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

by Leann Sweeney

  “Dustin, I want you to tell me every word Penelope Webber ever said to you.”

  * * *

  After Candace finished writing down Dustin’s conversations with Penelope, she made the call to the county crime lab asking them to get her any information they’d uncovered on the woman’s computer as quickly as possible. She thanked Dustin and gave him her card with her cell number, telling him to call her if he remembered anything else.

  Dustin and I walked out together into what was turning out to be a surprisingly sunny, warm day and I swear he couldn’t have stopped smiling if he’d tried. When we reached our cars, he told me he had to make a trip to the office in Greenville, but he would be back. He still had work to do inside the mill. What he’d shown Candace and me on his tablet was just the beginning.

  Before I left, I decided to check my cat cam. I saw Chablis asleep on the sofa in her favorite spot. But I’d tuned in just in time to watch a major cat chase. Since Syrah never chased Merlot, I knew Boots was involved. What could I do about this ghost cat in my life? And why did she need to stay around me?

  I’d set the phone down on the front passenger seat and was about to put the van in reverse when a face appeared in my side window. Startled, I blinked, but then I let out a sigh and pressed my hand to still my heart. I rolled the window down. “Hi, Morris. You scared me.”

  Puffy pillows of fatigue under both eyes told me the man was exhausted.

  “Hey, there,” he said. “What are you up to?”

  I told him about Dustin’s information concerning Penelope.

  He paused, looking thoughtful. “We should be taking a sharp look at those museum investors, then. Can’t find out much about one Mr. Lucas Bartlett, that’s for sure. But I did find Rachael Franklin. Married name is Pickens. Anyway, she didn’t want me comin’ to her house. Said she’d come to me.”

  “This is the young woman who might know the name of Kay Ellen’s boyfriend?” I said. “She’s meeting you here?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “Thought I’d take a page out of Candace’s book. She can get folks to talk by makin’ them feel comfortable. As you may know, I have no friends—human or otherwise—because I’m not good at that stuff. Ask my ex-wife. She’ll tell you.”

  Morris had been married once? Who would have thought? “How do you plan to make her feel comfortable?” I said.

  “I hadn’t quite thought it through, but she is meeting me at Belle’s. Guess I’ll buy her coffee,” he said. “Take it from there.”

  Why was he telling me this? And why was he lingering? Then I understood. “Do you need help, Morris?”

  His features relaxed and he almost smiled. “I do. I screwed up Kay Ellen’s case and I want to make it right, but I’m beginning to see what others see—a cranky, impatient old man. But you could give me a few pointers, seein’ as how you’re the nicest person I know.”

  The Grinch’s heart really can grow a few sizes, I thought. “When’s this meeting?”

  “In twenty minutes,” he said. “Thought I’d change into street clothes. Less intimidating, don’t you think?”

  I smiled. “Good idea. You sure you want me to go with you?”

  His shoulders slumped with relief. “Would you? I’ve seen you help Candace with interviews before. I mean, it’s not like this is some criminal I’m dealin’ with. But I do need help getting her to remember stuff from ten years ago.”

  I grinned. “I’ll meet you over there—and I cannot wait to see you in street clothes. That will be a first.” He ambled off in the direction of the courthouse, his pace more labored than I’d noticed before. Change was a difficult thing—and for a curmudgeon like Morris, probably especially difficult.

  But this wasn’t just about him. I glanced at my phone, the screen still lit, and suddenly had the answer to the questions I’d asked myself a few minutes earlier. This cat spirit, this charming little cat, wanted to make sure I attended to Jeannie’s business and that I followed every clue to bring peace to the poor woman. Maybe running into Morris in this parking lot had nothing to do with chance at all. If I hadn’t stopped to check the cats, and paused to watch them chase Boots, I would have left before Morris arrived. I would have missed him.

