The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon citm-4 Read online

  With shaky hands I removed the small blood sugar meter, picturing how I’d seen Tom test Dashiell. There were little needles and a cleansing pad inside the case. Like I’d remembered Tom doing, I cleaned the outside tip of Dashiell’s ear and stuck him with a needle. I winced when the small drop of blood appeared, but Dashiell didn’t even twitch.

  At first I put the test strip into the meter the wrong way, but finally got it right and the digital display appeared. I pressed the test strip against that tiny bit of blood. The meter beeped and after a few seconds the display showed the number twenty.

  Twenty. So low. Tom always said one hundred twenty was a good number.

  I swiped my index finger around the inside rim of the syrup bottle. Then I rubbed the sticky stuff along Dashiell’s gums and repeated this about three times.

  Slowly, Dashiell’s eyes opened.

  Yes. Good baby. Yes.

  He blinked and tried to meow, but no sound came out. I decided another dose of syrup couldn’t hurt, so I repeated the gum rub. Then I gathered Dashiell into my arms again, picked up the Karo bottle and hurried out of the house, passing the man with the stupid smile.

  How could he be related to my Tom?

  I’d called Mercy’s only vet as I sped to his office. The white-haired Doc Jensen met me in the waiting area and immediately took the half-conscious Dashiell from my arms. He headed through a door to the back of his clinic. Tom’s cat was in expert hands now and I felt my shoulders slump in relief.

  “Where’s Tom?” the receptionist, Glenda, asked.

  She was a fairly new employee, always cheerful—a caring, sweet lady with highlighted hair who wore colorful, pet-themed scrubs and always had manicured nails with painted-on paw prints.

  “I—I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ll pay, if that’s what I need to do. I left my purse in my van.” I started toward the exit.

  “Wait, honey,” Glenda said. “You don’t have to be concerned about money now. First we have to get our Dashiell shipshape. Then we’ll think about the bill. I was just wondering why Tom couldn’t come. Work, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” I muttered. “Work.”

  Maybe that’s all his absence was about. A PI or a security installation job outside of Mercy. But he left without fully explaining to Kara? Nope. He wouldn’t do that. The worry, temporarily replaced by Dashiell’s emergency, settled into the pit of my stomach again.

  I sat down on the built-in Formica benches lining the wall and realized for the first time that Martha, the owner of Mercy’s quilt shop, the Cotton Company, sat in a corner with a quilt square in her lap. She was appliquéing what looked like a Baltimore Album flower. An empty pet carrier sat on the tile floor next to her.

  “Hi, Martha,” I said.

  She looked up and her kind smile relaxed me at once. “Hey there, Jillian. Didn’t see you come in. I was so engrossed in my stitching they could have dropped a bomb in the parking lot and I wouldn’t have noticed. Did you sell a lot of kitty quilts on your trip?”

  “Yes—but is Crazy Quilt okay?” I glanced at the carrier. She’d recently adopted another calico cat fittingly named Crazy Quilt not only because of her wildly patterned white, gold and black fur, but because she’d been known to shred bolts of fabric in minutes—that, and tear other things to bits. Crazy Quilt never visited Martha’s shop anymore.

  “Crazy’s had her teeth cleaned and I’m waiting to pick her up. But where are your friends? I always wondered how you managed to take three cats to the vet when I could use the help of a Navy SEAL just to get my baby into a carrier.”

  I smiled, almost forgetting my distress. Almost. “I brought Tom’s cat in. He’s sick.”

  “Ah. Tom left town in a hurry and I guess he’s not back. You watching Dashiell, then?” She refocused on her handwork.

  “Sort of,” I said, surprised. “How did you know Tom left in a hurry?”

  “Saw him in his cute little car racing down Main Street a couple days ago. Had some man with him. Thought surely he’d get stopped for speeding.”

  “Do you remember what time you saw him?” I asked. Urgency colored my question and made Martha look up from her work.

  She cocked her head. “Something wrong, Jillian? You seem… upset.”

  “Just worried about Dashiell,” I said. “You say Tom was speeding. What time of day?”

