Heart Strings

by Lynne Waite Chapman

  “Just trust our police department to do their job.”

  “You’re right. We can’t worry about it. Just let justice take its course. Personally, I want to forget about it and write—something peaceful.”

  “How’s the book coming along?”

  “Book? Oh, I’ve put it on hold for a while.” I’d almost forgotten the fabricated novel. “I’m going into Ava’s now to work on article ideas. I’ll call you later.” I clicked off.

  Few customers frequented the coffee shop at this time of day, and I welcomed the solitude.

  Settled with a cup of my favorite brew, I feverishly recorded ideas, until the chirp of my cell phone broke my concentration.

  Should’ve turned it off.

  It was a surprise to hear Wallace Binion’s voice. “I have some information you can use.”

  “Information?” I didn’t have a clue as to what he was referring.

  “The New York City address of that classmate of yours. And a few numbers of current residents in the apartment building. Maybe give them a call and see if they remember him.”

  Paul Cooper. I’d pushed those suspicions out of my mind. “Wow, that’s great Wallace. How did you—?”

  “Called some people. Listen, I’ll be out of town for the next few days. I’ll leave the address for you. Lauren, no matter what you discover, wait for me. Don’t do anything unless it’s talking to the police.”

  “Okay. I’ll... Wallace?” The line was dead.

  I scooped up my stuff and made for the door, hoping to catch him before he left.

  Within five minutes I pulled into my drive and jogged across the yard. I punched the doorbell. No answer. I rang it again, fully aware he was already gone. Wallace wasn’t one to waste time.

  My mailbox held a sticky note with the address and phone numbers. I plucked the note and read as I opened the door. I tossed my handbag on the end table, but it fell off. A cat occupied the spot.

  “How’d you get in here? Back outside you go.” He slipped through my grasp and jumped to the floor morphing into a black and white blur as all four feet went into motion. Claws clattered on the hardwood and he skittered across the room, disappearing under the sofa.

  Crap.

  Down on my hands and knees, I reached in as far as I could. Having come up empty, I stretched farther and swished my hand back and forth. Nothing. I got down on my stomach for one more try. This time, I grasped a paw, and slowly pulled the limp animal from his hiding place. Drawing him into my arms, I held him firmly and struggled to my knees. His warm body emitted a super-charged purr. My resolve slipped away.

  “You can’t stay here.”

  He twisted in my arms, and snuggled closer, pressing his head under my chin. The furry body vibrated, his heart beat next to mine.

  Uh, oh.

  ~

  Two hours and fifty dollars later, a selection of cat supplies sat on the back porch.

  The cat curled up next to my feet while I worked at the computer. As soon as I powered it down and flipped on the television, he claimed my lap and spent the evening there.

  I let him explore the house when I went to bed, but awoke the next morning with my feet pinned to the mattress. I propped myself up on my elbows and stared at the sleeping cat. As he raised a lazy head and blinked at me, I questioned the wisdom of this adoption. What do stray cats carry? Fleas, lice, tics, disease?

  “Cat, you and I have to make a trip to the vet to get a checkup and shots.”

  After a lazy stretch, from his front toes to the tip of his tail, he jumped from the bed and stalked out of the room.

  I showered and sat at the kitchen table expecting the cat to sit at my feet. When he didn’t show, I went on a search, room by room.

  “Here kitty kitty.” Not a sight nor a sound of him.

  Finally, I peeked under the sofa. A glint of light, reflected in a golden eye, revealed his hiding place. By lying flat on my stomach, again, and extending my arm as far as possible, I took hold of a paw and tugged until I got a grip on the cat, who seemed to be playing dead. Holding the lifeless body, I struggled to my feet. One golden eye opened.

  “It’s only a check-up and maybe a vaccination.” Both eyes were now open. “Unless we go, you can’t stay inside.” He blinked.

  I managed to maintain control while I gathered my keys and wrenched the Chrysler door open. Once inside, I released him to sit on the passenger seat.

