The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery

by Leann Sweeney

  I pressed the doorbell and heard the lovely chimes ring inside. As I waited, I stared down at Boots. I wanted to ask her why she was tagging along everywhere now, but of course not only was she a cat; she wasn’t even…real.

  I tried the bell one more time after about twenty seconds passed with no response. Nothing again.

  The glass doors were too hard to resist. I mean, if I pressed an eye between some of the beautiful etched scrolls, I might be able to see inside. I remembered Tom’s visit here yesterday. Had it been to improve security? He was supposed to work with her phone and add the apps so she could watch her house while she was away. That might have involved adding more cameras. I had noticed two, mounted above to my right and left. If I pressed my face against this door, would an alarm go off?

  But would that be the worst thing in the world? I asked myself. Tom would be alerted immediately by an alarm and that might be exactly what I needed.

  Go for it, Jillian.

  I still felt guilty about peeking inside a relative stranger’s home. I glanced behind me to make sure no neighbors were watching—though they’d need binoculars since the nearest house was half a block away.

  I cupped my hands on either side of my eyes and peered through a space where the glass was clear.

  And immediately stepped back, whispering, “Oh my goodness. Oh no.”

  A hallway light must have been on because, though the living room ahead of me was unlit, I could still see feet—feet shod in expensive-looking gray heels. The shoes looked like the pair Penelope was wearing earlier. I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Mercy PD. A 9-1-1 call would pull resources away from the mill—and perhaps create chaos. For all I knew, the woman could be a diabetic and passed out from low blood sugar. B.J. answered my call immediately.

  “B.J., this is Jillian,” I said, sounding as if I’d just taken speed or something. “I’m outside Penelope Webber’s front door and it looks like she’s fallen, maybe hurt herself, could be unconscious—I don’t know. Can you call for paramedics?”

  “Sure. The address?”

  After I gave it to him, he said, “I’m dispatching to them right now on the computer. Is there any sign of foul play? Broken windows or locks or—never mind. I’ll send someone, but if the door’s not open—you tried the door, right?”

  “No. Should I?” I truly didn’t want to. I had a bad feeling about this and so did Boots. She was crouched where the double doors met, seemingly sniffing the air coming from inside the house for clues.

  “Maybe you can help her,” B.J. said. “Everyone is so tied up with all that business at the mill. Just try the door. I’ll stay on the line.”

  Thinking how Candace would handle this, I said, “I’m putting you on speaker.” After I did, I set the phone on the concrete porch, pulled my leather gloves from my jacket pocket and put them on. If there was even a hint of foul play, Candace would expect me to not leave my fingerprints. I pressed down on the curving latch-style handle and the door cracked open. “It’s open, B.J. I’m going in,” I said as I picked up my phone.

  “Paramedics are a few minutes out,” he answered. “Tell me what’s wrong with her so I can relay any information to them on their computer.”

  Boots hurried in ahead of me and made a beeline for Penelope Webber. I took a more cautious approach, my heart thumping against my ribs.

  “Ms. Webber,” I called to the prone figure. Her upper body was blocked from view by a white leather sectional sofa. “Are you okay?”

  Dumb question, I thought. Nothing was okay about any of this. Not her on the floor. Not me being inside her house. Not a ghost cat rushing to Penelope Webber’s side.

  “Jillian?” B.J.’s voice came out of my phone and startled me. “Can you tell what’s wrong with her?”

  I was staring down at Penelope Webber, lying in the murky room. Staring at the blood blossoming like a giant red poppy on her white blouse. Staring at the splatters of blood marring the white leather sofa. A large pool of almost-black blood beneath her neck had soaked into a white looped carpet.

  “Everything’s wrong, B.J.,” I said in a shaky voice.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her eyes are wide open. And there’s blood. So much blood.” My voice seemed as if it belonged to someone else. But the words were mine. This was indeed real and so horrible. “I can’t help her. No one can.”

