The Cat, the Sneak and the Secret Read online

  She unlocked the box and Candace helped her open the swinging door that protected the contents. The place on top where people dropped in their donations had a grill so that once items were deposited, it was impossible to retrieve them—sort of like the spikes at a parking lot that warned you not to go backward or risk tire damage.

  As I expected, Rebecca bent at the waist and peered inside, so I did the same. The box smelled like old socks and perspiration. I stepped back.

  “Exactly what are you looking for, Deputy Carson?” Rebecca said.

  I piped in with “Do you have to keep repairing the boxes? I mean, after someone breaks in?”

  She turned to me. “We’ve had to make locks and grills line items on the budget, it happens so often. There’s no keeping people out if they truly believe they need clothes or shoes that desperately. Can you believe they actually use a saw to cut through the grills?”

  “How awful.” I’d left my unfinished latte in the squad car and now gripped the full coffee cup intended for Rebecca, not quite knowing what to do with it. “Do they understand they could come to the charity store and you’d make sure anyone who couldn’t afford clothes or shoes—especially for their children—would get what they needed?”

  “We do need to have money to pay the store rent and utilities, Jillian. Contributions are wonderful, but every charity must have a budget. Not that there haven’t been times when we have offered the most destitute shopper a helping hand.” She glanced back at Candace, who began to remove a few trash bags stuffed to near bursting.

  “Deputy Carson, I only emptied this box a few days ago, so if I can be of any help, then—”

  “Does that happen often?” I needed to keep her attention on me and not Candace.

  Rebecca turned to me, and her tone was impatient. “Does what happen often?”

  “People in need have to ask you to give them things?” My attempt at a diversionary conversation was making me pretty depressed. It struck me that if I walked into the charity store, I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking Rebecca Marner for anything.

  “We do price items reasonably. It’s not like they’re shopping at Belk.”

  Belk was a fancy department store in the shopping mall by the freeway that was quite a ways away. Her condescension, her obvious disdain for those she was supposed to be helping, only made me feel more down.

  I forced a smile. “Of course they’re not shopping at Belk. I guess I need to learn more about the store and how it works. After my wedding, I might even volunteer.”

  Rebecca returned the smile. “Your wedding? When is that event again?”

  “This coming weekend. At the little church in the Mill Town.” I was surprised to notice that, this time, thinking about the wedding didn’t make me tense. In fact, I had a quick vision of Tom and me walking out of the church as man and wife. The image eased the constriction and sadness this brief talk with Rebecca had created.

  She raised her perfectly sculpted eyebrows. “You’re getting married in the Mill Town? Oh my. That is an interesting choice. But historic, I suppose. There is that.”

  “It’s the right choice for us.” This time I couldn’t keep the testiness out of my voice.

  “Because?” She was mining for gossip.

  “Because the pastor and his wife are two of the finest people I have ever met.”

  I could see the probing glint in her eyes fade. I had shut her down. “I’m certain it will be a lovely affair. And by all means, do volunteer. We need all the help we can get.”

  As long as Rebecca Marner wasn’t on duty the same day I volunteered, I might consider it. That way I could find out what people needed and how I could get it to them without this person standing in their way.

  Unfortunately my thoughts made me waver from my assigned task for a second.That was all the time Rebecca needed to whirl and focus on Candace, who was kneeling amid about a dozen trash bags now.

  Rebecca stood over her, her curiosity obviously not quelled by my attempt at distraction. “Let me help you, Deputy Carson.”

  “I got this.” Candace peered into the bag she’d steadied between her knees. “If you trust me with the key for an hour or so, I can go through all this and return it to the box or bring this stuff to the store. Either way I’ll get the key back to you as soon as possible.”

  “That doesn’t work for me. I’ll be out of pocket the rest of today with several committee meetings.” She tapped her foot as she pondered this. “But I suppose you could drop the key by my home. My daughter will be there after her class in . . . whatever it is she’s taking this semester at the community college.”

  As I listened from several feet away, the two of them made the arrangements. Candace would take the bags to the store and then drop the key off at Rebecca’s home. The woman then sped off in her luxury car.

  “How can I help?” I knelt next to Candace.

  She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and handed them to me. I traded them for the untouched coffee. She said, “I’ll examine the contents of these bags and then you keep what I hand you separate from what, if anything, I might consider as evidence.”

  Candace gulped down that extra dose of coffee as if it were water in the desert before she continued working.

  The job took us more than an hour and in the end, Candace found nothing with blood on it, nothing that screamed “a murderer dumped evidence in here.” She sat back on her heels. “There’s no way the cat could get inside this donation box and get out with that blood all over her. And certainly not with a locket wrapped around her leg. It’s all about the darn sofa.” Candace tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. “I wish that kitty could talk. She’s my witness.”

  I was sitting cross-legged, folding old clothes and returning them to the bags Candace had emptied. “She may have climbed between those cushions to hide if something was happening—and by something I mean a gun going off.”

  Candace shook her head and didn’t bother folding anything as she shoved clothes and toys back into bags. “Bullets and blood concern me and I won’t give up on this problem until I have answers.”