  The drive was easier than anticipated. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t scratch me, or try to sit on my head. Safely parked in the veterinary clinic parking lot, I confidently turned to pick him up. Gone. I got on my knees to inspect the floor in the back seat, and then crawled over the seat to the cargo area. No cat. After five minutes, I located him under the front seat and began to pry him loose. He became all elbows, knees, and stretched out toes. I’d pull one paw free and three others would spread out and brace themselves against the mechanisms of the seat. By the time I’d loosed each appendage and got him out of the car, perspiration dripped into my eyes, and my shirt stuck to my back.

  Inside, I spoke to the receptionist and took a place on a bench to wait our turn. The cat tucked his tail between his legs and his head under my arm, revealing only a ball of fur to others in the room.

  Ten minutes later, we were called to the examining room. The cat willingly jumped onto the stainless steel table and allowed Dr. Barry to stroke his head.

  “You say he’s a stray?” Dr. Barry opened the cat’s mouth. “Teeth are good.”

  “Yes.”

  Why is that cat so calm?

  “He showed up at my house and wouldn’t go away so I fed him and then he sort of moved inside.”

  Dr. Barry laughed. “That’ll happen with cats.” He turned the cat over, looked at his feet, picked him up, and said. “Well hello, Mason. We’ve been wondering where you went.”

  My head jerked up, full attention on the doctor. “Mason? You know him? Do you know who lost him?” My stomach twisted into a knot and my lips began to quiver.

  The doctor placed Mason back on the table. “He used to belong to Fred Kissinger. Fred died, at ninety-five, a few months ago. The family went to clean out the house and said Mason just disappeared.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know he had owners.” I took a deep breath and squeaked. “I can take him to them.” My fingers inched stealthily toward the cat. The door was only three feet away. I could grab him and make a run for it. Had I given the receptionist my full name?

  “It’s up to you.” Dr. Barry said. “It looks to me like Mason is happy and healthy. The Kissingers were just going to take him to the shelter. They don’t want him.”

  I snatched the cat from the table and croaked. “The shelter? No. I’ll keep him. He chose me, after all.”

  Dr. Barry smiled and his eyes twinkled. “He sure did. I’m glad he’s found himself a good home.”

  The doctor moved to a computer and with a few keystrokes, brought up what I guessed was Mason’s file. “All his shots are up to date. I’m updating his address with the information you supplied this morning.”

  “Thank you.” Mason struggled in my arms until I realized I was choking him. I loosened my grip and backed toward the door. “How much do I owe?”

  “Not a thing today.” Dr. Barry was still smiling. He had a great smile. “Just bring him in for his yearly check-up in January. We’ll send you a reminder card. Call me if you have any questions about his care.”

  “Thank you.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and was aware of a silly grin on my face. When did I become so possessive of a cat?

  I walked to the car, holding my cat—my cat—against my chest. “Mason? What kind of name is that for a kitty?”

  He purred.

  We drove home. Mason fell asleep on the passenger seat and I hummed to a tune on the radio.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  T he tinny ring of claws scratching the screen brought me to my feet. I obediently left my writing and trekked to the back
porch. Mason stared at me through the screen door awaiting entrance. “You’ve sure made yourself at home in only three days.” I opened the door and he pranced in, tail held high.

  I returned to my work but hadn’t finished a full paragraph before his warm body curled around my feet like a furry foot-warmer.

  The shrill ring of the telephone startled me and I reached for the receiver. Mason lifted his head, grunted his complaint, and snuggled closer.

  A throaty voice resonated through the line. “Hello, Lauren. Katherine Kennedy here, how are you?”

  “Katherine, what a surprise. How’s my favorite editor, and how’s the gala life of the big city?”

  “Grueling. I work sixty hours a week, no one appreciates me, and I love every minute of it.”

  “I was just thinking of you. I’m getting ready to send Michigan Christmas. Ahead of the deadline.”

