The Cat Collector

by Lori Herter

  ◆◆◆

  A half hour later, Trudy peeked in while Claudia was in one of the exam rooms finishing a TPR on a diabetic tuxedo cat while its owner watched.

  “The news conference is on,” Trudy whispered.

  Dr. Chandler came up behind her with a little smile as Trudy stepped back. “You can both go watch. I’ll take over here.”

  “Temperature is 101. Respiration looks normal. I didn’t get the pulse yet,” Claudia told the vet as she hurried out.

  The women rushed to the break room where the small TV was already turned on. Steve was standing behind a cluster of microphones. Using the authoritative monotone he reserved for official police work, he informed the reporters gathered around exactly what he’d told Claudia and Trudy earlier, with some added details. Mrs. Worthington had received a mortal head wound in what appeared to be a violent struggle. The living room was in disarray, but there’d been no evidence of a forced break-in. Mrs. Worthington may have let the murderer in. The perpetrator was still at large. The scant description was of a man with reddish-brown hair, about six feet tall, wearing a cap with a big brim pulled low, sunglasses, white T-shirt, sneakers and blue jeans. Helicopters still searched the neighborhood.

  “What happened to Wrigley?” a male reporter asked.

  “The cat is safe and apparently healthy,” Steve told him.

  “Where is he?” the reporter persisted.

  “We are not disclosing the cat’s location.”

  “If Wrigley escaped the perpetrator and ran away, who found him? And where?”

  Steve shook his head. “I don’t have that information.”

  After taking a few more questions, he ended the press briefing. A reporter from the TV station at the scene concluded his live update and handed the news coverage back to the anchorman in the studio.

  “Steve did a masterful job,” Trudy said.

  “He’s always in command when he’s on duty,” Claudia agreed, turning to leave the break room.

  “I’ll stay here and sort out what supplies we need to order,” Trudy said, “and keep an eye on the TV in case there’s any new news.”

  About twenty minutes later, Steve came back to the clinic. Claudia was near the reception counter preparing a medication Dr. Chandler prescribed for the tuxedo cat.

  “Be with you in a minute,” Claudia told Steve. “Have to finish instructions for this med.” She smiled at the cat’s owner, a stout, gray-haired man, who was patiently sitting on one of the benches with his cat by his side in a carrier. “Almost done,” she told the client.

  After giving the man the medication and explaining how to administer it, she held open the door while he left with his cat. “That’s our last patient today,” she told Steve.

  “Good. So . . . you still want to look after . . . ?”

  She nodded. “Is that okay with Briarwood Police?”

  He shrugged. “My colleagues pointed out that you did a great job keeping the parrot. But I want to escort you home.”

  “Okay.”

  At that moment, Trudy rushed in from the rear of the clinic. “Claudia!” She spotted Steve. “Oh, good, you’re here. On the news—” she said breathlessly, pointing toward the short hallway from which she’d come. “Abigail Pressley and Joey—”

  All three of them hurried to the break room. Apparently hearing the commotion, Dr. Chandler came in, followed by Mary Anne.

  They gathered around the TV as the same reporter at the murder scene was holding a microphone in front of Abigail.

  “We had no idea the cat could be Wrigley until we saw the news on TV,” she was telling him. “He was all dirty and sorry-looking when my son found him.”

  The reporter shifted the mic to Joey, who looked eager to chime in. “He had bright blue eyes like Wrigley. But we didn’t know Wrigley was missing, so we just thought it was a stray.”

  “Where is the cat now?” the reporter asked Abigail.

  “We brought him to the Briarwood Cat Clinic. Claudia, their vet technician, assured us they’d look after him. It’s an excellent clinic. We take our cats there.”

  “Great,” Steve muttered with angry consternation as a cold clammy feeling swept down Claudia’s face and neck. Steve turned to her. “Anyone can find your full name on the clinic’s website. Grab Wrigley. Cover his carrier. We need to leave fast. Reporters will be here in minutes. Dr. Chandler, Trudy, I advise you to close up for the night, pronto.”

