“Okay, hang on,” Marley says, as she cranks the wheel and then points the van down the steep pass. “We’re coming, Turkey!” She calls out.
“Hang on, my precious!” I add.
“Crap, this road is steep,” Marley says as we reach the first hairpin turn. “I can’t believe we went up there for no reason. We should have stayed in town—that was a total bust.”
“Not entirely,” I say. I have to grip the hold-bar above the window to keep from being jostled out of my seat as we hit a rut in the road.
My drink sloshes inside the cup. I try to hold it steady as I speak. “Now we know that Ken and Lucy aren’t waiting—they’re already moving into Claudine’s house. That’s really fast. It means they were eager to get their hands on that mansion.”
“That’s true,” Marley says. “It’s only been five days since Lucy found Claudine.”
“That’s another thing,” I say. “Did you see Lucy’s face when I told her Gunther was dead? She was totally surprised.”
“She did seem shocked,” Marley agrees.
I’m trying really hard to think about what this new information might mean to our case, but it’s difficult to focus. All I can think about is my poor precious Turkey werky. I hope that Buttercup can save him. I don’t know what I’d do without my cat. He’s the perfect roommate. The perfect companion. The perfect snuggle-buddy.
I need my cat.
He’s got to make it through this.
“Can you go any faster?” I ask.
“Not if you want to get to Buttercup’s in one piece,” Marley says.
“One piece would be nice.”
“Then shut up and let me drive.”
My friend has a grim look on her face, and her knuckles are white again. She’s abandoned her Funky Buddha in the cup holder and is staring intently at the road ahead. I know that she means business because, like I said, she hates it when her chai gets cold.
So I zip my lips.
In ten minutes, we arrive at Buttercup’s—all in one piece, thankfully. I’m out the door before the van comes to a complete stop.
Marley parks and is not far behind me. I run straight to the shed and pull the door open.
The shed is outfitted with a flat table in the middle. Shelves on every wall are stocked with medical supplies. Buttercup is already readying herself for surgery. As we burst into the room, she’s snapping purple rubber gloves over her hands. Large glasses cover her eyes, and there’s a mask over her nose and mouth.
“Stay there!” She says, urgently. “I already created a sterile field around Turkey.”
Finally, she’s gotten my baby’s name right.
My eyes go to Turkey. He’s really looking sick now. Buttercup has wrapped restraints around him, so that he won’t leap off of the table. From the looks of him, he doesn’t have any energy for leaping anyways. His head is hanging low, and he has a pained expression in his eyes. He is skinny and frail. As I look at him, he meows. The sound is weak and plaintive.
“Oh!” I cry, lifting my hands to my lips. “He’s not doing good!”
“I think that he’s having something called a Hershman’s Attack,” Buttercup says. She’s drawing up medicine from a vial into a syringe. “Basically, it means that his intestines are in a knot. That’s probably what was causing the vomit these past few days. Hershman’s Attacks become much more acute if the intestines become ischemic.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Marley reaches out for my hand and squeezes it as we watch Buttercup approach Turkey with the shot in her hand.
“It means that Turkey’s condition deteriorated so fast because the knot is causing blood flow in his intestines to slow down. Besides being painful, decreased blood flow can actually cause the tissue in his intestines to die.”
She meets my eye. “It’s not good, let’s just put it that way.”
“Could he die?” I ask.
Buttercup stoops over the cat. She parts the fur on his chest. “If we don’t do something quickly, the condition can be life threatening, sometimes within hours, or sometimes within days,” she says. “Luckily, you knew enough to bring him to me, so we don’t have to risk waiting. All I have to do is open up his abdomen, resolve the knot, and stitch him back up. I’ve done this surgery hundreds of times, Penny. He’s in good hands.”
She seems to have found the place on his chest where she’s going to give him the injection. She lifts the shot up to eye level, and gives it a little squirt into the air. “This is a sedative. He’s going to fall asleep, and when he wakes up, the surgery will be over. Okay, Penny? Do I have your permission to go ahead with this?”
