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

by Leann Sweeney

  “You can talk to her later,” I heard Lois say. “Right now you need to get off this property.”

  Thank goodness they were now too far away for Emily to hear me if I were to respond about her driving me home. Sure, I’d talk to Emily at some point, but right now I was too rattled to deal with someone who seemed to have a few puzzle pieces missing.

  Once they were gone, I called Kara for a ride. I may have told Emily I’d give her a sit-down about Clyde’s most recent escape, but this situation was not about him. This was police business and Emily would have to deal with Mercy PD. Besides, if anyone was getting the scoop about what Lois had just confirmed as a crime, it would be my stepdaughter and not a young woman I found almost as annoying as Lydia. Almost.

  Eight

  I didn’t have to wait long for Kara to pick me up. She was already on her way to the Jeffrey house when I called. Her police scanner had informed her about a crime at this address. I left the RAV4 escorted by Lois and protected Clyde with Candace’s umbrella as I walked down the driveway. Once I got in Kara’s SUV, I handed the sopping umbrella back to Lois. She turned and hurried back to Candace’s RAV as we drove off.

  I waved to Emily, who was sitting in her car, cell phone pressed to her ear. She didn’t return the courtesy, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt. She probably was too caught up in how she could get an interview with anyone who knew anything about the goings-on inside the house.

  Kara’s long dark hair was pulled back, her ponytail sticking through the back of her Carolina Panthers cap. “I’ve got a towel in the backseat. I wasn’t sure if you’d be prepared for this monsoon. Looks like both Clyde and you could use it.”

  After I wrapped Clyde up and cuddled him close—something he seemed to enjoy quite a bit by the sound of his loud purrs—I said, “We found a body in that house. But I don’t know what happened to him. It’s—”

  “Buford Miller,” she said. “Murdered.”

  “Oh my. I knew he was dead, but I wasn’t sure he’d been murdered. How did you find out?”

  “I am the editor of the newspaper, Jillian. I have my sources in the police department . . . not to mention the county sheriff’s office, and then there’s my boyfriend Liam, an assistant county district attorney, and—”

  “Okay. Dumb question. What happened to Buford?”

  “My sources say blunt force trauma to the back of the head.”

  I shuddered at the thought as I rubbed my knuckles along Clyde’s cheek. He pushed against my hand lovingly. “That’s terrible. I assume since we didn’t see a car in the driveway, Buford went to the house with whoever killed him.”

  “No vehicle? Ah.” Kara turned onto Main Street. “See? Now you’re telling me stuff I don’t know. But what about our darling friend Clyde here? You said when you called that you went there to find him. I didn’t even know he was missing.”

  “He escaped last night and we guessed he’d show up exactly where he wanted to be.” I looked down at the cat. He was so big that his legs stuck out of the towel and hung off my lap. “We went to the house to see if he’d arrived yet, and we found him right away—but we also discovered the back door open. That was when we saw . . . Buford.”

  “How did you know Buford? Because it sounds like you do.”

  “I can’t get anything past you, can I?”

  “Just doing my job.” She turned down the road that led to the lake. “I want to know everything you do, including the cat’s story. The major news outlets left town after you gave your interview, so I am assuming no one else knows about this crime. I want to tell this story in the Messenger. Mercy is our town, after all.”

  “Um, there’s a slight problem.”

  Kara turned to me abruptly before refocusing on the puddle-filled road ahead. “What kind of problem?”

  “Her name is Emily Nguyen. Channel Five News, Asheville.”

  “I’ve seen her on TV. But she’s a morning-traffic girl. Does a little weather at six a.m. What does she have to do with this?”

  I sighed heavily. “Candace promised her an exclusive on the cat.”

  “What? She’s here?”

  “That person I waved to as we were leaving the Jeffrey house? That was her.”

  “Great. And Candace promised her an exclusive on the cat?”

  I nodded. “Yup. To get her to stop hanging around my house and pestering me.”

  “Why was she hanging around . . . Oh, I get it. She wanted more on Clyde.”

