by Jenna Coburn
Fuzz definitely seemed to smell something, and he sniffed everything in the study quite excitedly. Only it didn’t yield anything. Whatever had given off the smell was now gone. At one point, it must have been very persistent, though. The only explanation was that the aroma had soaked into the walls and the books, themselves. Mullins led the dog through the entire upper floor, but Fuzz detected nothing. They went downstairs.
“I wonder about the significance of the herbal bag,” Holden suddenly shared. “Perhaps it was a sign of some sort. We should definitely have looked in the Faucheux’ trailer, to see if there was anything else that smelled like valerian beside the soap.” Alethea bit her lip. “We must go back there afterwards,” he concluded. Mullins didn’t seem to agree to heartily, but he still offered a nod.
The dog finally found something. He lay down in front of a random set of drawers in the living room. The cabinet was rather tall, and it was difficult to tell which one Fuzz meant, so they looked through all of them. Finally, Officer Mullins held a big package of valerian incense sticks in his hands. They promised that they would bathe one’s home in the calming aroma of valerian, synchronize one’s chakras, cleanse one’s cosmic aura, and so on.
It wasn’t exactly a breakthrough.
“Okay, seems like he was some sort of hippie esoteric guy,” Mullins declared. “But that’s no reason to murder the guy, is it now?” Looking among themselves, their expressions answering the rhetorical question, they wondered what to make of this.
“We can assume that he liked to burn these inside his study. But there is no holder or any other equipment to actually burn these properly.” Holden opened the packaging and pulled out one of the sticks, looking at it as if it would surrender its mysteries if only he stared at it hard enough. “Accordingly, the killer must have removed this equipment. Either they threw it away or they still have it, and we might be able to use that against them.”
It was only out of the corner of her eye, while following Agent Westley’s argument, that Alethea saw something. In the open drawer was a package of shining silver—a can of cat food. Stepping closer, she started sifting through the drawer’s contents, uncovering not only different varieties of cat food, but also a collar, some cat snacks, and various other items one wouldn’t have expected in a house without a cat. “Agent Westley, by your knowledge, did Lionel Horne have any pets?”
“Negative. It would have been a great place for a pet, though. I must say that. The garden outside is beautiful, well-kept. Any animal would have loved it. And I suppose you haven’t seen it, but just two hundred feet behind the house is a small slope with a beautiful creek that has the clearest water. Why, I’d wager that in the summer, it must—” Westley cleared his throat as he noticed the other two staring at him. “Excuse me. No, he does not have any pets, Miss Thwaite. Why are you asking this particular question?”
He smiled, and for a few seconds she still couldn’t answer, wondering how an FBI special agent had managed to keep a smile that looked so completely clueless, so happily ignorant, somehow devoid of all the cynicism that one might expect from such a person, with all that the world threw at them week after week. “This drawer is full of items that clearly indicate pet ownership,” Alethea finally answered in Holden’s own vernacular.
Both men looked through the drawer while she used the chance to kneel down where Fuzz was still lazily reclining on the carpet. He didn’t really react to her petting him other than with a look, but she was sure the dog enjoyed it. Just like most people working in his field, he had trouble with opening up to someone on the outside.
“That’s quite confounding,” Holden asserted after the drawer inspection had been concluded. “What he said,” Officer Mullins agreed. He took off his cap and scratched his head. Contrary to both of them, Alethea had an inkling what this meant. The suspicion was yet unconfirmed, but she kept it at the back of her mind.
“We must search the rest of the house, too. Fuzz, you’re still needed here.” Westley was determined that there was something more going on, and so Mullins led the dog around the first floor. Sadly, there was nothing further to be found there—at least nothing deemed relevant by the dog. The last thing to check was the basement, and so they made their way down.
It was a bit dark and damp, but beyond the inevitable piles of old trash that people seemed to always store in their basements, Fuzz actually laid down again, after smelling the wall and scratching it. After some confusion as to this behavior, Officer Mullins finally got out his flashlight, and they saw that there was a door seamlessly fit into the wood, fairly well-hidden to the passing observer.
