Grace Interrupted

by Julie Hyzy

  Unfortunately, I also awoke Sunday with something else in my head. The cold was back, full force. I spent ten minutes in the bathroom blowing my nose.

  “How can this be?” I asked Bruce and Scott when I came down to the kitchen. I was carrying Bootsie and shaking my head, still wearing my pajamas. “I had dis terrible code yesterday and then it went away. Now id is back.”

  My two roommates looked at each other and then at me with matching sad expressions.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  Scott pointed to the bundle in my arms. “I think you’re allergic.”

  I looked down to find Bootsie staring up at me, wide-eyed. The answer was so obvious I felt like smacking myself in the head. It made sense—I was symptom-free everywhere but at home. “Oh,” I said, dejected. “I had no idea I’d be allergic to cats.”

  “How are your eyes?” Bruce asked. “Itchy? Hot? Watery?”

  “A little watery.”

  “Some people get full-blown symptoms. Their eyes get all swollen and red and they can’t even see out of them. At least your symptoms are mild.”

  “Mild?” I said. “I’ve been blowing my nose since I woke up.”

  “I know,” Bruce said, “we heard you.”

  Bootsie raised her head and let out a pathetic yowl. I pulled her a little tighter to my chest. “This isn’t fair.”

  Scott chuckled. “I’ve seen it happen before.”

  I waited.

  “Cats seem to have a sixth sense about who’s allergic. Those are the folks they target. You’ve been adopted, Grace. I don’t think you have much choice now but to keep her.”

  “You forget that this kitten was litter box trained. She already belongs to someone.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Scott said. “Cats have an instinct about litter boxes. She’s just very smart.”

  I couldn’t let my guard down. Couldn’t let myself even consider keeping her. “Pets are important parts of the family,” I said. “I’m sure whoever lost her is out of their mind with worry.”

  WITH THE KITTEN TUCKED INTO A SMALL cardboard box—flaps partially open for air—and feeling like a kid in a Norman Rockwell painting, I visited a dozen houses up my street and was now working my way back down the other side. Nobody was missing Bootsie, who, for the record, was behaving exceptionally well. She didn’t seem to like being outdoors, though she apparently didn’t mind being carried around in a brown box. The moment I’d stepped out the back door her ears had flattened against the back of her head. The first time a car went by, I felt her tremble through the cardboard. I wondered how long she’d been out on her own.

  I’d left my purse at home, but carried my cell phone in my pocket in the hopes that Jack would return the second message I’d left him this morning. I wasn’t so worried about Frances. Knowing she had a tendency to disappear for the weekend made it unlikely that I’d hear back from her until tonight at the earliest. But Jack should have called by now. I deserved that much. At least I thought I did.

  Pushing aside my worries about Marshfield, Jack, and the murder of Zachary Kincade for the moment, I’d set out on my quest. House after house, I received plenty of compliments on how cute Bootsie was, but no clue as to where she’d come from. And no leads on whose cat might have had kittens in the past few months.

  The homes on Granville were set about thirty feet back from the street, most featuring low, white fences protecting pristine lawns and gardens. A showplace neighborhood, except for the single eyesore—mine. Although my house boasted a turret and gables, and had been outfitted with classic gingerbread molding along its peaks and windows, it needed more repair than I could afford. Bennett’s contributions to replace the roof had made an enormous improvement, but there was much more to be done. The last thing I wanted to do was run to him with my hand out, looking for help with every expense. That was not my style.

  So far all my neighbors had been home—this early on a Sunday, most families were preparing to head out to church. But not one of them was missing a cat. I did get quite a few positive comments about my new roof, if you count “It’s about time,” as a compliment. Between sneezes and the occasional nose-blowing, I wound up fielding more questions than I’d expected.

