Cat's Paw

by Mollie Hunt

  “Yes,” he gasped. “We did.”

  “Hey, there she is!” someone cried out.

  “She did it! Now she’s killed twice!” came another accusation.

  “Why isn’t she locked up?”

  “Get her!”

  I recognized the faces but knew none of them by name. I knew that look in their eyes, though, and ducked behind Simon, holding him by the hood of his jacket like a shield.

  “Simon,” a woman demanded, pulling off a rain-soaked toque and wiping her face with it. “Why is that person here? I thought you had her safely locked away. Now she’s gone and killed again.”

  “No, she hasn’t, Ella,” Simon told the woman, holding out his arms and edging the crowd back away from me. “Lynley has been confined since the discovery of Crystal Holt’s body—‌just as you required. She’s been under guard the whole time. There is no way she could have killed Marissa Peabody-Jones, which logically proves she didn’t kill Crystal Holt either, unless you think we have not one but two murderers here on Clover Island. Besides, I’ve known this woman for thirty years. She’s not the killer. Unfortunately, however, someone among us is. It’s time to turn our scrutiny away from Lynley and toward the person who really committed these crimes.”

  “She could have got the girl before the other lady,” the woman named Ella exclaimed, “before she was put up.”

  “No, I don’t believe that. And I’m done with playing vigilante. Lynley Cannon is innocent, at least until proven guilty. It’s almost daylight. The storm is winding down, and pretty soon we can get the sheriff here to take over the case. Until then, we’re all just going to wait. This thing is way too big for us. My advice? Stick together and don’t take any chances. Why don’t we see if there’s still some coffee in the dining room?” He shook his head. “For the life of me, I don’t know what else we can do.”

  Like air from a punctured balloon, the nervous energy deflated from the little group, leaving only a bedraggled band of frightened and heartbroken people. One by one they silently turned and went outside, heading for the hall.

  “Coffee?” Simon asked me.

  “Anything,” I responded.

  He held the door for me.

  I paused. “What about Emilio? He’s still in your office.”

  “He’ll be fine for a few minutes. We can pick him up something to eat from the kitchen and come right back.”

  I nodded, and we stepped out into the pre-dawn morning. The rain had stopped and storm had subsided, leaving tattered cloud-rags drifting across the heavens. Sunrise showed a blood-orange gash above the strait on the eastern horizon.

  “Looks like you got your wish,” I said to Simon.

  He gave me a blank look.

  “About the night being over. Here comes the sun.”

  “Ah!” he nodded. “Would it be thankless to wish this day over as well, before it has even begun?”

  “This day? No, probably not.”

  I started walking. “Come on, let’s get that coffee while you tell me what happened to Marissa Peabody-Jones.”

  Chapter 17

  As a cat foster parent, I bring new kitties home on a regular basis. Are my cats happy about it? Not really, but with careful introduction, they adjust. I start the new cat in his own separate space, then let him familiarize with my cats by exchange of scent (cat-bed towels work well). When both cats seem ready to meet, I allow short moments of sight accompanied by treats. It usually takes about two weeks.

  Marissa had been found stuffed into a cleaning closet in Dog World. They discovered her when a volunteer noticed the dogs in one of the kennels were going crazy, crazier than the storm could account for. She had not been there long, only a few hours, according to the volunteer who had seen to the canines earlier in the night and noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Of course it was hard to tell: dogs bark at people, at the volunteers, at food, at passers-by, at thunder and lightning. Basically, dogs bark; it was hard to truly pinpoint when their howls had switched from mundane to murder.

  But Zoe Kerr knew dogs. To her, the pitch and urgency of the howls had changed, enough for her to be alerted that something was amiss. When the search party had come looking for Marissa, she told them what the pups had said. With a quick survey, they found the hapless girl.

  “The sad thing was we had to leave here there,” said Simon as we sat crouched over really bad lukewarm coffee. “But the police need everything to stay the way it is, to check for clues.”

  “Gather the evidence,” corrected Mrs. Fox, her exhaustion showing in deep lines across her face, giving the illusion of a far older woman.

