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

by Leann Sweeney

  She nodded. “Lots of cats was findin’ their way in there—to be safe from the cold. Animals need shelter just like us folks, you know.”

  “They do,” I said. “Had Kay Ellen ever gone in there to rescue her cat before that night?”

  “I’m thinkin’ she said something about it—how Boots wandered in and she went after her,” she said. “But even with Kay Ellen bein’ so little, I don’t know how she got into the place.”

  “But you managed to get in there,” I said.

  “Made a hole in the fence for me and Boots. She led me there, to the place where my Kay Ellen was,” she said.

  “Boots did that?”

  Jeannie nodded. “Yup. Once we got to the building, I had to work at the window to find a way inside. Dug out the stuff between the bricks with my old reed hook. Then I had a big hole to climb in.”

  A reed hook was a small weaving tool and an old, sturdy one like Jeannie probably had would have done the trick. “I see. And then you stayed in the mill after that,” I said softly.

  “Had to be with my girl,” she said.

  Her downcast eyes told me she was beginning to shut down. This was a tough topic and I understood it was time to stop asking questions. “I’m glad you’re doing well and glad they repaired your hip and you came back to the mill village on your own two feet.”

  She looked up. “Me, too.”

  Elizabeth came into the room then and said, “Think you can make it to the kitchen, Jeannie?”

  She nodded and soon the four of us enjoyed a wonderful lunch. After we’d all enjoyed the meal and the luscious cake, she opened her gift and seemed happy about the quilt. I didn’t have to tell her that the small one was for Boots. I could tell she knew.

  Elizabeth had turned the hearth room off the kitchen into a bedroom so Jeannie didn’t have to climb stairs and she was ready to nap with her new quilt when I left. But I told her I’d be back to help her in the days to come. We could walk around the neighborhood together.

  On my way out, I saw a car pull up behind my van and a woman climb out of the Corolla. Her hair had been dyed a dark auburn, but her features and gait told me gray was probably her real hair color. She halted, then glanced nervously at the pastorium and then at me.

  “Is Jeannie Sloan inside that house?” she said in a meek tone. “I heard she was coming here today.”

  “Hi. I’m Jillian,” I said, deflecting her question. I had no idea who this person was, and I smiled at her expectantly in the hopes she’d tell me.

  “Beatrice Stanley,” she said absently, her focus on the house. “I need to talk to her—to Jeannie Sloan.”

  “Are you related to Ward Stanley?” I asked.

  “He’s my son.” She looked at me then, penciled-in eyebrows raised and all her timidity gone. “Is she in there?”

  “She is,” I said. “But she’s resting. Maybe you could call Pastor Mitch and ask when would be a good time to visit.”

  “I need to talk to her,” she said, starting for the walkway leading to the pastorium.

  “Maybe I can help,” I said. “I’ve gotten to know Jeannie pretty well in the last week.”

  She faced me. “I didn’t come here to talk to you, young woman.”

  Young woman? I hadn’t been called that in maybe twenty years. “She’s just been released from the hospital. I’m sure you can talk to her at a better time.”

  “No better time than now,” she said, her gaze focused on the pastorium.

  I blocked her way on the path and I took my phone from my jacket pocket. “I’ll call the pastor then, but I’m sure he’ll ask you to come another time. Jeannie’s not ready for visitors.” Especially unfriendly ones like this woman.

  She pointed a finger at my chest. “You’re pretty full of yourself. Seem to believe you’re in charge. Who are you to deny me what I’ve waited years to find out?”

  I shook my head, confused. “What have you waited years for, Mrs. Stanley?”

  “I’m not telling you anything,” she said vehemently. “But know this, young woman: I’ll talk to that squatter and I’ll find out what she knows sooner or later. You can’t stop me.”

  She turned on her heel and marched to her car as I watched. The encounter, I then realized, had left me trembling.

  What did Jeannie know that this woman was so anxious to learn? Could it be the same information that made Kay Ellen a victim? I didn’t know, but I got in my van and headed straight to Mercy PD.

