The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim: A Cats in Trouble Mystery Read online

  After she shut the lace-shaded front door, she opened her arms. “Why, it’s you, Candace. That sun had me squintin’ and I couldn’t see nothin’ but your uniform. Come here, girl.” Candace was soon gathered in the woman’s warm embrace. Birdie then held her at arm’s length and said, “What’s Buford done—’cause if that boy’s arrested, he can pack his belongings and find a new place to live. I don’t tolerate fools or criminals in my house.”

  Candace smiled reassuringly. “Nothing criminal. We just have a few questions about Mr. Jeffrey.”

  Her eyes shifted and I was almost certain she was blinking back tears. “Ah, this is about poor Norman, then. Such a good man.”

  “You knew Mr. Jeffrey?” I said.

  Birdie cocked her head, the inquiring squint returning. “You’re that cat lady, right? The one’s always running ’round with Miss Candace here?”

  I smiled. “That would be me. Jillian Hart.”

  “Seen your picture in the Mercy Messenger once or twice. I been knowing Miss Candace all her life—her grandma, rest her soul, was a dear friend from church. If you’re with her, then you’re fine by me. Let me get Buford before I forget why you came callin’ in the first place.”

  She lumbered to the old staircase and didn’t bother with an intercom or a phone, probably because she didn’t require anything more than her voice. “Buford, get your butt down here. Miss Candace is here for you.” Birdie offered me a quiet aside. “I know the boy wasn’t awake until I heard his phone ringin’. If ringin’s what you call a blast of music only Satan could endure. What’s wrong with phones ringin’ like they’s ’sposed to?”

  “I agree,” I said with a laugh. My thoughts drifted to Finn, Tom’s nineteen-year-old stepson. “But there’s a teenage boy I know well and his phone plays a loud song, too—something about a pay phone. A ringtone about something as obsolete as a pay phone just shows his sense of humor.”

  “You talkin’ about Finn, Mr. Tom’s boy? I’m thinkin’ y’all are practically family, right?”

  I nodded and smiled. Birdie certainly knew everything about everyone, but she did live in Mercy, after all, gossip capital of the South. She was so up front with her knowledge and such a warm person, it didn’t bother me in the least. Finn was a young man I held very dear to my heart.

  The pounding on the steps foreshadowed the appearance of Buford, a pudgy, flushed young man with thinning blond hair. He wore khaki shorts, a camo T-shirt and a pair of Crocs.

  “Your breakfast is sittin’ on the table and cold by now,” Birdie said. “Gonna get colder, too, lest you want to talk to Miss Candace in my kitchen.”

  Buford nodded, but he was staring at me. “Who’s this?”

  “Mrs. Hart. She’s doing a ride along. You don’t mind talking to me with her present?” Candace said.

  His small eyes shifted between us. “I don’t know. Seems weird. And if this is about Mr. Jeffrey’s medical stuff, that’s private.”

  “He’s dead, Buford. There’s nothing much private when you’re dead.”

  Birdie grabbed Buford’s shoulder, turning him in the direction of a long hallway. “Quit arguing with the police and get yourself in that kitchen. Those eggs is stone cold, but you’ll eat every bite or there won’t be another breakfast made by my hand for the likes of you.”

  Apparently that was a threat Buford took seriously. We soon found ourselves sitting at a Formica-covered kitchen table in the country-style room. Birdie placed a pot of coffee, slices of homemade bread and a pot of jam in the center.

  “I got cleanin’ left to do, so if you need anything, you just holler.” With that, Birdie left the kitchen.

  I poured cream into my coffee and watched the rich colors swirl together. It smelled heavenly.

  Meanwhile, Buford shoveled congealing scrambled eggs into his mouth and alternated those bites with crispy-looking bacon. He listened to Candace as she asked questions about how long Buford had been caring for Mr. Jeffrey and what his duties were.

  I sipped the smoky coffee, wondering immediately what kind of beans Birdie used. I had to get some. I then began to pay attention to Candace’s interview. Despite the distraction of delicious homemade bread and amazing coffee, I heard he’d worked for Mr. Jeffrey for about a year and came in the afternoons three days a week to prepare protein shakes, help the man bathe, shave and take short walks with assistance.

