When the Cat's Away

by Dane McCaslin

  "Officer," I began—

  "Detective," he corrected me sternly.

  "—I have already given my statement to several of your peers. Since I am not in your neck of the woods, as you Yanks say, I'd appreciate it if you could share information." There. Firm yet polite. I waited to hear him agree with me.

  "Absolutely not." He sounded indignant as if I'd suggested dancing a naked tango on the roof of the police department. "We need to hear your version of things from your own mouth."

  My version? That didn't set right with me, so I replied, "I don't know when I can make it, Offi—I mean—Detective. My vehicle is not fit to drive long distances at the moment." He could very well take it or leave it. I really didn't care which. "Because of the hit-and-run, you understand."

  "I see."

  I remained silent, refusing to help him in this conversational joust.

  "I see," he repeated. There was the muted sound of pages turning. "I have to attend a conference tomorrow and the next day. Would the following day suit you?" His tone implied that indeed it would.

  "I believe so," I countered. "If circumstances change, I will certainly let you know."

  Detective Leonides disconnected the call without another word. I sincerely hoped that his conference included a lecture on telephone manners.

  It had not been an auspicious beginning to my day.

  * * *

  "I almost wish Greg was here," I said to Merry. "At least he'd be able to deal with the hit-and-run issue while I focused on the other things." I took a sip of the green tea and sat the cup back in the saucer with a clink.

  "'Other things' as in 'murders'?" Merry's face wore a puckish expression, her eyebrows twin rainbows above the rim of her own cup.

  "Of course," I went on, choosing to ignore that comment, "Greg might not be too happy with the circumstances behind the entire episode anyway, so he'd probably make me clean up my own mess. And I can't say I'd blame him," I added in a burst of honesty. "How that man has managed to survive all these years with me…" My voice trailed off. I was really missing my dear spouse. Sigh. Tonight could not come fast enough.

  "Maybe we could ask Officer Scott if anyone in town drives a blue truck with front end damage," suggested Merry.

  I laughed. "Oh, that's brilliant! We'll just waltz into SMPD, ask him to check through records that we have no business with, and voila! The killer will be found!" I took a drink from my cup and grimaced. The tea had gone as cold as the trail.

  * * *

  "If you two ladies will wait right here, I'll get that printout for you."

  I refused to meet Merry's eyes as Officer Scott walked out of the small room to which we'd been taken; although I was happy to have some help, I was not about to begin handing out credit just yet. I'd first make sure that it was due.

  Minutes later we were both bent over the list of vehicle registration for trucks matching the description of the one that hit us. I had no doubt that my dear husband would not approve; being a professor of law, he would not be happy with me digging through public records.

  Public records! I almost laughed out loud: Officer Scott had simply reduced our research process by a few steps, making a copy of what we could have found for ourselves. Still, Merry seemed to be feeling quite pleased, so I decided to let it ride. Everyone deserved a feel-good moment once in a while.

  "Aha!" Merry's exclamation drew me out of my reverie and into the present. "I think this might be our guy, Caro!" She was jabbing excitedly at a listing with her forefinger, blocking my view of the information. I impatiently pushed her hand aside and took a look for myself.

  "I don't see why this one is any more correct than the next one," I objected. "It's just another blue truck."

  Merry threw me a look of exasperation. "Caro, the name! Read the name! Who owns this particular blue truck?"

  I picked up the paper, and it all but jumped out at me: Joseph O'Reilly, with a residence listed in Brooklyn, New York. I raised my head and stared at Merry with admiration. Credit, I thought, was certainly due. "I think you might have just found Lucia's killer, or at least the cad who hit us."

  And I had a feeling that if we made a return visit to one particular place of business, I'd find a truck with front-end damage to match the destruction on my car. Perhaps an interview with Detective Leonides wasn't such a bad idea after all.

  "Merry," I said. "How about another road trip?"

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For all of his insistence that he needed to speak with me as soon as possible, Detective Leonides was nowhere to be found. I'd called ahead to let him know that I was coming into the city after all, indicating the time that I'd be in his area. This did not bode well for the detective. I gave him five more minutes to make an appearance; after that I was heading for a certain bakery for a confrontation—oops, I meant a conversation—with the owner of a particular blue truck with front-end damage.