  Twenty-eight

  Candace, Morris and Tom were busy talking to none other than Landon Burgess when I arrived at the police station. I knew this because B.J. told me—and because I could hear Landon shouting through the walls of the interview room about ten feet away.

  Fortunately, Mike Baca walked out of his office right then. I waved to him and asked if he had a minute.

  “I have more than a minute for you, Jillian,” he said.

  I joined him in his office and he let me ramble on about Jeannie, her arrival at the pastorium, Beatrice Stanley’s appearance and my tense interaction with her. I said, “Why would she need to talk to Jeannie? I mean, the woman seemed desperate.”

  “I have no idea. My question is, how did she even know where to find her?” Mike said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think you guys have done a good job of keeping the cold case under wraps.”

  “Of course she works at the discount store where everybody and his brother shops.” He rocked back in his big leather chair. “It was only a matter of time until word about the skeleton and Jeannie Sloan got out.”

  “But what would make Beatrice Stanley so determined to talk to Jeannie?” I asked. I’d taken off my jacket but now took off my wool cardigan, too. Morris always turned the thermostat way up when they questioned a suspect and apparently the Landon Burgess interview was no different.

  “What were her exact words again?” Mike asked.

  “Let me get this right.” I thought for a second and said, “‘Who are you to deny me what I’ve waited years to find out?’”

  “Hmm. The situation for the Stanleys since the mill went under has gone from bad to worse, so I can understand her being a little intense,” he said. “But what would Jeannie know about any of that?”

  “She wouldn’t. She’s been hiding out for years. Exactly how badly did the mill foreclosure affect the Stanleys?” I said. “Because I’m beginning to think there’s a connection between their empty mill and the person who’d been living inside there for years.”

  “Beatrice is a cashier at a discount store, Jillian. Doesn’t that tell you how bad it’s gotten? She was once a woman who went to charity events wearing diamonds and now she works as a cashier.”

  “She is bitter. That much I know,” I said. “So if they’re broke, how did Ward Stanley pull enough money together to make a bid on the mill?”

  “You really should think about working for me,” he said with a smile. “I asked myself the same question and did some digging. Ward’s got this investor group, old-money folks who knew his dad for the most part. But when we started looking at the paperwork presented to the town council, we learned there’s a shadow member—an unnamed financier. I’m hoping Tom will help me find out who it is, because background investigations are what he does best.”

  “But if he or she is unnamed…,” I said.

  “Ward says another man in the investor group brought in this unnamed person,” Mike said. “And he’s telling me that since it’s got nothing to do with Penelope Webber’s murder, he doesn’t need to tell me. Candace did his interview and says he left in a huff yesterday, saying she’d questioned his integrity. But it could well have everything to do with Penelope’s death.”

  “Guess Beatrice isn’t the only Stanley with an attitude,” I said.

  “You weren’t here when they ran this town, Jillian. They’ve fallen hard, but they’re full of pride. If we give the man time and space, maybe he’ll come around. But in the meantime, I’m putting Tom on t
his. I mean, it only took him a couple hours to discover everything about Landon Burgess.”

  I smiled. “Tom’s good. You should be asking him to join the force.”

  Mike said, “I couldn’t pay him half of what he was earning as a homicide detective in North Carolina. Not that it was megabucks, but all we have are puny bucks here. His business is doing well and he’s only doing these background checks as a favor to me—oh, and a little extra cash.”

  “But aside from this shadow investor, you have information about everyone else in Ward Stanley’s group?” I asked.

  “We do. They’re clean as rain,” Mike said.

  “Okay,” I said. “I won’t keep you much longer, but maybe you can help me understand Beatrice Stanley better—because I know she’ll be coming back to bother Jeannie. The Stanleys lost their business, but wasn’t there money from the sale of all that equipment inside the mill? What happened to it?”

  “Bad investments, is my guess,” Mike said. “Maybe spending beyond their means? And then there were the medical bills. Ward Stanley’s father had a stroke about ten years ago, but he lingered. Spent weeks and weeks in ICU. Maybe the bills ate up their fortune.”