  She didn’t need to tell me what I already knew.

  We loaded the bags into the trunk of her squad car. Candace drove to the charity store as if she were driving a getaway car with me gripping the sides of the passenger seat tightly. Not only was she driving like a demon, but she had a look in her eye that I knew only too well.

  She would get to the bottom of this mysterious blood. And because she’d decided I could talk to people she felt uncomfortable with, I’d be smack in the middle again.

  I didn’t mind. I needed the distraction.

  Five

  After we dropped off the contents of the donation box at the Charity Thrift Store, Candace got a call from B.J., who said she was needed back at the station. She took me home and handed me the key to the box, asking if I wouldn’t mind dropping it off whenever I got the chance.

  I stared at her as we sat in my driveway. “Whenever I get the chance? Shouldn’t I take this to her house right now?”

  “That would be no. You are busy. I am busy. She can wait.”

  “But—”

  “I don’t want you to take it to her house until at least tomorrow. That woman needs to learn that police business trumps her social schedule.”

  I shoved the key in my jeans pocket. “If you say so—boss.”

  Her expression softened. “Sorry to sound like a bear, but I don’t like her attitude.”

  “Okay, tomorrow—if I get the chance. How does that sound?” I smiled, afraid I was sounding a little like a bear myself.

  “Perfect.”

  With that, I climbed out of the car and waved a good-bye that went unnoticed. Candace was definitely preoccupied by what had gone on today.

  My cats greeted me with sleepy eyes and I was relieved t
o see Magpie hadn’t managed to find an escape route, though perhaps she’d put a plan in place during my absence.

  My phone pinged. Finn texted me that Shawn would be dropping him off in about an hour so I didn’t need to pick him up. After doling out crunchy treats to all four cats, I considered what to feed the hungry men in my life.

  This week was so packed with planning and sewing and now a mystery, food was the last thing on my mind. Tom was across the lake on a PI job, and I didn’t want to risk ringing him if he was busy. I texted him and asked if he could bring home sandwiches from the local sub shop.

  He responded by calling to ask what Finn and I wanted, since he was halfway back to Mercy. I asked for a hot pulled pork sub and told him to pick up something he knew Finn liked. I would have to learn more of his favorites, since he would be living with us for a spell. So far, I hadn’t seen him refuse any hot meal . . . or cold meal . . . or snack. He was twenty years old and still growing, maybe even making up for lost time when he’d lived with his emotionally abusive mother. Kids do pick up the tab for their parents’ problems. Finn was an unhappy young man when we first met. Tom, though not his biological father, certainly was the best thing that ever happened to him. His mother and father were out of the picture now and had no say in where he lived. Finn was over eighteen and could make his own decisions.

  By the time we sat down to eat at the dining room table situated between the breakfast bar and the living area—we’d designed the house to be very open to give us optimal lake views—Syrah was already sniffing around. He loved pork and was always disappointed when we spoiled it with the mustard-based Carolina barbecue sauce.

  Tom told Finn that he’d asked Ed and his mother, Karen, to keep Yoshi for the coming week, since we’d all be so busy with the wedding drawing near. “That dog loves to go fishing with Ed and enjoys being at the shop.”

  Finn didn’t seem too thrilled about this; in fact, when he’d arrived here from college, he asked if Yoshi could come stay here as soon as possible. I thought it was fine, but apparently Tom had other ideas.

  Rather than voice his disappointment, Finn changed the subject. “Did you figure out where the blood came from?”

  Tom’s eyes opened so wide the lids disappeared for a second. “Did you say blood?”

  “He did,” I answered. “I can explain.”

  “Please. This sounds far more interesting than my day following a guy who’s cheating on his wife. Divorce keeps me in business, but I can’t say I enjoy documenting a cheater’s behavior.”

  I filled Tom and Finn in on the rest of my day, which to me didn’t sound any more exciting than Tom’s.

  “Sounds like the lady’s full of herself.” Finn balled up the wrapping from his Italian sub, wiped his mouth with a napkin and tossed these things in the bag the subs came in.

  “She is. But I’ve been pulling memories of conversations I heard between folks who volunteer in her circles. I recall she had some kind of personal trouble a couple years back. Maybe she’s hiding bitterness or depression over whatever it was.”

  “Or she’s full of herself.” Finn stood, seemingly anxious to remove himself from the conversation. “Now, where’s Magpie? Getting acquainted with every hiding place in your house?”

  The cat must understand plenty of words, because as soon as Finn spoke she came sauntering from the hallway. A spool of thread bounced behind her. Thread was wrapped around her paw, but she appeared completely unbothered. In fact, she seemed quite proud of herself.

  When I went to help get her untangled, I realized she had something in her mouth. I tried to remove it, but she turned her head away. Cats, no matter how small, are quite strong when they want to be. I wasn’t about to fight with her.

  “Finn, I need your help,” I called.

  Both Finn and Tom came to the rescue and only then was I able to extricate my very expensive Roxanne gold thimble from her mouth. She blinked slowly at me as if to say, “You may have caught me this time, but just wait.” This girl had been busy and there were plenty more treasures in my sewing room where this thread and thimble came from.