  “I was walking down Main Street to get my morning fix at Belle’s Beans. Always buy my coffee right before the quilt shop opens. Tom didn’t even wave. Not like him to be impolite.”

  “No… not like him at all,” I murmured. I shouldn’t have been surprised she knew more than I did. This was Mercy, after all. Small-town America doesn’t need the Internet or Twitter to get the word out.

  Doc Jensen’s vet tech, Anthony, appeared and waved to Martha. “We’re gonna need your carrier, Miss Martha. And your help, I’m thinkin’.”

  Martha planted her needle in her quilt square, folded her work and put it into her bag. Carrier in one hand and purse in the other, she walked toward Anthony. As she passed me, she said, “You need to get you some rest, Jillian. Your trip looks like it’s taken a toll.”

  I forced a smile, then clasped my shaking hands. The adrenaline that had pumped through me after finding Dashiell was wearing off. I was left trembling as well as wishing I had a giant box of Tums.

  Doc Jensen smiled when he came out into the waiting area a few minutes later. He gestured me into a cold, immaculate exam room that smelled of disinfectant and alcohol. Dashiell wasn’t sitting on the stainless table. Despite the vet’s relaxed expression, that could mean the poor boy was still in trouble.

  Nodding reassuringly, Doc Jensen said, “You got to him in time, but his blood sugar remains low. He needs to stay with us overnight. Can you get Tom on the phone and see if that’s okay?”

  How I wished I could get him on the phone. “Um, Tom’s out of pocket so I’ll be making the decisions. Do whatever Dashiell needs. That’s what Tom would want.”

  “Will do. You go home and have a glass of wine, Jillian—‘cause it sure looks like you could use one. Say hi to your three amigos for me, pet them and relax. Stroking a cat gets your blood pressure down, you know. We’ll take fine care of Dashiell.”

  He turned and left through the door leading to the back of the clinic while I went in the opposite direction and into the waiting area. I passed Glenda, who waved good-bye.

  Once I’d climbed into my van, I thought, What next?

  But the answer came immediately.

  Find Tom. Find Tom. Find Tom.

  Three

  Before I left the vet’s parking lot, I took my phone from my purse, hoping Tom had left me a message. No such luck. I sighed heavily, staring at the screen. I touched the app for my cat cam. Watching my cats’ antics or just seeing them nap in the slivers of sun that striped the living room in the late afternoon always soothed me.

  Maybe because there was no sun today, my fur friends weren’t lounging in their usual spots. I switched to the kitchen feed and the bedroom feed, but they were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they’d decided hiding from the woman who might come home and cram them back into those carriers was a good idea. That’s what I’d do. Hide.

  I put my phone away and started for home, but as I turned onto Main Street I saw a Mercy PD patrol car parked in front of the best coffee shop on the planet—Belle’s Beans, with its green awning. Every shop on Main Street had exactly the same awning. Tradition and continuity were important parts of this small Southern town.

  I knew who drove that particular squad car thanks to the dent in the right front fender—my best friend, Deputy Candace Carson, and her partner, Deputy Morris Ebeling. I’d meant to call Candace about Bob Cochran’s presence in Tom’s house, but had forgotten all about him until I saw the police car. What the heck was brother Bob up to? How had he gotten inside the house? Was the man even who he said he was?

  What a relief my brain seemed to be functioning logically again—asking the important
questions. I pulled into a parking spot near the coffee shop and hurried over to Belle’s Beans. Candace would want the same answers I did.

  Today’s barista, or the “Belle of the Day” as owner Belle Lowry always said, greeted me with, “Hey there, Jillian. Vanilla low-fat latte?” She wore a BELLE name tag, but then, every barista who worked here sported one while on duty. Her real name was Beth.

  “Nothing right now, thanks.” My gaze swept the crowded café. The quiet conversations and the familiarity of the place would have been comforting on any other day. Not now, though. The high glossy wood tables for two lining the periphery of the coffeehouse were all occupied. The center tables seating four were almost all filled as well. Belle had added free Wi-Fi last month, and several people were working on their laptops. I spotted Candace and Morris in a far corner and, as I navigated between tables, I heard acoustic music playing softly, piped in through overhead speakers. Another new addition.

