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

by Leann Sweeney

  Belle shook her head. “Dropped the ball on that one, huh, Morris? Feeling a little guilty?”

  Through tight lips he repeated, “Do you remember her?”

  I shifted uncomfortably and Tom pressed his leg against mine and patted my knee. I could almost hear him say, Relax, Jillian. This is Belle and Morris we’re dealing with. They’ll work it out.

  “I do remember the child, Morris. I remember her comin’ in here a couple times. Didn’t even know she was a mill child until after she disappeared and her mama started coming around asking questions. She loved that girl. I’ve wondered all these years if Jeannie Sloan went and took her own life out of pure grief and that’s why we’ve not seen her in town for so very long.”

  She didn’t know about Jeannie, I thought. I glanced at Candace and saw relief in her eyes.

  “Kay Ellen came in here?” Candace said. “Was she alone?”

  Belle’s eyes narrowed. “You’re taking me back in time here. Give me a minute.”

  We waited while Belle squinted as she glanced around the room. “I had smaller tables back when I first opened. They were cheaper than these.” She rapped her knuckles on our table. “It got pretty dark in here late afternoon but…I do recall Kay Ellen sitting over there, where Wesley is right now.”

  “Alone?” Morris asked.

  “Hmm…I don’t think so.” Her gaze swept over us and she smiled. “She was with a boy. Their knees touched under that table and I could tell they fancied each other.”

  “Do you know this boy’s name?” I asked.

  “Seems I did at the time,” Belle said, squinting again, as if looking back in time. “Thought they were an odd couple. Mill girl and town boy. I just can’t remember, maybe ’cause Kay Ellen grabbed all my attention. Sweet girl. Polite.”

  “How many times did you see them?” Morris asked.

  “Twice at the most,” she said. “They could have come in here when I wasn’t around, though. But the Belles of the Day I had back then are all long gone, so it’s no use looking to ask any of them.”

  “Great,” Morris said. “I guess at least we’ve confirmed this boyfriend.”

  “Belle,” Candace said, leaning toward her to ask a question Morris should have asked all those years ago. “Was it just the two of them?”

  “Oh no,” she said with a laugh. “A bunch of young folks from the high school have been coming in here ever since we first opened. I always wonder if their folks know they’re trading their Pepsis and Cokes for lattes and iced sweet coffee.”

  “So these two were with a group?” Tom asked. He’d finished his coffee while the rest of us had been too caught up in the conversation to touch ours.

  “Well, each table back then could only seat two. But I could tell they all seemed to know one another.” She closed her eyes this time while she thought, and when they opened, she pointed at Morris. “The Franklin twins were here at the same time. Rachael Franklin got married and I believe she’s living in Woodcrest. Talk to her. She’s got a young mind and might actually remember something useful.”

  Twenty-two

  Morris and Candace left Belle’s Beans a few minutes after we were done talking to Belle. Morris said he had to be up early tomorrow to finish reports so he could then hunt down Rachael Franklin. Candace looked plain exhausted and wanted to get home to play with her cat, whom she felt she’d sorely neglected the last few days. I couldn’t argue with that since I felt exactly the same way.

  Tom bought us two more decaf lattes and we enjoyed the music. Belle’s nephew seemed to be quite talented and sang a few original songs before taking a break. That was when we were joined by a surprise visitor—Lucas Bartlett.

  “May I join you?” he asked as he stood by our table.

  “Sure,” Tom said, seeming a bit confused.

  “This is Lucas Bartlett—one of the investors hoping to purchase the mill,” I said.

  “Tom Stewart.” The two shook hands and Tom added, “I thought you looked familiar, but you’re not from Mercy, are you?”

  “No. I’m from New England.” He slid onto the stool Morris had vacated. “Mrs. Hart here is the only truly familiar face I saw in here. The rest of the men working with me have left for their homes. Being interrogated by the police in a murder investigation has sent them looking for the comfort of their families while this whole situation is sorted out.”

  “Yet you stayed,” I said.

