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

by Leann Sweeney

  Bartlett’s jaw tightened. “One of the few my mother has of my dad.”

  “That’s why you want to buy the mill, right?” Tom said. “Because of your father?”

  Bartlett folded his arms. “How’d you find out about me?” he said, avoiding the question.

  “The police have me on contract,” Tom said. “I sometimes do investigative work for them—especially when Mercy’s small force is struggling with two tough cases. It wasn’t difficult to figure out you had two identities. You’ve been planning this for a while, from what I could tell.”

  “You said two cases,” Bartlett said. “You mean Penelope’s murder and those old bones they found?”

  “Yes,” Tom said. “But I came here about you. You have a score to settle, I get that, but why—”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What score?”

  Just then, Mrs. Burgess came into the room carrying a tray with coffee cups, sugar and cream. She set it on the maple coffee table in front of Tom and me. “He’s thinkin’ he has to finish old business. Mill business,” she said. “I hope y’all like the darker beans. That’s what we drink.”

  I smiled at her. “My favorite.” I took one of the pretty porcelain cups—probably her best china—and carefully added sugar and cream.

  Tom did the same, the little cup looking fragile in his large hand.

  I glanced between Bartlett and his mother. “What old business?”

  “You didn’t tell her?” Bartlett said to Tom.

  “Haven’t even told the cops yet,” Tom said. “Thought I should give you the chance to come clean on your own. They won’t be happy you came here using a fake name—but the rest of it? The success you’ve had, the fortune you’ve earned? That’s all true and you should be proud.”

  “Who’d have thought a kid from the mill village would ever go to an Ivy League school?” he said with a sardonic laugh. “And I’m sure you’ve learned, I went to Yale, not Harvard, as I told Jillian.”

  Tom nodded. “You made a name for yourself there—one you couldn’t cover up. What I want to know before I talk to the police is why you had to create this fake identity. Why not be proud of your accomplishments?”

  Lucas Bartlett’s laser stare and his angry downturned lips made my stomach clench. Wanting to ease the tension, I said, “Is Lucas your real name? Or should we be calling you something else?”

  Mrs. Burgess said, “He’s Landon. Landon Burgess—just like his daddy.” She’d dragged in a kitchen chair and was sitting next to her son. She turned to him and said, “I want the same answers Mr. Stewart does. I’m proud of you, Son. I just don’t get why you’re not proud of yourself.”

  Lucas—or rather Landon—sighed heavily. “It’ll all come out now. I could have pulled it off, convinced the council to accept my proposal, but now everyone is under a microscope. The fact that you’ve uncovered the truth before I could seal the mill deal will ruin everything.”

  “You’re the stranger in town,” Tom said. “Or at least they thought so. They hired me to do routine background checks on the strangers. If it makes you feel any better, I looked into the other man new in town, Dustin Gray. He’s young and doesn’t lie, so his life is an open book. You were the tough one to figure out. You set up this Lucas Bartlett guise five years ago, but you couldn’t hide all your business dealings as Landon Burgess. And Landon Burgess’s roots led right to Mercy. You’ve been planning this a long time, man.”

  Landon said, “As soon as South Carolina passed the mill renovation legislation, I knew what I needed to do. But I couldn’t do it as Landon Burgess.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  He decided to take the coffee left on the tray, but I noted the cup rattled a little in his hands.

  After he sat back down, he said, “I’m from the mill village—born in this very house. Do you think for one minute any proposal I offered would be accepted?”

  “Why not?” Tom said. “Your money is just as green as the next person’s.”

  “You don’t get it,” he said tersely.

  “I get it,” I said softly. “And you could be right. I don’t claim to know all the council members. The few I do know wouldn’t care about where you came from, but the others? Their prejudices might not allow them to ever vote for your proposal.”

  Tom looked surprised. “It’s that bad, huh?”

  “I’ve discovered that town people and village folks do not socialize much in Mercy,” I said. “The mill culture was paternalistic, and that way of life creates prejudice that lasts for generations.”

  “She’s right.” Landon gestured as if tipping a hat. “Kudos to you for your knowledge and understanding.”

