cat behind the holly wasn’t cooperating and he’d pulled out his pocket knife to cut away a few leaves.

  A long-haired gray tabby reached me and rubbed his cheek on my knee. I stroked his head and he began to purr. Soon I was surrounded by felines. I sat in grass still moist from dew and allowed the cats to rub on my legs and climb in my lap. They were probably hungry. Could there be empty dishes on that screened porch?

  I glanced in that direction. Through the haze created by the screens, I thought the door leading into the house was ajar—and the door from the porch to this little backyard haven was wide-open. No wonder the neighbors were concerned.

  “Gotcha, baby,” Shawn muttered.

  I glanced his way and he held a fat gray shorthair with green eyes in his arms.

  “I see the problem, Shawn.” I nodded toward the porch.

  “Maybe Minnie needs medical help—or was injured during a break-in.” Clutching the cat, a worried Shawn headed for the open porch door.

  I marched behind him after picking up the tabby. Other cats followed us. “Sure, Shawn. Jump to worst possible scenarios.” But that feeling of dread hadn’t left me.

  Empty cat dishes and saucers lay on the brick floor and had been licked clean. Though I hesitated to enter the house, Shawn plowed right in, calling Minnie’s name.

  I was not prepared for what I saw as I followed him inside. Though the kitchen did not smell of spoiled food or dirty kitty litter as I’d feared, the crowded room was almost claustrophobic. Unopened shipping boxes and cases of cat food were stacked almost to the ceiling. More boxes sat on a maple kitchen table. A hallway leading from the kitchen into the rest of the house seemed almost impassable due to even more boxes.

  “Since there’s plenty of food, can you feed these cats, Jillian? Meanwhile, I’ll find Minnie. She’d never let her cats outside if she was okay.” He meandered through the maze of cardboard, mumbling, “She’s got to be okay, right, baby?” to the gray cat he still held in his arms.

  Probably not okay, I thought as I set down the sweet tabby and pulled a case of cat food from the lowest stack of boxes in the corner. I gathered the dishes on the porch, making sure no cats followed me out there. The large farmhouse sink in the kitchen held no dirty dishes. I quickly washed the bowls I’d brought inside. Soon, all the cats were gobbling up their meals as fast as they could. Poor things probably hadn’t eaten in a while.

  “Jillian, you better get in here,” Shawn called.

  His tone was tense, even ominous. No . . . downright scary. The spooky, quiet aura in this house seemed magnified by his command. Then I reminded myself Shawn leaned toward the dramatic.

  I started down the hall, bypassing the dining and living room combination—boxes in there, too—and had to sidestep in the hall most of the way as went toward where Shawn was. I’d just reached another room—office maybe?—also crammed full of boxes, when my cell rang. It was Tom’s ring. I answered while trying to figure out exactly which room Shawn had called me from.

  Tom’s sounded sad. “Jilly, we just found Minnie Schultz wandering downtown in her nightclothes. Are you at her house yet?”

  I sighed with relief. “That explains some of what we found—but why is she in her nightclothes?”

  Shawn appeared in a doorway to my left. “This isn’t good, Jillian. Not good at all.”

  I put my phone on speaker and held it out with one hand. “But Tom says they found Minnie downtown and—”

  “Tom,” Shawn called, “you need to get down here pronto. There’s a body in Minnie’s bedroom.”

  I gulped down the bile that rose in my throat and nearly dropped my phone. No matter how passionate Shawn was about cats, he’d never call the police for a feline death. No, this body was most certainly a human being.

  Three

  After I disconnected, Shawn held out the cat he’d been holding. “Come get this girl. I recognize her as one of Minnie’s cats that she adopted from me. I don’t want her messing with this dead person. Cats will do that, you know. I won’t go into details.”

  I didn’t want to be anywhere near that room, so I was relieved Shawn felt the need to stand guard. Though I tried not to look beyond the door while I retrieved the cat, it was difficult to keep my eyes averted. Thank goodness all I saw was a pair of work books sticking out between twin beds. Big boots. A man’s boots. He was obviously lying facedown.

  “Do you know who that is?” I asked.

  “Nope. I felt his ankle and he’s cold as an iceberg.”

  I shuddered. “This is awful.”

  Gray kitty purred and snuggled close, perhaps to distract or comfort me. She wore a collar with tags. I checked them once she was in my arms. A pink one read Minous. Remembering the four years of French I’d taken in high school, I believed that was a word for kitty.