  Belle’s Beans was just a few blocks down Main Street and I found a parking spot right in front. I checked the time on my phone—fifteen minutes to four—and as I walked into Belle’s and paid for a decaf skim latte, I glanced again at my cat cam. I shivered when I saw little Boots staring straight at the camera on top of the entertainment center.

  “Decaf skim latte,” called the Belle of the Day, whose real name was Joanne.

  “Thanks, Jo,” I said, sliding the phone into my pocket.

  The café had only a few customers and I sat at one of the center back tables with four chairs. One of Colbie Caillat’s cheerful songs played through the overhead speakers and the music, coupled with late-afternoon sun shining in through the big window, gave me a sense of calm and purpose.

  I removed my jacket and hung it over the back of the lacquered chair. I was taking the first sip of my latte when a young woman walked in and glanced around. I’d never seen her before, so I assumed she’d moved to Woodcrest before I came to Mercy several years ago.

  I got up, hurried over to her and said, “Are you Rachael?”

  She seemed surprised and more than a little wary. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Morris Ebeling’s friend,” I said with a smile. “He’s on his way, but I came to make sure to buy you a coffee.”

  “No coffee,” she said, laying a hand on the baby bump I hadn’t noticed.

  “They have wonderful green tea here—or hot chocolate,” I said.

  She glanced at Joanne, who was waiting patiently at the cash register. “Um, green tea, no sugar,” she finally said.

  I pointed to the table where my coffee sat. “Have a seat and I’ll bring your drink.”

  When I joined her and placed her tea in front of her a minute later, she seemed more nervous than wary. “He said he’d be here.”

  “He will. I’m Jillian, by the way. When’s your baby due?”

  “Four months.” She smiled and laid her hand on her belly again.

  “Your first?” I asked after I’d taken a sip of coffee.

  She nodded. “Only the doctor knows if it’s a boy or a girl. We want to be surprised.”

  “You used to live in Mercy, I understand.” Might as well jump right in, I thought.

  “Yes,” she said. “This is about that girl who disappeared. I tried to tell the policeman I didn’t know any girls from the mill village and didn’t want any police coming around my house. But Deputy Ebeling wouldn’t take no for an answer. When he said we could meet here…well…it brought back memories.” She glanced around. “The place is so different now. Mrs. Lowry’s kept up with the times.”

  “She has plenty of energy,” I said. “But…did you say you didn’t know any girls from the village?”

  Rachael rested her hand on her throat and averted her eyes. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t see the girl in the hall at the high school. But I don’t remember her except what people said afterward. That she ran away.”

  I was so focused on Rachael’s body language and so convinced she was lying, I didn’t see Morris until he was standing right behind Rachael.

  He slid a wallet-size picture in front of her. “Got this from the Mercy High School yearbook. Recognize her now?”

  The young woman hardly looked at the picture. She pushed it away as Morris took the chair next to her. “I was just telling Jillian I knew of her. I take it you’re the policeman?”

  Morris had tried his best to look less intimidating. He wore a plaid wool shirt and had slicked his gray hair back. But even so, his whole demeanor screamed “cop.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thanks for meeting us here, Mrs. Pickens.”

  “I couldn’t have you come to the house.” She turned to me. “See, I live next door to my mother-in-law. She’d ask que
stions, believe I was in trouble, dream up a dozen ways to Sunday to imply to Rick that I’d done something wrong.”

  “Rick is your husband?” I said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “He’s a banker. His reputation in Woodcrest has to remain pristine. You do understand?” She glanced back and forth between Morris and me.

  Morris nodded, trying to smile. It just wasn’t working. He didn’t like pretentious people and Rachael had shown her hand.

  “I most certainly understand,” I said quickly, knowing I needed to intervene—especially since I’d already caught Rachael in one lie Morris hadn’t been around to hear. She knew Kay Ellen. Belle said the group of teenagers had been together the day she saw them here. I tried to sound understanding when I said, “Hanging around with a mill village girl wouldn’t have been too cool back then—and I don’t mean that as a criticism. It’s just how things were, right?”