  A sudden commotion near the front desk caught my attention. A man with a stack of folders and a physique that was magazine cover material came through the door that separated the lobby from the warren of hallways that comprised the substation. Don't let this be Leonides, I said to myself. I really wanted to get cracking on the issue of the truck and not sit in some poorly lit office repeating my story over and over again.

  It was Leonides, of course. With a sigh that I didn't bother masking, I stood to follow him into the bowels of the police station. Merry was another case altogether. She was gazing at the detective with a look I'd seen her aim in Mick O'Reilly's direction only a few days ago.

  "Quit drooling!" I hissed at her.

  She snapped her mouth shut and gave a small toss of her head.

  Leonides ignored both of us, walking briskly down a dimly lit corridor and into a very small office near the end of the hall. Dumping the folders onto the desk, he gave a little groan as he lifted both arms above his head and stretched. Whether by design or not, his form-fitting shirt rode up slightly, offering a very tantalizing glimpse of taut stomach muscles.

  I aimed an elbow into Merry's side as she gaped at this fine specimen of manhood standing in front of us. If we could keep our wits about us—"we" meaning Merry since I was happily married, of course—we might just be able to hit the bakery before Joseph O'Reilly headed home for the day.

  "I'm sure that you're very busy, Detective Leonides," I began in a no-nonsense tone. I felt Merry snap back to attention, and I smiled inwardly; my friend was easily distracted when it came to good-looking men. "If you could just let me know what information you need, I'll be more than happy to supply it." There. Hopefully my implied message of let's get this show on the road had gotten through to Mr. GQ with a Badge.

  "Please, sit down," the detective said, indicating two rather ratty-looking chairs that sat in front of his desk. "If you'll give me just a moment, I need to run one of these files down the hall."

  "So what's the game plan, Caro?" With Leonides out of sight, Merry was back to her old focused self.

  "I just want to answer his questions and get over to the bakery before it closes." I gave my mobile phone a cursory glance, noting the time. "And hopefully I'll make it back to Seneca Meadows before the airport shuttle drops Gregory off home." I did not even want to imagine what his thought process would be if he arrived and I wasn't there.

  "Got it." She nodded, adding, "If he'd keep his clothes on, we'd be just fine."

  "Ha!" I scoffed. "Speak for yourself, Miss-my-eyes-are-popping-out-of-my-head." Still, she did have a point.

  "Okay, ladies." Detective Leonides swept back through the door, arms outstretched as though greeting an audience. I heard Merry give a small snort beside me, and I had to smile, which, of course, the officer thought was directed at him. He smiled back, exposing a mouthful of very large, very white teeth. "How can I help you?"

  Merry and I stared at one another, puzzled looks on both our faces. Perhaps he hadn't connected us with the hit and run. Or maybe he was used to random women showing up to see him.


  "We're here at your suggestion, Detective," I said a trifle formally. I tend to slip into that persona whenever I'm unsure of myself, something that Gregory has always teased me about. Suffice it to say that a rather needy childhood had me escaping into books at a very young age, and the books that I chose to read shaped the way I speak. But I digress. I was currently at the mercy of a detective who wasn't very sharp with the detecting end of the stick. Perhaps a gentle prodding with said stick would help him recall why we were here.

  "Oh, yes!" He actually snapped his fingers and whirled around to face his desk. "I've got the report here somewhere…" Maybe he was just playing the role of a detective. I was tempted to ask where the cameras were. Merry leaned forward and pointed to a folder that clearly had my name printed on the tab. Detective Leonides gave her a blinding smile, and she blushed. Sigh. I'd have to take charge here, or I'd never get back home.

  "May I see that, please?" I held out my hand for the folder, and he gave it to me, his eyes still fixed on Merry's flushed face. I rolled my eyes as I sat down, report in hand. Hmm. It seemed correct, recounting the details of my car being forced off the road at milepost 129 and the subsequent visit to the nearest emergency room. I didn't see what else could be added, and I said so, handing the folder back to the preening detective.