  Belle, a wise lady in her early seventies, always wanted her customers to feel comfortable. Sure, the coffee was the best I’d ever had. Plus, the refrigerated glass case filled with homemade pies, scones and cakes made the shop all the more popular—especially to someone like Morris. But music and technology could only improve a small business seemingly unaffected by the economic downturn. Yes, leave it to Belle to keep her shop thriving.

  Candace stood before I even reached their table, her expression showing her concern. “What’s wrong?”

  Morris said, “She looks right as rain to me, Candy. Or are you thinkin’ of becoming a psychic or somethin’? Oh yeah, I can see your shingle now. Candace Carson, Psychic Forensic Investigator.”

  “Shut up, Morris,” Candace said, her stare locked on my face.

  “Can we talk?” I said.

  “Oh boy.” Morris rolled his eyes. “When I hear the words can we talk I know there’s a passel of hassles headed our way.”

  “Sit.” Candace dragged a stool from an adjoining table.

  The squeal of the legs scraping on the floor made my already frazzled nerves light up even more. Candace and I both sat and she took my hand. “You’re as cold as a corpse. What has you so upset?”

  I took a deep breath and released the air slowly. “Might help me get this all straight in my head if I begin by telling you about my trip. I feel as if I have a jumble of computer wires for brains right now and I need to unwind them. Put everything in a straight line.”

  “What you need first is coffee.” Candace turned to Morris. “Get this woman some coffee, would you?”

  “Why, of course, boss girl. I’m thinkin’ I don’t want to hear this anyways.” Morris looked at me. “Your usual, Jillian?”

  I nodded and started fumbling in my pocket for the twenty I always keep in my jeans. “Guess I could use a latte.”

  But he waived off the cash and made his way to the counter. He sure must be anxious to get away from me, considering he’d offered to pay. Morris never paid.

  “Go on. Tell me.” Candace swiped at a wayward blond hair on her forehead. She rested her elbows on the table and supported her chin with both fists. She may be twenty years younger than me, but she is an old soul. Guess being a cop made her more mature than the average young adult.

  I quickly explained about Tom’s unreturned phone calls, his rush out of town, the sick cat and my concern about finding Bob Cochran in Tom’s house.

  When I was finished explaining, Candace said, “Did you call Tom’s mother and ask about this man who claims to be her son? Or ask if she knows where Tom is, for that matter?”

  “I wasn’t sure if that was wise,” I said. “Karen is well—unpredictable is the word that comes to mind.”

  “Nutcase, you mean,” Morris said, setting a steaming vanilla latte in front of me.

  “She’s no such thing, Morris Ebeling,” Candace said. “Free spirit, a little odd, but not crazy.”

  “Nutcase.” Morris reclaimed his seat. “Please tell me we don’t have to pay her a visit ’cause she’s gone and painted her house a funny shade of orange or set some life-size sculpture in her front yard that leaves nothin’ to the imagination.”

  “Nope. I think we’ll be making a call at Tom Stewart’s place.” Candace adjusted the two-way radio clipped to her forest green uniform shoulder. She then attached her cell phone to her belt. “Come on, Morris. Wrap the rest of your red velvet cake in a napkin and let’s move.”

  He didn’t budge. “This is our break, Candy. We get thirty minutes.”

  She placed both palms on the table in front of him and leaned close. “Tom Stewart might need our help. He’s more important than your cake break.” She pushed my latte closer. “Finish this and go on home. Chill out if you can. I’ll call you.”

  Morris grumbled as he wrapped his cake in a napkin. Then they left.

  But the relief I thought would come from having put this situation in Candace’s competent hands didn’t sweep over me, or even calm my stomach the tiniest bit. Still, I resolved to take her advice. I picked up my coffee, grabbed a to-go lid on the way out and headed for home.

  I felt my shoulders sag with disappointment when I found myself at my back door and remembered I’d failed to set my security alarm. Too rushed when I’d left earlier today, I guessed. Thanks to Tom, I now had a remote on my key chain for just that purpose, seeing as how I always seem to forget to arm the thing if I am in the least bit of a hurry.