  Everyone seemed to jump as the clinic’s phones began to ring.

  “Nobody answer that!” Steve instructed as he took Claudia’s arm and hurried her to the treatment room. There he helped her transfer Wrigley, who yowled in protest, out of the cage and into a carrier. They covered the carrier with towels and rushed outside. Steve’s unmarked police car was parked not far from her Prius in the clinic’s lot.

  “I’ll take him, okay?” Steve said. “If there’s anyone following, I’ll know what to do. I’ll be right behind you. Go your usual way. Park your car in your garage and close the door.”

  “All right,” Claudia said, her breaths growing short.

  “Don’t get shook.” He squeezed her hand. “Just drive home like normal. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER three

  A Murderer Loose

  Claudia drove home as normally as she could, her hands tightly gripping the wheel. Steve’s car stayed right behind her. She used her remote to open her garage door, parked inside and closed the door. As she turned her house key in the lock, entered her kitchen and switched on the lights, she heard someone knocking at her back door.

  “It’s Steve,” he called when she hesitated to open it.

  She pushed aside the curtain on the door’s window and saw it was indeed him.

  As she let him in, she asked, “Where’s Wrigley?”

  “Right here.” He reached back to pick up the covered carrier from her wood patio. “I parked around the corner. Didn’t see anyone following us. I called for backup to guard your house.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In addition,” he took a breath, “I’m spending the night with you.”

  “Oh.” She felt a little startled. They may have been dating steadily for months, but he’d never stayed overnight.

  “There’s a murderer loose and you’ve got the cat he wanted. And you haven’t had the security system installed that I recommended. Your name is on the clinic’s website. You wouldn’t be hard to find.”

  Chagrined, Claudia looked down at the floor. She felt she lived in a safe neighborhood, had never had any problem, so she’d been dragging her feet on following his advice. She didn’t want to have to worry about a security code or unintentionally setting off an alarm.

  Steve continued. “You need someone to guard you and Wrigley inside the house as well as outside.”

  She raised her head and nodded. “I see.”

  He lifted his right hand as if taking an oath. “I promise I’m not trying to barge in on you. You like your own space and I respect that. I’ll be fine on the couch.”

  “No, no. You can have the guest room,” she offered.

  “Actually, it’s better if I stay in the living room, where I can hear any unwanted activity. I’ll probably stay awake all night.”

  “How’s Wrigley?” She went up to the carrier Steve had set on the small, maple wood table, and pulled off the towels covering it. Wrigley looked through the screened door at her, his eyes wide with fright. He began to meow loudly.

  “Shh, it’s okay,” she softly said as she opened the door to pet him. He seemed afraid to come out. He’d gotten somewhat used to the treatment room at the cat clinic, but now he was in yet another place unknown to him.

  Suddenly Knickerbocker and Jasmine came into the kitchen, side by side, probably to investigate the meow of a strange cat.

  “Oh, boy,” she muttered and looked at Steve. “I’d better put Wrigley in the guest room by himself.” She closed the door of the carrier and left the kitchen with Wrigley, followed by K
nickerbocker and Jasmine who did not look happy about a feline intruder in their territory.

  Claudia was getting Wrigley settled in the guest room with a bowl of water, some cat food, and a fresh litter pan, when Steve knocked on the door. She’d closed it to keep her two suspicious cats away from Wrigley. She came out, shutting the door behind her.

  Steve had his cell phone out. “Got a call from one of our men watching the house in an unmarked car. Looks like a reporter may have found you. If the doorbell rings, don’t answer.”

  “Okay.” Claudia began to feel short of breath again.

  In less than a minute, the doorbell did ring. Then Claudia’s land line rang. Knickerbocker and Jasmine looked up at her, as if wondering what was going on or why she wasn’t answering. Steve and Claudia sat down in the living room with one lamp on and the drapes drawn over the front windows.

  “From now on I want you to have an unlisted number,” Steve admonished her.

