She momentarily halted hoping he wouldn’t recognize her, groping for some sensible defense she could give him for her foolish action. There’s none perfect, no not one, filtered through her thoughts. Especially vicar’s wives. Last time she let his charm disarm her, but at this meeting, she would keep her surefooted sense about her. She tugged the hem of her top, straightening it properly. Berdie gave a mental nod forward, threw her shoulders back, and soldiered on to the counter. “This is Duncan Butz, Hero’s rescuer.”
Mr. Moore glanced her way and returned his attention to his pet. He stroked the cat gently. “He’s a masterful escape artist despite the security here.”
“Mr. Moore’s been searching everywhere for Hero, he’s so devoted,” the receptionist wore what Berdie would call goo-goo eyes.
“In Timsley, perhaps?” Berdie blurted.
The man’s head rose. His lovely, sea-colored eyes seemed to penetrate to the core. He studied Berdie. “My dear lady,” came in silky chocolate tones. He tipped his head, knit his brow momentarily as if searching his memory, and then appeared to move past it. It would seem he didn’t remember her. “You’re responsible for Hero’s return?”
“Actually, Duncan found him.”
Mr. Moore’s gaze fell on Duncan. “Well done.”
Duncan nodded. “I like Razor.”
“Razor?” Mr. Moore shook his head. “No, no, my Cassie named him Hero.”
“Cassie?” Berdie asked.
“My daughter.”
“Well, he certainly looks as though he’s gone a few rounds with the other toms and come out on top.”
Mr. Moore frowned. “You’ve no idea what you’re saying.” He ran his fingers over the cat’s notched ear. “Hero is called so because he rescued my daughter.”
Berdie thought it quite an irony that at a cat rescue, a cat had done the rescuing. “Oh, I see. I didn’t realize.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” he zipped.
“Rescued how?” Duncan’s eyes were suddenly bright.
The man scratched Hero under the chin and directed his conversation to Berdie. “Cassie, who was about his age,” he nodded toward Duncan, “was in our home when it caught fire. She was sleeping, and the flames spread to her room. Hero always slept on her bed. He refused to leave her.” The father touched one of the scars. “These are old burns, not fight relics.” He rubbed his nose across Hero’s head. “He stayed right there with her and howled, screeched. That’s how the fire brigade found her.”
“Wow, he did that? He really is a hero.” Duncan smiled.
“Indeed.” Berdie patted the lad on his back. “I’m sorry to pry, sir, but you make it sound as if Hero was the only one home with your daughter at the time.”
“I had gone off to work.” His voice went from velvet to vinegar. “My wife,” he took a deep inhale, “went to borrow a pint of milk from young Mr. Hadley, our neighbor.” He glanced at Duncan and back at Berdie. “After the fire, I discovered this was not the first time she had left Cassie unattended to borrow milk from Mr. Hadley, but that it happened quite regularly. Sometimes, an hour or more at a time, if you get what I’m saying.”
“I see.” Berdie nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”
“I just mean it’s quite sad that all this happened.” Berdie put her hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “But Hero did rescue your Cassie.”
“Yes.” He ran a thumb down Hero’s tail. “However, despite his gallantry, six weeks later my daughter succumbed to the burns she received. He’s all I have left of her.” The man’s eyes moistened as he stroked his fingers across Hero’s fur.
Duncan looked at Berdie. “Scucome? What’s that?”
Berdie bent down to Duncan’s level. “That means Cassie’s body didn’t get well, and she went to be with Jesus in heaven,” she said softly.
“Oh.” Duncan looked at Mr. Moore. “You must be happy you’ve still got Hero.”
The man cleared his throat.
“Well.” The desk attendant made a quick dab to her nose and put on a cheery face. “Would you like me to take Hero to his room, Mr. Moore?”
“Room?” Berdie asked.
“Our boarding rooms are wonderful.” The woman was exuberant. “Softest of cat beds, climbing posts, toys, soft music, adjustable lighting, play sessions with other cats, gross motor massage, individual garden runs, CC TV.” She took a breath. “And, of course, a personal animal technician who visits with the client for twenty minutes every two hours.”
Berdie barely believed her ears. “I’ve stayed at spa hotels that offered less.”
