The Cat Collector

by Lori Herter

  Trudy turned to her, still excited. “That’s right! It would break the curse if the Cubbies win.”

  Claudia tried to recall Peter’s explanation of why the jinx came about. She wasn’t all that much of a sports fan. Puzzled, she looked at Trudy. “What’s the curse again? Something about a goat?”

  Trudy seemed happy for the chance to repeat the tale. “It was in 1945. Game four of the World Series. The owner of the Billy Goat Tavern—it’s still there at Wrigley Field, you know—wanted to bring his pet goat into the ballpark to watch the Cubs play. He took the goat with him everywhere. But fans in the bleachers complained the goat was too smelly, and he was asked to leave. He became outraged and yelled a curse against the Cubs as he left. It’s said he also sent a telegram to the team owner, Mr. Wrigley himself, saying the Cubs would lose that World Series and would never win another. Because they’d insulted his goat.”

  “And they lost that game?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Trudy assured her. “And they’ve never won a World Series since.”

  On the TV, the commotion of flashing cameras and cheers at the Briarwood City Hall had calmed. A reporter from the TV station they were watching approached Lydia who was cuddling her cat.

  Trudy grew silent, listening intently. Claudia leaned forward out of curiosity.

  “You’ve got quite a popular puss there, Mrs. Worthington,” the news reporter said, holding a microphone. He extended the mic toward the beaming white-haired lady.

  “Oh, and don’t I know it! I’m thinking of changing my will and leaving my estate to Wrigley,” she said in a lighthearted tone.

  The reporter looked surprised. “Really?”

  “He’s a special kitty. I don’t have children or grandchildren. Wrigley is my baby, and I want to be sure he’ll be taken care of, for the sake of his fans. And the Cubs.”

  “What about your handsome nephew?” The reporter gestured to Brent who had approached her, holding out his hands to take the cat.

  “Brent is a clever, capable fellow,” she said with pride as she carefully gave Wrigley to him. “He’ll do very well.”

  The camera focused on Brent’s expression. The thin, well-dressed young man’s finely chiseled features appeared stoic. The reporter stuck the microphone in his face. Brent smiled, raised his dark eyebrows and simply said, “That’s my Aunt Lydia.”

  The reporter turned to the camera. “You heard it here first,” he said jokingly. “Back to you in the studio. Ben?”

  Ben Jordan began reporting other news. Trudy turned down the volume on the TV as Mary Anne, the clinic’s ponytailed, twenty-something receptionist came in for her lunch break. Trudy quickly told her that they’d just watched Wrigley predict the Cubs would win the Series.

  “Great!” Mary Ann replied.

  “Wrigley may be a wealthy cat someday,” Trudy quipped as she and Claudia walked out together to go back to work.

  “Amazing,” Claudia agreed with humor.

  CHAPTER two

  Present Day

  On a hot afternoon at the end of summer, Claudia was happy to be indoors enjoying air conditioning. She stood behind the cat clinic’s reception counter checking the schedule for the remainder of the day. Trudy sat nearby working at a computer. Dr. Chandler was in one of the treatment rooms examining an elderly calico as the cat’s owner watched. Claudia wondered if the veterinarian would need her to draw blood or get a urine sample.

  All at once, the clinic’s glass entrance door burst open. Abigail Pressley and her young son Joey hurried in as if on a mission. Claudia looked up with surprise. None of Abigail’s cats were on the schedule for a check-up or treatment. She heard a loud, agitated meow and saw that the young mom with short brown hair was holding a pet carrier.

  “Hi, Mrs. Pressley,” Claudia greeted her. “Is one of your cats sick?”

  “No, but Joey was outside playing and he saw this injured cat.” She lifted up the carrier so Claudia could see through its screened door. “We don’t know who the cat belongs to. Its paws seem to have dried blood on them, there’s blood around its mouth, and the poor thing looks exhausted. It must have been in some kind of fight or accident. When Joey heard it meowing, he discovered it under a parked car. He told me, and we managed to coax the cat out. It’s almost like he—I think it’s a male—was looking for help. He was all dirty with motor oil, too.”

  “He looked really scared,” Joey, a towheaded boy of ten or eleven, told Claudia, concern in his young eyes. “I tried to give him some cat food, but he wouldn’t eat.”