  “I’m gonna close this door now, Jillian. I’ll wait right here in the hall until Tom shows up. The cavalry will come soon after, I expect.”

  By “the cavalry,” he’d meant not only the police but every fireman and paramedic in town. “Is it bad? I mean, has he been there a long time?”

  “I’m not speculating. You shouldn’t, either.”

  “I tho
ught you said Minnie was a widow. Did she have a companion who might have had a heart attack or—”

  “Jillian, it’s none of our business. That sweet kitty there must be hungry.” Shawn was right, of course. The cats were our business and the dead man wasn’t. Besides, why would I want to know more about what Shawn had seen in there? I didn’t.

  I carried Minous to the kitchen. She hadn’t gotten this chubby by accident. As soon as I put her on the floor in the kitchen, she bulldozed between two other cats and chowed down.

  Since it only took about five minutes to drive from one side of Mercy to the other, I could hear sirens closing in already. Not wanting to think about Shawn or what he’d found, I awaited Tom’s arrival by taking a few calming breaths and trying to think about something else.

  I knelt and stroked the Siamese, who preferred kibble to the wet food I’d provided. The cat purred and kept on eating. I glanced around again. This place reminded me more of a warehouse than a home, considering the unopened boxes everywhere. Yet, the place seemed so tidy at the same time.

  Shawn labeled Minnie Schultz as a collector rather than a hoarder and I decided he must have known she wasn’t disorganized or mentally ill, just loved cats enough to care for them well and not be obsessed. The amount of cat food on cardboard pallets was necessary. But what about the rest of these boxes? They bore big-box-store logos. Cat toys? Litter? Treats?

  I blinked myself back to the terrible reality of a body in the other room. My stomach started to churn as I heard the sirens sounding so close that a patrol car was probably already in the driveway. There was no avoiding the reality of the situation. Fearing I would let cats escape if I tried to go out the back door to greet Tom or whoever responded first, I stayed put and considered how to keep all these felines contained.

  My cell phone jangled and I stood as I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Tom.

  “Are you still inside the residence?” he asked.

  He sounded so formal, his voice tension-filled. “Yes. The back porch leads into the house and we found it open. I doubt you’ll be able to enter through the front. You’ll understand why when you get in here.”

  “Thanks. I’m headed your way.”

  Detective Candace Carson entered first with her gun drawn.

  I breathed in sharply. “Please put that thing away. There’s no one here but Shawn, me, these cats . . . and a dead person.”

  “Can’t be too careful.” She holstered her gun at her side. Her utility belt was as loaded down as in the past, when she’d worn a uniform. Today, however, her olive khakis and pale blue shirt made her look like a female cop on TV. She was truly a beautiful young woman, twenty years my junior, and these days, sans uniform, she could show it off.

  “What happened to the victim, Jillian?” she asked.

  “Bless his heart, I have no idea. Got a glimpse of boots in the guest room. Shawn found him, not me.”

  Tom, thank goodness, was not holding his weapon when he entered the kitchen. Sidestepping a few cats who decided to greet him by rubbing against his legs, he came to my side and put an arm around my shoulder. “Trouble seems to find you, Jilly. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. The dead man needs you two right now. Meanwhile, I’ll take care of the half-starved cats.”

  Candace, her hands on her hips, took in the felines and gazed at all the boxes through narrowed, curious eyes. “Actually, they all look pretty healthy. The cats, that is. What’s with the boxes?”

  “I don’t know. The cat food was in open pallets and I didn’t think I should mess with anything else. I feel like a trespasser as it is.”

  Tom said, “I’d say it’s a good thing you two came inside.”

  “What about Minnie Schultz?” I asked.

  “She’s at the hospital for a mental health check,” Tom said. “We didn’t bother with questions, just called for an ambulance immediately. Walking around Main Street in your nightclothes while carrying your suitcase-size tote bag means you’re not all there.”

  Candace remained fixated on the boxes. “Maybe she was packing?”

  “These are purchases, as far as I can tell,” I replied. “I was wondering if maybe Mrs. Schultz was doing business or liked to collect more than cats.”

  Tom nodded. “Ah, obsessive-compulsive. Could be. As for the dead man, we can’t let these cats roam the house while we check out the situation. Did you see any other animals beyond the kitchen?”

  I shook my head. “But that doesn’t mean scaredy-cats aren’t hiding all over the place. That’s their MO. You might need help with them, if that’s the case. If they’re as hungry as these guys were, they could be skittish at best and aggressive at worst.”

