The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim: A Cats in Trouble Mystery

by Leann Sweeney

  Allison smiled. “You’ll spoil him rotten. And he deserves to be spoiled. I’ll carry him down for you. This boy is heavy.”

  “I believe I’ll let you do that. I don’t want to drop him.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a tired Allison was on her way home and Clyde was already digging into his food while I sat by and watched.

  I knew my three cats would not be joining me in bed tonight. They’d be parked outside the guest room door until dawn. Cats do not like a closed door, especially when a visitor is on the other side.

  I’d miss them, but cats have to do what cats have to do.

  Two

  At first, the loud and insistent knocking on my front door seemed to be part of a dream. Was I experiencing Allison’s late-night visit all over again? But the noise persisted and grew even louder. I sat up and squinted at the nightstand clock. Seven a.m.

  Seven a.m? What the heck?

  I grumbled as I got out of bed and found the jeans I’d left on the floor last night. My friends do not knock on my front door; they come to the back of the house. And they call first—at least most of the time. So, though I wanted to cover my head with my pillow and grab another hour of sleep, I had to find out who was being so demanding. Maybe a neighbor had lost a pet . . . or maybe Allison needed me to do something else for her. But she could have phoned. No, this was something else, and I had a bad feeling about it.

  Groggy from staying up too late playing with my new friend, Clyde, I felt almost hungover as I rummaged in my dresser for a T-shirt. What a fun cat that big boy was, and once he started playing the “paws under the door” game with my crew without any hissing or growling involved, I decided it was okay to let my three curious felines into the room to meet him right away. It helped that mine were used to an occasional feline guest, but I still thought it best that after I supervised their getting to know one another, I’d shut them out for the night.

  Now, when I could have used another hour of sleep, I’d been awoken by some person pounding—yes, now they were pounding—on my front door.

  I grabbed my cell phone as I hurried to see just what was so urgent. When I peered through the peephole, I saw something I certainly didn’t expect: a man who I could have sworn was wearing makeup—and maybe even hair spray.

  Huh? Since I couldn’t see beyond the distortion of his large sandy-haired head through the peephole, I hurried back to my living room, grabbed the remote and turned on my television. It was a new smart TV, and my security expert and boyfriend, Tom Stewart, had set it up so I could access a screen that showed the view from every security camera installed outside my home.

  Sure enough, I could see the entire picture of what was transpiring out there.

  “Darn it all,” I muttered. But I was glad for all my cameras. Tom installed them after Syrah had been catnapped a few years ago, and I could have never anticipated how much I appreciated being able to see most of my property, both inside and out. Plus all the feeds were connected to my smartphone. Even if I was away from home, I knew what was happening here. I’d told Tom he could probably make a fortune selling his techniques for this sort of thing, but he said other companies already did similar work and that he didn’t really care to get involved in business that might involve travel or take up more time than his PI and security business already did.

  Various other people besides this man loitered on my lawn, drinking coffee or staring vacantly at the front of my house. The man at the door had on a suit and there was a woman with swept-back blond hair who wore an expensive-looking print dress and high heels, but others wore shorts, T-shirts and headphones. And not small earbud headphones, either. Big headphones. Cables snaked along my driveway to a van with a satellite dish on top. Yes, the TV folks had found Clyde. And, of course, they’d found me, too. I was again reminded there are no secrets in the small town of Mercy. Not for long.

  I found Candace’s number in my speed dial. Though worried I might wake her, I had no idea what to do about this situation. I might need her police presence here.

  Fortunately, she seemed quite alert when she said, “Hey there. What’s up, Jillian?”

  “What’s up?” I eased onto the sofa, still staring at the media tableau before me. Chablis joined me, promptly sprawling across my lap and blinking up at me. “Here’s what’s up. My front yard is cluttered with people holding cameras, and one of their vans is blocking my driveway.”

  She sighed heavily. “Great. They know you’ve got the cat. I promise I didn’t tell them a thing.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But what should I do?” I ran my hand over Chablis’s silky champagne-colored coat and felt calmer almost instantly.

