The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim: A Cats in Trouble Mystery Page 4

Tom was hungry, though, and while he heated up a few slices, I made the phone calls I didn’t want to make—to Candace and to Shawn.

  Candace, like Tom, figured the cat would be fine and would show up on his own either at my house or at Mr. Jeffrey’s place. Shawn was another story. He was always emotional, and now he was angry.

  “How could you let this happen, Jillian?”

  “I’m so, so sorry. But we’ll find him.”

  “If he doesn’t get hit by a car or chased down and torn apart by a stray dog.” I heard him take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Sorry. Me and my big mouth. I don’t mean to make you feel bad. I’ve lost cats myself. He’ll find Mr. Jeffrey’s house again—maybe as soon as tomorrow. We’ll get him back. Meanwhile, I’ll make up some Lost Cat flyers to post in a few businesses like Belle’s Beans. Can’t risk those city folks coming here with their cameras and trucks. They’re pests and they spook my shelter animals.”

  Usually Shawn would tweet about Clyde’s escape or put his information up on a missing pet Web site and Facebook, but neither of us wanted those reporters to come back—and they do watch the Internet like hawks. Word of mouth in Mercy is almost as good anyway.

  I offered to phone Doc Jensen and have him inform his vet staff about Clyde so they’d know if anyone called in to report having found him. Shawn said he’d take care of it, and after we said our good-byes, I hung up with tears stinging my eyes. The weather was perfect, with no rain in the forecast for tonight, and it wasn’t as if Clyde didn’t know what he was doing. But I still felt terrible and was sick with worry.

  I hung my head and soon felt myself enveloped in Tom’s loving arms. I allowed the tears to fall, remembering the panic I’d felt when Syrah had been snatched a few years ago. Miserable thoughts love the company of unhappy memories.

  But I would find that cat—if it was the last thing I did.

  • • •

  I spent a restless night worrying about Clyde, fearing the worst—that he’d been hit by a car or maybe attacked by a raccoon. I finally gave in to the insomnia and got out of bed around five a.m. Fortified with strong coffee, I walked out on the deck and called Clyde’s name. I leaned on the railing and scanned the landscape, the rising sun illuminating my wooded backyard. I saw no cat, and only the mockingbirds answered. I thought that was sadly ironic.

  I went to my craft room with Syrah, Merlot and Chablis leading the way inside. Syrah immediately found an empty wooden spool—one of his favorite toys—and Merlot sat and watched him bat it around, waiting for a chance to take over if Syrah lost control of it. Meanwhile, Chablis joined me in my comfy chair where I did most of my handwork and settled on the padded right arm next to me.

  I attempted to distract myself by finishing off the hand-quilting on an order for a woman in Minnesota with five cats. Though I usually machine quilt my kitty quilts since they require laundering pretty often, she’d asked her order of five quilts be hand-quilted. Nothing but the best for my babies, she wrote in her e-mail.

  I was creating a pattern on the fifth and final quilt—an outline of a seated cat inside each block. But after stitching for more than an hour and having to take out almost every thread and redo my work, I gave up. I couldn’t concentrate. I kept wondering if Clyde might be hanging around my house even though I hadn’t seen him. It was worth another look.

  Though it was still too early to alert the neighbors about a missing cat, I could walk up and down the street and check the wooded areas again. I tied my tennis shoes and opened a fresh can of salmon cat food for my three buddies. They had already informed me that it was their breakfast time.

  They were chowing down when I left through the back door to search the yard and look under the deck one more time. Having no luck, I walked around to the front of the house. As I went along, I called “Here, kitty,” or “Here, Clyde,” even though I knew exactly where we’d find that cat later today or tomorrow—at the Jeffrey home.

  But it wasn’t Clyde who came in answer to my voice this warm morning, but rather a stranger. I looked up to see her at the end of my driveway, right near the mailbox. The young woman had Asian features, shiny black hair cut in a pixie style and a bright smile. She looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. She didn’t walk up my drive to meet me, and then it dawned on me why.

  Morris had warned the media to stay off my property and she was being careful to remain on the street. This person was with the press.