  I nodded. “But you’d have thought they had good insurance. That mill was a hundred years old and they surely created a hefty nest egg. And what about life insurance when old Mr. Stanley died?”

  “From what little I know about Beatrice Stanley, she did have extravagant taste. She could have blown through a lot of money, Jillian.”

  “You think she was the one to do the spending and not her son?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. We’re trying to solve two murders and now that we have Landon Burgess, an admitted liar, right here in my interrogation room, I believe we’ll have answers soon—ones that point right in his direction.”

  “He is one angry guy.” I stood and put my sweater back on. Mike came around and helped me with my coat. “But don’t forget about Beatrice,” I said. “Jeannie shouldn’t be harassed by that woman—not when she’s trying to recover.”

  As he walked down the hall, he said, “You’re protective of that old lady. But why should that surprise me?”

  I smiled. “That I am. Oh—and one more thing. What about the feral cats? Shawn and I will need to get in and check on them, put out more food. I did promise to help him and you know how impatient he gets.”

  “We’re finishing up in there today,” Mike said. “You can tell him that he can have access to the mill again tomorrow. I’m sure Dustin Gray wants to finish up his job for the town council as well. As far as I’m concerned, my people have done a thorough job in the mill. There’s not much evidence from ten years ago. The place is in bad shape. A few walls in the offices were torn up, floorboards pried out and then hammered back in. But I can’t see how that has anything to do with Kay Ellen Sloan’s murder. I suspect vandals.”

  “Jeannie keeps talking about creepers, as she calls them. In fact, she said she was being chased when she fell. My question is, how were they entering the building? She was climbing in and out through a window at night.”

  “Teenage boys these days try to replicate video games,” he said. “And they’re like monkeys. I mean, they can scale walls. They were probably getting in the same way Jeannie was—except on the upper floors. We found loose bricks on several windows. Unfortunately, we found no evidence we can connect to Kay Ellen’s murder. My guess is she was killed elsewhere and taken there because, well, it was a good place to hide a body.”

  I left the police station, realizing as I drove off that Mike’s priority was solving Penelope Webber’s murder. Jeannie and her daughter were not at the top of the list—and I understood why. Penelope, a prominent citizen, died in a horrific way, and any leads in her far more recent murder had to be followed up on immediately. Still, I was bothered that my small town had so few resources that they couldn’t work both cases simultaneously. But by the time I returned home, I had an idea on how to get Kay Ellen’s murder more attention and at the same time find out what Beatrice Stanley wanted from Jeannie and why.

  Before I could call Kara to help me out with my plan, my three cats needed attention. Both Merlot and Syrah seemed to be waiting for Boots to come through the door after me, but apparently that didn’t happen. They gobbled up their treats as quickly as Chablis did, so I was hopeful the little ghost cat had stayed to keep Jeannie company.

  After the big lunch and delicious coconut cake I’d eaten at the pastorium, I wondered if I’d even be hungry by suppertime. But I called Kara and invited her over anyway, asking if she’d like to share a pizza. She happily agreed and said she’d arrive around six once she’d put the newspaper to bed.

  I had a couple hours to myself, but instead of checking to see if I had any new quilt orders, I found myself with Chablis on my lap watching afternoon talk shows. I must have dozed off because I awoke to find Kara smiling down at me.

  “You’ll get a crick in your neck sleeping like that,” she said with a smile. “You didn’t hear me knock, did you?”

  “No.” I sat up, rubbing my eyes. Chablis seemed unhappy that I’d disturbed her and climbed off my lap. “I didn’t leave the door unlocked, did I?”

  She slipped off her navy peacoat. “Nope. You’re getting better at watching out for yourself. I used my key when you didn’t answer. I was worried you might be in trouble.”

  “Why would I be in trouble?” I stood and stretched, realizing I’d needed that nap after nearly a week of restless nights.

  “I’m worried because we’ve got not one, but two murders to be concerned about in this town. And you’ve got your fingers in both of them.” She cocked her head. “Did you read my piece about Penelope Webber?”

  “Sorry, no. Did it run today?” I asked.