  The sound of a siren jarred me and at the same time brought a sense of relief. Even though this poor woman was dead, she would be taken care of by the paramedics and then by others trained to deal with violent death.

  B.J. said, “Get out of the house, Jillian. Don’t disturb anything.”

  “Yes. I’m leaving this instant,” I said.

  But before I left, I noticed a familiar object lying on that spattered carpet.

  It was an old, and probably very sharp, heddle hook, the kind they would have used at the mill. And it was covered in blood.

  Eighteen

  When paramedics Marcy and Jake arrived, I quickly told them what I’d found and then they rushed inside the house. Unlike me, they flicked on lights and I stood on the now-illuminated porch for a few seconds. But I was so cold. So chilled, inside and out. I went to my van and got behind the wheel, started the engine and hoped the heater would warm up faster than it usually did.

  I still had my gloves on but had to pull one off to tap the cat cam icon on my phone. I needed to see my friends at home. Needed to see peace and beauty and familiarity—and erase the images in my head of poor Penelope Webber. My cats still slept and I wanted to hold one, feel soft fur against my cheek. That was when I felt the pressure on my lap, the warmth I so needed right now. Boots was a mind reader, too, it would seem. Her presence was not as comforting as one of my own fur friends, but it was enough for now.

  It took only another minute before Marcy and Jake came out of the house. They looked stoic and Jake was talking on the phone. As Marcy took her unneeded emergency bag to the ambulance parked behind my van, she passed my window and shook her head when our eyes met. We shared a look of despair. There was nothing to be done to help here. Nothing.

  I waited for the interview I knew would come after the police arrived. And oh dear—after Lydia showed up. She wouldn’t be shut out of this case.

  Candace and Morris drove up fifteen minutes later. They didn’t come with sirens blaring, but they did draw their weapons before entering the house. I’d not thought about a killer still hiding in the house or anywhere nearby. I had no clue why I hadn’t considered this except that my mind didn’t work like a cop’s. I didn’t believe danger lurked around every corner. Jake and Marcy hadn’t come rushing out of the house, so maybe they’d checked for intruders.

  Candace came out of the house after a few minutes and walked over to my van. I rolled down the window.

  “Sorry we took so long getting here,” she said. “Had to get help from the sheriff’s department to take over guarding the mill. Given half a chance, I believe all those gawkers would have stormed that place for a look at what we were doing. You’d have thought we had King Tut hidden in there.”

  Her joke was meant to soothe me. Candace could read me well and probably knew I was hanging on to my composure like a baby clings to a precious piece of an old blanket. I forced a smile. “It’s an awful scene in there.”

  She gave a curt nod. “Tell me everything, from the minute you arrived.” She had her little notebook ready.

  I explained what happened, about calling B.J. and walking inside, and then said, “But that heddle hook creeped me out. Do you think someone took that from the mill?”

  “Heddle hook? Is that the funny-looking tool with the wooden handle next to the body?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Weavers use them for threading or even to reach in and grab loose threads on the looms. That one I saw is a long version—for a large loom.”

  “I thought it was some kind of weird ice pick with a hook on the end,” she said. “Thanks. You’ve j
ust given us our first lead.”

  She went to her patrol car then and grabbed her evidence kit. She paused at the front door and put paper booties over her shoes and disappeared inside the house.

  I couldn’t leave. The ambulance had pulled out and was parked on the street, but now the Mercy PD patrol car blocked me in.

  That realization—that I couldn’t drive away—made panic take hold of me. No. No. I have to get away from here. I picked up my phone and called Tom.

  “Please. Can you come and get me?” I said when he answered.

  “Sure, but you sound like you can’t catch your breath. What’s wrong?”

  I explained in a brief and halting dialogue what had happened and ended with, “I can’t sit here thinking about what I just saw. I can’t.”

  “Take a deep breath. Take twelve of them. I’m on my way,” he said.