  “We’ll leave them to you and Shawn,” Candace said. “I saw a few cats in the backyard.”

  “Really?” I said. “I thought they’d all come inside. Maybe I can lure them with food.”

  “We’ll need your help first, Jilly. If you could guard the entrance to the hallway, I’ll barricade you and these cats in the kitchen with some boxes. Candace and I will let folks in through the front door. We called the paramedics, so they should be here soon.”

  Candace said, “If this person is actually dead—”

  “Shawn told me he’s cold . . . ice-cold,” I said.

  “Well, that’s certainly a sign of being dead, so they can’t move that body to the morgue until I’ve taken all my pictures. We also have to call Lydia.” She raised her eyebrows and her expression said, And won’t that be fun?

  Tom drew an exasperated breath. “Why did you have to remind me?”

  “She’ll have your hide if we forget to call her,” Candace replied.

  Lydia Monk was the coroner’s investigator. Mercy had an elected coroner—the man wasn’t even a doctor—and he sent Lydia out on all unexplained deaths. After she observed the body and asked her questions, she would deal with death certificates, make an official case file and report to the coroner. If an autopsy was needed, she’d assist families in navigating the sad territory known as death in America. Unfortunately, Lydia was quite the character, and even more unfortunately for me, she was obsessed with Tom almost to a stalking level. She believed one day he would see the light, divorce me and marry her.

  As for the need for an autopsy on this dead man, I’d learned a few months ago that in South Carolina, autopsies are required only if a “living person” caused the death. If it was an accident or even a suicide, the coroner could rule no autopsy was required. As of right now, none of us had any idea what caused the man’s death and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  Candace left Tom to deal with barricading me and the cats in the kitchen while she went to relieve Shawn of corpse duty. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Corpse duty. That’s a terrible way to put it, Jillian.

  Soon, with boxes in place to the ceiling at the kitchen entry, the mission was accomplished. I wasn’t sure I should touch any more dishes or even run water again to rinse the ones the cats had eaten off. Candace was a stickler for anything that might be evidence—and I could have already destroyed some. But a few kitties still seemed hungry—if wrapping themselves around my ankles, crawling up my pant legs and meowing pleadingly was any clue. The ones still outside had to be famished as well. They’d have to eat off dirty dishes for now.

  Getting the cats who were outside—all six of them—to come in and eat was easy. Soon Shawn came through the back gate and joined me, being careful not to let any of them escape. The slumped shoulders and troubled frown spoke of a deep sadness.

  The Siamese leapt onto his shoulder and rubbed its cheek against his. He stroked the cat, but his mind was definitely on other things.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “Seeing a dead person can cause shock or—”

  “No, I’m not all right,” he practically barked. “It’s Chester dead in that room. After Candace pulled a wallet out of his
pocket, she told me. Now I know why he never called me back.”

  “Oh my gosh.” I raised a hand to my mouth.

  Shawn swiped a freckled hand over his face. “This is a lifetime of bad karma, Jillian. I shouldn’t have been such an ass. I should have made peace with the man.” Shawn met my gaze, his hazel eyes glistening.

  I’d never seen him like this. He was always so . . . tough when it came to people. Animals were a different story, and obviously how he treated them was the true measure of Shawn Cuddahee. Now his soft heart extended even to a man he’d professed to despise.

  “Don’t punish yourself. Deep down you didn’t hate Chester. You simply didn’t appreciate the way he treated animals.”

  “You’re right. I never hated him. Not really.” Shawn’s expression changed from remorse to concern. He lifted the cat off his shoulder and held it up so he could examine it. “This one looks healthy enough. Spayed not too long ago. In fact, all these cats, aside from being hungry, seem in fine shape.”

  Shawn had changed the subject to avoid dealing with his emotions, no doubt. I went along, hoping to ease his discomfort. “I was thinking the same thing. Mrs. Schultz, from the state of her home and the condition of these cats, doesn’t seem like a hoarder. I mean, hoarders become so overwhelmed they can’t properly care for animals, right?”

  “Usually over time that’s what happens.” He glanced around the kitchen. “Hoarding is definitely an illness. That’s why I called this lady more of a collector. Up until lately, she seemed perfectly normal. She took wonderful care of her cats. Last time I was here, she may have been a little off, even a bit confused, but she still only had seven or eight cats.” He glanced around the kitchen. “All these boxes sure as heck weren’t here. What is all this stuff?”

  “I have no idea. My question is, what happened to Chester? Heart attack? Stroke? He was getting older.”