  "It's procedure," he said, seeming to snap back into officer mode. "If you could just sign here"—he pointed to a line near the bottom of the written report—"you two beautiful ladies can be on your way." I had to control my gag reflex. Merry beamed.

  "Really!" I exclaimed as we exited the station. "What a complete waste of time that was." I slammed the Mini's door then looked apologetically at Merry. She was standing at the driver's side, a sappy smile on her face. I shook my head. At least I didn't need to worry about her recovery over Mick O'Reilly's demise; she apparently had a heart composed of rubber.

  "What an absolutely delicious man!" Pronounced with Merry's southern drawl, the words sounded almost x-rated. "Did you notice that he wasn't wearing a wedding ring?"

  I snapped my fingers in front of her face. "Earth to Merry! He's a complete ditz." I snapped my seat belt tight with more vigor than required. "Besides, we're busy trying to figure out what happened to Mick and what's-her-name."

  "Lucia," Merry supplied automatically. "I know, Caro, but a girl can dream, right?"

  I never knew a Mini Cooper could peel out like that.

  * * *

  We made it in record time from the New York Police Department's Brooklyn substation to O'Reilly's Bakery and Deli, Merry grinning like a maniac and me holding on for dear life. Still, we were just in time to see the back end of a blue truck as it pulled away from the back of the bakery.

  "After him!" I shrieked. To come all this way and miss the main suspect by mere moments would overcook my grits, as Merry liked to say whenever she was just this side of irritated. More and more I found myself thinking and speaking in the vernacular favored by Merry, and it didn't sound half bad.

  The little car responded in kind, shooting around a parked car and narrowly missing a pedestrian texting as he walked. I could see his friendly one-fingered wave in the side mirror.

  For a car so small in comparison to the behemoth SUVs and trucks that clogged the roadways, the Mini Cooper certainly had some get-up-and-go. Merry stayed on the truck's tail with no problem, a few times having to slow down so we wouldn't be noticed by the driver. At least that was my hope. I kept my eyes glued to the back window of the truck, fervently hoping that he—it looked like a "he" from my perspective—would not catch sight of us in the rearview mirror.

  The landscape that flew past our windows had gradually grown more and more bucolic. Open fields replaced the crowded streets, and the tall multi-dwelling buildings gave way to farmhouses and outbuildings. Wherever we were headed, it was bound to be better than living in town. Perhaps the bakery and deli business was booming in Brooklyn.

  "I sincerely hope we don't need to go down some dirt road," said Merry. "This car doesn't have the build for running over rocks and such." She reached out and patted the dashboard. "Ol' Vicky needs the kid glove treatment."

  "'Ol' Vicky'?" I asked. "Who on earth is that, pray tell?" Did Merry have a relative that I wasn't aware of?

  "It's what I named my car: Victoria." Merry laughed, her eyes crinkled in amusement. "You know, the queen?" She shook her head in mock amazement. "Are you sure you're really from across the pond, Caro?"

  I gave her one of my more magnificent eye rolls.

  The road that the truck finally turned on was paved, thank goodness; I had no desire to listen to Merry grousing about Vicky's scraped undercarriage. We'd done the tactical thing and had continued driving, acting as though we had never seen the truck and were headed somewhere else entirely. That's how I would have written it in one of my books, at least, and Merry agreed that it made sense.

  "The last thing we need is to piss that guy off again, you know?" Merry pulled over to the side of the road and waited for traffic to clear before swinging the Mini around in the opposite direction. "And I don't want him doing to my Vicky here"—another fond pat on the dashboard—"what he did to yours."

  And neither did I, for that matter. I was still considering several versions of the "official" story that I'd share with my dear husband. Yes, I knew that he'd eventually get the real scoop, but it was the initial response that I needed to squelch.

  "Where'd he go?" Merry abruptly stopped the car, shaking me out of my ruminations. I squinted through the glare of the windscreen—no, the windshield—and saw nothing but a few swirls of dust on the road ahead of us. How a truck that size could just disappear into thin air baffled me.