“Some of the best care in all the country,” Mr. Moore added. “And, no Sheila, I’ll take Hero to his room myself.” He turned to go.
Berdie spoke. “I should say, it was kind of Duncan to care for your Hero, wasn’t it?”
He gave her no heed and kept his forward progress.
Berdie, despite the tender story and penetrating eyes, was not having this. “Duncan, perhaps you should get a drink of water,” she persuaded. “We’ll be leaving soon.”
Duncan nodded and went to a water dispenser at the far end of reception.
“Mr. Moore, do you live in Timsley?” Berdie called.
He stopped and turned. “No.”
“But you do drive a car.” She told him the make and model and stepped closer to him.
“What matter is that to you?”
Berdie took a deep breath. “There was a hit and run incident in Timsley just a day or two ago that involved a car such as yours.”
He eyed her and lifted his chin as if something had registered in his memory. “My dear lady,” he uttered in a patronizing tone.
“My name is Mrs. Elliott, Berdie Elliott.” She straightened. “Well?”
“Really!” The receptionist frowned.
Mr. Moore’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Elliott, I don’t think I care for what you’re implying. Not at all.” He turned.
“I met Mr. Broadhouse.”
The man froze momentarily, his visage dark when he turned toward her again. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but I politely suggest you stuff your accusations.” He stepped through the automatic door without a backward glance.
The receptionist glared. “How dare you speak to Mr. Moore in such a manner.” She crossed her arms. “I believe it’s time for you and your grandchild to go.”
“Grandchild?” Berdie pursed her lips. “I know you do wonderful things for cats in this feline palace, but there seems to be little regard for a brave and kind five-year-old boy.”
“I say.” Sheila jutted her jaw forward.
“And besides that, something here doesn’t smell right.”
The woman gasped, and her eyes grew narrow. “The whole of our facility is cleaned and deodorized at all times. Entirely spotless.”
Duncan was back, and Berdie took his hand. “Come along, love. It’s time for us to go.” As they exited Berdie glanced back to see the attendant take large sniffs of air, a spray can in hand. If she wasn’t so chafed by the lack of consideration toward Duncan and the knowledge that something peculiar was afoot, Berdie would have chuckled.
“You were very brave, Duncan,” Berdie praised when they were seated in the car. “Your mum and dad, Reverend Elliott and I, well the whole village, I dare say, will be jolly proud of you.”
Duncan wore a faint smile and nodded.
“I know you missed school time to do this. Would you mind if we dallied just a bit longer?”
“Dallied?”
“I think a stop at Bearden’s Creamery for a dish of ice cream wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Should do.” Duncan’s eyes sparkled.
Berdie stuck the car key in the ignition, just as a vintage and beautifully maintained classic vehicle pulled into the car park and stopped in the spot marked Reserved for Director. Right before her eyes, the cat couple emerged. “Hold that thought Duncan.” Berdie was keen as mustard. “Stay here, I need to brief
ly speak to the people who just arrived. Think about what flavor ice cream you fancy.”
Duncan nodded.
Berdie exited the car and strode across the car park. She was on a roll: first Tiddles, then Mr. Moore, and now the cat people.
Shovel in hand, who knew what may turn up in this divinely timed tête-à-tête.
11
Just out of their car, Berdie hailed the couple.
Their response to her entreaty hardly appeared enthusiastic.
Mrs. Stanford’s rouged cheeks stood out making her almost look in the throes of a fever. She wore a shell pink dress with same-color gloves and a strand of pearls. Mr. Stanford wore a light colored suit and, of course, his distinctive tie, which looked just like the one Mr. Moore was wearing. Hardly what one would expect to wear to a cat rescue, but then everything about this place seemed to challenge expectations.
“May I have just a moment?” Berdie asked, while moving toward them.
“Are you a patron?” Mr. Stanford asked.
“Yes, my young friend and I just returned a lost cat.”
“How may we be of service?” Mrs. Stanford tipped her head. A touch of gray peeked from beneath the woman’s honey brown page-boy hair style.
“I’m Mrs. Elliott,” Berdie introduced.
“Ah, yes, the vicar’s wife.” Mr. Stanford nodded courteously.