  “What kind of medical procedures did you do?” Candace asked.

  Buford pushed his clean plate away and leaned back in a chair so creaky I feared it might break under his weight. “Took his blood pressure and pulse. Checked his eyes for jaundice. That’s where the eyes get all—”

  “I know what jaundice is,” Candace said. “I did see him after he died and his skin was pretty yellow. Was that from the cancer?”

  “Yup.” Buford intertwined his thick fingers and rested them on his belly.

  “He was dead for probably three days before he was found. If you checked on him every few days, how’d you miss him lying in that chair in the front room?”

  Buford sat up straighter and the first sign of discomfort shadowed his features. “I took two days off to have a long weekend. Feel bad about that, but Mr. Jeffrey was fine with it. Sorry I wasn’t there when he passed.”

  Candace rested her forearms on the table and stared into Buford’s eyes. “When did you last see the man?”

  “Last Wednesday. I took off Thursday and Friday. Needed a little vacation. I do get vacation days. You found him on Monday, right?”

  “Right. Three days ago.” Candace sipped her coffee, her eyes still trained on Buford. “How was Mr. Jeffrey’s mental state?”

  Buford appeared confused by the question—and perhaps wary as well.

  Finally he said, “W-what do you mean?”

  “Was he sad . . . happy? You tell me, seeing as how not many people saw or talked to him but you.”

  “He was dyin’, Candy. How do you think he felt?” There was an unpleasantness in his tone for the first time.

  The muscles in Candace’s jaw tightened. He’d called her Candy and that was a big no-no. “Let me break it down if these questions are making you have to think too hard. Was he sad?”

  “No more than usual. He was a quiet old man for the most part. Only time I saw him happy was when he had that cat in his lap. He did miss Clyde.” Buford laughed. “And now Clyde’s come back as a celebrity.”

  “Back to Mr. Jeffrey. He wasn’t despondent, then?” Candace pressed.

  “Despondent? You pullin’ out your hundred-dollar words on me, Candy?”

  “Despondent as in so miserable he might want to take his own life?” she said slowly.

  Buford considered this so long, I wanted to clear my throat to get him to focus and answer the question.

  Finally he said, “I suppose he coulda been feelin’ that low.”

  “You never wrote that down anywhere or told a supervisor he might be suicidal, though, did you?” Candace’s tone told me she already knew the answer, had probably talked to someone at the agency about this.

  “I said I suppose he coulda felt like that. I know I would if I was about to meet my Maker.”

  “Let’s move along. Did his illness make him confused or forgetful?” she asked.

  “Nope. Not in the least. He had a routine and that’s good. I always tell the folks I care for that routine will keep their minds sharp. I deal with the elderly for the most part and—”

  “That’s nice, Buford,” she cut in. “Back to Mr. Jeffrey. You give him his medicine? ’Cause we noticed he had quite a few pill bottles.”

  “Nope. He had that all under control.” Wariness had returned to Buford’s eyes, but added to that, his intertwined fingers drew up and tightened into a white-knuckled knot.

  “Did he have one of those pill organizer things—you know, to keep his medicines straight?” she asked.

  “Why are you asking these questions, Candy? You think somethin’ fishy happened?”

 
“It’s my job to ask questions when someone dies, so just answer me.”

  Candace can be abrupt, but her attitude toward Buford bordered on rude. I got the feeling something in their past relationship had more to do with this than with Mr. Jeffrey’s death.

  Meanwhile, Buford licked his lips before continuing. “No pill organizer. Man had a lot of health problems, so he was taking stuff for his heart, stuff for pain, stuff for his stomach. But he knew what to take and when. Like I said, he didn’t have any trouble with his mind. It was liver cancer, not brain cancer, that was killin’ him.”

  For the first time, Candace took her small notebook from her shirt pocket and jotted down a few notes, then said, “I see. Helping him with the medicine wasn’t part of your job description, then?”