  His words still held a bite. His anger was deep, but I sensed there was more to this story. I said, “So did you work in the mill as a child beside your father? I know the labor laws weren’t supposed to allow it, but children still went into the mills, didn’t they?”

  “My dad wouldn’t allow it, even when I asked to go with him. He said it wasn’t safe for kids. And he was right. It wasn’t safe for anyone.” He picked up his coffee cup, his hand still shaking, his gaze averted. “Lung disease from inhaling cotton fibers, toxic dyes seeping into the water. Why do you think all these mills are in ruin across the South? It costs megabucks to clean them up, to transform them into useful properties again.”

  Mrs. Burgess cleared her throat. “My son wouldn’t want me to talk about this, but my husband died in the mill. Fell off a scaffold.”

  “Fell off a scaffold as the piece of junk was collapsing,” Landon said. He closed his eyes, then turned toward the window to his right to avoid my surprised look.

  “I am so sorry,” I said to Landon and to his mother. “That’s terrible.”

  “Changing lightbulbs, he was. Such a simple thing,” Mrs. Burgess said. “Coulda happened to anyone.”

  “If I’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t have let him climb up there.” Landon’s anger was palpable—almost as if another person were with us in the room.

  “You blamed yourself,” Tom said. “But you were how old? Five?”

  “You know everything about me, don’t you, Mr. Private Investigator?” Landon said. “Yeah. I was five.”

  Tom said, “And you were sent away to live with a cousin, then?” I could tell Tom felt uncomfortable and wanted to move past the emotional pain of these two people.

  “Got a chance to send him up North, but I sure missed him somethin’ awful,” Mrs. Burgess said, shaking her head. I saw tears glistening in her eyes despite the strong lenses she wore.

  “Did you send him to this cousin because there was no money? I mean, the mill didn’t give you a settlement or anything?” I asked.

  “They gave me five thousand dollars,” she said.

  “That’s all?” I was unable to hide my shock.

  “Seemed like a lotta money at the time,” she said. “They paid off my mortgage, too. But see, my cousin was smart—smarter than me. I knew he could make that money work for my son—so Landon could go to good schools, get away from this here place.”

  “While you stayed,” Tom said. “To care for your parents, I understand. They were mill workers, too?”

  “They was. But my daddy had the shakes—that Parkinson thing.” She turned to Landon. “They needed me bad, Son.”

  His features softened. “I’ve told you a million times not to feel guilty. You did what you had to do after the mill killed Dad. It’s not your fault.”

  Tom said, “One of us—you or me—has to give the police this information. I don’t know if it will alter their investigation, but dishonesty won’t go over well with the cops. I was a cop once, so I know.”

  “I’m a liar, so I’m probably guilty of murder. Is that it?” The edgy tone was back.

  “You’re not giving Mercy PD much credit. They won’t jump to conclusions that you’re a killer without evidence,” Tom said.

  But I was thinking about what I’d learned. Had La
ndon Burgess discovered what I knew and what Candace knew as well? That Penelope wanted the condo proposal to win the vote? I wondered if Tom or I could be there when Landon told Candace and Mike Baca about the fake identity—because it would indeed be best if he was the one to reveal the secret.

  I guessed I wanted to be in on the interview because I was worried how that conversation would go. Beneath Landon’s seething façade, I saw hurt in this man’s eyes, the hurt of a deeply wounded soul. He would probably be as defensive and as angry as he was tonight. I wanted to protect him—protect him from himself. I understood him.

  Landon’s anger—the anger he couldn’t hide—might make Mike and Candace believe this man stabbed Penelope Webber to death. I didn’t want him to land in prison because his plans for the mill, his plans to right what he felt was a grievous wrong, made him seem like a man willing to kill to get what he wanted.

  But then, perhaps that was exactly what had happened.

  Twenty-seven

  The next morning, Syrah watched as I hurriedly vacuumed. He felt the vacuum cleaner was a beast to be observed and perhaps eventually conquered, whereas Merlot and Chablis retreated under beds or hid behind bookshelves. They wanted nothing to do with the horrible machine. But Boots joined Syrah in the vacuum watch and it seemed these two had come to accept each other.