His wife eyed her husband. “Tavy?”
“From Aidan Kirkwood,” he answered his wife and directed his attention to Berdie. “Octavious Stanford, and this is my wife, Millicent.”
The woman creased her forehead. “Vicar’s wife. Oh, yes. Nothing to do with cats and hot pans I hope.”
“Not one hot pan in sight,” Berdie promised, “Just a couple of questions.”
“We are due for a meeting inside,” Mr. Stanford warned.
“I’ll come straight to it, then. You have a cat boarding with you, looks a bit like a vampire: black and white, exposed fangs, frightening, some would say.”
“Frightening to those unfamiliar, perhaps,” Mrs. Stanford replied.
“So you know the feline?”
The pink clad woman looked at her husband.
“I think what my wife is trying to say is that her love for felines is universal, if they are lovely or not. No domestic cat generates fear if you’re fond of the creatures.” Octavious smiled at his wife. “Right, Millie?”
“Indeed.” The woman moved her bag from her elbow to holding it with both pink-gloved hands in front of her waistline.
“Tiddles, when he becomes familiar, as you say, does prove to be a gentle thing.”
The Stanfords simply stared at Berdie.
She tried to make her next words as light and airy as the birdsong about the place. “By whom is he being boarded, if I may?”
“No, you may not.” Millicent smiled, though she sounded like a grandmother gently scolding her grandchild as she waggled her index finger toward Berdie. “We can’t answer client inquiries. It’s against our honorable standards.”
“We protect our client information.” Mr. Stanford sustained.
“Your shelter is important, but certainly not a confessional or legal office,” Berdie offered with light joviality.
Both Stanfords frowned.
“Our businesses sustain the highest of personal protocol,” Mr. Stanford said. “And your next question?”
Berdie could see this line of inquiry, though presented pleasantly, wasn’t working. And she had that other very important question to ask them. She decided to try it on.
“You attended our Ascension Sunday concert.”
Millicent leaned close to her husband.
“I hope you enjoyed it.”
“Yes, thank you.” Mr. Stanford cleared his throat. “Well if that’s it then, we’ll move on.”
They were there.
“You were seen speaking to Mrs. Olivia Mikalos, Tiddle’s caretaker, on the village green at the concert. How well do you know her?”
“Who?” Mr. Stanford tipped his head.
Berdie opened her bag and pulled out the photo of Olivia. “This woman.”
Mrs. Stanford glanced at the picture, and then at her husband.
“Oh, is that her name?” Mr. Stanford registered little surprise. “Yes. She was just someone in the crowd who started a conversation with us, as you do at those types of affairs.”
“Seemed a rather nice lady,” Mrs. Stanford added.
“She was interested in our facilities, our fund raising efforts, that kind of thing.” Mr. Stanford pointed at the entrance of the facility. “Now, if that’s it, you’ll excuse us.”
“Were you aware Mrs. Mikalos is missing?” Berdie quipped.
“Is she, indeed?” Mrs. Stanford rubbed her finger on the pink leather bag.
“In fact, you may have been the last ones to see her. Do you recall what happened after she left your conversation?”
“We left the conversation, actually.” Mr. Stanford’s tone was moving from pat to perturbed. “If you must know, Millie wanted to be closer to the choir for good hearing of the concert.”
Millie shook her head. “Yes.”
“I see.” Berdie slipped the photo back into her purse. “Did you enjoy your lemonade?”
“Not at all, quite sour.” Mrs. Stanford’s sugary smile stood in contrast to her words.
“Move along now, Millie, we don’t want to be late.” Mr. Stanford gently began to guide his wife toward the entrance with his palm resting on her back.
“My young friend and I returned the missing Hero, that’s why we’re here. Mr. Moore was ever so happy.”
Mrs. Stanford’s face lit and she stopped. “Oh, our lovely Hero has been found. Tavy, do you hear that?”
“Yes, my love.” The man gave his wife a gentle nudge with his palm. “Good news.” He glanced at Berdie. “Goodbye, Mrs. Elliott.”
“My young friend has a photo of him and Hero that Mr. Moore should love to see. Can you give the young man Moore’s address so he can send it to him?”
