We tried for a few minutes to console him, and Robin suggested he go lie down and rest for a while. After he retired to his room and closed the door, she and I stayed in the kitchen to talk, keeping our voices low.
“Our pastor has been in touch with a local agency that can send an aide here a few days a week,” Robin told me. “Someone who can make sure Chester has food and help him with anything else he needs. There will be a cost, but he does get Social Security checks and has an IRA. I’ll try to help him sort out the financial stuff.”
“What about his children?” I asked.
“Jim’s down in Florida, and Sylvia lives in Chicago. Pastor Gerald did notify them both that the funeral is Saturday, so I’m sure they’ll be coming for that. If they’ve got any class at all, maybe they’ll pay for the burial. But as for getting more involved with looking after their father . . .” She frowned in disapproval. “They left both him and Bernice on their own for all these years, so I’m not expecting much from them now.”
My gaze drifted to the back door, which still stood open about four inches, held in place by a fist-size gray stone. I wandered over to pick up and study the makeshift doorstop. “Y’know, even though Chester got upset just now, he sounded pretty lucid today. Do you think there’s anything to what he said? That someone could have found the door ajar, sneaked into the house and murdered Bernice?”
Robin joined me at the door and peered out across the Tillmans’ yard. “It could have happened, but why would anyone do that? As far as I know, she had no enemies.”
We both stepped out onto the small, shabby back porch, leaving behind the stuffiness of the house. I reminded Robin, “You said their neighbor, Bob something, visited the Tillmans sometimes. Where does he live?”
She pointed to another modest ranch house, pale blue with black shutters, just visible through the trees. At least from a distance it seemed better maintained than the Tillman place, but of course, most of the neighborhood’s other homes were. A dusty red pickup truck stood in the driveway.
“Sounds like he got along well with both of them,” I noted.
“I think he did. And it’s not as if Bernice had any great inheritance to leave Chester or even their kids. I mean, this place?” She spread her arms to span the rear wall with its peeling beige paint. “The cops already have talked by phone with Jimmy and Sylvia. Besides living so far away, I think they both have alibis for that night.”
“Chester said the back door was still propped open in the morning, just the way he’d left it the night before,” I reminded her. “He remembered that detail well enough.”
“And he said there was no pillow over his wife’s face when he looked in on her. That’s something he certainly would have noticed!”
We had to raise our voices slightly to compensate for staccato hammering and the whine of a saw in the distance. Leaning over the porch’s shaky railing, I saw a larger house rising, maybe a quarter mile down the road. Construction vehicles lined up in the driveway. It looked as if the place had started out about the size of the Tillmans’ single-story home, but the workers already had added skeletal framework for a first-floor extension and a second level.
I mentioned this to Robin.
“Yeah, Bob was talking with Chester about that place,” she said. “The family who rented there let it get run-down, so the landlord booted them out and sold it to a flipper. With all the work he’s doing, it’ll probably sell for three times what he paid for it.”
I reflected that a chance to snap up the Tillman house cheaply might give even someone who barely knew Bernice a motive to do away with her. “Chester owns this house outright, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah. I imagine the mortgage was paid off long ago, back when he was making good money as a sportscaster.”
The feral cats had spotted us now and began gathering below the porch, hoping for an easier meal than they could catch in the woods. Robin and I poured some dry food into a half-dozen plastic dishes. This time, we couldn’t worry about each animal getting his fair share; we let them sort that out among themselves.
Robin reminded me that Sarah probably would want to go to Bernice’s funeral Saturday morning, though normally she’d be working a half day for me.
“Of course, she can have the day off,” I said. “We haven’t even been that busy—I can handle the shop by myself.”
Back indoors, we reflected that Chester didn’t need the financial burden of five indoor cats, especially if some were old enough to need special diets and veterinary care.
“Next time I come back, I’ll bring my friends from FOCA,” I told her. “They’re nice kids, and they probably can talk him into parting at with at least a few animals. Maybe he’ll feel better once they assure him it’s a no-kill shelter.”