  “I live alone,” he said quickly. “Besides, it’s all very…interesting. And I do want to be here if we can move forward with the mill decision—no disrespect to Penelope intended. I understand the town may need to grieve the loss of its councilwoman first.”

  “What brought you to the South for a mill renovation?” Tom asked. “I mean, how did you even find out about it in the first place?”

  “I’m familiar with mills,” Lucas said. “Though my investments have never been real estate connected, I wanted to expand my horizons.”

  “The earlier textile mills in this country were located in New England,” I said, “so I suppose you have seen your share.”

  “No renovations left to be done up North,” Bartlett said. “At least with the money I pulled together. Real estate is more expensive up there. But here—well, it’s a gold mine in North and South Carolina if you want to take on a big project—and I do.”

  “You sound pretty excited,” Tom said, smiling. “Just so you know, neither Jillian nor I have any sway with the town council.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said. “Mrs. Hart here—”

  “Call me Jillian,” I said.

  “Good. First names all around,” he said. “Anyway, I understand that you, Jillian, are a bit of an expert on textile mills. At least that’s what your friend Deputy Carson tells me.”

  “I hope you’re learning about more than just this one citizen.” Tom put a protective arm around me. My goodness, he might be jealous, I thought. Does he really think I’d be interested in this stranger?

  “I’ve learned way more than I want to about Ward Stanley and his bunch,” Lucas said. “Jillian here was the first truly friendly person I’ve talked to.”

  “Thanks.” I smiled. “But you know, I detect a bit of a drawl—and I know they don’t drawl in New England. Where are your roots, Lucas?”

  “All over,” he said. “I was an army brat. Unfortunately, my parents passed away not long after I finished college and I decided to stay right near the university I graduated from.”

  “Let me guess,” Tom said. “Harvard?”

  In the dim light of the café it was hard to tell for sure, but I believed Lucas Bartlett blushed. “Yes. Class of 1987.”

  “Smart one, here, Jillian,” Tom said with a hint of admiration.

  But getting to know Lucas Bartlett would have to wait because from the corner of my eye I saw Ward Stanley making a beeline for our table.

  “They don’t get a vote, Bartlett,” Ward said.

  “Hey, Ward, how are you?” Tom said.

  Not taking his eyes off Lucas, Ward said, “Jillian. Tom. Evenin’.”

  “I’m merely making friends in town, Stanley,” Lucas said. “Hustling votes is more your style.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Ward said.

  The contrast between the two men couldn’t have been more pronounced. Now that he’d told us about where he was from, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed Lucas’s Ivy League roots before—his smart haircut, tailored gray wool coat, articulate and confident manner. It was obvious to me—as obvious as the fact that Ward had come on hard times. His well-worn jacket with the missing button and what seemed like permanent worry lines on his forehead spoke volumes.

  Lucas Bartlett’s tone was cold when he said, “What it means is I think you’re projecting your own behavior on to me, Ward. My proposal to the council will do the talking. I don’t need to hang around council people and beg.”

  The pleasant evening had turned tense in an instant. Lucas must have read my discomfo
rt because he stood. “I don’t want to upset the lady. Do you even notice your poor manners have bothered her, Ward? No. You wouldn’t.” He turned to Tom and me and bowed slightly. “Hope to see you again.”

  He left, understandably not bothering to say good-bye to Ward.

  “I apologize,” Ward said. “I didn’t intend to barge in and spoil your conversation.”

  “We appreciate your apology, Ward. Will you join us?” I said. The man did seem troubled.

  “Things not going quite the way you planned?” Tom asked, apparently not agreeing that he was ready to accept Ward’s apology.

  “I sure didn’t expect a murder to interrupt the town’s business. Sad thing, that.” He sat.

  I noticed a small tear in his jacket to go with the missing button. He needed a new coat. But more than that, he needed that mill project and a fresh start. I’d heard his wife had left him—went to California with the children.

  “Murder is bad business for everyone,” Tom said.