  “You’re right,” she replied with a sigh. Though she quietly bristled at being told what to do.

  After an hour or so, the doorbell stopped ringing and the answering machine on her phone was full from messages left by various reporters.

  “Are you hungry?” Claudia asked. “I have a frozen pizza I can heat up.”

  Before he could respond, Steve’s cell phone buzzed. “O’Rourke.” He listened, then turned to Claudia. “Brent Davies showed up at the murder scene. Asked to talk to me. I need to interview him, so I’m going to have a police officer drive him here.”

  “Lydia Worthington’s nephew?” Claudia said with surprise.

  “I’ve been trying to get hold of him.”

  “Isn’t he a possible suspect? You want to bring him here?”

  “I don’t want to leave you alone in the house,” Steve explained. “He’ll be patted down for weapons. You’ll have to stay in another room though.”

  “Why?” Claudia found herself increasingly annoyed that he was making arrangements and giving her orders in her own house.

  “I’m trying to keep you safe. He doesn’t need to know what you look like or that you live here. Though he could figure that out just like reporters have.” His tone was kind but stern. “Tomorrow you’re going to have that security system installed.”

  Claudia reluctantly nodded her approval, if that was what he was looking for. He sounded more like he was telling than asking.

  Steve relayed his instructions to the police officer on the phone and ended the call.

  “You’re awfully bossy all of a sudden,” she said.

  “I’m on duty. Got my detective hat on now. So I need you to follow my instructions.”

  “Or you’ll cuff me and arrest me?”

  He gently took her hands in his and turned them palms up, then over, smiling as he studied them. “Your hands are so small and slender, I’d probably have trouble keeping you cuffed.”

  “That’s reassuring,” she said, trying for a deadpan manner, but failing. Instead she felt touched and a little giddy as he took her in his arms and nuzzled her cheek.

  They were kissing when the doorbell rang. “Briarwood police, escorting Brent Davies,” a man’s voice announced from the other side of the locked front door.

  “Go into the guest room and close the door,” Steve told Claudia, releasing her from his embrace.

  Claudia’s jaw clenched at the bossy manner he’d resumed. She walked into the kitchen as Steve answered the bell.

  “He’s clean,” she could hear the officer tell Steve as she stood next to the stove.

  “I’m Detective Steve O’Rourke. Would you come inside? I’d like to interview you.”

  “About my aunt’s murder?” Brent Davies’ voice sounded low and serious.

  “That’s right.”

  The voices grew easier to hear as Steve apparently admitted Brent into the living room.

  “Have a seat while I get out my recorder.”

  “Am I a suspect?” Brent asked, surprise in his tone. “I went to my Aunt’s house hoping to meet you. Saw you on TV.”

  “Just need to ask you some questions,” Steve said.

  Claudia decided, since Brent had been declared “clean” and her house was guarded by police inside and outside, that it was safe to go back into the living room. As she did, she pushed the wall switch to turn on the ceiling light, which caused Steve to turn and see her. His face had a mixture of reactions—consternation, worry, and then a new light came into his eyes. Perhaps he was remembering that he’d found her helpful on the two previous murder cases they’d solved together.

  She walked up to Brent who had taken a seat in an easy chair, and extended her hand. “I’m Claudia Bailey.”

  Brent quickly stood, well-dressed in his expensive-looking charcoal suit and silver tie, his auburn hair neat in a conventional cut. He took her hand. “From the Briarwood Cat Clinic? I heard on TV . . . are you the one who has Wrigley?”

  “He’s in my guest room. Scared, but seems healthy. I wanted to keep him separated from these guys.” She looked down to indicate Knickerbocker and Jasmine who had followed her into the living room and were sitting near her feet.

  Brent smiled. “Nice looking cats.”

  “Let’s all sit down,” Steve said as he placed his digital recorder on the coffee table in front of the couch. Brent sat down again in the nearby easy chair. Claudia settled herself on the other end of the couch from Steve.

  Steve turned on the recorder and stated the date, time, place and person he was interviewing.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he told Brent. “Have you been out of town?”