“That’s a good idea,” Robin agreed.
I glanced around the living room. “We’ve got an antiques shop in Chadwick, too. Maybe I’ll ask the proprietor if he’d have any interest in these old toys and memorabilia. That might give Chester some extra cash to pay for the home aide and other expenses.”
“Worth a try, I guess,” she said.
I stole a look at my phone, since the many clocks in the Tillman house all offered different opinions on the time of day. “If you’ve got things under control here, Robin, I’d better get back to work. It’s not fair of me to leave Sarah there by herself for too long.”
That brought a smile to her friend’s face. “She always talks about what a considerate boss you are. I think she even enjoys getting mixed up in all of the outside excitement with your clients.”
I laughed. “Even though she keeps warning me to stay out of trouble!”
I peeked into Chester’s room to say goodbye, but he was fast asleep, still fully clothed and on top of his bedspread.
Robin saw me to the front door, a less hazardous journey now that she had thinned out some of the trash. “Thanks, Cassie, for everything.”
“Glad to do it. I hope you can get Chester the help he needs to go on living here safely.”
“I hope so, too.” She sighed. “Even though he’s technically a murder suspect, at least for now he’s still a free man. I pray to God he stays that way.”
Chapter 7
The next day, Becky Newmeyer and I traveled in my grooming van to make one of our occasional house calls.
I’d first acquired the vehicle as an ugly, matte-black panel truck, but some FOCA volunteers and a company that specialized in van makeovers helped me turn it into a rolling extension of my business. Now it was glossy white with a raised roof; both sides advertised Cassie’s Comfy Cats, along with a two-foot-tall cartoon of a smug, prancing Persian. I had used it so far to promote my services at events and to do grooming at the homes of some customers.
Nancy Whyte, who owned two show-quality Maine Coon cats, lived in Sparta, about half an hour away. Her male Coon, named King (for Stephen, the famous Maine resident), weighed in at twenty-five pounds. His sister, Jessie, was only slightly smaller, at about eighteen. And neither were obese—that weight was mostly bone, muscle and fur.
Not overly tall, a bit plump and in her fifties, Nancy brushed both cats herself a couple of times a week. But to keep mats from forming in their thick coats, and even between their toes, they needed a more intensive grooming session about once a month. King and Jessie were so large that when Nancy took them to shows, she used rolling pet carriers intended for medium-size dogs. Rather than make her bring them to my shop, though, it made more sense for me to go to her.
Becky might have looked like a strange choice to help me wrestle with these burly beasts. The petite woman with the boyish cap of platinum hair was stronger than she looked, though, and she’d done a fine job last month, on our first visit to Nancy’s place. A recent college grad who spent much of her time volunteering at FOCA, Becky still lived in Chadwick with her parents. Since graduation, she’d been pet-sitting for extra money, and I’d recently started employing her to help me when I needed to make a house
call. It expanded my customer base and left Sarah free to mind our shop.
On the drive out to Nancy’s place, I filled Becky in on Chester’s whole story, including his cat situation. “The first priority, I think, is to reduce the number running around his house. His eyesight isn’t great, especially at night, and at some point they’re liable to trip him. Once he gets to like and trust you and Chris—which I’m sure he will—you may be able to talk him into parting with at least a few of them.”
“We can certainly give it a shot,” Becky said. “Even Chris can be charming, when animal lives are at stake!”
I laughed. I’d always gotten along well with Chris Eberhardt, another recent college grad and Becky’s boyfriend. But I knew he could get a little intense sometimes about humane issues.
We pulled up in front of Nancy’s Tudor-style home, its entrance flanked by rose bushes in full bloom. She escorted us into her living room with a big smile. A scarf covered most of her curly blond hair, and her T-shirt read: BIG MEWS. Nancy had used that name for her cattery, when she’d still been breeding Coons. She had given up the business since her husband’s death a couple of years ago, sold off all her animals except King and Jessie, and had them both neutered. But they were such impressive specimens of their breed that she still brought them to a show occasionally.