  “Bet she thinks she’s come to kleptomaniac heaven,” I said.

  Finn cradled her as Tom removed the last of the thread from her paws.

  Tom smiled. “Finn tells me all doors leading to outside are a challenge to this one. She’s an escape artist like our last feline friend, Clyde.”

  “Gosh, I miss that big orange guy.” I’d fostered him and he now lived in New York City. “Anyway, cats hate a closed door, and your fur baby Dashiell is no different, as I recall. But this one must really dislike them—or love the opportunity to show how smart she is.”

  “Syrah will show her all the ways to get around this place,” Tom said.

  “Oh yes, he will.” Syrah knew how to open doors, too, but he didn’t find it necessary too often. It was easier for me to leave closet doors ajar and other entrances open. Otherwise he’d work away at them and scratch the wood.

  “You guys realize,” Finn said as he stroked Magpie, “we’ll have five cats here when Tom moves in after the wedding.”

  “The more the merrier.” I stroked the side of Magpie’s cheek and she began to purr.

  • • •

  The next morning, the key to the donation box was burning a hole in my pocket as I pulled into Rebecca Marner’s driveway around ten. Would she be home? Would I face her wrath for keeping the key longer than she’d wanted us to? I did have a ready-made excuse—my wedding plans—even though Kara was making the whole thing quite easy by taking over on all fronts.

  I took a deep breath and walked up the stone-and-slate walkway to the two-story brick home. The house had to be at least four thousand square feet. I noticed it was quite isolated here, with huge white oaks and pines canopying bright green ferns. The leaves had turned to burnished gold and deep red. Their beauty made me forget that the nearest house was maybe a half mile away. And what did that matter, anyway? It wasn’t as if I was walking into a trap. Okay, maybe I was a little worried about Rebecca’s reaction. That could be a bit of a trap.

  I pushed the thought aside as I reached the double front doors with beautiful lead glass windows and sidelights. The doorbell was backlit and I pressed it quickly—as if that would help me end this chore swiftly so I could leave. Not really, Jillian. It doesn’t work that way.

  A girl who looked to be about Finn’s age—late teens or early twenties—answered the door wide enough to wedge her petite body in the space between me and the interior of the house. Too bad her clear-skinned oval face was marred by disdain as she appraised me. “What do you want?”

  “Is Rebecca here?” I asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Are you her daughter?”

  “Unfortunately I am. Come back later—and call first, because she’s not home very much.” She was about to close the door.

  “Wait.” I held out the key. “She said to leave this with you.”

  The daughter screwed up her face and stared at the key as if it were a snake ready to strike. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  Best to counter insolence with kindness, I decided. “Just give it to her if you would, please?”

  “Funny how she can get people to do stuff for her, like all the time. You . . . and now me. Doesn’t that bug you?”

  “It’s no problem. What’s your name, by the way?” I smiled warmly. I detected melancholy in her brown eyes and knew her attitude was masking pain of some kind. Or maybe hiding loneliness?

  Her eyebrows rose. “Oh. Are you supposed to report back exactly who has possession of this precious key to the kingdom of charity?”

  Smart girl, I thought. Sarcastic comebacks require a quick mind. “No. I just kind of like you, so I’d like to know your name.”

  I could see surprise overtake surliness. “Lindsey, okay? Now, if you don’t mind, I ha
ve an exam to study for.”

  She took the key and closed the door before I could even say thank you. So I pressed my mouth close to the door and called my thanks—and heard a “You’re welcome” in response.

  Yup. For some reason, I liked that girl. Maybe the old “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” thing was going on. And this girl did speak of her mother like an enemy. But did I consider Rebecca an enemy? No. It was Lindsey’s spunk I liked.

  Since Kara and I had an errand to run for the wedding, my next stop was the Mercy Messenger offices. She was the owner, editor and photographer of the town paper.

  I didn’t even have to leave the van. A smiling Kara was waiting for me on the sidewalk, her dark brown satchel-type bag strapped over a stylish short jean jacket. She climbed into the passenger seat. “How’s the bride-to-be? Nervous?”

  “Not really. Okay . . . maybe a little. I need to finish the dress. Martha at the Cotton Company will be helping me with the fitting. Besides being an amazing quilter, she’s quite the seamstress. I need a few alterations that I sure can’t handle myself.”

  Kara shook her head. “Sorry. I’m of no help in that department. I’m useless when it comes to sewing and I’ll bet your beautiful other bridesmaid, Candace, is as well. Leaving these final details in the hands of other people is probably part of your anxiety. I know how independent you are.”

  “You’re probably right, Dr. Kara.” I laughed. “Next thing you know you’ll be writing an advice column for the Messenger.”

  She laughed. “Maybe I will. Please don’t worry too much. Your day will be perfect and joyful and all the things a wedding is supposed to be.”

  We drove several blocks to a gift shop on Main Street where we’d had favors made for all the guests. Lynn Summer’s Specialty Gifts combined the owner’s creative talent for making unique gifts with her expertise in ordering items to sell in her store that always fit the season.