  I fervently hoped that Boots would join Jeannie at the pastorium when she was released from the hospital today—but how did I catch a ghost cat and force her into a carrier? Containing a living, breathing feline in a carrier was difficult enough.

  That won’t be happening, Jillian. This little kitty has the run of the world. She goes where she wants, when she wants.

  As I pushed the vacuum around with vigor, I thought about last night. Landon Burgess had asked Tom for time this morning to first tell his investor group the truth. Apparently they didn’t know who he really was, either. He then promised he would go to Mercy PD and talk to Candace. Tom offered to go with him and Landon had accepted. This surprised me, but then, Landon Burgess was full of surprises.

  After I put the vacuum away, Syrah sat outside the closed closet door, his tail swishing with irritation. Another lost chance to attack the beast. Merlot and Chablis cautiously reappeared in the living room, glancing around, ready to hide again if need be. My jaw dropped when I saw Chablis walk right through Boots to get to her favorite spot on the sofa. I closed my eyes, wishing Boots would be gone when I opened them, but she was still sitting in the same spot on the Oriental carpet and now she and Merlot were nose to nose.

  Time for me to get out of here, I decided. This ghost cat business, though fascinating and at times comforting, certainly did unnerve me. Besides, Elizabeth Truman told me to come to the pastorium around eleven to greet Jeannie when the pastor brought her there—and the time had come.

  Soon, with a travel mug of sweet tea in the cup holder, and the gift I’d made for Jeannie on the seat beside me, I was on my way. I decided to drive by the mill and was relieved to see the place appeared deserted except for a lone patrol car parked near the high fence. I surmised hunting for evidence in such a large building took several days and an officer was inside still searching for anything old enough to be tied to Kay Ellen’s murder.

  I drove around the corner and parked on the street. Elizabeth greeted me outside. She’d been pulling weeds that had sprouted beneath the shrubs that lined the path leading to the pastorium. Apparently weeds didn’t mind the winter weather.

  She smiled warmly and said, “Good to see you, Jillian. Now I can give up this task and we can have a nice cup of coffee while we wait for Jeannie’s arrival. Come on, then.”

  She walked ahead of me but turned back and said, “What do you have there?”

  “Just something I made for Jeannie,” I answered. And for her cat, I added to myself.

  “What a nice way to welcome her here,” she said as we walked into the pastorium. “I made a coconut cake. Jeannie always loved sweets and I imagine she has not had anything homemade, aside from those cookies I took to the hospital, in a long time.”

  “That’s for sure,” I said.

  Elizabeth led me into the pastorium living room and gestured at the gray striped sofa and matching chairs with their half dozen complementary pillows in gray, red and white. The Victorian style suited the room with its arched windows and old but beautifully restored fireplace.

  She stoked the fire and it came to life. After returning the poker to the tool stand, she said, “I have coffee, hot chocolate, tea. Whatever you’d like.”

  I’d moved a few pillows and sat down on the sofa but started to rise, saying, “Coffee would be great, but let me help you.”

  “No, no. Please sit,” she said as she walked toward the hallway that must lead to the kitchen. “I do enjoy fixing for company. Sugar, cream?”

  “Both,” I said.

  As I waited, I set the gift on the floor next to me and took in the room more fully. From what I’d seen in the study the other day and now in this room, Elizabeth Truman apparently had the decorator gene. Everything seemed as if it could be photographed for a magazine. I thought about Jeannie living here. She’d been holed up with no comforts except her ghost cat for a decade. This place would probably seem like a palace.

  The smell of coffee brewing wafted into the room. I loved that smell and settled back. Lovely sofa, I thought, but not half as comfortable as the love seat in the Burgess house. What would Candace and Mike think when they learned about Landon? I grew somber then. He could be a murderer. He certainly had a strong motive—and the thought was disheartening. But though Penelope Webber may have been deceitful and greedy, she didn’t deserve to die. My sympathy lay with her, not with her killer.