She led out the massive brown tabby male on a retractable leash, fastened to his padded harness.
My helper, who saw a wide variety of animals pass through the FOCA shelter, shook her head in awe. “This guy is incredible. He’s as big as a collie!”
Nancy laughed, obviously enjoying the shock value. “Well, maybe a small one. And he’s almost as friendly.”
“Lucky for us,” I said.
While Becky tousled his amber-and-black neck ruff, King looked down his doglike snout at us but maintained his regal composure. His obedience also more canine than feline, he allowed her to lead him out to the van and hopped inside. Nancy obviously walked him this way often, since for her it would have been impossible to carry him.
For the next forty-five minutes or so, my helper and I gently worked any mats out of his double coat—both the long, silky “guard hairs” that give him his tabby coloring, and the thicker, softer fur of his undercoat. The latter functioned almost like a layer of down and had developed to keep Maine Coons comfortable outdoors during the harshest winter weather. He’d probably started losing some of this hair earlier in the spring, but I helped the process along with a shedding comb. I didn’t usually trim the coats of longhaired cats unless they were impossibly matted, but in King’s case, I used scissors to also take a little off his outer coat, just to help him get through the summer more comfortably.
Becky and I finished by clipping his claws, something I dreaded to undertake even with my own cats. King had been groomed for showing since kittenhood, though, and gave us no trouble. A good thing, too—with his talons, and all the muscle behind them, he could have mauled us badly. I had offered to bathe him, which helps to keep Coons’ coats more manageable, but Nancy had told me that was the one job she could manage herself. These cats tolerated water better than most other breeds, and hers would cheerfully jump into an empty bathtub and let her fill it partway, to soap and rinse them.
We returned King, in all his glory, to his owner, then put his sister through the same treatment. As I worked on the silky tufts that gave Jessie’s ears such a long, pointed look, Becky asked me, “Is it true that Maine Coons are part Lynx?”
“Nope, though some people think so,” I said. “They do look similar because of the ears, neck ruffs and big, furry paws. Probably the domestic cats developed those for the same reasons Lynxes did, to keep them warm and help them walk over snow. Maine Coons don’t have any of that ‘wild’ nature, though—in fact, they’re usually very calm and gentle.”
When we brought Jessie back into the house, Nancy enthused about how trimming both cats’ coats had made them look fuller but feel lighter. “Cassie, would you have a talk with my hairdresser?” she joked. “He could learn some of your techniques!”
She sent us off with a generous check, which I would split in half with Becky. I knew she’d been saving up to get out of her parents’ house and into a place of her own. I suspected that she might want to move in with Chris, or at least have the privacy to spend more time alone with him.
I drove to Chadwick, to let Becky off at the shelter before I went back to my shop. “I’ll ask Chester Tillman what day might be good for me, you and Chris to stop by,” I told her. “You two can spend some time chatting with him. Explain what FOCA does, and that it’s a no-kill shelter. Then maybe he’ll agree to at least let you take Bernice’s three favorite cats off his hands.”
Becky nodded, but with a sad expression. “Are those the ones that the cops think smothered her? I guess he might be glad to have them out of the house!”
“Don’t be too sure,” I said. “I really don’t think Chester blames the cats for Bernice’s death. He suspects there was a human culprit involved. And after some of the things he told me and Robin, I’m inclined to agree.”
* * *
Friday afternoon, Sarah and I combed and fluffed Princess Leya to a perfection that should satisfy even her owner. Around four, as specified, we loaded her into the carrier for her trip home. Despite her dazzling blue eyes, the pampered Himalayan wore a gloomy expression, almost as if she would have preferred to stay at our shop rather than return to the Fosters. All right, maybe I was projecting; she’d probably be happy enough to see Whitney again, and maybe even Donald.
