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

by Leann Sweeney

  I closed my eyes. Kara was smart and even though we loved each other, business was business. I said, “But I don’t even know if Morris had a chance to interview him yet. We can’t go to him before he gets his shot.”

  Kara pulled her phone out of her jeans pocket. “I’ll ask Candace.”

  “No,” I said, wanting to snatch the phone from her hand. “She won’t be happy I’ve been talking about this.”

  “She’s been unhappy before,” Kara said. “It’s not like everyone in town isn’t discussing why one of the Franklin twins returned to Mercy and was seen talking to the police inside Belle’s Beans.”

  I sighed. This wasn’t going as planned and yet I couldn’t blame Kara. At least she’d agreed that finding Kay Ellen’s killer was worthy enough to use her ink and newsprint.

  She made the call and I had to get up and walk into the kitchen where I couldn’t hear any strident notes from Candace coming from Kara’s phone. Maybe I’d regret spilling everything I knew to her.

  But when Kara was finished talking, she said, “You’re safe, Jillian.”

  I walked back into the room, Chablis on my heels and sat back down. “What did she say?”

  “She’s cool with me interviewing Whitehouse,” Kara said. “Said Morris got absolutely nowhere with him. The guy stonewalled, said he never knew Kay Ellen Sloan. So now Morris is having to hunt up more kids—now adults, of course—from that high school class and press them for information. She’s thinking that maybe a visit from the local press will make him reconsider his earlier statement.”

  “Ah. So Candace thinks publicity might force Whitehouse to come clean?” I said.

  Kara smiled. “Exactly.”

  Twenty-nine

  I don’t know how Kara convinced me it was a good idea to visit Beatrice Stanley right away. I guess I told myself that my stepdaughter was correct in her assumption that since the woman showed up at the pastorium today, she probably had the day off. Plus, Kara wanted to do a little research on Earl Whitehouse before she talked to him. “If Mrs. Stanley happens to be working the evening shift tonight, no problem. We’ll catch her tomorrow,” Kara had said while pulling her boots back on.

  With help from a little Internet sleuthing, we found her address, and we also discovered her old address in the process. Kara decided to get some perspective for her story—old versus new—by first swinging by the old Stanley mansion not that far from where Penelope Webber had lived and died. We couldn’t get close enough to see the place because not only was it pitch-dark outside, but the mansion’s driveway was fronted by an arching wrought-iron locked gate. The neighborhood was about as upscale as Mercy had to offer. This gave us both plenty of perspective when we arrived in front of Mrs. Stanley’s aging duplex, which was literally across the railroad tracks. How many people had lost everything and ended up downsizing to this degree after the economic mess this country had been in? The contrast between where the Stanleys once lived and this place gave me a clear picture of what they’d lost, that was for sure.

  A porch light led us up the walkway to the aging duplex’s “B” unit. Kara knocked with authority.

  The door opened almost at once, but it wasn’t Beatrice standing before us, but rather her son, Ward. He wore a flannel shirt with frayed cuffs and looked surprised. But if he’d shown up on my doorstep, I’d have been surprised, too.

  “Um, hello, Mrs. Hart,” he said. “And it’s Kara, right? I’ve seen you at several council meetings covering the mill issues for the Mercy Messenger. What can I do for you?”

  “We came to talk to your mother,” I said. “Is she home?”

  He grew wary at the mention of his mother. “My mother? What do you want to talk to her about?”

  “Is she here?” Kara asked.

  “She’s gone to bed. She has to be up by five tomorrow morning for her job.” The muscles in his jaw tightened.

  “When does her shift end tomorrow?” Kara asked.

  “What’s this about?” he said tersely. “I mean, you’re a reporter. What would a reporter want with my mother?”

  “Maybe you can help us understand something,” I said with a smile. His features had darkened and I hadn’t come here to upset anyone. “A little publicity for your mill proposal wouldn’t do any harm, right?”

  He seemed to ponder this and finally opened the door wider and let us in. “Please keep your voices down.”