They all held their breaths. “It’s like The Three Investigators,” Officer Mullins suddenly whispered. At least the number was correct.
After some searching, they found a way to open the door and look inside. There was a light on the inside, and when they switched it on, something they couldn’t have prepared for stared them in the face—Cliff Bruce, whose picture covered a giant poster. Even when Alethea had told him that she thought stalkers usually had some sort of altar in their home, she never expected this. “Wow.” It was all she could think to say.
In front of the large poster was an arrangement of candles, withered flowers, several smaller pictures, and finally, incense burners. The smell of valerian was quite noticeable. Lionel must have been into it. Neither of the men had anything to add to Alethea’s initial statement, and so they silently looked around the room. It held things that weren’t pictures of Cliff or Cliff’s old underwear, but none of them seemed relevant to the murder case.
They decided to just leave that room alone and forget that they were ever inside it. Back on the first floor, Agent Westley summarized their visit to the Horne residence. “Once we attain a suspect, we must keep our eyes open for that incense stick holder. The same as the cat. These are the only two things we could ascertain to be missing from this household. And finally, the connection to your circus seems to indeed have been that Mr. Horne was obsessed with Mr. Bruce, Miss Thwaite.”
He sounded a bit uncomfortable when he said it. Neither Mullins nor Thwaite had anything to add, and they walked back to the car in silence. Alethea felt both relieved and concerned that the stalker thing had been completely true; part of her still wanted to uphold the idea that there was something else going on, but it really was nonsensical.
Instead, she now looked forward to being back at the circus for a different reason. There, she would have a good chance at finding the missing cat. There was certainly more than one stray in this town, but from what Alethea could tell, that black-and-white stray wasn’t a stray at all. It was a runaway.
Chapter IX
“Meanwhile, I was still trying to keep down the octopus. And the chef de cuisine never apologized to me about any of it. It was an uncomfortable evening, indeed.” Holden glanced back to Alethea, perhaps to see if she was still listening. “Afterwards, I never found anyone who got the spices matched like that.” He stared ahead again, with the eyes of a man who had wandered far.
Alethea looked back to Fuzz, who looked as clueless as ever. She wondered how that kind of blissful life must feel—the wondrous existence of a dog. When she stuck her hand out, he licked it. It tickled a bit, and his breath smelled like he needed some sort of doggie mint.
“That’s a very interesting story,” Officer Mullins conceded. It was all he had. They were already parking back at the circus, so Holden’s story had been even longer than Mullins’. Alethea jumped out of the car at the first chance she got.
“You know the black-and-white cat that has been seen around the circus grounds?” she brought up while they were well on their way to the Faucheux’ trailer. “Apparently it was first seen on the day before the murder took place.” She said these things like they were just random facts coming to her mind, instead of voicing that she was convinced the stray cat was Horne’s cat. Still, she was completely clueless how she could prove that. He didn’t have any cat pictures, to her knowledg
e.
“It is quite curious how full of coincidences the cases we investigate together seem to be, Miss Thwaite.” Westley hadn’t forgotten how things fell into place last time. She was sure that he already knew what she was thinking, but he did not say it outright, either. Only Mullins was left out of the loop, something he seemed to accept, acting as if Fuzz took all his attention.
Knocking at the Faucheux’ trailer led to no answer, but the door was unlocked, as it always was. It was hard for anyone from the outside to smuggle themselves onto the grounds if the circus was closed and packed up. Leading the police dog around and under the trailer yielded nothing, and so they took him inside.
It was a bit cramped when Fuzz laid down on the floor in front of the door to the shower and three people awkwardly piled up in front of it, unsure who should try to get in first. Finally, Alethea squeezed her way in front, Mullins told Fuzz to get out of the way, and she swung open the door.