  “That’s great, Lauren. You can always be trusted to get your copy in on time, but that’s not why I called. I have an offer you might be interested in. The company’s scheduled brainstorming sessions for the coming year and we’re inviting five of our top contributors. How does an all-expense paid trip to New York sound?”

  Springing to my feet, I sent Mason rolling underneath the desk, and tipped the chair over. “Katherine, it sounds amazing. I’d love it.”

  I straightened the chair with my free hand. “When do you have in mind?”

  “Next week. Meetings are Friday and Saturday. I’ll book your ticket and hotel and email you the details.”

  “I can’t wait. I’ll start making arrangements to get freed up.” Arrangements? Who was I kidding? It would require all the work of locking the door.

  “By the way. The last time we talked you mentioned your interest in writing true crime. As much as I don’t want to lose you to the book publishing world, I talked to my friend at Kendall House. They’re opening a new brand dedicated to that genre, and will be open to new authors. He gave me a few tips.”

  “Really Katherine? That’s so kind of you. I promise I won’t quit writing for the magazine—even when I become a famous crime writer. What did he say?”

  “They’ll be interested if the subject sparks the imagination of the public. Something no one has written about or the public hasn’t heard of. They don’t want something that’s been hashed over in the press. It would have to be presented in such a way as to draw the reader into the mind of the criminal. We’re talking about personal interviews. You would want to get to him before anyone from the press gets there, to dig out his reasoning and motivation.”

  “I could do that.” I’m not sure how, but I’d figure it out.

  “As I think about it, Lauren, this just doesn’t sound like you. It gives me the creeps. Do you think you’d want to interview a killer? Even if he was behind bars? And you’d have to hear the gruesome details. That would scare me to death.”

  “I guess it’d scare me, too. But it is what I’ve always wanted to do. At least, this gives me something to think about. I appreciate the information.”

  “Right now, I’m looking forward to the sessions in New York, and can’t wait to get there.”

  I grabbed a pen to circle the dates on my calendar. Wait, I have a job. What will I tell Rarity? Only one work day. She’ll understand.

  I caught site of Mason staring at me from across the room. I have a cat. Maybe Anita will cat sit.

  Unaware of the discussion buzzing inside my head, Katherine continued. “Wonderful. I look forward to seeing you. Bring some fresh ideas.”

  “I can’t thank you enough. I’m so excited about the sessions.” I clicked off.

  Mason stalked up to sit at my feet, accusing me with an unblinking glare.

  Crap.

  “What am I going to do with you? How about if I leave you outside? Or I could lock you inside, and ask Anita to feed and check on you.”

  Mason turned his back to me, lifted his back leg, and proceeded to clean himself.

  “I’ll think of something.”

  I wandered into the kitchen and eyed the back porch. Could I lock the door into the house and prop the outside door open? Not a good idea. A doggy door? It would work for the weekend and be a relief in the future. No more letting the cat in and out at his every whim. When I’m gone, I could put his bed on the porch, and lock both the screen door and the inside kitchen door for security.

  Mason finished his ablutions and returned his attention to me. “Don’t worry, Mason, I’m not leaving you stranded. In fact, I’m going out to buy you a present.”

  ~

  I came back from the hardware store and dropped the package on the floor for Mason’s inspection. “Look. It’s perfect—a pet door for screens. All I have to do is install it.”

  After studying the instructions for ten minutes, I called Anita, who reported she’d be happy to check in on Mason while I was away. Unfortunately, she didn’t know anything about home projects, and said her husband knew even less. “Clair’s good at fixing things. She even has a toolbox. I’ll call her and we’ll be over. Between the three of us, it’ll be a snap.”

  ~

  It wasn’t a snap, and Clair did all the work, but by afternoon, we admired a working pet door.

  As soon as the pounding ceased, Mason approached to inspect his private entrance, poking it with his paw and nudging it with his nose. He then made his way outside, turned around, and stepped back in.