  “I’m willing to pay for his treatment,” Abigail said, “but if he’s a stray and no one claims him, I can’t adopt him. We already have the three cats and two dogs.”

  “I understand.” Claudia walked up to her and bent to peer more closely into the carrier. She saw blood and dirt on the feline’s face, its blue eyes looking wide and frightened. And the cat was panting, a clear sign of stress. “We can scan to see if he has a microchip. If he does, that would lead us to his owner.” She straightened up and spoke to Joey. “You did a very good deed,” she told the boy. She turned to Abigail. “That’s very generous of you to pay for his treatment.”

  Trudy came out from behind the counter. “We’ll give you our good Samaritan discount. Kindness to animals should be rewarded.”

  “Thank you,” Abigail said with appreciation in her voice. “So then, we’ll leave him with you. I’ll pick up the carrier later. Joey and I would like to know if the cat will be okay.”

  “We’ll let you know,” Claudia assured her as she took the carrier from Abigail.

  Claudia brought the cat into the treatment room, set the carrier on an exam table and unlatched its door. The cat was still breathing through its mouth, not at all normal for a healthy feline. She checked the clinic’s plug-in pheromone diffuser, which put out a scent that was calming to cats. The small bottle was full of fluid and didn’t need replacing. She talked softly to the cat, who looked almost petrified with fear.

  “You’re safe here. We’ll take good care of you.” She extended her hand so the cat could smell her. When that went well, she gently stroked his dirty forehead, noticing the dried blood around its mouth. She wondered if the cat had a mouth injury or if he’d bitten someone in self-defense. The paws were also caked in dried blood. She could see what appeared to be a blood splatter on the cat’s shoulder, which reminded her of the splatter on Hal the parrot’s wing when Tom Radek had been murdered.

  “Let’s see if we can find out who you belong to.” She picked up the white microchip scanner and let the cat smell it before extending it into the cage and over his back. Microchips were usually placed between a pet’s shoulder blades. Sure enough the scanner beeped, indicating a chip had been detected. She looked at the readout on the scanner and wrote down the number, then hurried to the front desk to ask Trudy to look it up on the appropriate website.

  As Claudia returned to the treatment room, she found the cat hesitantly creeping out of the carrier. She quickly picked up a bag of treats and offered him a salmon flavored kernel. The cat sniffed and then ate it.

  “Good kitty,” she said soothingly, and gave him another treat.

  Perhaps the pheromone scent was working, or maybe the cat just liked her gentle manner. In any case she needed to start her TPR check—temperature, pulse, and respiration. He’d stopped panting, so that was a good sign. To take the cat’s pulse, she pressed her first two fingers against the inside of his upper hind leg, where the large femoral artery was located. The cat loudly meowed and began to squirm away. Fortunately, Dr. Chandler came in just then and deftly prevented the cat from jumping off the exam table. The grandfatherly, white-haired veterinarian held the cat still while Claudia proceeded to count its pulse, timing fifteen seconds on her watch.

  “So this is the injured stray? Trudy told me.” Dr. Chandler let the cat go when Claudia finished taking its pulse. They both observed as it walked, limping on the left front leg, to the edge of the exam table. Again, the vet
erinarian kept the cat from jumping off.

  “Pulse is 230,” Claudia told him as she entered the number on a computer file she was creating.

  “High, but normal.” Dr. Chandler took the stethoscope that hung from his neck and used it to listen to the cat’s heart and lungs. As he checked its eyes and ears, Claudia got out a thermometer and applied a dab of lubrication. After he’d finished looking into the cat’s mouth, Dr. Chandler held the feline still as she inserted the thermometer under the tail.

  “See any wounds in the mouth?” she asked.

  “No. We better X-ray his left front leg.”

  She withdrew the thermometer. “Temperature is normal.”

  Together they placed the cat on the X-ray machine, stretching him to get a good image of the front leg. Once more the wary feline tried to get away, this time with a loud meow, but Claudia stroked his forehead again which seemed to calm him.

  “He likes you,” Dr. Chandler said with a smile. “But then they all do.” Checking the X-ray images, the vet said, “No broken bones. Must be a soft tissue injury.”