  More sighing came through the phone. “I’m waiting for a fax from Mr. Jeffrey’s pathologist. His autopsy report should come in today. Can I send Morris to get those press-types to back off? They do have a right to be on the street, but we can get them away from your front door.”

  Morris Ebeling, Candace’s partner, seemed the perfect choice for the job. A grouch in uniform was just what I needed. “Thank you,” I said. “I only want them to stop pounding on my door and not block my driveway.”

  “Will do. Just don’t talk to them,” Candace warned. “They’re sorta like kids and candy. You give them a taste of sugar and they’ll keep begging for more.”

  “I have no intention of giving them the time of day—which is seven o’clock in the morning, last I checked. Should I call Kara to come over and intervene? She’s their colleague, so to speak.”

  “No. Don’t do that. If they figure out you two are related, they won’t leave either of you alone.”

  “Okay. Morris it is, then. Talk to you later.” Ready for much-needed coffee, I disconnected and picked up Chablis. “Keep me company in the kitchen, baby, and we’ll pretend there’s no one out there trying to get our attention.” I was certain Syrah and Merlot were waiting downstairs. A closed door and a strange new friend named Clyde could not be ignored.

  By the time the coffee was brewed, Morris had come to my rescue. I heard his familiar gruff voice shouting at the folks assembled on the front lawn. In case they decided to invade the back of my property as well, I’d closed every blind in the house so no one could sneak a peek into one of the many windows overlooking Mercy Lake. It bothered me to be denied the view of the salmon-colored sunrise spreading its glow across the water. I’d only had a glimpse this morning.

  A good five minutes later, Morris knocked on my back door, shouting, “It’s me, Jillian.”

  I let him in and gave him a grateful hug, which seemed to catch him by surprise. He blushed bright red, a Christmas-like contrast to his forest green uniform.

  “Just doin’ my job,” he said after I thanked him. “They got no right steppin’ all over your flowers and rattling your door like you’ve got Elvis Presley’s ghost floating around in here.”

  “My pansies? Darn it all. They were doing so well.” I walked over to the coffeepot and held it up, eyebrows raised.

  He nodded at the carafe. He might even have been drooling. “Your flowers are flat as the earth used to be. I can make them pay you for those. I got all them TV idiots rounded up in the road and I’m bettin’ not one of them is leavin’, neither. How much those flowers set you back?” He took a mug off the little stand by the coffeepot and handed it to me.

  “Not much. I’ll let it go. I don’t want to talk to any of those people, not even about crushed pansies.” I filled his mug and pushed a spoon and the sugar bowl toward him.

  Just then, Syrah, Merlot and Clyde appeared through the door leading to the basement. That darn Syrah had probably been working all night to get the guest room door open. Latches to him were merely a puzzle to be solved—and he always succeeded.

  Morris glanced down at the cats as he doctored his coffee. “This big one’s the guy causin’ all this ruckus? He’s just a dern cat. What’s the big deal?” Realizing his mistake at once, he offered a rare, conciliatory smile. “Sorry. That’s the wrong t
hing to say to you.”

  “True, Morris. No such thing as just a cat to me.” I knelt and greeted all the felines. “I suppose this is a human interest story and these press people have nothing better to do right now. I called Kara last night after Allison brought the cat over here. She says a slow news cycle will make reporters go after a tale like this—pun intended. Plus they got a photo of Clyde—from where, I don’t know. She told me since he’s got this lovable face and he’s so big and pretty, the story of his travels has gone viral.”

  “Yeah, like a disease. Reporters are prone to those types of illnesses.” Morris held up his mug. “Best coffee I’ve had since . . . about an hour ago.”

  I laughed. “You do love the stuff. You hungry? I was just about to toast a bagel.”

  “Nope. I gotta get back. With Candace all tied up making sure Norm Jeffrey died a natural death and wasn’t a victim of foul play . . .” He paused to roll his eyes. “Anyways, she’s busy, and I got to pick up the slack. Who knows? Some kid mighta spray-painted the high school bricks with his girlfriend’s name now that school’s near out.”