  “Smart cat.” Clair packed her tools and plopped into a chair.

  Anita beamed. “Look at him. He already knows how to use it.” She applauded Mason and turned to me. “Don’t worry about a thing. Go to New York and have fun. I’ll be over every day to feed Mason and lavish him with attention.”

  I high-fived Anita, not wanting to admit I’d considered canceling the trip if my cat wasn’t provided for.

  ~

  Birds sang, and my world was glorious as I jumped out of bed the next morning. With an abundance of energy, I put on sneakers and slipped out onto the street for a jog. Cool, clear air filled my lungs. I’d never seen the sun so bright. After four blocks of jogging, I rounded the corner and ran full speed, all the way home, to check my email.

  All travel information had arrived. Thank you, Katherine. I was scheduled to fly out Friday morning, arriving in time for a luncheon and the first session. Her note read, “I couldn’t book a reasonable return flight until Monday morning. Hope it’s okay.”

  Was it okay? Only the most exciting news I’d received all year—make that five years. Window shopping, eating in great restaurants—if only a salad. Donning my city clothes!

  I scooped up Mason and danced across the room. He fought me and jumped down just in time for me to answer the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “L auren. Guess what.” My friend yelled.

  I pulled the receiver away from my ear. “Good morning, Clair.”

  Had to tell you the news. Irma called to say they let Helen Peters go. She had an alibi. Sharon wouldn’t let Melvin rest until he checked it out.”

  “An alibi? When did that come about?”

  “Sharon made Melvin talk to everyone who was at the Bingo hall on the night of the murder. It was the annual Bingo Marathon and Helen played all night. Everybody swore they saw her, and she didn’t leave until six a.m.”

  I pulled out a chair from the table and sank into it. “I thought he was sure. What about the evidence?”

  “According to Irma, they’ll have to sift through it all again. Oh, and this is weird; the hairs found on the body had been cut off, not pulled out. They knew because of no bulb. There’s supposed to be a bulb on the end when a hair falls out or was pulled, but not if it was cut.”

  “Cut? Maybe the hairs don’t mean anything. Maybe he picked them up from Patsy, since she works at the salon. I find somebody else’s hair on my clothes all the time, and all I do is answer the phone.” I leaned back and watched Mason. He twirled in tight circles, chasing his tail.

  “Irma said
Melvin was so disheartened, she got brave and mentioned your question about the coffee maker. They took another look at the cup.”

  Huh. Irma had been listening, after all. “What did they find?”

  “Just like you said, no coffee maker. They don’t know where the cup came from, but it doesn’t match any at Helen’s house or the nursing home. Melvin’s thinking the lab messed up on the prints.”

  Mason broke out of the tail chasing circle to gallop through the dining room and leap onto the window sill. “Um, any other suspects? How about someone with a grudge against Earl?”

  “Not as far as Irma knows. But she said Melvin has everybody working overtime.”

  “I hope—” An insistent rapping interrupted me. “I have to go. Someone’s at the door. Talk to you later.”

  I put the phone down and peeked through the window before pulling the door open.

  Deputy Farlow stood at attention on the porch, hands at his sides. “Good morning, Ms. Halloren. May I come in? I have a few more questions for you.” I looked down at my sweats, longing for the shower, but stepped back to let him by.

  He walked three steps into the room, pivoted to face me, and remained silent while I closed the door.

  Let’s get this off on the right foot. I smiled. “I heard you weren’t feeling well, Deputy Farlow. I’m glad you’re back on your feet. What can I do for you?”

  His expression remained stony, while color crept into his neck and cheeks. “I’ll tell you what you can do for me. You can give me the truth.”

  My mouth opened and snapped shut. I could think of nothing to say.

  “You denied owning a gun, but the paperwork says differently.” Farlow read from his notebook. “I think your exact words were ‘Steak knives are the closest thing to a weapon in this house. I hate guns.’ Is that how you remember it?”

  Me and my dumb sense of humor. “I guess so, but—”