  The duplex seemed to match Ward Stanley’s appearance: worn out, run-down and shrouded in gloom. A TV in the corner was tuned to a basketball game, the sound muted. He picked up a remote from an end table by the reclining sofa and turned the set off.

  Besides the sofa, there was only one other seat—a tapestry wing chair that seemed to be the only pristine item of furniture in sight. I wondered if it had been rescued from their foreclosure.

  Ward said, “Okay, tell me what this is about.”

  I sat on one end of the sofa, Ward on the other, leaving the wing chair for Kara. I didn’t bother to take off my jacket, hoping Kara would take this as a cue that we weren’t staying long. I didn’t like the man’s vibe and besides, we hadn’t come here to talk to him.

  He spoke to Kara before either of us could ask the question we’d come to ask Beatrice. “Did I hear right?” he said. “Did you indicate you might give the condo proposal a nice boost with a little publicity?”

  “Not exactly Jillian’s words,” Kara said. “Do you think the proposal needs a boost?”

  He laughed. “Can’t hurt. I’m a desperate man.”

  I wanted to ask if he was desperate because he’d lost Penelope’s support when she died, but I couldn’t. That question was police business.

  “Desperate is a strong word, Mr. Stanley,” Kara said. “Why is the mill so important to you?”

  “Because we created it. Owned it for generations. It belongs to us,” he said.

  “I believe Mercy owns that mill now,” she said. “But tell me more about your interest in reviving it—and why you think residential real estate is the way to go.”

  This isn’t why we came here, Kara, I thought. But she was making our visit seem about a topic he had a keen interest in. Probably a good idea before we asked about Beatrice. And for all I knew, maybe this was exactly the kind of story she wanted to run: MILL ROOTS RUN DEEP FOR STANLEY FAMILY.

  “The answer is simple,” he said. “Real estate is coming back. Textile production will never come back. But go ahead. Ask anything you want. It’s my favorite subject.”

  He grinned and I realized he’d completely forgotten we’d come here expecting to talk to his mother. This was all about him and he liked it.

  “How do you think Penelope Webber’s murder will affect the town council’s decision on which proposal will win approval?” Kara said.

  He leaned back, considering the question. “Terrible thing, her dying. But from what the police are telling me, Penelope must have had a past that involved discord. The woman had no friends and not one person has come to town to mourn her death. I believe her murder had nothing to do with the mill and will not affect any future outcome.”

  He made it sound like the woman was a stranger to him—which I knew to be untrue. And he also seemed smug, as if he were already running a multimillion-dollar business. But was it all bravado? Penelope had been helping him get his wish and now she was gone. That had to hurt. Yes, I decided. This attitude is all for show. Bet he’s worried sick about what the town council will decide.

  Kara asked him more questions about his plans for the upscale condos, asking if he’d developed any floor plans—she got very specific.

  He seemed happy, excited, but grew guarded when she started asking about his investor group. He said, “They want to stay in the background. I handle all the questions about financing. We have the money.”

  And one person wants to stay so far in the background, we don’t even have a name—yet, I thought. I glanced at the hallway where Beatrice lay sound asleep in her bedroom—or so her son said
. We came to talk to her and my eyes were starting to glaze over now that the interview had turned to a discussion about architectural firms interested in joining the project. Finally, Kara glanced my way and gave me a tiny nod as if indicating now was the time to ask about Ward’s mother.

  “How does your mother feel about your plans?” I glanced around. “By the way, we had no idea you lived here, too.” But from the men’s running shoes on the floor and the collection of baseball caps I could see in the open closet hall door, he did live here.

  “This is only temporary,” he said quickly. “Once the council votes my project through, I’ll be getting a place of my own. So, what do you want with my mother?”

  “I ran into her today outside the pastorium in the mill village. She wanted to talk to Jeannie Sloan and—”

  “Jeannie Sloan? She doesn’t even live here anymore.” He’d paled. “Does she?”