  Vandalism and public intoxication were the most common crimes in Mercy. But if Candace was still investigating a death three days after a man’s body was discovered, I was certain she had a good reason. “Candace has a concern about how Mr. Jeffrey died, right?” I stood and all four cats began weaving around my legs. They were hungry.

  “What do you think? ’Course she has a concern.” But then Morris’s annoyed expression disappeared. “Sorry. I know she’s your best buddy and I shouldn’t be actin’ like she don’t know what she’s doin’. She’s good at her job and a lot less lazy than this old SOB.” His cheeks fired up again. “Pardon my language, Jillian. It’s early and I need at least six more cups of joe before my mouth cleans up proper.” He glanced down at the cat crew. “Bet these four don’t care, though.” He smiled.

  “All they care about right now is their next meal. Anyway, if Candace has a concern . . . well, we both know it’s not without cause.” I leaned a hip against the kitchen counter as the cats stared up at me in patient anticipation. “Tell me what the heck is going on.”

  “Okay, there is something—but don’t you go repeating it.”

  “Of course not,” I replied. I knew there had to be more to this story.

  “The number of pills in Mr. Jeffrey’s heart medicine bottle wasn’t right. Not enough there for when the prescription was last filled. She thinks that could mean something. Me? I wouldn’t have been even lookin’ in that bottle to begin with, much less countin’ the pills. Anyways, she pestered the coroner to have the man autopsied—something that wouldn’t normally have happened seein’ as how he was old and sick. But you know Candace. Never leaves a stone unturned.”

  I smiled. “That’s my girl. If there’s foul play involved, you know she’ll find out.”

  “Got that right.” Morris drained his mug and set it in the sink. “You have any more trouble with those folks out yonder, you call me and I’ll arrest their sorry butts for trespassin’. They’ve been warned.”

  “Thanks for coming over, Morris.”

  Grumpy as the old guy was, he was still huggable, but he left before I could hug him again.

  After Morris had gone, I dealt with the most pressing issue—hungry cats. Then I rechecked my security feeds to make sure the newspeople were complying with Morris’s warning to stay away from my house. They were. For now. So after I gobbled down my bagel, I showered. While toweling my hair, I heard knocking again—but fortunately at the back door.

  By the time I reached the kitchen, Tom had already come inside and was crouched down, his hand extended to a sitting Clyde. My three cats were rubbing against Tom’s knees and thighs, begging for his attention.

  “Hey there.” I raked my hands through my still-damp hair. “You’re here early.”

  Tom looked up at me, his amazing blue eyes gentle as a whisper. “I was worried after I checked your surveillance feeds this morning. But now I understand.” He glanced knowingly at Clyde.

  “Yes, the celebrity cat has a new temporary home. He was staying in the guest room, but Syrah decided he needed to be released from captivity.” I eyed Syrah. “You love a challenge, don’t you?”

  Tom patted each cat’s head and stood. “You need knobs rather than latches if you want to keep Syrah from opening any door he pleases. He’s got it down to a science.”

  I laughed. “But what fun would it be then?”

  Tom walked over and took me in his arms. We shared a fresh-from-toothpaste, minty kiss. “When do I get to join the fun here full-time? Because I’ve been patient and—”

  I touched a finger to his lips. “First we have to tell the folks in our lives that we’re getting married. I think I’d like to invite everyone for a barbecue. How’s that sound?”

  He smiled down at me. “You’re ready to let the secret out that we’re engaged?”

  I nodded. “Time to let the cat out of the bag.” He’d asked me to marry him several months ago—and I’d said yes. But I told him I needed time to let the idea sink in, learn to live with my decision to move on after losing my husband to a heart attack more than five years ago. But I felt ready now.

  Tom smiled, tilted his head to the ceiling and let out a whoop that sent all my cats scurrying to far corners—all except Clyde, who stayed put and seemed to study us both as if we were statues at a museum. Then Tom hugged me close. “My mom thought after my first marriage, I’d never get married again. She’ll be pleased, even if we middle-aged folks won’t be giving her the grandkids she always wanted.”