“Yes! Yes” I cry. “Do what you have to do to save him, Buttercup.”.
She lowers the syringe and is about to inject him with it when there’s a loud rapping sound, coming from the shed door.
Buttercups stops what she is doing, abruptly. We all look to the door, which is now flying open.
“Freeze!” Chris jumps into the room, his weapon at the ready. “This is the police! Hands in the air!”
I throw my hands up into the air. So does Marley. So does Buttercup.
Chris walks past Marley and me, heading straight for Buttercup.
“Buttercup Beecher, I have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Claudine Terra!” Chris shouts.
Buttercup lowers her hands and sets the syringe on the table, a look of utter confusion across her face. Chris snaps handcuffs around one of her wrists. Then he circles the cuff around the other hand. Buttercup does nothing to resist.
Chris speaks with authority. His deep voice echoes off the shed walls. “You have the right to remain silent. If you speak, your words can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult with a lawyer and have that lawyer present during your questioning at the police. Is that clear?”
“Chris, no!” I shout. I let my hands fall down to my side. Marley still has hers up in the air. As I drop my hands, so does she.
“Buttercup was about to do surgery—” Marley says.
“—On Turkey!” I finish. “Turkey is really sick! He might die if we don’t do surgery right now!”
Chris looks over at my cat, who is a pitiful ball of fur strapped to the metal table.
“Do you really want a murderer operating on your cat?” Chris asks.
“Buttercup isn’t a murderer!” I protest. “She’s innocent! And she’s about to save my cat’s life!”
“I’m not a murderer,” Buttercup says. “Penny, tell them!”
“She didn’t kill Claudine,” I say. “You should be talking to Lucy Wilbur! She’s up there moving into the Terra Mansion, and it hasn’t even been a week since Claudine died! She was the one who was alone with the body when the police arrived on the scene. She had the means and the motive!” I say.
“The means and the motive,” Marley echoes.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chris says, shaking his head. “Buttercup, you’re coming with me.”
He places his hand on her back and directs her to the exit of the shed. He practically pushes her out the door. Marley and I follow them into the bright sunlight.
Chris wastes no time in getting Buttercup into the back of the cop car. All I can do is watch as he locks my cat’s one and only hope into the back seat.
Then he walks back towards Buttercup’s house. He’s speaking on his radio, and completely ignoring Marley and me.
After a moment, Ted McDougal comes around the corner of the house, trampling through the overgrown grass. He’s holding something in his hands.
“Found it, Captain!” McDougal shouts.
I can see what Ted has in his hands now. It’s a rope. The exact type of rope that would leave a mark like the one I saw on Gunther Larson’s neck, the night before.
My stomach is starting to feel queasy. Was I just about to let a deranged murderer cut my cat open?
No! There’s no way my mamma pet-owner instincts are tha
t off. Besides, I have Personal Investigator instincts too, and every cell in my body is now saying that Buttercup did not kill either one of our victims.
I march up to Chris. He’s on his radio, but I just start talking anyways. He’s not going to like this, but I have to speak my piece of mind.
“Chris Wagner, listen to me for a minute!” I say, jabbing my finger towards his chest. “I’m telling you, Buttercup didn’t do it.”
He definitely looks annoyed. “Yes, Chief,” he says into the radio. “Right away. Yes. One moment, please, Chief, I have a difficult bystander here that has to be dealt with.”
He lowers the radio and gives me a death-stare. “Penny, now is not a good time,” he says through his teeth.
“I know!” I shout. “That’s my point! This really isn’t a good time! Did you see my cat strapped to that table?”
“This isn’t about your cat!” Chris erupts.
“Chris. Listen to me. Buttercup isn’t our killer. Yes, she was jealous of Claudine, because she still loved Gunther. But just because a girl isn’t quite over her ex doesn’t mean that she’s a murderer! Plenty of people get hung up on their exs!” I give him a meaningful stare.