  “Another murder at Marshfield, huh?” Fenton Borlik asked from behind his screen door. Despite the fact that we’d done our best to keep the matter quiet until we had more information, the story had leaked but good. Borlik was the fifth person on the block to try to pry information from me. His wife shushed him and pointed to their two towheaded kids, who had run up to see what was going on. Fenton, I knew, was a vice president at one of the big conglomerates in the corporate corridor about forty-five minutes east. Quite a commute every day but many folks did it. Living in touristy Emberstowne had its perks. “You know, we moved here because we thought this was a safe town.” Fenton stepped out onto his porch, making the wood floor squeak. The screen slammed behind him. “What happened out there?”

  Hadn’t he noticed the bundle trying to squirm out of the box? “Actually, I’m here to ask if you lost your pet.”

  The two kids had certainly noticed. One boy, one girl, both under age seven, they stared at the cat in my arms with instant love in their eyes. “A kitty,” the girl said. “Daddy, is the lady giving the kitty away? Can we have it? I always wanted a kitty.”

  Fenton gave me a warning look. “Sorry, kids, this is Ms. Wheaton’s cat. She just came by to show us.”

  Even though they were young, they adopted twin looks of skepticism that would have been at home on middle-aged faces. “I think you just don’t want us to have a cat, Dad,” the boy said. “Mom told us that you don’t like cats.”

  Eager to get away before Fenton pressed me more about the murder, especially since this house was not a likely candidate for my mission, I thanked them all and started back down their walkway. I reached in to scratch behind Bootsie’s ears and she purred again. “How could anyone not be missing you?”

  At the next house, Mrs. Eastmore screamed, “No cat!” the moment she saw what I had in my hands. Without so much as a “Hello,” she slammed the door in my face.

  “Have a nice day,” I said to the emptiness.

  Starting home, I had to admit I wasn’t exactly disappointed that no one had claimed the little black-and-white bundle. I pulled her out for the last leg of the trip, cradling her in my arms and gripping the empty box in my spare hand. Bootsie seemed to enjoy her perch up high. Her two front paws draped over the crook of my elbow and as I walked, her head tilted and twisted to watch birds and squirrels darting from tree to tree.

  Bruce and Scott would have left for the wine shop by now so I was surprised to see an unfamiliar car in my driveway when I returned. A beat-up silver Corolla. “Hello?” I called. No one at the front door, so I headed around back. “Hello?”

  From the weed-covered depths of my backyard, I heard a man’s voice, “Hey, where have you been?”

  He came around the side of my detached garage, dirt cupped in his hands. At least that’s what it looked like. As he drew closer, the logical portion of my brain noticed that it wasn’t just dirt, but a root of some sort. Amazed that I could notice any details at all while my breath was missing in action, I did the only thing that made sense. I said, “Jack?”

  “Hey, Grace,” he said with a crooked smile. “What’s up?”

  His unexpected appearance and his cavalier manner rendered me instantly cranky. What an idiot I’d been. I’d been certain that the only reason he hadn’t gotten in touch was because he’d been dragged down to the police station and charged with murder because any other reason wouldn’t have been good enough. Flabbergasted, I said the very first thing that popped into my mind. “You haven’t returned my calls.”

  “Yeah.” He stared at the root in his hands. “I didn’t feel like talking.”

  My crankiness factor rose exponentially as my brain kicked in. “What was Kincade talking about when he said you killed his brother?” I dema
nded. “Did the police come talk to you about the murder yesterday? You do know about that, don’t you? Where’s Davey?”

  “It’s hard to know where to start.”

  I waited.

  Jack turned the root over a couple of times, allowing little crumbles of dirt to fall. “I needed to get away for a while. To get my head straight. Before I talked to you.”

  Little sparkles of fury danced in front of my eyes, a sure sign I was about to say something I’d regret later. Rage bubbled up, and I pulled Bootsie closer to my chest, making the little kitten squirm.

  “Sorry,” I said to her, loosening my grip to allow some wiggle room, but not enough to allow her to jump out of my arms. To Jack, I said, “You could have at least let me know you weren’t arrested.”

  He nodded. “You’re right.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I told you we needed to take a look at your daylilies.” He held up the root. “This one’s dead.”