A pouncing shadow flew into her face, and she toppled over dangerously. Only Westley’s quickly grasping hands prevented her from falling over unfavorably and potentially injuring himself. The cat screamed, jumped over the dog and ran through legs before it was out the door. “Get her!” Alethea breathlessly ordered. The moment had suddenly catapulted her to the highest rank; neither man seemed to object as they, futile as it was, actually attempted to run after the black-and-white cat.
“So this is how it actually happened,” Alethea said what everyone had been thinking. She had experienced it in her own body, after all; Abel’s misadventure was exactly what more than one early skeptic probably had known all along—a stupid accident.
The smell of valerian drifted out of the shower, from a newly bought herbal soap. Léa apparently couldn’t resist the product, and had discounted the earlier one to be lost irrecoverably. Furthermore, the cat must have contorted itself in through the window. Startled by a sudden intruder, it had jumped from its perching position on the tiny platform that held the soap, straight into Abel’s—and now Alethea’s—unprepared faces. “Thanks for keeping me from falling,” she said in Holden’s direction with an unconscious blush.
“You are very welcome, Miss Thwaite.” The FBI man smiled genuinely and looked into her eyes in a way that made both her and Officer Mullins feel awkward. Fuzz, on the other hand, was probably disappointed that he hadn’t received an order to run after the cat. It must have taken all his training to not follow the instinct. He was a good dog.
“We need to catch that cat. I believe this is actually Horne’s cat.” She didn’t have that many reasons for why she believed so, and so both men looked skeptically. “It’s… a woman’s intuition?” It was a stupid reason, but by making it a “woman thing,” she hoped that they would just kind of let it slide. She was right.
“I think you can just put out some food and drink and such, and the cat may come to you. If it had a home before, it’s probably used to human contact. Just not…strangers suddenly bursting in on it.” Officer Mullins smiled. It was clear he had an appreciation for animals, if not from the way he led Fuzz, then from these words now. As a policeman, he must’ve been painfully aware what often happened to stray cats without a collar.
“That’s a good idea, Officer Mullins.” She smiled back at him. “I guess it’s not the quickest method, but it’s the nicest one. And I suppose now that the owner is gone, she needs a new home, anyway.” She thought how the clowns had instantly asked her if they could adopt it. They were probably not the only ones in the circus who thought that. They all had a weak spot for runaways and drifters; it was an occupational thing.
Holden Westley was still examining the trailer, estimating where Abel’s head would have impacted if he fell in a similar manner to Alethea. There had been no marks, which was the main reason the investigators had not considered that it was just an accident. “I’m still not so sure,” Holden voiced his thoughts. “It’s quite unlikely that Abel Faucheux sustained such a serious injury from falling on his head without it leaving a mark.” He looked up to Alethea. “Unless his sister removed something from the scene.”
Alethea shrugged; that was beyond her knowledge. “Let’s hope that Abel might remember what actually happened soon. I think once he has recovered enough, we should bring him back here.” Westley nodded as he stood up, and then all of them left the trailer again. “I’m going to get some cat food.”
“I think Fuzz has done his job for today, and I told ‘em I’d bring him back as quickly as I could, so…I suppose I should do that now. I can always bring him again at your request, Agent Westley.” They were already walking back towards the parked patrol car.
“Thank you, Officer Mullins. I will not hesitate to inform you if something comes up.” He looked at Alethea. “And if you allow me, I’ll escort you for now. Depending upon the timeframe of the cat’s feeding and subsequent apprehension, I’ll be able to be there with you.” He nodded decisively; she looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Apprehension?
Less than an hour later, Alethea had placed her offering to the cat in front of her own trailer, sitting inside and waiting for it to wander over. Holden was with her, and they were drinking tea. Talk was sparse, since there was a certain feeling of breathless thrill in the air, perhaps that of two hunters lying in wait for an especially regal specimen. The feeling lasted for another forty-five minutes, when they started to relax.
“Afterwards, I couldn’t walk for over a week. You can’t imagine how my backside felt. Virgil later said he’d never seen anyone take such a pounding.” Alethea nodded profoundly. “That’s when I decided that certain aspects of this life should be left to others.”