He swallows. I think I’ve made my point there, so I move on.
“I know that Claudine was killed with Phenobarbital,” I say.
“How did you—I didn’t tell you the results of the autopsy...” Chris says.
“You didn’t have to,” I say, giving my glasses a little smart-woman adjustment. Man, Jumper Strongheart was right. These things work!
“I figured it out,” I say, smugly. “And last night, Gunther had the bottle in his pocket. You figured out that Buttercup is the only person in town with access to a drug like that, and you matched the bottle in Gunther’s possession with Buttercup’s supply.”
“There weren’t any fingerprints on it, but we traced the bottle back to Buttercup,” Chris says. “The bottle had an ID number on it, and the drug company told us that she’s the one that ordered it.”
“Great,” I say. “But Chris, that doesn’t mean she did it! Someone could have easily stolen the bottle from her. Besides that, there’s no way she killed Gunther.”
“We just found a rope in her trash bin.” Chris says. “I’m betting a million to one that the rope will have Gunther’s skin cells on it.”
“And I’m betting you’re right,” I say.
This seems to catch him off guard.
I continue. “But that doesn’t mean she killed Gunther, either!” I say. “Someone could have planted that rope in her trash bin. Why would Buttercup kill Gunther? She was in love with him! All she wanted was to be back together with him!”
“Step back,” Chris says. “I need some space right now, so that I can talk to my chief.”
“Oh, you and your chief! Screw your chief! Think for yourself, Chris! You’re arresting the wrong person!”
“This is an order, Penny. I’m an officer of the law, and I’m telling you to back off.”
Marley joins us, and reaches for my hand. “Come on, Penny,” she says. “Let’s go.”
“But... but...” I feel tears welling up in my eyes. “Buttercup was about to operate on Turkey. What if my cat dies?”
Marley tugs on my hand.
Chris’s anger has turned to sorrow. He looks distraught as he lifts his radio back to his lips. “Chief? Yes, that’s taken care of. We have Buttercup in custody, sir,” he reports.
Marley and I watch as Chris and McDougal place the segment of rope into a plastic evidence bag and seal it with tape. Next, they begin stringing up crime scene tape all over the place, just like they did in my office the night before.
“We should get Turkey out of here,” Marley suggests.
I know that she’s right. I wipe the last of my tears away and follow Marley into the shed.
Turkey yowls as I lift him off of the table. He’s clearly in pain. I feel so bad for him! I wish desperately that there was something we could do for him, but with Buttercup now in the back of a cop car, I don’t know how to proceed.
Holding Turkey in my arms like a baby, I walk towards Marley’s van.
I can see Buttercup watching us, from the back of the cop car. She looks as upset as I feel. Buttercup may be looney, but she’s a good vet. I can see in her eyes that she wishes as much as I do that she was free and operating on my cat.
Chapter Eleven
When Marley drops me off at my apartment, the first thing that I do is work on making Turkey a comfortable bed on top of my mattress. He’s not yowling any more, and as soon as I place him amongst the nest of soft covers, he closes his eyes as if he’s settling in for a long nap.
Because I don’t know how long my cat has to live, I post up next to him and start singing. Turkey loves it when I sing to him. I happen to have a very soothing voice. In his current condition, I’m sure that my soothing lullabies are just what he needs.
Maybe they’re even making his tummy feel better.
“Itsy bitsy Turkey climbed up the water spout,” I sing. “Down came the shower and scared the Turkey silly!” I’m even doing some motions with my hands, kind of like hand-interpretive dancing, to bring the song to life. Anything to make my baby feel better!
“Out came the hairdryer, and dried the Turkey into a puffball!” My voice reaches an especially high, impressive octave. “And the itsy bitsy Turkey...”
“Will you stop that singing?” A voice asks.