  “We talked about that months ago. You needed to do this now?”

  He shrugged and looked away.

  Bootsie rested her chin in the crook of my elbow, one little paw draped over my arm. I tossed the box so that it landed near my back door and used my free fingers to stroke the cat’s fur. The movement calmed me enough to force me to even my breathing. Jack’s sudden appearance here was a slap in the face. I’d been worried for him, for heavens’ sake. Worried when all it was, was that he just “hadn’t felt like talking.” What kind of a fool was I?

  “Grace,” he said. From that one word I detected caution, nervousness, and reluctance.

  “I need to get the cat inside,” I said as the kitten settled more deeply into my arms. “She might squirm away.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, deadpan. Then, “I’m sorry I haven’t called you back.”

  I said nothing.

  “It’s been a bad weekend. A lot of . . . stuff . . . got dredged up again. Stuff I thought I’d put behind me.”

  My heart rammed inside my chest, even as I tried to argue it down. The fear of the unknown twisted inside me, and at the same time I wondered why I was getting so worked up. Whatever “stuff” Jack was hiding had happened years ago. Clearly, it didn’t concern me. I swallowed and tried to force a measure of calm. Or fake it, at least. “Did the police talk with you and Davey?” I asked. “How is your brother?”

  His face reddened. “Listen,” he said, “there’s something you need to know. About me. I . . .” He stopped.

  I closed my eyes ever so briefly. This was a make-or-break moment. Although my ego was still smarting from his admission that he’d been purposely ignoring my calls, I couldn’t find it in my heart to shut him down without at least hearing what he had to say. Annoyed as I was with him, Jack had become a friend. Friends cut each other slack when they needed it. I couldn’t turn my back now, not without giving him a chance to explain.

  The smart move might very well be to turn my back, but I couldn’t do it. The need to know was too great.

  I wasn’t sure whether it was loyalty or curiosity that made me answer, “Fair enough. Let’s talk.”

  He let out a breath, then lifted his chin toward my back door. “Can I come in?”

  Instead of quieting, my heart pounded harder. Faster. Fear for him. Fear for me. Although he and I hadn’t ever even had a first date, I’d assumed we would get there eventually. Maybe it was time to challenge that assumption. Better I face whatever it was straight on, no matter what the consequences. After all, Jack and I worked together. At the very least, we needed to continue to do so. We couldn’t do our jobs effectively if we were afraid to talk to one another. The last thing I wanted was another obstacle to communication in my life.

  “Sure,” I said, “we have to get past this, whatever it is.”

  “I’m not sure we can.”

  I swallowed around the fear that suddenly closed my throat.

  As we stepped into the house, I pulled little Bootsie’s face close to mine. “What are we in for?” I asked her.

  She sneezed. So did I.

  Chapter 9

  INSIDE, JACK EXCUSED HIMSELF LONG ENOUGH to wash up. Bootsie, exhausted from all the house-to-house visiting, settled herself into the corner of one of the parlor’s wing chairs. I sat across from her, watching her eyes blink at regular intervals, then ever more slowly until Jack came in and picked her up. “So who is this?”

  “A stray,” I said. “Bootsie. At least, that’s her name until I find out who she belongs to. Found her Friday. Do you know anyone who’s missing a cat?”

  He cradled her in his arms and stroked under her chin. Even I could hear the purring. “Nope. She looks pretty young. I bet she’s just recently weaned from her mother.”

  “Poor little thing.”

  He turned her to face him. “She’s trouble.”

  “What?”

  “Look at her. This one’s a troublemaker. I’d bet on it.”

  Wasn’t that exactly what Frances had told me about Jack?

  He settled her back onto his lap and turned to me. “No luck finding her owners?”

  “She seems to have appeared out of nowhere.”

  “Someone might have dropped her off to fend for herself.”

  Appalled, I said, “That’s terrible.”

  “Plenty of people don’t get their cats spayed or neutered, and the next thing you know they have a litter of kittens they don’t know what to do with. Happens all the time.”