  The Fox had swooped down on us, along with Trace, Sympathy, Nancy, and Jane, the moment Simon and I had entered Wolf Hall. There was still no sign of George Harrison and we figured he was sleeping the night away in blissful ignorance. Nathan was also absent, but he had been up all night with me and was probably getting some sleep of his own. The remainder of the little group huddled around a large table by the wall of windows where a gorgeous sunrise was doing its best to wipe away all remnants of the last night’s storm.

  “So could you tell what had happened to her?” asked Trace.

  “No,” said Simon. “Officer Jami checked for a pulse, made sure she was, uh...”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Fox. Dead. She was. Then Jami closed everything up...”

  “Secured the crime scene,” the Fox put in.

  “Yes, erm, exactly. Thank you. And she strung caution tape around the area. We don’t have any official police tape I’m afraid.”

  “Poor little girl,” exclaimed Mrs. Fox. “What a terrible, terrible night!”

  There was a unanimous nod followed by a spontaneous moment of silence. I gazed out the window and wondered if things would ever be the same for the prestigious Cloverleaf Sanctuary.

  Outside, business—‌at least the animal business—‌went on as usual. Volunteers passed by the window on their way to feed dogs, cats, bunnies, and birds; change water; clean kennels; give medication; walk the pups; take the kitties out in their cute little strollers; and all the other needs that continue, rain or shine, murder or no murder. One volunteer was headed to Simon’s office at that very moment to check on Emilio and take him some very tasty-looking fish from the defrosting freezer. Then she would return him to his colony. I guess my sleep-over with Emilio had come to an end. Strangely, with all the bad happenings, the loss of his furry companionship hurt the most.

  Suddenly lights blazed above us in the high rafters, redundant in the morning light. The soft buzz of conversation was challenged by the hum of electric fans and the whine of appliances gearing up in the kitchen. Everyone looked around in surprise, as if in the face of weightier concerns, they had forgotten that one small dilemma.

  “Power’s back on,” Simon exclaimed as he jumped from his seat. “Hopefully that will restore communications. I’ve got to get to my office. Please excuse me.”

  With that, he was off and out the door, the businessman again. I didn’t envy him. He had a lot of mop-up to do.

  “I guess class is canceled for the morning,” said Nancy. She gave a giddy little spurt of laughter.

  Jane put her hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. “It’ll be okay. I’m sure they’ll figure something out.”

  “But coming to the art retreat’s been my lifelong dream. Now it’s ruined!” She turned and buried her head in Jane’s fleece parka.

  “It’s not ruined,” Jane soothed. “Something good will come of this, I promise.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Jane’s comment and she shrugged helplessly. “It’s got to, doesn’t it?”

  I sighed and nodded. “One would hope so.”

  * * *

  The rest was just waiting. Waiting for the sheriff; waiting for my interview with the sheriff; waiting for the sheriff to let me go. Nine hours later, I was sitting at the same table with my bags packed. They were going to take a few of us to the mainland in the police boat since bec
ause of their interrogation, we’d missed the ferry. Nathan, Trace, and Sympathy had opted to stay for the duration, but along with Nancy and Jane, I’d had enough. We still hadn’t heard anything from George Harrison, who had left a note that he was going up the mountain for a day hike.

  The cops were content with my account, never once seeming to think I was the murderer, and I was ready to be out of there. I didn’t even bother to look up Simon for a fond farewell. I knew he was up to his pretty ears in murder business; I’d call him later. Much later. Right now the only thing I cared about was getting my feet onto the mainland.

  I looked down at the pink plastic carrier beside my suitcase and smiled. Jane had been right: Something good had come out of this. I was bringing Emilio to his forever home where he could heal, psychologically and physically, from his years of life on the streets. I wondered how the rest of my clowder would take the new addition, but I knew with love and a proper and patient introduction he would fit right in. He would spend a few days in his own room, then when the time was right, I’d start the presentation process, exchanging scents and allowing brief, treat-accompanied encounters. He had lived in a colony room at Cloverleaf which meant he was used to being around other cats, and thanks to my many Friends of Felines fosters, my kitties were reasonably social, themselves.