I jump up off of the bed and whirl around, searching for an intruder.
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, but I can’t stand it when you sing,” the voice says.
I can’t see anyone, yet the voice sounds like it’s coming from inside this room.
“Who’s there?” I ask, running to the door and peering behind it. No one.
“It’s me,” the voice says. “Your cat.”
“Turkey?” I ask. I look over at the bed.
Turkey has opened his eyes, and is staring at me. “That’s another thing I can’t stand. Why do you call me Turkey? My name is Thomas.” As I hear the words, I don’t see his mouth moving. We must be communicating telepathically!
“Thomas?” I ask, a little incredulously.
“Thomas Edison Fullbright.”
“What?” I gawk.
“You heard me. If I have to suffer through you calling me Turkey one more time, I’m going to lose it. I’m feeling awful enough as it is without being referred to as lunch meat. Or a coward. Really, that is the worst name.”
“I thought you liked it,” I say, a little hurt. “That’s the only name you would respond to, when you were a kitten. Remember how after I brought you home from the shelter you spent so much time hiding from me?”
“Yes,” Turkey says.
“You were so cute as a kitten!” I say. “And such a little scaredy cat. Turkey seemed to fit you perfectly. We were both ‘turkeys’ back then. Scared chicken of everything. For me, it was police academy. I guess I was so scared I managed to self-sabotage the whole thing.”
“And I was petrified of every little sound. Even when you merely walked in the door, I’d dart under the couch.”
“Or into the cupboard above the fridge.”
“Or under the bed.”
We both laugh. I can’t believe this! I’m laughing with my cat.
As our laughter dies down, he says, “But that was when I was just a kitten,” he says. “I was scared back then, but I’ve matured. I’ve grown out of that name. I’ve decided that I’m more of a Thomas now.”
“Thomas Edison Fullbright,” I say, trying to wrap my head around his preferred name. “How did you come up with that?”
“I do the Hillcrest Crier crossword every day when you leave the apartment,” Turkey says. “I’ve been pondering names for quite some time.”
“Well, I suppose I could try it,” I say.
“Thank you.” Turkey swishes his tail twice, and I can see he’s pleased. He’s still lying in a kind of limp
little lump, and the tail-swishes seem to take a lot of effort. Now that I’m getting used to communicating with him like this, I settle back onto the bed. I reach out and pet his forehead, and he makes a purring sound.
“What about you?” He says between purrs.
“What about me?” I ask.
“Don’t you think you’ve graduated from your name, too?” He asks. “You’ve matured, just as I have. You’re not as afraid as you used to be.”
“I haven’t changed all that much,” I say, glumly. “I’m still afraid of a lot of things and I’m still a police academy reject.”
“Not at all,” Turkey says. “You weren’t meant for the police department, Penny. Life has other plans for you.”
“What do you know about that?” I ask.
Turkey gives me a weak wink as I stroke his forehead. His voice is becoming quieter in my mind now, and sometimes there are long pauses between words. “I read the book, while you were out of the house,” he says. “The Art and Science of Becoming a Witch. It says that becoming a witch was your destiny.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” I say.
“You’re good at being a witch,” Turkey says. “And you’re brave, too, for being so open to it.”
“I am?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
“But what if I’m not good at it? What if I’m as bad at being a witch as I am at being a personal investigator?”
“You’re not bad at being a personal investigator,” Turkey insists. “You just need to trust your instincts a little bit more. They’re good instincts. All witches have good intuition—didn’t you read that part in the book?”
“Yes.” I did.
“Tell me what you’ve got so far,” Turkey says. “What are your instincts telling you?”
“Well, I think the person that killed Claudine, also killed Gunther.”
“Why?”
“Because, when Gunther died, he’d just sent me a text that said that he knew who killed Claudine. He was onto something—something concrete. He had evidence that would put the murderer behind bars—he said that I could bring it to the police.”
The Case of the Love Spell Page 11