  “She was lurking around my house this morning and learned Clyde went missing again. Since the newspeople who interviewed me have left and know nothing about his latest great escape, this could be her story.”

  “So,” Kara said, “this exclusive had nothing to do with murder?”

  I smiled slowly, figuring I knew where her thoughts were headed. “No, it did not.”

  By the time Kara dropped me off, she had all the facts I’d gleaned about Buford Miller from Candace’s interview. She then left quickly to get back to the Jeffrey house to see what else she could obtain from the officers and other professionals at the scene for her front-page story tomorrow. She had the advantage because, unlike Emily, she was friends with those folks. They trusted her to report the facts accurately and would be willing to tell her what they could—just like her unnamed police source had. The Mercy police, like other small-town cops, relied heavily on the community to help solve crimes.

  Once inside my home, I reintroduced Clyde to my cat crew. Since Clyde was still a little damp, he needed a thorough sniffing, it would seem. While my three followed him around, I took a much-needed hot shower.

  As I scrubbed myself, wishing soap and water could wash away the image of Buford lying on that kitchen floor, I wondered what had brought him to Mr. Jeffrey’s house. Or perhaps a better question was who. Was it safe to assume that he’d called someone right after he’d spoken with Candace and me? That Candace’s interest in Buford raised red flags for someone? Was it the same someone who killed Mr. Jeffrey? There had to be a connection.

  I pulled on pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, dried my hair and joined my cat family in the living room. Amazingly enough, Chablis and Clyde lay stretched out on the floor in front of the entertainment center. Chablis was giving him a thorough bath while Syrah and Merlot crouched a few feet away, observing them. It was one of those “aw” moments I desperately needed right now. I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture. Chablis was sweet to feline strangers and the scene lifted my spirits.

  I’d just set my phone down when I heard a rap on my back door and then the sound of Tom’s voice calling my name. He was my security guy in more ways than one and knew the entry code.

  We met in the kitchen and he wrapped me in his arms, saying, “I heard what happened. How awful for you.”

  After a kiss and another tight hug, I asked if he’d eaten. He said no, he’d been too busy. I warmed up leftover Chinese takeout and we ate fried rice off paper plates in the living room.

  I must have been hungry because I was half done with my rice before I said anything. With a few calories in me, my gray cells had started to fire again. “How did you hear about Buford?”

  “Mike Baca called me,” he answered.

  “The police chief? He called during the middle of a murder investigation? I know you guys are friends, but—”

  “He needs my help. He’s leaving town for a police convention. Two murders in a week require plenty of legwork and brainwork, so I’ll be doing contract PI work for the police again.”

  I nodded. “That’s good. You’ve sure helped them in the past and with your police background, it makes sense.” I went on to tell him about Emily Nguyen nosing around, her presence at the Jeffrey house and how he had better watch out for her.

  “Thanks for the heads-up. We don’t need a zealous reporter who wants to make a name for herself messing around where she doesn’t belong. She could cause all sorts of problems. In fact, it sounds like she already has.”

  “She’s an
noying, but you know, there is something about her . . .”

  “Uh-oh. Here goes Jillian discovering the best in everyone again.” He grinned. “But don’t ever stop, because it’s one of the many reasons I love you.”

  I set my empty paper plate on the coffee table and snuggled close to him. “She’s pushy, but she’s chasing her dream. I admire that.”

  “Of course you do.” He put an arm around me and pulled me closer. His gaze fixed on Clyde stretched out on the living room floor. Chablis had curled up next to him. “Chablis has a boyfriend, I see.”

  “Just a guess, but I believe she’s comforting him. He got inside the Jeffrey house and couldn’t find his owner. He knows things are different now and he might be a little sad.”

  “Maybe you’re right. If anyone knows the mind of a cat, it’s Jillian Hart.” He leaned his head against mine. “Jillian Hart Stewart.”

  “Or Tom Stewart Hart,” I replied.

  “Doesn’t matter to me. Changing a name doesn’t mean a thing. Your changing my life is what counts. And you have.”