Mr. Stanford straightened. “You said you had a couple questions. You’ve asked several. For a vicar’s wife, I must say you’re certainly sticking your nose in. Now, goodbye, Mrs. Elliott.”
“Yes, well, I’m sure you have a great deal to do. I know I do.” Berdie watched the couple scoot to a back entrance. “Is there anyone in the whole of this facility who isn’t rude, daft, or hiding something?” Berdie murmured. As she walked to the car, she wove her thoughts together.
Tiddles was being boarded by an unknown. The Stanfords, it would seem, were the last to see Olivia. They said they met her in conversation at the fete, but Mrs. Stanford’s body language didn’t say that at all.
“They know her. They have Tiddles, and Hero is ‘our Hero.’” All of this settled into Berdie’s head like a jumble of puzzle pieces. Cats, hit and run, Broadhouse, Elise, Sir Percival, Mr. Moore, numberless house, greed-inviting will, and Billie Finch. What an odd soup. There was a missing ingredient, but what?
Berdie reached the car. “Thank you for being patient, Duncan. Off we go.” Berdie started the car and was nearly out the car park.
Duncan wrinkled his nose. “Mrs. Elliott, does that Mr. Moore live at this cat house?”
Berdie had to bite her tongue to prevent howling in laughter. “No, I shouldn’t think so.”
“Well, if he loves Razor,” he paused, “if he loves Hero so much, why doesn’t he take him home with him? Why keep him here?”
“My dear Duncan, have you ever thought of becoming a detective? That’s an excellent question.”
He shrugged. “I just know I’d want him with me all the time. Well, except at school.”
Berdie grinned. “Yes, except at school.” Berdie tucked the words in with Duncan’s query. “You know, I can’t answer your question right now, though I have some guesses. At the moment, I’m looking for someone who’s gone missing. And when I’ve found them, I believe I’ll be able to answer your question about Mr. Moore
and Hero.”
Duncan stared at Berdie. “You’re clever, aren’t you Mrs. Elliott?”
Berdie chuckled. “I prefer to say I often put the talents God’s given me to good use.”
Duncan smiled and leaned back in the seat.
Berdie maneuvered the car into the lane and in the direction of Aidan Kirkwood. She was suddenly grateful that little Duncan was with her. The naivety, honesty, and wonder of five-year-old reality was a refreshing antidote to the insolence, deception, and posturing she had just confronted.
She opened her window. “It’s such a lovely day Duncan, there’s sun and flowered meadows. Shall I open your window?”
“Yeah,” Duncan nodded his head so hard Berdie thought he’d do his neck a mischief.
She opened the passenger window and Duncan stuck his hand out, moving it about, playing with the wind.
“Now what flavor ice cream suits you?”
“Well, either lemon sherbet, or maybe chocolate swirl, but I like pink peppermint, too.”
“Or perhaps all three?”
Duncan’s eyes lit and his cheeks grew round as he smiled. “Oh, yes, all three.”
“There’s a treat, then.”
Duncan let go a hearty giggle.
Berdie sped them back to Aidan Kirkwood.
****
Berdie reversed the car down the Butzs’ paved drive while waving goodbye to Ivy and Duncan in the doorway.
She had enjoyed time with Duncan at Bearden’s Creamery almost as much as the lad enjoyed eating his fill of all three flavors of ice cream.
As she made her way to the vicarage, she wished she could rummage through all the pieces of this case with an eager comrade: Lillie. She missed her friend greatly. Lillie had not returned any of Berdie’s calls yesterday except a text to say she was busy. Berdie needed to talk with her, bounce what was happening off her trusted ally. She hadn’t truly appreciated how much a part Lillie played in her shuffling through ideas, sorting facts, reading between the lines. She hoped that her dearest friend’s less-than-gracious attitude, when the topic of Loren entered the conversation the last time they’d video conferenced, had been laid to rest.
“And perhaps I was a bit condescending about her efforts to find Livy,” Berdie admitted to the space in her car. On the High Street, she pulled over despite the busyness of it all. She parked near the White Window Box Garden and Gifts and rang up Lillie on her mobile. I pray this goes well. This time Lillie answered.
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