  Just then, Boots appeared, walked across to a lovely accent chair—upholstered in red damask—and began to sharpen her claws on the wooden leg. I almost got up to scold her before I came to my senses. She’s a ghost. She can scratch anything she wants.

  I felt relieved she’d decided to come here to be with Jeannie, though. But how did she know to accompany me? It wasn’t as if I’d told her. The real question was, however, how do ghosts know how to do anything? I wasn’t about to voice that question aloud to anyone.

  Elizabeth appeared, carrying two matching floral mugs, and handed me one. But I’d managed only two sips when we heard the front door open and the pastor’s deep voice call, “Our guest has arrived.”

  I set my mug on a coaster on the oval coffee table and both Elizabeth and I went to see if we could help the pastor with Jeannie.

  He was behind her as she pushed toward us using a walker.

  Elizabeth smiled broadly and clapped her approval while I said, “You’re amazing, Jeannie.”

  Jeannie returned our smiles and said, “Got a brand-new hip and I can tell you it works better than the old one.”

  I laughed and said, “Guess this hospital visit wasn’t so bad after all.”

  “Nope. But I’m glad to be outta there. Lotta noise at night. You’da thought the creepers followed me all the way there.”

  We backed up so she could come into the living room.

  Elizabeth said, “Oh my. There is far too much furniture in this room for a person needing a walker.” She looked at the pastor. “Mitchell, could you move the coffee table out of the way?”

  “Certainly can,” he said, removing his coat.

  Elizabeth took it from him and after I picked up my coffee, he easily slid the table off to the side using the needlepoint rug beneath it as a pull. Jeannie now had a clear path to walk slowly to the red chair.

  She was wearing a pink velour jacket and matching track pants with zippers low on the sides of the legs. Probably a gift from Elizabeth and easy to get on and off. Her hair had been parted and combed and was held back by rhinestoned combs on each side. She probably felt like a princess, thanks to the pastor and Elizabeth.

  She made it to the chair and sat with Pastor Mitch’s help. She glanced around and said, “This place is
different than I remember. Fancy.” And then, I knew she spied Boots, because she was looking at the floor and tears shimmered in her eyes. She whispered, “She’s here.”

  Elizabeth said, “Who’s here, Jeannie?”

  “Boots. Boots came to be with me.” She pushed her walker to the side and patted her lap. “Come here, Bootsie.”

  “Are you talking about Kay Ellen’s cat?” Pastor Mitch said, looking confused.

  “Yes,” she said. “And I know you can’t see her. Only me and Miss Jillian can.”

  I felt my face heat up and shook my head slightly when Elizabeth gave me a quizzical look. A small lie, one I felt guilty for offering. Thank goodness Jeannie was concentrating on the ghost cat now sitting in her lap and didn’t see my tiny, false denial.

  “Are you hungry, Jeannie?” Elizabeth said. “I’ve prepared that chicken salad you used to like so much.”

  She continued to smile down at the cat curled in her lap. “Yes. Hungry. I stay hungry.”

  “We’ll have to fix that,” the pastor said. “Let me help you in the kitchen, Elizabeth.”

  They disappeared, probably anxious to discuss how to handle Jeannie’s seeing cats that didn’t exist. I couldn’t blame them.

  I sipped my coffee. It was rich, with real cream and plenty of sugar. So, so good. Then I said, “I cannot believe how well you look, how easily you walked in here. You are one strong woman, Jeannie.”

  “I am,” she said. “Soon I’ll be back at the mill. Gotta protect my girl.”

  The truth—that her daughter’s remains had been removed—would be difficult to explain. I decided I might need the pastor’s help. But perhaps Jeannie knew more about her daughter’s disappearance aside from Earl Whitehouse’s name—things she didn’t even realize were important to finding Kay Ellen’s killer.

  “Why do you think your daughter went to the mill the night she died?” I asked.

  She stroked the cat. “I was thinking she mighta gone after Boots and run into trouble.”

  “I never thought of that. Had Boots ever done that before—gone into the mill?” I asked.