  I groaned inwardly. She probably heard me calling for Clyde and no doubt guessed he was missing. I was willing to bet her big smile was because she was about to get a major scoop—something that might read OUR WANDERING FELINE IS OFF ON ANOTHER JOURNEY.

  I pasted on a smile of my own and strode toward her, trying to convey via my body language that all was right with the world—when it was anything but.

  “Hi. Can I help you?” I asked on reaching her.

  She extended her hand. “Emily Nguyen, Channel Five, Asheville. Are you Jillian Hart?”

  I took her tiny hand—she seemed no bigger than a twelve-year-old—and we greeted each other with nods and smiles.

  Then I blinked as I took in her face. “You’re the weather girl, right?”

  Her dark eyes stared into mine. “I do other things. Special features on the weekend.”

  I’d upset her and I wondered what the politically correct term was. Weather presenter? “Sorry. You’re a reporter, too, then. I guess I’ve only seen you do the early morning weather and traffic reports.”

  Her face relaxed and she offered that winning smile again. “That’s okay. Not many people understand you have to start out somewhere. For a year, all I did was bring people coffee while I was studying to become a meteorologist.”

  “Wow. You’re a meteorologist?” I didn’t recall her doing the weather during the main newscasts.

  She couldn’t keep the frost out of her voice. “Once I got a full-time job on air with the station, I saw no need to continue in meteorology. It isn’t my calling. I’m just doing fill-in weather reports and the morning commuter info to start. I have to say, the meteorologists have been so helpful. But my dream is to become a newscaster. And I will make it happen.”

  “I understand. Well, how can I help you, Miss Nguyen?” I knew I was in for a grilling.

  “Did I hear you calling Clyde’s name—Clyde, the wonderful cat our country has embraced?”

  I had no idea what to say. She’d given me an opening to put her off with a lie, but lying didn’t come easily for me. Thank goodness, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Candace’s RAV4 speeding toward us down my street.

  “You might want to step onto the lawn or you’ll risk life and limb.” I tugged the sleeve of her short denim jacket and nodded in the direction of the oncoming vehicle.

  Emily Nguyen moaned her displeasure. “Not her.”

  I smiled inwardly. “Ah. You know Deputy Carson?”

  “Let’s just say we’re not best friends,” Emily said.

  Candace pulled into my driveway and joined us by the mailbox. Since she’d arrived in her own car and wore boyfriend jeans and a T-shirt, I assumed she wasn’t on duty yet.

  “What are you doing here?” she said to Emily.

  “Following up on the story, Deputy. The interviews were given to the major outlets. We little people have to keep a finger in the pie somehow.”

  “How long have you been hanging around Mrs. Hart’s house?”

  “Why is that important?” Emily tried to appear clueless, but I decided she might need acting lessons. Then a little shiver climbed my arms. Had she been here last night when we’d been hunting for Clyde as well?

  “Have you been here since the crack of dawn? Earlier than that?” Candace demanded.

  Emily stood taller and raised her chin. “The sun has clearly been up for an hour. Besides, if you eat kale on a regular basis like I do, you can wake up with enough energy—”

  “Emily. Wannabe Reporter Girl?” Candace moved within a foot of
the woman-child and looked down on her. “Let me rephrase the question. How long have you been outside Jillian’s house?”

  “It’s not a crime to be an early riser, you know. Maybe since about four a.m?”

  “Next question,” Candace said. “Don’t need an essay in response, either. Why?”

  “Because it’s important to tell the whole story. Follow-up is crucial.” Emily sounded almost sincere. Almost.

  Candace tried to hide a smile. “We’re talking about a cat here, not civil unrest in a foreign country.”