  I lifted my face to his and we shared another kiss.

  Five minutes later we sipped coffee at the small mosaic-tiled table in the kitchen nook that overlooked Mercy Lake. I opened the blinds enough so we could enjoy the water lapping the bank under the morning sun.

  Tom said, “Should I set up a few more cameras so we can tell if those TV people get closer to the house? They do have to respect private property, after all.”

  I laughed. “More cameras? Have you bought new techie toys you want to try out on me? Because the White House might be envious if they saw how well-protected my house is.”

  “I do have upgrades that I planned to put in anyway. You liked how I did the four-screen feed on your smartphone, right?”

  “Yes, but I can wait on that. The reporters’ interest will surely wane in a day or two. Another story will catch their fancy and they’ll be gone as quick as they arrived.”

  “Having once been a cop, and even now in my PI work, I’ve tangled with reporters a lot. I can tell you that newspeople from big-time TV are aggressive and manipulative. I don’t like them hanging around here—especially when I have a security installation to do fifty miles away today.”

  I leaned toward him, forearms on the table, brows knitted. “You don’t think I can handle them?”

  “Guess that sounded too old-school, huh? I know you can take care of yourself.”

  I reached over and grabbed his wrist. “Glad you get that, so hush. I’ll be fine.”

  For an instant his eyes seemed to glisten, but the tender moment was interrupted by Candace’s unique knock on the back door. She let herself in before Tom or I even had a chance to stand.

  “Hey there, y’all. I see the show goes on right in front of your house.” She made a beeline for the fridge, took out the pitcher of sweet tea and set it on the counter. She opened a cabinet and removed a glass. “It’s a nice kitty story, but isn’t there a war somewhere that deserves their attention more than one vagabond cat?”

  Candace’s voice brought my three friends meandering in from the living area. They gathered around her legs and promptly deposited cat hair on her uniform trousers. They loved Candace. She knelt to greet them. Clyde sat just outside the kitchen, observing. He was such a calm and handsome boy—a patient watcher.

  Tom went over to Clyde. “This celebrity is one cool customer, huh, Candace?”

  C
andace smiled at Clyde. “Loved that guy from the minute I laid eyes on him outside Mr. Jeffrey’s house.” She poured her tea and put the pitcher back in the fridge. “If I weren’t so busy all the time, I would have taken him in myself. Clyde must have known something was wrong here in Mercy to travel all that distance. And he was right-on. Which is why I’m here. I fear those reporters will be around a tad longer once the autopsy report goes public.”

  “Uh-oh.” I glanced at Tom and saw concern furrow his brow.

  “What’s the problem?” Tom said.

  “Overdose of digitalis, his heart medication.” Candace took a long drink of tea.

  “Did he take his own life?” I was thinking about what I’d learned concerning Mr. Jeffrey’s terminal cancer. Some folks would rather control the end of their life than have a disease make the decision about when they would go.

  Candace’s eyes narrowed and she cocked her head. “Suicide would be the logical conclusion. But if you’re gonna go do something like that, why not take the entire bottle of pills? Why leave any behind?”

  Tom folded his arms and nodded in appreciation at Candace. “You’re right. Why not take the whole bottle?”

  “I didn’t think about that,” I said. “But please tell me the killer didn’t leave behind an unsigned, computer-generated suicide note.”

  Candace allowed a small smile. “Don’t you hate it when you see that on TV?”

  I knelt and extended a hand to Clyde, who was looking at me now. “Obviously the killer had access to Mr. Jeffrey’s medication. That should narrow the field.” The cat trotted to me and rubbed his head against the back of my hand.

  Lips tight, she nodded. “Narrows it to about one or two people here in town. Enough said about that piece of information for now. Anyways, before I pay a visit to one of them, I need to know exactly what happened in that house and why the poor man had to die right now. Because, see, he was dying anyway.”