  “Word is you’re the one who found her—Penelope,” Ward said to me. “I’m sorry. Heard it was a terrible scene.”

  “Yes. Um, how’s your mother doing?” I said, wanting to change the subject. “I used to see her in the quilt shop occasionally, but not lately.”

  “She went through chemo for breast cancer. But she’s doing better now,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “I am so sorry. I had no idea. Can I call on her?” I said.

  “That’s kind of you,” he said, “but she wouldn’t want you to see her in her present circumstances. She’s a proud woman and after we lost the house…well, big house to tiny place. It’s been tough to handle.”

  I couldn’t seem to offer anything to brighten the mood.

  “The insurance business keeping you busy?” Tom asked. Obviously he wanted to find some area of small talk that didn’t go down a sad or lonely road.

  “Yes. Busy. Listen, I’ve got to be heading home. Sorry to have butted in.” He took off, hurrying to the door.

  I said, “Whew. Talk about awkward.”

  “That’s what happens when family money is lost,” Tom said. “But from what Ed told me, that’s not the only problems with the Stanley family. It went way back.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said. Between our two visitors, I’d hardly touched my second coffee and now took a long sip.

  He said, “Ward’s daddy, also Ward, was the one who closed the place. Thing was, he hung on as long as he could even after everyone was fired.”

  “Bet the upkeep was outrageously expensive. That place is mammoth,” I said.

  “Yup,” he said. “The elder Mr. Stanley finally sold off the equipment to India and China and then came the tax foreclosure. He was in the middle of a messy divorce during all this and then he had a stroke. Died six months later, before the divorce was final. That left Ward and his mother with a worthless, giant piece of property that the whole town considered the Stanleys’ problem—and their doing. The guy doesn’t have many friends.”

  “How sad,” I said. “But you know, even though my first impression was of a morose man, his anger is palpable. And as we saw with Bartlett, also at times quite visible.”

  “With his personality, I’m wondering how he got anyone to put up funds to buy back the mill.” Tom drained his cup.

  “I guess he must have a little salesman in him,” I said. “When you’re raised in a privileged way, you can still act as if you are privileged. And from what I know of the mill culture, the owners ruled liked kings at one time. Unions and legislation snatched some of their power, but reputations like the owners had last for generations.”

  He said, “From the way mill villagers avoid this town, I’d say you’re right.”

  “Ready to head home?” I said.

  “If you stop at my place, we might get a few minutes to visit with Finn. Want to follow me home?”

  “Why, yes, I do,” I said with a smile. Finn was one of my favorite people.

  * * *

  Tom’s stepson, Finn, was indeed home and I swore he’d grown six inches since moving in with Tom. Nineteen and fresh-faced, he was happier than I’d ever seen him. It felt good to hug him and sit down to get caught up. Yoshi, Finn’s rat terrier, jumped into my arms when we arrived and we snuggled a bit. The dog had stayed with me last fall and I adored him.

  I learned Finn was applying to Duke, UNC and Clemson for the next fall semester. He hoped to major in pre-med and I had no doubt he’d be accepted by all three, considering how bright he was. Then the topic turned to the events in Mercy.

  “People are even talking at the community college about the murder,” Finn said. “You both knew this lady?”

  Tom and I sat on the worn sofa opposite Finn. He’d brought a dining room chair into the small living room.

  Tom said, “Jillian knew her better than I did. I assume you heard she found the body.”

  Finn’s eyes grew wide. “Are you kidding me? How rough is that?”

  “Pretty rough.” I swallowed, reminded of Penelope’s dead eyes staring up at nothing.

  “Why’d she get killed?” Finn said.

  Tom smiled. “Good question. Sure you don’t want to go into law enforcement, Son?”

  “No way,” Finn answered. “But when someone dies like that, seems that’s the first question, right? Why this person? Oh, and also, why now?”

  I nodded slowly. “So much has happened lately, and happened so quickly, I never took time to think about why Penelope needed to die. But that’s apparently the decision the murderer made. But we can’t blame Penelope. That’s wrong.”