  “No, but I left work in the morning and was out most of the day with my fiancée. Looking at places to have our wedding reception, tasting cakes and all that kind of thing. I told my secretary to hold my calls and turned off my cell phone. My fiancée wanted my full attention.”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “In eight months.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I’m a bank manager. Here, I’ll give you my card.” Brent reached into his inner coat pocket and handed Steve a small business card.

  Steve paused as he slipped the card into his suit pocket. “Did you get along well with your aunt, Mrs. Worthington?”

  Brent nodded, bowing his head. “We were very close. My parents are gone. She was all that was left of my family.”

  “How did you learn about Mrs. Worthington’s death?”

  “On the radio news as I was driving home. I was shocked. Went by her house, but it’s all cordoned off. Police wouldn’t let me in. I turned on the TV when I got home. Saw your press conference. I decided to go back to the house, hoping to talk to you. Did my aunt really bleed to death from a blow to her head?”

  Steve nodded. “Paramedics couldn’t revive her.”

  Brent rubbed his forehead as his eyes grew moist and reddened. “What a horrible way for her to die.” He blinked and pulled at the lapels of his suit jacket. “At the press briefing you said Wrigley was missing. And later, that mom and her son said they’d found Wrigley and brought him to Briarwood Clinic. I looked up their website and saw Claudia’s name. Glad to know the cat survived the attack.”

  Claudia studied Brent and sensed that the young man seemed truly bereaved, and that his concern about Wrigley was genuine.

  “Mrs. Worthington’s lawyer came up to me at the briefing,” Steve said. “He told me that she had made an appointment to see him tomorrow, because she wanted to change her will. Did you know that?”

  Claudia’s head went back. This was a piece of information Steve hadn’t mentioned. She drew in a breath. Had Brent wanted to stop his aunt from changing her will?

  “Yes, I knew that,” Brent replied. “Aunt Lydia always confided in me and asked my advice.”

  “Do you know what modification she wanted to make?” Steve asked.

  “She wanted to amend it to leave something for her longtime housekeeper, Maria Kowalski.”

  C
laudia said, “She always told TV reporters she was going to leave her estate to—”

  “To Wrigley.” Brent chuckled in a nostalgic way. “No, she assured me I would be her main beneficiary. She just told reporters that because she thought it added to Wrigley’s celebrity. And she wanted to leave him under my care, after she passed.” He sighed. “So . . . can I see Wrigley?”

  Claudia looked at Steve. “Should I bring the cat out?”

  “Sure.” He turned to Brent. “While she’s doing that, can you give me the names of the places you and your fiancée visited this afternoon?”

  “Be happy to,” Brent replied and began naming them.

  Claudia walked to the guest room, and Knickerbocker and Jasmine followed her. Wanting to avoid trouble between them and the new feline they perceived as an interloper, Claudia picked them up, one at a time, and carried them to her bedroom, then closed the door on them. She went to the guest room and found Wrigley sitting on the bed in front of his cage. He meowed loudly at her when she walked in, looking up at her anxiously.

  “It’s okay,” she told him, though she reminded herself he was deaf. “Let’s go see Brent,” she said as she picked him up. He turned in her arms to face her, setting his paws on her shoulders, purring loudly. He’d done this after she’d given him a bath at the clinic, dried him with a blow dryer, and given him some cat treats. Instead of being frightened, he’d seemed comforted to be looked after.

  She carried Wrigley, still clinging to her, into the living room. Brent stood when he saw them. He scratched Wrigley behind one ear and the cat turned to him. Brent held out his curled forefinger so the cat could smell him.

  “It’s me,” he said. “How are you doing, buddy?” Brent looked at Claudia. “He can’t hear me, but I talk to him anyway.”

  Claudia chuckled. “I do, too.” She was happy to see the cat lick Brent’s finger. “He recognizes you. You want to hold him?”

  Brent reached to take the cat, but Wrigley ignored him and clung to Claudia.