  I hadn’t been sure how I was going to get from Anacortes to Portland, but I didn’t care if I had to pay a taxi for the two-hundred-fifty-mile trip as long as I made it home. Luckily a friend knew a friend who knew a friend who just happened to be driving back from Seattle that very night. All I had to do was take a four-hour bus ride from the ferry terminal to downtown Seattle and I’d be on my way. Though I try not to think in the future, I couldn’t keep my mind from landing on my front stoop, unlocking the big door of the old Victorian, and shuffling inside at long last. My cats would greet me, greet the newcomer. I would flop on the couch and let them come to me or ignore me or both, letting me know that, though they’re happy I’m home, they never approved of my leaving them in the first place. Seleia would be there, but she would most likely be sleeping. I calculated with an inward groan that the earliest I would make it was eleven p.m. and probably more likely after midnight.

  “Lynley?”

  I came out of my reverie to see Nathan Shore sauntering in my direction.

  “I heard they set you free. You weren’t thinking about leaving without saying goodbye, were you?”

  “Of course not.” I turned and zipped open a thin flap in my day pack, now stuffed to bursting. “I looked for you but couldn’t find you so I wrote a note. I was going to leave it with the desk if I didn’t catch you before I had to go.” I handed Nathan the envelope. He looked at it. “You don’t have to read it now. It’s nothing important, just a card I got at the gift shop with my email and address in it. I’m hoping you’ll keep in touch.”

  Nathan gave me a huge grin, then bent and hugged me. “You bet, Lynley. After what we’ve been through, we’re friends for life.”

  “Back at you, Nathan. Where do you live? You never told me.”

  “Illinois, about fifty miles out of Chicago. On a lake. It’s really beautiful, especially in the fall. You should come visit sometime.”

  I’d never in my conscious mind considered visiting Chicago or anywhere nearby, but I nodded and said, “You never know.” It couldn’t be any weirder than this trip, I thought to myself.

  “Have you heard any more about the case?” I asked.

  “Not really. The police have gone up the mountain to find George Harrison.”

  “George? Oh, they really can’t think he did it, can they?”

  Nathan scuffed at the white pebbles on the path, creating swaths of dark brown where the loam-rich soil showed through. “I don’t know what they think. But someone did it—‌someone who is still here.”

  “But George, for goodness sake? Granted he was standoffish at times—‌well, all the time really, but…” I hesitated. I had to admit there was something about his absolute absence throughout the ordeal that raised questions.

  “And does this mean what I think it means?” Nathan asked, taking the chair beside me and lightly touching the gate on Emilio’s carrier.

  “Emilio’s going home,” I replied, glad to change the subject. “If we ever leave, that is. The police are taking their sweet time about getting their act together. Yeah, I know,” I added with a sigh. “Pretty selfish after all that’s happened. But to tell you the truth, I’m feeling a bit selfish right about now.”

  “That’s totally understandable. You’ve gone without sleep for a day and a half with crazy stuff coming at you from all sides. You deserve a rest. If I wasn’t staying here, I’d come along and take care of you.”

  “Thanks, but I promise if I ever see the four walls of home again, I’m going to bed for a week. Or at least a good twelve hours. I’m sorry to give up the rest of the retreat but I...” I faltered, staring out at the blue of the sea where a pod of pelicans skimmed low in single file above the water.

  “You don’t have to explain to me. I thought about leaving myself, but I’ve got nothing better to do right now. No job or anything like that to go back to. I decided to stay on and volunteer in Cats for a few weeks. They need the help. A lot of the volunteers have backed out because of the killings.”

  “And you’re not worried?”

  “No. I don’t for a moment believe those were random crimes. Those two women had something in common, something the police will figure out once they get half a chance. With such a limited suspect pool, they’ll get this thing wrapped up and put to bed in no time.”

  With another hug, Nathan left me, bouncing off to Cats. I watched him go, envious of his youthful optimism and hoping he was right about the quick discovery of the murderer.