  I unlocked the door—at least I’d locked up—but no cats sat waiting in the utility room. They were always there to greet me, but not this time. Hiding from another possible road trip, perhaps?

  I tossed the empty coffee cup into the trash can under the utility sink and stepped into the kitchen, surprised the well-caffeinated latte hadn’t made me feel more agitated than I already was. Syrah slinked up from the basement through the open door—a door always left open since my cats get irritated and whine when it’s shut. Maybe that’s where they’d been when I checked earlier. An occasional mouse did sneak into the basement.

  But when Syrah sat in the doorway and meowed rather than come to me, I felt a new tingle of adrenaline beneath my skin. My cat was telling me something—but what, I wasn’t sure.

  Since Syrah’s hair wasn’t standing on end and his ears weren’t laid back, he obviously didn’t feel threatened. A good sign.

  Then I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs and my heart skipped a beat. But when the voice I heard finally answered my most pressing question, I felt the wave of relief I’d been needing.

  “Don’t worry, Jillian. It’s just me,” Tom called.

  I was so happy to hear his voice I thought my legs would give out.

  Chablis raced through the basement door ahead of Tom and into the kitchen, followed immediately by Merlot. The man I’d been so concerned about appeared a second later.

  Before I could rush over and throw my arms around him, I froze at the sight of his face. What the heck happened to him? His left cheek was bruised and swollen, he had a cut over his eyebrow and his blue eyes were bloodshot.

  “I showered downstairs,” he said. “Didn’t want to mess up your guest bathroom—because I sure would have. You can close your mouth now, by the way.”

  I walked over and gently touched his bruised face with the tips of my fingers. “My gosh, what happened?”

  “Kind of a long story,” he said. “I could sure use a beer while I tell you.”

  “Certainly,” I answered, unable to take my eyes off him. His dark hair was wet and he hadn’t bothered to button his ripped, blood-streaked shirt. “I might even have a beer myself.”

  He grinned. “I don’t believe I have ever seen you drink a beer. Do I look that awful, or is something else going on?”

  Avoiding the question, I said, “Have you been to your house lately, by any chance?” I turned my back and headed for the fridge, deciding what I had to tell him should wait. All three cats followed me, hoping for something besides a beer. Cheese? Turkey luncheon meat?

  “Have
n’t been home yet,” he said. “My ride only took me this far.”

  “Your ride?” I said. Since his car was missing and Martha saw him leaving town in the Prius, this didn’t fit. But his car hadn’t been in my driveway, either. So I was confused as I opened the fridge door.

  I felt Tom’s hand on my shoulder. He leaned close and whispered, “I’ll explain everything. But you didn’t set your security system. You know how that bothers me, Jilly.”

  I grabbed a Miller Lite from the fridge door, and held out the can. Looking up to meet his gaze, I felt tears begin to flow. “I was frantic. You didn’t call me and I was sure something was wrong and I—”

  He pressed his index finger to my lips. “I’ll tell you everything, but if you don’t mind, there’s something I need first.” He took me in his arms, the icy can of beer the only thing separating us.

  His kiss was exactly what we both needed.

  Four

  Tom’s kiss reassured me that whatever happened to him had nothing to do with the two of us. After I found one of my late husband’s old Texas A&M T-shirts for Tom to replace his torn and bloody shirt, we settled on the couch. He let out a sigh before slugging down probably half his beer. I’d already finished off a much-needed glass of sweet tea while he’d changed shirts. Once we sat down, cats immediately arrived and planted themselves in their usual spots. Syrah sat on the sofa top behind Tom and me, Chablis climbed into my lap and Merlot settled next to my hip.

  “I don’t know what to ask first,” I said. “Start with the cuts and bruises, maybe. Or your car. I didn’t see the Prius in the driveway. Where is your car?”

  “If I start with the car, it would almost be like telling you the punch line of a joke first. But let me assure you, this was no joke,” he said. “Somebody will be damn sorry once I get home and use every tool in my technology box to get answers to what the heck is going on with those crazy jerks.”

  “Crazy jerks?” I said. “What crazy jerks?”

  “People I used to know. People I thought I’d never see again.” His jaw muscles tightened and those blue eyes darkened.