  “A pulled muscle?” Claudia suggested. “If he got into a cat fight it would explain the blood on the mouth. But there’s what looks like dried blood on all his paws, too. And some on his shoulder.”

  Dr. Chandler grabbed a white paper towel and wet it at the nearby sink. “Let’s see if there’s any injury.” He took the cat’s right front paw and began wiping off the dried blood and the dirt. “Looks like car grease. He’s pretty filthy all over. Trudy said he was found hiding under a car.”

  “He may have crawled up into it to hide.” Claudia felt sorry for the stressed feline.

  The veterinarian closely examined the paw he’d wiped almost clean. “I don’t see any injury. It’s like he stepped in blood.”

  “I wonder if it’s human,” Claudia said with a worried sigh. “I think I should call Steve O’Rourke and ask if there’s been anyone wounded at a place where a cat went missing.”

  “Your good-looking detective beau?” Dr. Chandler teased with a knowing wink.

  Though her co-workers at the clinic seemed happy for Claudia that she had a man in her life again, and they’d all met Steve on several occasions, she still felt self-conscious about having a boyfriend. She wasn’t sure why. She and Steve had been a couple for nearly six months now.

  “Hal the parrot had a blood splatter the police needed to check when they investigated Tom Radek’s murder,” she said, ignoring the wink. “Let’s hope this isn’t a similar situation, but—”

  “Better call him,” the veterinarian agreed. “This cat looks basically healthy. We can wait on giving him a bath.”

  “He ate the treats I gave him,” Claudia said as she found her smart phone in her tunic pocket.

  “A good sign,” Dr. Chandler said as Claudia speed-dialed Steve’s number.

  The phone rang twice. “O’Rourke.” His tone was quick, all business.

  “Steve, it’s me.”

  “Hello, me.” His low voice suddenly turned warm and upbeat.

  She chuckled. “I’m at the clinic and we’re treating a stray someone found. The cat seems traumatized and has blood on its paws and mouth. But no wounds. I was wondering—”

  “Is it a white cat with blue eyes?” Steve interrupted.

  “Well, he’s covered with motor oil from hiding under a car, but, yes, he’s probably all white. And he’s got bright blue eyes.”

  “I’ll send forensics to get samples of the blood.”

  “Oh,” Claudia said with dismay. “Then there’s been an altercation or . . . .”

  “Possible murder. Mrs. Lydia Worthington. I’m at the scene now. Her living room is in disarray. She bled out on the floor from a head wound. Her cat Wrigley is missing and there are paw prints in the pool of blood.”

  Claudia’s mouth dropped open. “You mean, this cat could be the one that predicts Cubs games?”

  “Yup. I’ll stop by to see him.”

  At that moment Trudy rushed in, jittery with excitement as she proclaimed, “The microchip says he belongs to Lydia Worthington. His name is Wrigley!”

  “Did you hear that?” Claudia asked Steve, still holding the phone to her ear.

  “Good to have that confirmation,” Steve said. “I’ll be there soon.”

  Feeling disconcerted as she turned off her phone, she told Trudy and Dr. Chandler in a hushed voice, “Mrs. Worthington is dead. May have been murdered. Forensics will be here to take samples from . . . from Wrigley.”

  “Oh, no.” Trudy leaned weakly against the doorframe. “How awful.”

  Dr. Chandler gravely shook his head. “Dreadful. And if the cat saw her murdered, that would be a huge trauma.” He stroked the feline’s back in a slow, calming manner. “Maybe he needed to escape whoever did it.”

  Wrigley looked up at the veterinarian, then at Claudia, as if sensing the change in emotion in the humans around him. His blue eyes grew round with a lost aspect that broke Claudia’s heart.

  ◆◆◆

  A female forensics expert from Briarwood Police came about twenty minutes later. Claudia helped keep Wrigley still while she scraped samples of the dried blood from the cat’s paws, his shoulder, and from the fur around his mouth. When she was finished, Claudia let the cat rest in a three-by-five-foot cage partly covered with a towel so he would feel safe. Ordinarily she would take the cat to a quiet corner of the clinic, but she remembered that Wrigley was reportedly deaf. She clapped her hands sharply a few times, and the cat did not respond in any way. So she left him to rest in the treatment room until Steve showed up about forty-five minutes later.