  He wasn’t.

  Chapter 18

  "Manx syndrome" or "Manxness" is a colloquial name given to the condition which results when the tailless gene shortens the spine too much. Though often handsome, Manx cats can suffer from damage to the spinal cord and nerves, and problems with bowels, bladder, and digestion.

  Crystal Holt had not been beamed over the head with her own vodka bottle but injected with a cocktail of Telazol, an animal tranquilizer, and the old stand-by overdose king, heroin. She was probably lying on her bed when it happened and then lurched to her feet after receiving the shot. As the drug overcame the adrenaline, she went down, striking the edge of the table and sustaining the messy head wound. The impact upset the bottle which fell and broke when it hit the floor.

  Marissa had been killed the same way, minus the head-striking vodka-spilling part. Investigations hadn’t turned up any connection between the two women aside from the art retreat itself. Until the killer was exposed, it seemed doubtful anyone would know the motive.

  When I first got back to Portland, the Cloverleaf Murders were all over the news, up to and including the national level since the story had that magic combination of cute (animals), quirky (unusual murder technique), and horrific (two women were slain by person or persons unknown) to qualify as sensationalism. Since there was no hint as to a suspect, I wondered if George Harrison was off the hook.

  I watched the television, newspapers, and internet with the obsession of an addict, but aside from the surprise cause of death, I learned nothing I didn’t already know. As the days went by, the incident slipped from front page to Metro to snippets on the web, and my interest waned along with the rest of America’s. I had things to do, places to go, cats to care for.

  Emilio was settling in as if he had always been there. He was one of those one-in-a-million kitties who got along with everyone. I’d even seen him with Solo under the couch in her hiding place where others dared not go. I’d watched him as he slunk underneath, waited for Solo’s inevitable warning meow. When it didn’t come, I peeked. There they were, nose to nose in the warm, dusty gloom.

  After I got back from the sanctuary, I’d taken a few days of rest and recuperation which was act
ually more like bill-paying and housecleaning. Seleia had done a great job caring for the cats but not so much the house. It wasn’t bad—‌dishes were done and clothes washed—‌but as to mopping and vacuuming, scrubbing sinks and bathtubs, not to mention the unmentionables, it hadn’t crossed her mind. I was okay with it though. She made sure my cats were safe and happy, and that was what mattered.

  At first, it was fun to be home, reading my email and catching up on Facebook, tending to my wayward garden, and planning for Seleia’s birthday at the end of the coming month—‌she was turning seventeen which seemed both charming and impossible at the same time. I settled into the regimen of mundane house chores as if it were my life’s chosen work. I hid in the monotony of it, safe in the sameness which suited for a while but couldn’t last. I soon became restless, then downright eager to get out into the world again. And I knew just where to start.

  Friends of Felines, the state-of-the-art cat shelter where I’d been volunteering for more years than I could readily count, was planning a Halloween fundraiser. It was to be, of course, cat-themed, but instead of the customary Halloween horror fest, the events committee had decided to go for a mystical tone. I didn’t know exactly what they had in mind—‌only that it would involve a black cat fantasy world comprised of both real cats and humans in feline dress. I thought it was a great idea since black cats are often the most difficult to adopt out, and the gala would draw attention to their plight. The committee was pleased as punch by the concept, but it was more than they could manage on their own. I was asked to head up the affair before I went on the retreat and politely declined; now it seemed like the perfect well into which I could pour my scattered energies. Lucky for me, no one had claimed the post while I was gone, and I was installed as producer with a three-sentence phone call to the chairman.

  The month was still August, though only barely, Labor Day being Monday of the following week, but an affair like the Halloween Gala takes time to organize. Thankfully I had nothing to do with the fundraising side; that was managed by paid promoter Sally Fried, who had been doing it for years. She was the type of person to whom the affluent couldn’t say no. Sally worked out the who; my job had only to do with how, where, and what—‌decorations, food, drink, and of course the theatrics that would set us above and beyond all the other charity events in the area.