Sarah planted her hands on her hips and reviewed the duties we’d been assigned. “Well, we gave her a half hour in the playroom every day. I played with her for two short sessions each time, one with a feather/wand toy and one with a jingly ball, as requested. We groomed her twice and clipped her nails, and kept her in the roomiest condo, away from any of the other cats. Did we forget anything?”
I pointed to a couple of cans of food that I would be returning along with Leya. “Gasp—we have some left over! Think Gillian will accuse me of starving her?”
My assistant laughed. “I’m just glad it’s you bringing her back there, not me.”
I slipped the can into my shoulder bag and hefted the carrier. “Can’t imagine what it’ll be like over there today. It was crazy enough when they were just decorating, but now that Gillian’s getting ready for the reception—”
“My advice? Get in and out as fast as you can. Just don’t forget the check.”
* * *
This time, a catering truck occupied the Fosters’ driveway. Behind it stood a smaller, older, light-blue panel truck branded JANOS HOME REPAIR. So Nick was still here? I thought he would have made short work of fixing that cabinet door and fled the scene as soon as possible.
Maybe Gillian is insisting that he make endless adjustments to suit her stratospheric standards. If so, he won’t thank me for recommending him!
The front door was closed this time, so I rang the bell. After a minute, an older, well-rounded blond woman in a starched white apron answered it. I held up Leya’s carrier, explained my mission and was admitted. Instantly, I could hear that all the frantic activity today was concentrated in the kitchen.
The aproned woman glanced at the cat and shrugged in confusion. “I don’t know where you should take him,” she said, obviously not well acquainted with Princess Leya. “I’m sure Mrs. Foster won’t want him underfoot . . .”
“I was told that they keep her in the guest room,” I said.
Relief dawned on the woman’s plain face. “Oh, good. It’s down that hall to the left.”
Though I remembered, I thanked her for the directions. She might be a new hire. I could imagine that cooks and housekeepers didn’t last very long at the Fosters’.
Gillian’s clearly enunciated, piercing voice still reached me all the way down the passage. At least Leya should find some peace shut away in the odd little bedroom, and unlike a human, she probably didn�
��t mind the saggy antique bed or the blank stares of the faceless dolls. Of course, a pan with clean litter and a dish of water already had been set out for her. Maybe Gillian’s fetish for organization did have some good points. Or had Whitney seen to the cat’s creature comforts?
Released from her carrier, Leya immediately dove under the low-slung bed. I felt sorry for her, but that was typical cat behavior. She’d just begun to adjust to life boarding at my shop and suddenly found herself back in the spooky guest room. With the familiar smells, though, she would probably feel at home again by evening.
I couldn’t easily reach Leya to pet her, so with a few encouraging words I left her alone and closed the room’s door. After that, I peeked into the kitchen to see if the bodies were piling up. As I drew nearer, I noticed that Gillian’s affected voice had taken on a lilt that almost sounded . . . cheerful! In fact, she actually seemed to be praising somebody! When I peered through the doorway, I realized with a shock that it was Nick.
“Mr. Janos, you have saved the day. That crooked door has been driving me insane, and you fixed it with one turn of a screw!”
The stocky handyman turned pink, all the way from his trim gray beard up to his balding pate. “Aw, thanks. It was a little more than that, but after all my years in this business, at least I know which screw to turn.”
“That girl from the cat shop was right, you are a gem. I’ll probably have more jobs for you in the future.”
She spotted me over Nick’s shoulder, and he turned also.
“Hi, Cassie,” he hailed me. “Speak of the devil.”
Yes, it’s me, I thought. The “girl” from the cat shop. But at least Nick sounded elated rather than browbeaten. With a glance at the repaired cabinet, I asked, “Everything worked out okay?”
“With Mr. Janos, anyway,” Gillian said, her long-suffering air resurfacing. “Would you believe this all has to be pulled together in less than an hour? I gave the caterers recipes and directions weeks ago, but they’re still getting some things wrong.”
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