  "Let's go on a bit farther," I suggested. "Maybe there's another road ahead."

  Merry put the car in gear. "And maybe he spotted us, and he's somewhere getting a trap ready."

  I shuddered. I didn't think much of our ability to outrun a vehicle of that size. Suddenly this did not seem like a good idea. At all.

  And when the first shot was fired in our direction, I was convinced: time to get the heck outta Dodge.

  Apart from a bruised shoulder from slamming into the car door (me) and a miscalculation of a rather deep pothole (Merry), we escaped unscathed from whoever was taking shots at us. I had my suspicions, of course, but as Merry pointed out, it could have been anyone who saw us as trespassers. And since there was a sign clearly stating that it was private land, we were certainly trespassing. Still, shooting at Vicky—and her occupants—did seem a trifle overdone.

  Merry dropped me off home with a hug and an invitation to help with the inventory again. I accepted the first and hem-hawed over the second; with Gregory returning from England I was sure I'd be occupied with something better than counting books. That was my plan, at least.

  I believe that the poet Robert Burns said it best: "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men gang aft agley, an' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain."

  The red light on my answering machine was blinking manically, a staccato rhythm that caused my anxiety level to rise. Who needed to leave me so many messages? The only one I could think of was my dear spouse, and I dreaded listening to them. In my experience, this never boded well for me. I pressed the button and waited for the proverbial shoe to drop.

  "Ah, Caro. I'd hoped to catch you." Pause to clear throat. "I'll call back." Frowning, I erased it and listened to the next in line.

  "Caro, I tried your mobile but it's either off or not charged." Pause. "I'll try to reach you later." Hmm. So far there were two messages that said a lot of nothing. Whatever it was that Greg wanted to tell me, he apparently wanted to say it to a live person, not a machine. This thought sent my heart rate up a beat or two. I erased this message as well and pressed the button for the next.

  "Caro, I guess we keep missing each other, and I don't have time for another call." Pause. Silence. "It seems that I'm needed here longer than I had hoped. I can't explain it now, but suffice it to say that I'm
not happy." Pause. "It looks like I won't be back until next week at the earliest." A longer pause. I listened intently and thought that I heard a deep sigh. I had to smile. Gregory is not given to sighing any more than I'm given to thinking through my verbal responses. "Anyhow, we'll talk later. I love you."

  I stood holding the phone, my mouth agape. First a sigh, then a declaration of love. Out loud. He must really miss me. I found my eyes had filled with tears. I missed him, too.

  Our plans, it seemed, were about to go awry. Cue the grief and pain.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "Caro, you've got to snap out of it."

  Merry's voice was terse yet kind. I pulled the duvet over my head in an attempt to block out both the light and her advice. When the sun had arisen the morning after receiving those messages from Gregory, I'd not followed suit. Bed was the place for me, and somehow the message had not gotten through to my ebullient neighbor. Trixie took offense at my bedclothes maneuvers and barked loudly before jumping to the floor and heading for a more accommodating place to snooze.

  "I'm fine where I am, thank you very much," I announced in my haughtiest tone. Merry just laughed, her jollity grating on my nerves. I was tempted to disconnect the call. Instead I gave an exaggerated sigh and turned over in bed. "Merry, what was it you needed?" I managed to sound both lugubrious and put-upon in the same instant, and I made a mental note to add that character flaw to my next book.

  "Just this." I could hear paper rustling, then, "Aha! Here it is! The body of Joseph O'Reilly, late of Brooklyn…"

  "Wait!" I interrupted her. "'The body of'?" Karma could not be that magnanimous. "As in he's no longer with us, can't take potshots at us anymore, dead as a dodo?"

  "If you'd run your ears instead of your mouth, I could tell you," Merry said mildly. "Now listen: The body of Joseph O'Reilly, late of Brooklyn, was found in the early morning hours outside of the home of his deceased son, Michael O'Reilly. The investigation is still in the early stages and Detective Leonides of the Brooklyn Police Department has declined to make a comment at this time."