  “This morning. Not much to report, unfortunately,” she said. “The victim’s sister wouldn’t give me the time of day when I finally tracked her down and called her for a quote. Apparently there’s no one else to give Penelope a proper burial.”

  “How sad,” I said. “Maybe the town council can do something. At least give her a memorial service.”

  “Already in the works,” she said. “It’s being organized by the next in line to the town council throne, Robert Andrews. But now it’s time for pizza. I’m starving.”

  After I ordered a large veggie—my second pizza order this week—Kara pulled off her calf-high leather boots and uttered a grateful “Ah” as she tucked her feet beneath her on the sofa. “I’m not a fan of those boots—and they cost me a pretty penny. Maybe I can sell them to pay for groceries. Being a homeowner is more expensive than I thought it would be.”

  Kara had just moved into a custom house she’d built on the outskirts of town. She’d used the money John had left her to buy both the house and the newspaper.

  “Do you need money?” I asked. “I can help out.” I had a nice little nest egg thanks to her father. John had been so good at saving. But his passing away during his first year of retirement hadn’t been part of his plan. And it hadn’t been part of mine. Gosh, how I missed him.

  “I was kidding about selling my boots,” Kara said, pulling her dark brunette hair back and fastening it with a black elastic band she’d had around her wrist. “I didn’t spend all Daddy’s money and, believe it or not, I am making enough at the newspaper to pay my bills.”

  “But if you ever need help—”

  She held up her hand. “Same goes for you. We’re family and we’ll always help each other.”

  “You’ve offered a fitting segue,” I said. “I could use your help—but not with money issues. It concerns this cold case, the one you agreed not to write about yet. At least I think it’s about the cold case. I’m not sure.”

  Kara turned a little more in my direction after grabbing a lap quilt from the shelf under the coffee table. She spread it over her knees. “Oh, good. Tell me.” Her brown eyes sparkled with interest.

  By the time the pizza arrived, I’d
pretty much caught her up to speed on everything that had happened in the last few days. I was hungrier than I thought and when we were both full, only two pieces of pizza remained. Merlot, as usual, ate a bit of cheese, but the other two cats seemed quite disappointed in our supper choice. Chablis would have definitely preferred ice cream.

  I wrapped up the remaining pizza slices and put them in the fridge while Kara made coffee. Usually this time of day I go for decaf, but my stepdaughter never did. She always said, “Go for the real thing—in every aspect of life.”

  We settled back into the living room with our mugs of Kona and the cats in their usual spots—Syrah on the top of the sofa behind me, Chablis in my lap and Merlot stretched out between the two of us.

  I said, “As I was telling you, Beatrice Stanley wants something from Jeannie—seems desperate to talk to her. Whatever it’s about, I have this gut feeling it has to do with Kay Ellen. I was wondering if you could visit Beatrice and tell her you wanted to do a story about the Stanley legacy now that the mill is making news again.”

  Kara considered this, her hands clutching her mug chest high. “You know, that might be a compelling human interest piece. But you have to remember, this is a family that feels humiliated by its circumstances. If I upset her even the tiniest bit, hint that the family would be shown as downtrodden in this article, I’d lose her cooperation.”

  “What if I go along and offer to be there while she talks to Jeannie? Do you think that would work?” I said.

  “Dangle Jeannie like a carrot, you mean?” Kara said, her surprise evident.

  “No, nothing like that,” I said. “See, this woman is determined. I could read it in her eyes. One way or another, she’ll get to Jeannie. I’m thinking it would be far better if we try to control the meeting by making sure I’m present when it happens.”

  “I see.” Kara gnawed on a cuticle, obviously thinking about all this. “Okay, but there’s something I want out of this if I give the cold case lots of front-page exposure—which is what you want, right?”

  I nodded.

  “If I do the Beatrice interview, this boyfriend you mentioned—Earl Whitehouse—has to be part of our deal. I want to talk to him, Jillian. I want to talk to him more than I want to talk to Beatrice Stanley. Whatever his role is in all this, it will sell more papers than anything about the Stanleys because, let’s face it, they’re old news in this town.”