  “What you just said needs to be sealed with a kiss.”

  And it was.

  Nine

  The next morning, Tom called and invited me to meet him at Belle’s Beans for coffee. We often met there before he headed out for a job that might take all day. But I had a feeling the work he’d been handed by Mercy PD might take longer than all day.

  After making sure Clyde didn’t sneak out the door with me, I headed to town. I’d forgotten to tell Shawn last night that I’d found Clyde, so I called him while on my way to the coffee shop. He said he’d meet me at Belle’s with the GPS collar for our vagabond friend.

  Tom was waiting at a table and motioned me over to the back of the busy café. As I passed the counter, the Belle of the Day—also known as the barista—told me that Tom’s order that included my vanilla latte would be up now that I’d arrived. I asked her to add a raspberry Danish and she nodded.

  After kissing Tom hello, I took the chair at our lacquered table facing the door. Seated here, I could see Shawn when he arrived. Soft guitar music played from speakers on the ceiling in accompaniment to the hum of conversations going on all around us. This was Mercy’s favorite spot for people to meet and was run by the amazing Belle Lowry, who, though well into her sixties, had the energy of a teenager.

  The real name of the Belle of the Day was Nancy—Mrs. Lowry long ago decided all her baristas would have “Belle” name tags—and she called to Tom when our order was ready. Soon the aroma of my latte sent me straight to coffee heaven.

  “Thanks for phoning me,” I said after my first sip. “This is just what I needed to start out the day—sitting with you in my favorite spot in town.”

  “Didn’t want to miss seeing you today.” He wore a dark blue-and-white-striped shirt that made his blue eyes seem more vibrant. “Tracking down those cousins in Woodcrest could be more of a problem than I thought. Not even one of Mr. Jeffrey’s relatives has returned my calls. I have addresses, but I don’t know if they’re any good.”

  “What about Birdie? Has anyone talked to her?” I asked.

  “Birdie?”

  “Buford Miller’s landlady.” I tore off a piece of the sticky, decadent Danish and started eating.

  “What’s her last name? No one told me about her.” He pulled a notebook from his jeans pocket.

  I gave him her address. “She probably knows about Buford’s death, but she might have more information about Mr. Jeffrey, too. She said she knew him, so she might be able to help you find his relatives.”

  “Maybe Candace plans to talk to her, but it can’t hurt to call on Birdie and report back what I learn to Candace. I need the whole picture, everything about both victims.”

  I nodded. “Like Candace always says, ‘Why did this person have to die now?’ From what I’ve learned from her, the answer usually lies within a small circle of relatives and acquaintances.”

  “I love when you go all cop on me.” He grinned and stood. “Hate to leave so soon, but now that you’ve given me another person I should interview, I’d better get moving.” He leaned over and kissed me before he left.

  I was wiping my sticky fingers on a napkin when I saw a very unhappy Emily Nguyen marching toward me. She slapped this morning’s copy of the Mercy Messenger on the table in front of me so hard, my coffee cup rattled.

  “You told me I had an exclusive.” The chair scraped the floor as she pulled it out to sit across from me.

  “Think back, Emily,” I said quietly. People around us were staring. “Your exclusive was centered on Clyde’s recent escape. Isn’t that what Candace said?”

  Her dark eyes narrowed. “You’re splitting hairs. This is my story and now it’s all over the front page of your little bitty town newspaper. That is not fair.”

  Okay. She seemed to also have the maturity level of a twelve-year-old. I took a deep, calming breath before I spoke. “Actually, this story belongs to Mr. Jeffrey, Buford Miller and Clyde. It belongs to their families. It’s not yours to own.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. She tilted her head and stared at me for a second. “Maybe you’re right. I guess there are dead people.”

  “Indeed there are. And that’s a tragedy. Maybe if you took a little different angle on your story, you might find people who will cooperate with you.”

  She sat back and I could tell she was giving this real thought. I wanted to smile because I’d sensed deep down she was a decent person who thought she’d found a path to her dream job—and hopefully just realized that road was at times paved with the pain of others.