  He made it to Penelope Webber’s house before Lydia arrived, thank goodness. As we drove away from the murder scene in Tom’s Prius, we passed my stepdaughter, Kara, speeding toward the Webber house. This was the second time today we’d passed and exchanged brief waves. She’d obviously heard about the murder, which meant that perhaps the crowd at the mill would soon shift its focus to this once-quiet street.

  I called Candace as we drove to my house and she answered with a tense, “Yes?”

  I told her Tom had picked me up and if she had more questions, we’d be at my place.

  She said, “Sorry I left you outside. I was still upset with B.J. for telling you to go into the house, but I can’t blame him. He’s still learning. He should know Marcy and Jake would have arrived within five minutes. There’s just way too much going on in this little town with only a half dozen cops to handle everything. I’ll be in touch.”

  As soon as I hung up, I thunked my head with the heel of my hand. “Turn around, Tom.”

  He looked over at me. “No way. I’m getting you away from that place. You look exhausted and should go home.”

  “I was supposed to take cat food to the mill. But it’s all in my van and—”

  “We’ll stop and buy every bag of cat food they have at the Pig,” he said.

  The Pig was what the locals called the Piggly Wiggly.

  I said, “But there’s no one to let us inside the mill and Allison told me where I was supposed to put the food inside the feral shelters and—”

  Tom rested his right hand on my knee. “It’s all right, Jilly. Shawn is probably free now. I’ll call him and take care of this once I get you home.”

  I wanted to protest—but then…I didn’t, not really. I prided myself on being strong and independent, but right now it felt okay that Tom was taking care of what I’d forgotten to do. “Good idea,” I said quietly. Good idea, indeed.

  * * *

  After we returned home, Tom phoned Shawn about the cat food problem and they worked out a solution. Then he called for a pizza delivery and I had to admit it was the best pizza I could remember eating in a long time. As soon as I’d finished my third piece, I felt my brain begin to clear. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten.

  The cats sniffed around as we ate, but only Merlot decided to try a little bit of cheese. Chablis wanted to sleep and Syrah was, well, preoccupied with the invisible visitor.

  As we sat on the couch enjoying the decaf Tom made, he noticed Syrah acting as if he was stalking a bug or mouse and said, “Seen any rodents or spiders lately? Syrah sure does seem interested in that far corner.”

  “You know how he loves to chase anything that’s invaded his territory—even creatures we can’t see.” And I couldn’t see Boots right now. Odd how she seemed to appear only at certain times. But I was sure she was there, teasing Syrah. My relationship with a ghost cat, however, was a secret I still couldn’t share with Tom.

  Finally I felt ready to talk about finding Penelope, especially after remembering that Tom had been at her house last night on a security job.

  I said, “When Penelope called you to work on changing her phone for more security options, did she seem worried?”

  “I’ve been mulling over exactly that,” he said. “She seemed…anxious, maybe? More like impatient than worried. Then she got a phone call and hurried me out of her house.”

  “Right,” I said, nodding. “She showed up at the mill not long after.”

  He said, “I take it the system wasn’t armed when you went inside? Because I would have gotten an alert—that is if I didn’t screw up a connection when I was adjusting her cameras. Before she went racing off, I told her I’d be back to repair that camera. But the alarm would have still gone off had the system been armed.”

  “The door was open; no alarm went off. I’ve read enough crime novels to know that might mean she knew her attacker. And man, was that poor woman attacked.”

  “What exactly is this heddle hook tool that could be the murder weapon?” he said.

  Rather than explain, I grabbed paper and pencil and drew a picture for Tom.

  “They used these in the mills?” he said, holding the envelope I’d grabbed to draw on.

  “Yes,” I said. “Some weavers actually made their own. The one next to…to Penelope was maybe seven or eight inches long. The little hook on the end can grab thread on a loom and pull it through an eye or even capture loose threads.”

  He stared at my crude drawing. “Looks like a thin blade. They’re sharp?”