  Oh boy. I hadn’t anticipated I’d be giving out information he knew nothing about. No going back now. “Your mother seemed to think she was in town.” Knew she was. And I’d confirmed as much to Beatrice. She’d tell her son what I’d said sooner or later.

  Kara came to my rescue. “If Jeannie is back, why would your mother want to talk to her? Your family and hers didn’t exactly run in the same circles ten years ago.”

  “Good question. I don’t know,” he said absently. He glanced at the hallway leading to the bedrooms. “Maybe I do need to wake her up.”

  I stood. “No. Please don’t. Maybe it’s just something she heard in town. Maybe—”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Hart,” he said coldly. “I want to know what you’re holding back. See, I know my mother would never have gone to the mill village—not in a million years—if she didn’t have a good reason, not to mention good information.”

  I sighed heavily and sat back down. Since Beatrice Stanley knew about Jeannie’s whereabouts, about her story, then the word was out around town. It was only a matter of time until Ward found out.

  I said, “Jeannie Sloan has been living in the mill, hiding out there, since not long after her daughter disappeared.”

  “Really?” he said. I wasn’t sure what the look in his eyes meant. Realization? Surprise? Anger? Maybe a combination of emotions. He went on, saying, “She was there because she was homeless? Like we once were? Is that it?”

  I’d forgotten to add bitter to the previous list of emotions. “Yes,” I said softly. “Homeless.” I wasn’t about to add a word about Kay Ellen’s skeleton. Beatrice hadn’t mentioned it, so maybe that particular discovery remained a secret to the general public.

  He blinked, looked at his hands and seemed to be thinking about this information so long that I grew even more uncomfortable. But Kara was studying the man, fascinated.

  Finally he said, “Did my mother give you any idea what she wanted with that woman?”

  “Not really,” Kara answered for me. She knew I couldn’t lie, but she’d been a tough investigative reporter once, used to getting answers any way she could. “Do you know what your mother might want with her? Because that’s why we came here.”

  This time, Ward Stanley stood. “No, I don’t. But when she’s awake, I’ll ask her. And now, I’d like you to leave before all your talking wakes her up.”

  We were herded out the door and as we walked toward Kara’s SUV, I said, “He changed his mind. He doesn’t want us to speak to her.”

  I wondered why.

  Thirty

  As I finished my breakfast of yogurt, granola and blueberries the following morning, I was focused on Beatrice Stanley. The woman’s mysterious appearance at the pastorium had me tossing and turning all night. But would a meeting between her and Jeannie—with Beatrice’s intensity so obvious—upset Jeannie too much? Or would a face-to-face not be such a bad thing after all? Jeannie trusted me and I would be there for her. I had an idea about how to set it all up without Ward Stanley finding out, but I still worried whether it was the right thing to do.

  Then there’s the Earl Whitehouse issue, I thought as I sat on the living room floor for a little playtime with my cats. I waved a feather on a string and had all three of them interested. Syrah could jump circles around the other two cats, but if I ran the feathers along the floor, Chablis and Merlot had the edge. I tried to alternate, but soon Chablis was ready for a nap and Merlot lost interest. Only Syrah wanted to keep jumping and chasing the toy.

  As I offered a few more feather passes and he leapt high in the air gracefully, I thought about Kara. She’d dropped me off last night, eager to find out where Earl Whitehouse lived and worked. She had a plan of her own to get him to talk and invited me to be an observer. She feared the publicity threat wouldn’t work and that we’d end up with nothing. But she said she wasn’t beyond using a fake name and her good looks to get him talking.

  As a journalist in Houston, she hadn’t had the luxury of deception, but since this encounter she was planning with Earl Whitehouse was more about helping the police than writing a story, I’d read more than a little excitement in her baby browns last night. But I worried about her and told her as much. What if he and Kay Ellen had had a spat and he killed her? He could be dangerous.

  I didn’t think Beatrice was dangerous, however. I sensed she was heartbroken beneath her angry facade. I glanced at the clock on the DVR. Time to visit Discount Mart, where she worked. Maybe get to her when she was due for a break.