  “But from what I’ve seen and heard this morning, it sounds like he’s missing again. And the world needs to know.” This time her smile was triumphant. “And guess who’ll be the first journalist to report on this? I’m thinking you should give me the story. I’m here and I can report this piece the way it ought to be told. Poor Clyde the Cat, after months on the road, once again—”

  “Stop.” Candace held up a hand in exasperation. “Here’s what we’re gonna do—and if you want the scoop on this, you’ll go along. Yes, the cat is missing. But if you report it, all those big-time news folks will come rushing back to town. So, you’re gonna keep quiet for now. When we find Clyde—and we will.” Candace glanced my way. “We will. Anyway, I promise you’ll be the first to tell the story of his latest escape from beginning to end.”

  Emily’s eyes narrowed. “You promise?”

  “I keep my word,” Candace replied. “You leave us alone for now. But tell me where you’re staying so I can get back to you when we find him.”

  After giving Candace her information—a cell number and the chain motel she was staying at up by the interstate miles away—Emily Nguyen tottered away on too-high summer wedges and left in a beat-up Altima parked down the road.

  Candace shook her head slowly in disgust. “Just what we don’t need. Someone ambitious like her. She hung around the station for hours yesterday, so she may know something is hinky with Mr. Jeffrey’s death. How, I don’t know.” She turned to me. “And now, I can’t function one more second without sweet tea.”

  Five

  I usually have sweet tea ready and I’d made a new batch last night before bed with plenty of cane sugar syrup. Candace poured us each a tall glass while I popped a few frozen buttermilk biscuits into the oven. Since Tom had brought over plenty of peaches, I sliced some of those up, too. Biscuits and a bowl of sliced fruit sounded good to both of us.

  We soon sat in the breakfast nook and Candace mumbled her delight after her first bite of the succulent peaches.

  “I forgot to eat breakfast, and this is way better than the Pop-Tart I left sitting on the counter,” she said.

  “Hits the spot,” I said. “Why are you here so early? I mean, I’m so glad you came when you did—you saved me from that reporter by showing up at exactly the right time. But is everything okay?”

  She took a long drink of tea before answering. “I was worried how you’re holding up after what happened. I figured you’d be beside yourself and need a friend. But a cat like Clyde? One who’s traveled a couple hundred miles already? He was bound and determined to get on the road again, Jillian. Don’t go blaming yourself.”

  “I should have been more vigilant. I feel terrible about letting him escape—and he was gone in a flash.”

  “But just like you told me last night, he’ll show up at the Jeffrey house and you’ll get him back.”

  “Another thing has been bothering me,” I said. “I’ve been condemning the media in my mind for paying more attention to Clyde than to poor Mr. Jeffrey and his tragic death. But I’ve been guilty of the same thing myself. I want to know more about the man. Can you share what you know?”

  “Not much to share yet. I intend to learn about him myself. For now, I believe he was murdered. And I always ask myself what made him a candidate to be a victim? Who might have wanted him out of the way sooner rather than later? See, that’s what’s important in this case. He was gonna die, but apparently not soon enough, according to someone out there.”

  I shook my head, feeling sad. From all accounts, the man died alone. “So you’re certain it’s murder and you’re on the case. I can’t think of a better person to be on Mr. Jeffrey’s side.”

  “Until the complete toxicology report comes back, it’s not officially a murder. The missing digitalis is the only reason they agreed to an autopsy, so the pathologist drew blood and looked specifically for the drug. He found levels that were far too high, but there could be other findings in the tox report. All I can do for now is to investigate his death as suspicious—and even Chief Baca believes I’m stretching it on that one. He’s thinking suicide. But whatever he believes, it won’t stop me.”

  I licked remnants of honey from my biscuit off my fingers. “I’m sure of that. How exactly will you investigate?”

  “First I’ll be interviewing Buford Miller. He’s the home health aide who cared for Mr. Jeffrey. If anyone knows about that digitalis, it’d be him.”

  I perked up. “Could I go with you? Do one of those ride-along things?”

  “Why, Jillian?”

  “Like you said, this man knew Mr. Jeffrey. Probably knew him better than anyone while the old guy was so ill. I’d like to hear what he has to say. It would ease my mind if I knew as much about him as I do about Clyde.”

  “Can’t see any harm in it—but Buford would have to agree. If he doesn’t, you’ll have to sit in my car and wait, okay?” She glanced down at her shirt and jeans. “I have to change into my uniform.”