  “They’re usually made of galvanized steel. I just never considered that a tool used in a wonderful, peaceful craft like weaving could become a murder weapon.” I shook my head, feeling renewed sadness over Penelope’s death.

  “Galvanized steel?” Tom said. “Wow. That’ll do the job.”

  “I saw a couple reed hooks and heddle hooks on the floor in the mill yesterday,” I said. “Maybe the killer picked it up in there.”

  “That could mean whoever did the murder had been inside the mill at one time or another,” Tom said.

  “Or the person’s a weaver,” I replied. “And who knows if there’re tools and cones scattered on the surrounding property. Or if a former mill worker committed the murder. The mill culture and its demise left a lot of people without jobs—and a bitter taste in their mouths. Maybe Penelope’s enthusiastic campaign to transform the mill stirred up bad feelings that had been lying dormant.”

  Tom nodded. “You might be onto something.”

  I checked the clock on the DVR and saw that it was closing in on ten p.m. I squeezed my eyes shut and said, “Oh no. I forgot all about Jeannie. She had her surgery today and I wanted to be there when she woke up. She’s all alone, Tom. How could I have forgotten?”

  “Because this has been a terrible day,” he said, taking my hand. “Besides, she’s probably full of pain medicine and wouldn’t know you from Adam.”

  “I’ll go first thing in the morning,” I said.

  “Get a good night’s sleep if you can,” Tom said as he rose.

  I stood and he took me in his arms and kissed me good night. Then he said, “I’ll pick you up at, say, eight tomorrow morning?”

  “Pick me up?” I said, confused.

  “You don’t have a car, remember?” he answered.

  “Oh. I am tired,” I said. “Yes. Eight o’clock. And thanks for everything today.”

  We kissed again and he left.

  Nineteen

  If I thought Tom could simply drop me off at the Webber house and I’d pick up my van and be off to the hospital the next morning, I was sorely mistaken. First off, I woke after a fitful night feeling groggy. That feeling was replaced by guilt when all three of my cats refused to eat even one bite of food. They just sat and stared at me as I prepared a travel mug filled with strong coffee and rummaged in the pantry for a granola bar or two. I’d not given them the attention they deserved in the last few days and they were letting me know it.

  When I heard Tom’s car pull into the driveway, I hurried out the back door, but I did pause to blow the cats kisses. They didn’t seem impressed.
My lap and my love were needed at home and I vowed to offer both today.

  We reached Penelope’s house within five minutes, but my car was still blocked in by a Mercy PD patrol car—and the dent in the front confirmed it was the car Candace and Morris usually drove.

  Crime scene tape sealed the elegant front doors. I recalled peering through those same doors last night and shuddered. As Tom and I got out of his car, I caught a glimpse of someone wearing a green uniform just disappearing around the back of the house.

  “I think I saw Candace. She’s out back,” I said, hurrying up the driveway.

  Tom called, “Wait. You might disturb footprints. All this crime scene tape is here for a reason.”

  I stopped and turned back to face him. “Sorry. I just want to get my van and leave. This place gives me the creeps.”

  “I understand.” He yelled Candace’s name through cupped hands and then smiled at me. “That ought to get her attention.”

  But it was Morris, not Candace, who appeared from behind the house. He marched toward us, his eyes trained on the ground.

  “Hey, Morris,” Tom said. “Long night?”

  “Yup, and I’m betting it will be an even longer day.” He stopped about four feet away, his gaze on me. “Suppose you came for your van?”

  “I did. Sorry I left it here. I—I had to get away.” I stared at the asphalt, the vapor from my rapid breathing like little clouds of doubt and fear visible to both these men.

  “I get it,” Morris said. “Didn’t cause a problem.”

  The softness in his tone surprised me and I looked up, meeting his eyes. He seemed not just tired from what had probably been an all-night job here at this crime scene, but weary. Weary to his bones.