  She smiled, and seemed relieved. “It’s not like we were snobs. Kay Ellen was a nice person and—” She flushed from her neck to her forehead. “I mean, I heard she was a nice person.”

  Morris rolled his eyes. “What else did you hear?”

  “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She stared at the teacup clutched between both hands.

  I reached out and laid my hand on her wrist. In a soft voice I said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Rachael. No one has to know you had a friend from the mill village. But Kay Ellen has been missing for ten years. Her mother deserves to know what happened to her girl. If your child, heaven forbid, ever went missing, you’d want to know.”

  She seemed to be thinking about this. Finally her eyes met mine and she whispered, “Her boyfriend’s name was Earl Whitehouse. His parents never knew about Kay Ellen. You can’t tell him I was the one who told. Please?”

  “Judge Whitehouse’s kid?” Morris said, not bothering to keep his voice down.

  “Quiet,” Rachael said harshly, glancing around, apparently to see if any heads had turned at the mention of the judge’s name.

  I could tell by the set of his jaw Morris couldn’t care less who’d heard. “No one at the high school ever mentioned Kay Ellen Sloan hung around with the likes of you or the judge’s son when I did interviews there.”

  Still keeping her voice low, Rachael said, “You only talked to a few kids and the principal and the counselor. How would they know anything? Kay Ellen was fun, she was pretty—but she was still from the village. We couldn’t have our parents know we included her in things. What would they say?”

  What indeed? I thought. Before Morris could chastise Rachael and make her shut down—and I could tell by the look on his face he was in chastise mode—I said, “This young man, Earl. Do you keep in touch?”

  “No way,” she said. “But he didn’t do anything wrong. He was crying when she didn’t turn up. Crying real tears.”

  Real tears? I had the feeling Rachael Pickens was familiar with tears of the unreal variety—and that made me sad for her and for her unborn child.

  She went on, saying, “I left Mercy when I went to college and never came back. My parents retired and moved to Arizona. But since Rick and I were in love and he had a great offer at the bank in Woodcrest, we moved. He’s very successful—and that’s why you can’t say anything about this to him. I can’t be involved with the police.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be home soon. I have to leave.”

  “Wait,” I said as she stood, grabbed her purse and started for the door.

  But Morris said, “Let her go. It’s Earl Whitehouse I need to talk to. And I’ll be wearing my uniform this time.”

  Twenty-five

  Morris thanked me profusely before I took off for home. The gloom-and-doom face he’d been wearing of late disappeared. I almost kissed him on the cheek, but I feared it would have been too much for him. He now had a lead on a cold case he believed he’d botched. I felt lucky I’d been able to help, but not lucky I’d met Rachael Franklin Pickens. People like her I could do without, although I did have to give her credit for showing up at Belle’s and giving up Earl Whitehouse’s name.

  As I pulled into my driveway, I wondered if this young man—a man who must be in his late twenties now—had murdered Kay Ellen. Perhaps his real tears when news of Kay Ellen’s disappearance spread through the high school, not to mention the tears he shed when he’d talked to Jeannie, were guilty tears. Maybe a spat between young lovers had turned ugly. I hoped Morris now had the key to unearthing the truth.

  It was already dark and my motion sensor lights at the back door welcomed me home as did my cats. We’d spent the day quilting and I guessed they wanted me back at the sewing machine where they could keep track of me. Cats do like to keep track of the people they own, after all. But it was not to be. No sooner had I finished my Stouffer’s microwave dinner than Tom called. He said we needed to pay someone a visit and felt I could be his sidekick on this job. Could I be ready in five minutes?

  “Ready for what?” I said. “I’m in my usual blue jeans and a sweatshirt.”

  “You’re ready. I’ll pick you up,” he said and hung up.

  He liked a little intrigue and he’d for sure pulled me right in. It wasn’t until I was sitting next to him in his Prius that he told me what had been going on in his life today. He’d been very busy.

  “What’s this about?” I said.