  Bootsie’s eyes started to close again. At least somebody here was relaxed.

  “Do you want anything to drink?” Fussing like a hostess helped me buy time. As much as I wanted to just come out and ask, “So did you kill Zachary Kincade’s brother?” I couldn’t make myself do it. As I searched for a good segue, I stood up, babbling, “We have Pepsi, lemonade, and, uh, wine, if you want it . . . I know it’s kind of early, but . . .”

  Jack had been gazing down at the cat in his arms. Now he looked up and gave me a sad smile. He had a defined jawline and a handsome face, marred only by the white line of his scar. Usually his eyes were bright and alert, but it looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

  “Grace,” he began. “You’re uncomfortable. I am, too.”

  No use denying it. I sat. “Just tell me,” I said. “Tell me everything.”

  My house was old and it made noise almost all the time. But right now the room was perfectly still and I heard nothing but the sound of my own breathing. Bootsie had stopped purring the moment she fell asleep, and Jack stared down at her, continuing to stroke her fur.

  “Thirteen years ago,” he began in a soft voice, still not looking up, “Zachary’s younger brother, Lyle Kincade, was murdered in his home. There was a big police investigation. I was questioned.” His shoulders moved up and down. If his expression wasn’t so morose, I’d have thought he laughed. “More times than I can count.”

  “They thought you did it?”

  Jack looked up. “I was suspect number one.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the guy deserved it,” Jack said, his eyes hard. “And everybody knew I thought so.”

  Scenarios tumbled before my eyes. No one deserved to be murdered. Not even the lowest of the low. Confused, I couldn’t prioritize the questions pounding in my brain, so I started with, “Were you arrested?”

  “I was never charged. Not enough evidence against me. I had an alibi.” He shrugged as though it was nothing. “But if I ever find out who really killed Lyle, I’ll shake the guy’s hand.”

  This was a side of Jack I’d never seen. I didn’t know what to make of it. There had to be more—much more—to this story. “What was wrong with him? What did he do?”

  “Thirteen years ago,” Jack said again, getting a faraway look in his eyes as though he was watching a story play out before him, “my sister, Calla, was sixteen years old.”

  Jack had never mentioned much about his family before. Until I’d met Davey, whom Jack referred to as “on
e of my brothers,” I hadn’t even known he had siblings. I did the math. Calla would be younger than Jack by a few years. I waited, holding my breath.

  “She’s married now, with two little kids of her own.”

  I let out a whoosh of air. “Oh, thank heavens.”

  He blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “Your sister,” I said. “I was sure you were about to tell me that she died thirteen years ago.”

  “She’s alive.” His eyes tightened and I swore the scar pulsed. Very softly, he said, “But let me tell you, it was close.”

  I leaned forward.

  “Lyle Kincade was Calla’s boyfriend for a while. I don’t remember how long exactly because I was away at school. Lyle was twenty-one and too old to be dating a teenager, if you want my opinion. Calla didn’t. She didn’t want to hear anything about her new boyfriend. But it was classic abuse—he drove a wedge between Calla and the family. Started limiting where she could go, how much time she could spend at home, how much time with her friends. Calla was in high school, for crying out loud. She didn’t need that kind of manipulation. Nobody does.” He took a deep breath. “This all sounds like normal stuff, doesn’t it? Like an overprotective family not allowing their daughter to make her own mistakes.” He stared at the ceiling as though searching for the right words. “This was bigger than that. The guy was around her constantly. He kept calling, kept showing up at the house even when he wasn’t expected. We talked Calla into breaking things off with him. That’s when the trouble escalated.”

  Jack’s expression said he didn’t want to explain, but I knew that if he didn’t tell me everything now, he never would, so I prompted him. “Escalated?”

  “Remember that old movie, Mr. Wrong, where Bill Pullman breaks his finger to prove how much he cares?” He waited for me to nod. “Like that, but when it happens in real life, it isn’t funny.”