  I called Candace on my way there, but her phone went to voice mail, so I left a message telling her where I was going and why. Not that anything could happen in a busy store, but I always felt better when I told someone I knew what I was up to at times like this. After all, there was a remote chance that Beatrice Stanley killed Kay Ellen. But why would she murder a teenager she probably didn’t even know? I had no idea. I only knew Beatrice Stanley was a dispirited, embittered woman who was aware of Jeannie Sloan’s reappearance. She believed Jeannie held important information—and I wanted to know what this was all about.

  The Discount Mart wasn’t in Mercy, but halfway to Greenville. The thirty-minute drive didn’t involve any freeways like the ones I’d always had to navigate when I lived in Houston. Trees on either side of the nearly deserted two-lane road I traveled reminded me of dark skeletal hands reaching skyward from the grave. It was rather spooky in the gloomy morning and I was glad Boots hadn’t shown up in my car to make it even more eerie.

  I spied Beatrice right away wearing the navy blue apron and red name badge all the employees wore. I waited patiently in line behind a mother with two children begging for candy at Beatrice’s checkout stand. I watched her do her job, her face impassive. I guessed that when you did this kind of work, with loudspeaker announcements, screaming babies, ringing phones and customers unhappy about waiting in line, you learned to tune out a lot of stuff. I felt lucky that I could work in the peace and quiet of my home. Very lucky indeed.

  Beatrice handed the young mother her receipt and immediately glanced at the conveyer for my items. Only when she saw nothing there did she look up and see me. Eyes half closed, mouth downturned, she said, “What do you want?”

  “Are you due for a break soon?” I said.

  “You have a lot of nerve coming here,” she said. “I have nothing to say to you. I want to talk to Jeannie Sloan, not some do-gooder.”

  “I didn’t come here to upset you,” I said, realizing by her surprise at seeing me here that Ward probably hadn’t told his mother about our visit last night. “What if I could get you a meeting with Jeannie?”

  She glanced beyond me, checking for customers waiting or perhaps for a supervisor who might not like her conversing and not working. “Why the change of heart? You treated me like some monster ready to harm her yesterday.”

  “I’m protective, that’s all,” I said softly. “What about that break? Can I meet you at the McDonald’s here in the store so we can talk?”

  Beatrice checked her watch. I noticed her nails were manicured and her hands looked well cared for.
I was glad she pampered herself in small ways. It meant she hadn’t given up. Not yet.

  She said, “I’ve still got twenty minutes until my time off. I’ll meet you then.”

  A customer started piling items on the conveyor, saying, “Your light’s on. Guess you’re open.”

  I stepped away, wandered around the store for a while and then bought a yogurt smoothie at McDonald’s. I was getting in my probiotics for today, that was for sure. The booth I chose was around the corner from the ordering area and I had to wet a napkin and clean off the sticky table. Beatrice slid into the booth and faced me exactly twenty minutes from the time she’d said she would.

  “Can I buy you coffee? A smoothie?” I asked.

  “I don’t need you to buy me anything,” she said. “Just tell me what I have to do to talk to that woman.”

  “Explain why you want to see her, that’s all,” I said, looking straight into her drained eyes.

  She pondered this and I could see reluctance in her expression. She didn’t trust me—and yet she wanted to talk to Jeannie in the worst way.

  She rested her forearms on the table and leaned toward me. “What do you know about us? About the Stanleys?”

  “I know you once had a lot of money—and that you don’t anymore,” I said. “I know your pride has suffered and that you could use a friend.”

  She pulled her lips in, eyes downcast. I don’t think she had anticipated the last thing I’d said. When she looked at me again, I could see she was fighting tears. But her tone was insolent when she said, “That’s not even half of what I could use. But maybe pride is part of that.”

  I said, “All you have to do is tell me what you want from Jeannie and I’ll take you to meet her. I just have one other condition: that I remain in the room with the two of you.”