  He shook his head vigorously. “No way. I ain’t finished my schoolin’ yet to become a medication aide. But I’m getting there.” He smiled proudly. “Might be done by next month. For now, if you want to know about the medicine, talk to his doctor or the home health care nurse who visited once a month. She’s my supervisor—but then I get the feelin’ you already know as much.”

  She ignored his remark and went on. “You never touched those pill bottles, then?”

  Buford’s hands slackened and he began moving them as if lathering up. His forehead wrinkled as he considered the question and I noted that his earlobes were reddening, too. Then his hands stopped moving. “Wait a minute. Are you sayin’ I took his pain pills or something? Because I mighta’ pushed those bottles aside on the kitchen counter once or twice to make room for groceries I’d picked up, but I never took no drugs. Not never.”

  “Did I say that?” Candace rested against the chair and since I knew her well, I saw a familiar look of satisfaction in her eyes. “I’m thinking I’m making you nervous, Buford. Why’s that?”

  Buford glanced at his hands and, as if realizing they told more of the truth than the words he’d spoken, he dropped them to his sides. “I never had a patient turn up dead before, is all. I’ve taken a few to hospice or called an ambulance, but then my job is done.”

  “Did you pick up Mr. Jeffrey’s medicines from the pharmacy for him?” Candace asked.

  Beads of sweat had popped out along Buford’s receding hairline. “I did.”

  “Take them out of the paper bag?” Candace asked.

  “No way. Never touched his pills.”

  “But I’m guessing you knew exactly what he was taking—because it would be on his medical history notes. So, why don’t you write down the names of the medications for me—so we can make sure nothing is missing.” Candace tore a page from her notebook and pushed the paper and pen across the table to Buford.

  You’d have thought she put a rattlesnake on his empty plate. After Buford wet his lips with his tongue, his attitude clearly shifted. “What’s goin’ on here, Candy? I swear you’re accusing me of something.”

  “Not at all,” she replied sweetly. “This is a suspicious death and—”

  “The man had cancer,” he practically shouted. “How’s that suspicious?”

  Candace leaned in again. “We found a dead man. That’s all you need to know. Write down the drugs, Buford.”

  He snatched up the pen and scribbled for what seemed like forever. Maybe it seemed so long because the tension in the room was as thick as morning fog.

  When he’d finished and shoved the paper back at Candace, she folded it and put it in her pocket. “Thank you. Anything else you can tell us about Mr. Jeffrey? Like why his family isn’t around?”

  Buford let out a breath and seemed relieved to be moving on from the medication topic. “His cousin LouAnn came ’round to visit maybe a week ago. You talk to her?”

  “Not yet. What about his sister?” she asked.

  “Miss Millicent and her son are on their way, or so I’ve heard.”

  Candace’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Oh. You know them?”

  “’Course I do. Talked to Miss Millicent on the phone lots of times when she was checking on him. Dirk is the one who hired me. He comes into town every so often. I know them cousins of Mr. Jeffrey in Woodcrest, too. You sayin’ you came to me first, rather than talking to the family? What’s with that?”

  “Are you telling me how to do my job, Buford?” This was stated with enough frost to coat a lawn in winter.

  “Far as I recall, wasn’t no one could tell you nothin’, Candy Carson. ’Cause you already knew it all.”

  The chair legs scraped against the wood floor as Candace stood abruptly, sounding as angry as she looked. “We aren’t done, Buford. I’ll be back.” She glanced my way for the first time since we’d sat down. “Come on, Jillian. We’re out of here.”

  Six

  Candace stormed out of the house while I paused in the front living area. Birdie stood on a step stool cleaning a ceiling fan.

  “We’re leaving, Mrs. Roberts. Thanks so much. And by the way, your coffee was so delicious, I have to ask, what kind is it?”

  With a pleased smile, she told me her son sent the coffee beans from a small place in Brooklyn called Roasted. “He’s a professor, you know. Loves the big city.”

  “You must be so proud. I used to live in Houston, another big city, but I prefer rural America. Thanks for the information about the coffee. Maybe Roasted has a Web site and I can buy the beans online.” I said good-bye and started for the front door, but she called after me.