Holden Westley slowly nodded, with large eyes. “I’ve never heard of that trick, but I think I understand why,” he said in a friendly tone. That’s when they heard something outside, and exchanged a knowing look. They crept silently towards the entrance, glancing out. Sure enough, the black-and-white fluffy cat was sitting there, eating the food. They had bought the most expensive delicatessen cat food, and the cat seemed to like it.
Holden seemed unsure of himself, so Alethea slowly went ahead in order to befriend the cat while it was distracted with the food. She had intentionally put little into the bowl, but her pocket was full of snacks.
With some patience, the cat began eating from her hand after the bowl was finished, and she could slowly lure it in, until it seemed relaxed enough to let her pet its silky fur. Alethea smiled warmly, and the cat began to purr. All it needed was some tenderness. “If only you could tell me your name,” she softly told the cat. “Agent Westley, I think we’ve established a bond.”
Holden Westley wasn’t sure what to say, so he only nodded respectfully. Somehow, she couldn’t shake the impression that he mistrusted the cat on some level. It was more than strange. “I think we might be able to confirm the identity of this cat if we had the pet supplies from Lionel Horne’s house. If you excuse me, I will go there to pick them up and then come back.”
“That’s a very good idea, Agent Westley. See you soon.” He quickly walked away, leaving her to stare at his back, wondering what was going on in his head. But when she looked back to the cat, who had become cuddly, she quickly forgot about that. “I think you should come inside with me, kitty.”
A trailer was perhaps not the best place to have a cat, but she wanted to take it in sooner rather than later, so it wouldn’t run off again. The cat followed her readily when she took the food and the bowl of water inside. Confident that love goes through the stomach, Alethea gave it some more food. She watched it eat with a small smile on her face, and then wondered how exactly this small animal might help them solve the murder case. While it was interesting that it was missing from the house, and showed up at the circus just before Lionel Horne was murdered, these facts didn’t seem to lead anywhere else.
They’d still have to look into finding actual witnesses to the crime, to some late visitor coming or going, or maybe there was physical evidence hidden in the house som
ewhere. Holden had not fully given up on the idea that Abel had been attacked, either. They’d still have to make sure that it was just an unfortunate cat accident. Nonetheless, just having the cat there and watching it eat heartily gave Alethea a warm feeling in her heart, and so she hummed a song as she was cleaning dishes when there was a sudden knock on the door.
Both she and the cat looked up. It couldn’t have been Holden, unless he just turned around. It was odd. Normally, Alethea was the one always running around knocking on people’s doors. This was how it felt from the other side. She went over and opened it. “Hello?”
On the bottom of the small set of stairs stood a middle-aged man, not one of the circus people or an investigator. He wore a worn-out business suit, but she noticed that he had tattoos all over his hands; his eyes were behind sunglasses, even though the sun wasn’t very bright. He had a stubbly chin that was currently mostly occupied with a broad smile.
“Hi, I’m Dan, and I want to talk to you. Can I come in?” Alethea furrowed her eyebrows, when suddenly the cat emerged from between her feet and meowed what could only be described as a happy greeting at the man. He looked at the cat and bowed down to pet its head. “Darling! Honey! How I’ve missed you!” They seemed to know each other.
“Ehm, hi, Dan. Yeah…come in, I guess?” Alethea smiled a crooked smile and stepped back to let the man in. They sat down across from each other, and the cat instantly jumped on the seat beside him to be petted, which he vigorously did. So vigorously, in fact, that there wasn’t any talk for about three minutes while he had some sort of intimate moment with the black-and-white cat.
“This is Leo,” Dan finally said, introducing the cat. Alethea wasn’t sure what to think of this situation. “I’m Alethea,” she replied. There was something weird about Dan. He obviously really liked this cat, and the cat really liked him, but Alethea had been sure the cat belonged to Lionel Horne. Was that another one of her dead ends?