  “So we have to go back to the station? Or to your apartment?”

  “I planned on heading to work after coming here. Got my uniform in the RAV. We can swing over to the courthouse after I change, get my squad car and be on our way.”

  “But what about Morris? Will he want to go, too?”

  Candace laughed. “Are you kidding me? Maybe when I have solid evidence he’ll be on board with the investigation. Besides, the chief was adamant this case was my thing. He didn’t want two officers tied up on a hunch. Since we have a paperwork backlog, Morris said he’d handle it while I interviewed Buford.”

  “Doesn’t sound like just a hunch,” I said. “The medication count is wrong.”

  “It is. That’s why I need to speak with Buford. Perhaps either he or Mr. Jeffrey kept some of the medicine in a different container—like one of those pill organizers—though I never saw one of those. I specifically looked when I was at the Jeffrey house yesterday afternoon, thinking maybe I overlooked it. Came up with nothing. But I bagged every medicine bottle as evidence. Maybe Mr. Jeffrey mixed up his pills—had them in the wrong bottles. Who knows what the complete tox screen will show.”

  “You mean there could be other drugs that caused his death, ones he took by accident?” I said.

  “Maybe. Or he took too much because someone switched things up on him. I simply don’t know. I would think Buford should have answers.”

  I nodded, understanding that Candace always looked at a case from every angle. “Guess you’re right to explore the possibilities. Could Mr. Jeffrey’s family have come to town? Moved things or put his pill organizer in a different place?”

  “I don’t know that, either. They’ll be in Mercy tomorrow to make funeral arrangements and I can ask them. But I learned last night that Mr. Jeffrey has several cousins, many of whom live close by. A widowed childless cousin, LouAnn Rafferty, resides right here in Mercy. The other families live in Woodcrest. Not far away at all. Learned all this from the pathologist, who in turn had been informed of this by Lydia Monk. Apparently she tracked them down and made the death notification. Of course, she never told any of us at Mercy PD.”

  Lydia Monk was the coroner’s investigator, a peculiar woman who happened to have an obsession with my Tom. She had the deluded belief that deep down he loved her and that one day they would be together. Needless to say, she disliked me with a passion.

  No surprise Lydia hadn’t spoken to Candace, but what about these relatives? I said,
“None of the family even made a phone call to Mercy PD about Mr. Jeffrey’s death? And why didn’t the neighbors who informed you about Clyde’s loud arrival home tell you about these relatives?”

  “You’re assuming the neighbors knew about them. Who knows what the family situation is? Could be the sister has spoken with the cousins. Or maybe there’re bad feelings in the family. Old grudges. Or could be they’re all on vacation.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “but it’s been days since he died. Something doesn’t feel right about this.”

  Candace pointed at me. “Exactly.”

  “From all you’ve told me, sounds as if Mr. Jeffrey was pretty much alone dealing with a terminal illness. How awful.”

  She nodded. “I agree. But it could be that’s the way he wanted it. He wouldn’t be the first person facing his Maker who pushed family and friends away. Anyway, it’s time to visit with Buford. Be warned, he and I went to high school together and he’s . . . different. Always was a troublemaker—pranks mostly. I was surprised to see he ended up in a job caring for others, but I guess he finally decided to care about someone besides himself.”

  Candace called the home health care agency that employed Buford Miller and learned he wouldn’t start his shift until the afternoon. She phoned him after jotting down a number the agency gave her and told him to expect her soon at his residence and not to go anywhere.

  Candace stood and smiled. “I know this address, know exactly where he lives. And I sure don’t want to give him too much time to think. Let’s go.”

  • • •

  Buford Miller rented a room in the top floor of an old house off Main Street in downtown Mercy. His landlady, a large black woman named Birdie Roberts, greeted us with narrow-eyed interest after she answered the front door.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Roberts. We came to see Buford.” Candace smiled.

  The woman gestured us into a foyer. The smell of bacon hit me immediately, but the air carried the scent of laundry detergent and lemon oil as well. Mrs. Roberts had already been busy today.