  “I’m not saying that at all,” Finn said, looking inquisitive and interested. “That would be buying into the crazy Just World theory—that people get what they deserve. It is wrong. But what about Ms. Webber’s relationship to a…a social group like the town council. Did that contribute to her death?”

  “Whoa,” Tom said. “This is beginning to sound like a college lecture. As a former cop, I can tell you I always looked at the victim first—as the center of the problem. Whom did he or she know, what events happened prior to death, what was he or she planning that might have meant the person needed to be silenced? Was it an argument right then? Spontaneous, in other words? Or was there a buildup of emotion before the crime? Because I can say with certainty, murder involves intense emotion.”

  Finn said, “Unless you’re dealing with a serial killer—a psychopath. I understand they lack emotion and—”

  “Okay, genius,” Tom said. “You do know that serial killers represent a tiny percentage of all murderers, right? Most of the time the killer is a regular person in a very irregular moment in his or her life.”

  Finn smiled. “Yes. That makes sense.”

  “What happened to Penelope that day?” I said. “I mean, right before it happened?” I’d been listening, thinking about what brought her to that awful moment when she found herself confronted by a killer.

  “When we know that, we’ll know who killed her,” Tom said. “Candace can sometimes get caught up in the details, in the physical evidence. Don’t get me wrong; I believe she’s a great cop, but she adores you, Jillian. Maybe tomorrow you should ask the question we’ve been wondering about tonight. What happened right before Penelope died?”

  Twenty-three

  For the first time since I’d walked into the Lorraine Stanley Textile Mill several days ago, I slept well. All the cats joined me, taking their spots on the kitty quilts at the foot of my bed. Right before I nodded off, I thought I saw Boots sitting there, too—watching them. My three amigos might trade off on who slept on which quilt, but they would never share one with a ghost cat.

  That was why, as I made my morning coffee, I had this harebrained idea that Boots needed a kitty quilt of her own. I could take it along to the pastorium with the quilt for Jeannie. She would be thrilled, of course. Boots would have a spot of her own. And I would have confirmed to myself and at least one other person that I believed in ghosts.
Silly? Yes.

  But I did it. I made the kitty quilt. It was after lunch when I finished the pink and green log cabin quilt for Jeannie—and the matching eighteen-inch square one for Boots. All explanations to anyone but Jeannie would have to be avoided. I would say I had extra fabric and made the quilt to encourage Jeannie to get a new cat.

  During the time I’d spent sewing the bindings on by hand, I’d thought about our conversation with Finn last night. What we’d said about Penelope could also be applied to Kay Ellen’s death. What took her to the mill that night? Who was this boyfriend and did he have reason to murder her? These questions probably haunted Morris now that he knew how wrong he’d been ten years ago and I felt renewed compassion for him.

  Jeannie held the key. She had the boy’s name and since I had formed a bond with her, I might be able to help her understand the importance of sharing this information. I knew there wasn’t anyone in a better position to try. I could imagine what Candace would say to her. Don’t you want your daughter’s killer brought to justice? Knowing Jeannie, that would mean someone would have to explain to her about the murder—explain that someone choked the life out of her beloved daughter. I knew those details would only make Jeannie withdraw. Did she really need to hear about such a horrible thing? No. She never needed to hear them. There had to be another way. And if Candace would leave this to me, I believed I knew how to get Jeannie to give up that boy’s name.

  With the quilts finished, I put them in a box and wrapped them in flowery paper with a fancy ribbon. I wondered how many times Jeannie had received a gift wrapped up just for her. I knew she would be happy.

  As if she could read my mind, Boots appeared and sat by the gift box on the dining room table and inspected it. She cocked her head, then pawed at the ribbon. But of course the ribbon didn’t move. Because this cat isn’t real, Jillian.

  I was wondering if she’d ever be only Jeannie’s imaginary cat again when I heard Candace’s familiar knock on my back door.

  I hurried to answer, glad a real presence would be joining me.