  “We’re headed to the mill village,” he said. “See, I had a call from Mike Baca this morning. With two big cases and not enough officers, he offered me contract PI work. This is an identity check. I love this kind of case. Only took me about six hours to figure it out and I’ll get a nice paycheck from the town of Mercy. I told Mike I’d take money only if I discovered things important to the investigation about this person’s background.”

  The dash lights revealed his smile and I could tell he was pleased. Tom not only installed security systems; he’d been doing investigative work ever since he’d left the police force in North Carolina. Most of the time in his current job, he followed people and took pictures for divorce cases. Pretty boring, he always told me. But this case, whatever it was, couldn’t possibly be boring. Not with the way he was grinning.

  “So what’s the deal?” I said.

  “You’ll see. And you’ll be surprised—if I’m right, that is.”

  A few of the mill village brick bungalows showed signs of life inside. Bright yellow seeped around closed blinds, porch lights were on, but many of the houses were dark. Were they empty? Foreclosed on? It made me sad to see this place at night, a once-vibrant community so desolate.

  The house we parked in front of did have an amber bug light casting a faint glow on the driveway and carport, and though the curtains were drawn on the two small front windows, lights shined inside. Someone lived here.

  “Come on, Tom. Tell me what you’re up to,” I said.

  “Nope,” he said. “There’s a slim chance I’m wrong and in front of the woman I love, well, I’ll want to save face.”

  As we walked to the front door, I noticed a car in the carport—a Lexus SUV. A Lexus? Unfortunately, a vehicle like that seemed out of place in this neighborhood. I said, “You don’t have to save face with me, Tom. Come on. Tell me who lives here.”

  “A woman named Wanda Burgess. There. Is it all clear now?” he said with a sly smile.

  “You know it’s clear as mud.” We’d reached the door and I punched his arm playfully. “Tom, tell me.”

  “You’ll understand in a minute.” He knocked on the door. A nice knock, a polite knock.

  The door cracked almost at once and a woman who looked to be in her late sixties peered at us through thick glasses. “Can I help you?”

  “You can, Mrs. Burgess. We want to talk to your son,” Tom said. “I believe he’s staying here while he’s in town.”

  “You must be mistaken,” the woman said unconvincingly.

  A male voice came from inside, saying, “Don’t lie for me, Mom. Let him in.”

  She turned away from us. “Are yo
u sure?”

  “He knows. I’ve been waiting for someone to figure it out,” the man said.

  She opened the door and we stepped inside.

  Lucas Bartlett stood in his mother’s tiny living room.

  Twenty-six

  After Lucas Bartlett introduced us to his mother, Mrs. Burgess offered us coffee and I readily accepted. She hurried into the kitchen just off the living room. We’d walked into her home under strange circumstances and I knew she felt uncomfortable. If it were me, I’d want to make coffee, bake a cake, work on a quilt—anything besides talk.

  “Have a seat,” Bartlett said to Tom. He waved a hand at a red chintz love seat that had seen better days, while he sat in an old swivel rocker circa 1970.

  The arms of the love seat were threadbare, but I had to say, it was a surprisingly comfy sofa.

  Bartlett said, “Not the quality of furniture you’re used to, I’m sure. She won’t let me change anything in this house. Or buy her a new home in town. My mom believes she belongs here, where she’s spent all her life.”

  “I think this is a lovely home, so I don’t blame her,” I said, glancing around the living room. The furnishings may have been old, but the tidy room felt welcoming. One wall was filled with photographs and I was drawn to a larger version of the picture Candace had given me to return to Jeannie. I pointed at it. “Who’s that in the picture?”

  Bartlett turned to look. “My father and two of his friends. Why do you ask?”

  Ah. That’s why the man standing next to the person I believed to be Jeannie’s father had looked familiar. Lucas Bartlett had his dad’s jaw, the same-shaped face. But since Jeannie’s story hadn’t made its way into the grapevine yet, I couldn’t share what I knew, so I said, “Just wondering. It’s a great picture.”