  “He’s made our Candace angry, huh? Boy’s gotta habit of doin’ stuff like that.”

  I turned back. “I have the feeling he might make you a little angry, too.”

  Birdie resumed her dusting. “I regret the day I rented that room to him. He’s noisy, messy, and his friends are as loud as he is. I believed he helped folks by doing his job and I figured God wanted me to give him a chance. I do believe I was wrong. You tell my Candace I apologize for him.”

  When I climbed in the car, Candace immediately said, “I messed that interview up. One of the unfortunate things about being a small-town cop is this is a small town. You know everyone and sometimes you know them too well.”

  “I could tell Buford was getting under your skin—and by the way, Birdie apologized for his behavior.”

  She pulled out of the driveway. “She is such a sweetheart. I should keep in touch with her more than I have in recent years.”

  We drove in silence for several minutes and finally I said, “Do you plan to tell me why Buford bothers you so much?”

  “Sorry. I was turning over in my mind how I could have handled the interview better.” She glanced out the window for a second. “Guess I owe you an explanation.”

  “I am interested—mostly because I worry about you trying to be too perfect. In my opinion, you handled yourself just fine. He seems like kind of a jerk—even though he was probably on his best behavior.”

  Candace laughed. “Kind of a jerk? That’s about the meanest thing I’ve ever heard you say about anyone. But you’re right. That was his best behavior. I thought he’d changed, considering his line of employment. Never assume.”

  “There’s old business between you two, I take it?”

  “There’s old business between Buford and half of Mercy High School class of 2006. The guy was a bully. And yes, I know that says more about him than the people he picked on, but sometimes you find yourself transported back to an unpleasant time in your life and react as if you were sixteen years old.”

  “What did he do to you?” I asked.

  “Silly stuff, really. He made fun of me, used to call me out in the hall when everyone was between classes, ask me why I spent all my time in the chemistry lab. Asked if I was hooking up with Mr. Elway in there.” She glanced my way again. “Mr. Elway was the chem teacher.”

  “Got it. I can tell the guy’s definitely never grown up. But you understand that every high school has people like that.”

  “I do.” She gripped the steering wheel tighter, seemingly not comforted by what I said. She tapped near her temp
le. “The problem is all between my ears, I know. Today I got the same feeling as if I were back in that crowded high school hallway. I wanted to slap Buford, even though today he was being less of a smart-ass than I recall. Guess I haven’t gotten over my issues about being labeled a nerd.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe you can get a do-over. Write down anything you didn’t ask him that you believe you should have and meet with him again.”

  Candace nodded. “Good idea. I did plan to talk to him once I had all my old high school crap tucked away in the back of my mind where it belongs. First, though, I hope to track down this cousin who lives in town. I believe Lydia called her to the county morgue for a formal ID and to sign off on the autopsy after I insisted they do one. But of course Lydia never feels obligated to inform me about much of anything.”

  “I feel like some of the problems you have with her being uncooperative are my fault—because she dislikes me so much.”

  Candace eased to a stop at the red light close to Belle’s Beans, our favorite coffee shop. “That is ridiculous. Lydia is nuts, always has been. But she does get her job done. I am sometimes amazed at how normal she can act when she’s dealing with grieving relatives—which is her responsibility, for the most part.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I only wish I could understand where her obsession with Tom began.”

  The light turned green and she drove on past the Main Street Diner toward the highway that leads to my house. “Why even try to understand? It won’t make sense.”

  I sighed. “You’re probably right.” For the last hour I hadn’t worried about Clyde, but a sick feeling came back like a fist in my gut as we made the turn toward home. I rested a palm against my stomach. “I hope we see that big boy sitting in my driveway when we get to my place.”

  “Jillian, we’ll find him. If he’s not there, I can pick you up at dusk tonight and we’ll go over to the Jeffrey house. According to my calculations using the time it took Clyde to trek across South Carolina, I would expect him to show up about that time.”

  I slumped a little in the less than comfortable squad car seat. “If something horrible happens to him along the way, I’ll never forgive myself.”