  “A neighbor of Mrs. Worthington heard the cat wailing violently,” Steve, dressed in a suit and tie, told Claudia after she led him to the treatment room. Trudy left Mary Anne to take care of the reception counter and joined them. “The neighbor looked out the window,” Steve continued, “and saw a thin man wearing a baseball hat and sunglasses run out of the house. Thought he saw reddish hair sticking out from under the cap, but wasn’t sure. The suspect was trying to hold onto a white cat—the neighbor was sure it was Wrigley. The cat was frantically squirming to get out of the man’s grasp. Neighbor thought he may have bitten the man’s hand. Wrigley got away and took off in terror down the street. The suspect ran in another direction. The neighbor called 911.”

  “Who would kill an elderly lady and try to steal her cat?” Claudia asked, deeply troubled.

  “A famous cat,” Trudy pointed out. “She always told TV reporters that she was going to leave all her money to Wrigley.”

  Claudia nodded. “She’d say that with her nephew standing right next to her.”

  “Good point. I’d like to talk to him,” Steve said. “Can I see the cat?” As Claudia pulled away the towel partly covering Wrigley’s cage, Steve bent to observe the resting feline. “He does look like he’s been through something awful.”

  Wrigley looked up at Steve suspiciously and moved to the back corner of the cage.

  “If he was attacked by a guy, he might be afraid of men right now,” Claudia explained. “Though he seemed to accept Dr. Chandler fairly well.”

  Steve straightened up. “Dr. Chandler has a calm, reassuring manner.” He raised his eyebrows in a resigned expression. “We cops have an intimidating aura that maybe even animals sense.”

  Claudia touched his sleeve. “You have your reassuring moments, too.”

  He beamed at her. “Thank you.”

  “So what happens to Wrigley? We’ll give him a bath and maybe a pain medication for his sore front leg. But then what?”

  “Not sure,” Steve said. “His home’s a crime scene. His owner is dead.”

  “If Wrigley inherits Mrs. Worthington’s fortune, then wouldn’t her nephew want him?” Trudy asked. “Especially if he’s the one who . . . .”

  Claudia swallowed. “I’m willing to take Wrigley home with me until his future gets sorted out.”

  Steve’s brown eyes darkened. “I don’
t like it. The perpetrator might still come after the cat.”

  “Nobody would know Wrigley was at my house,” Claudia argued. “Only you know he’s here, besides us. Has the public even heard he’s missing?”

  “They will,” Steve said. “Word’s gotten out that Mrs. Worthington’s dead. Lots of police vehicles and satellite vans with reporters are blocking the street in front of her house. News media shot video of her covered body being carried out.”

  “Oh.” Claudia looked down at the gray-tiled floor.

  “The Commissioner wants me to do a press briefing,” Steve said with a weary exhale. “Have to go back to her house now for that. Just wanted to see Wrigley for myself first.”

  Trudy perked up. “Will we be able to watch you on TV?”

  “Some stations may carry it live,” Steve told her.

  “The reporters will ask about Wrigley,” Claudia said. “What will you tell them?”

  “That he’s safe at an undisclosed location.”

  “So, if it’s undisclosed, why not my house?” Claudia said. “I feel bad for Wrigley. He really needs to be cared for and comforted.”

  Steve’s eyes softened as he studied her. “Let me think about it.” He glanced at his watch. “The press briefing is supposed to be at 4:30 and it’s after 4:00 already.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders, gave her a quick hug and left.

  After he’d gone, Trudy looked at Claudia, eyes aglow. “Steve really cares about you. Are you going to tie the knot?”

  “You sound like my friend Amy,” Claudia replied with a touch of impatience. “We’ve been dating less than six months. No need for a knot yet.”

  “But you’ve known him longer than that. Didn’t you sit with him at church before you started dating? You shouldn’t let a great guy like him get away.”

  “What if I’m not sure I want to marry again?”

  “Well, that would be too bad.” Trudy shrugged. “But okay. None of my business.”

  Claudia did not reply and Trudy walked out, leaving Claudia to wonder why friends seemed eager for her to get hitched. What was wrong with a woman staying single—even if she did have an awesome boyfriend?