  “I’ve always been pushy,” she finally said. “It doesn’t sit well with others, but in this business—”

  “It works sometimes,” I cut in. “But here? In small-town America? It doesn’t, Emily. It simply doesn’t.”

  Her face dropped. “You’re saying I lost my story because I was obnoxious?”

  “You didn’t lose your story, but I’m guessing if word gets out about Clyde’s return home in the rain last night, the other newspeople will come back in droves.” Pulling the newspaper so it lay between us on the table, I tapped the headline. “See, this says ‘Local Man Found Dead.’ It doesn’t say anything about Clyde, so you can still focus on him. That wasn’t my stepdaughter’s emphasis when she wrote this piece. To the media people who have already left town, they may see this story and sure, they might notice it’s the same town where Clyde lived, but to them this is just another murder. To you, it could be a ticket to your dream job—if you get what’s important about this event in Mercy, that is.”

  She twisted her lips, considering this. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe—but wait a minute. You said your stepdaughter?” Emily sat back, dumbfounded. “No wonder this is all over the front page.”

  I nodded. “She owns the newspaper. She’s the editor, the writer, and sometimes even the photographer. But she was already on her way to the scene before I even spoke to her. She has her finger on the pulse of this town. Maybe you could learn something from her and write a great story about Clyde’s connection to murder.”

  Emily’s chair again grated on the floor as she stood abruptly. “Are you saying I don’t know anything? That I’m incompetent? Well, I’m not. I lost this exclusive because of . . . nepotism.” She pointed at me, her display of temper drawing everyone’s attention now. “You go all sweet on me, act like you’re so nice. But you are such a fake.”

  She stormed out of Belle’s Beans and every person in the place watched. Then their stares turned on me and I felt my face heat up. Had I sounded insincere? Because I’d meant every word, and I actually was almost getting to like Emily’s youthful exuberance.

  To avoid making eye contact with anyone still staring at me, I lifted my coffee cup and drained what little was left. I gathered my used napkins, empty Danish plate and cup and set them to my left. But I still felt as if I’d disrupted people’s mornings, not to mention given the
m plenty to gossip about.

  I kept my focus on the shiny tabletop, hoping Shawn would arrive soon with the collar and I could go home. But then I realized a man, maybe in his early forties, had approached my table and now stood looking down at me.

  He said, “I couldn’t help but overhear. I mean, well, no one could help but overhear.” The jeans he wore, distressed and torn in places, didn’t fool me. They were designer. Expensive. So were his ecru shirt and the gleaming veneers on his teeth. My heart sank. Another reporter or producer, no doubt.

  “I apologize about the loud . . . conversation. I’ll be slinking out of here soon.” I offered a nervous laugh.

  “Please don’t leave. I appreciated what you said to that girl,” he said quietly. “She’s some kind of journalist, I take it?”

  I nodded. “From a TV station in Asheville.” Hmm. Maybe this guy wasn’t with the media after all. “I’m Jillian Hart, by the way.”

  “Dirk Boatman.” He held out his hand.

  What? I stared at his hand briefly before shaking it. I felt the remnants of hand lotion and smelled a hint of cologne. “Aren’t you—”

  “Norm Jeffrey was my uncle. My mother and I just arrived in town.” He gestured at my chair. “May I join you?”

  “Um, sure.”

  “How about another coffee?” he asked.

  “No, thanks. The brew here is pretty high-octane. One latte is enough . . .” I trailed off. “I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Boatman.”

  “Please call me Dirk and I appreciate your condolences. I loved Uncle Norm.” He’d moved into the chair Emily had vacated, but he hadn’t dragged it, thus avoiding the noise she seemed to have enjoyed creating. “My mother and I went to his house this morning and found crime scene tape everywhere. She was pretty freaked out, so we drove away and—”

  “Y-you haven’t spoken with the police?” I didn’t mean to sound so flabbergasted—but I was.

  “They have called us. I believe my mother made an appointment to talk with an officer today.”