A Crazy Cat Lady and Canine Crunchies

by Aleksa Baxter

  I looked at him, looked at her, and looked at him again as she continued to bark. Was he really not going to say hi?

  He shook his head slightly, but walked over to give Fancy a good ear rubbing. She leaned into his leg and sighed in pleasure. He hadn't been into the café since the day they questioned me so she'd been going through withdrawal. (So had I.)

  Officer Clark shook his head in disgust and stepped toward me. "Maggie May Carver, you are under arrest for the murder of Janice Fletcher. Turn around and put your hands behind your back."

  "Murder? She fell down the stairs. It was an accident."

  "I think we'll believe the coroner on this one. Now turn around."

  I started to turn, but Matt stepped between us. "That's not necessary, Ben."

  "She's a murderer."

  I could see Matt still didn't really believe it. (Thankfully.) "Be that as it may. I'm not going to cuff her. And neither are you."

  I glanced at Fancy. "Matt? Can we…? I know I shouldn't ask this, but can I please take Fancy home first?"

  Officer Clark glared at him. "She's a murderer, Matt. You shouldn't even be on this case you're so blinded."

  Matt glared right back. "Shut up, Ben." He nodded to me. "Sure. Get her leashed up."

  I ran to grab my purse and Fancy's leash from the office. Jamie was seated at a table talking with Don, their heads close together. They were even holding hands.

  I stopped a few feet away. "Jamie."

  "What?" She didn't even look at me.

  "The police are here. They're arresting me for Janice Fletcher's murder."

  She stood up, staring at me. "What? I thought you said it was an accident. That she wasn't murdered."

  "That's what I thought, but seems they have different information now." I was shaking, but I didn't want her to see it. "Can you call Mason Maxwell for me? Please."

  She nodded and took my hand. "It's going to be okay, Maggie. I know you didn't do this."

  "Thanks."

  Matt was waiting for me next to Fancy's cubby. I could see Officer Clark outside.

  "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah. Ben doesn't appreciate that you should give people the benefit of the doubt."

  He waited as I leashed up Fancy. Greta joined us, nodding to Matt. He looked like he wanted to turn her away, but instead he stepped back and let us have a quick moment to talk.

  "I know you, Maggie. You are not a killer."

  "Thanks, Greta. I appreciate that." Although to be honest, I figured Jamie's assessment that most people were capable of murder in the right circumstances was probably the more accurate one, especially where I was concerned. I mean, I had actually wished for Janice Fletcher's death after all.

  "I know a man. He will investigate. He will find the real killer for you."

  "Oh, you don't have to do that. I'm sure…" I shook myself. It's so easy to not ask for help even when it's offered, but this time around I really needed any help I could get. "Actually, Greta, I'd really appreciate any help you can give me. Thank you."

  She nodded and stepped back as Matt stepped forward. "Let me have your keys."

  "What? Why?"

  "Because you're still under arrest. I can't just let you drive away in your van. So I'm going to drive you and Fancy home, make sure she's dropped off with your grandpa, and then you and I will walk over to the station. And to make sure you don't overpower me and take off, Ben will follow behind us."

  I laughed. "Like I could overpower you."

  "Eh. It might be easier than you think. Come on. Don't want to keep Officer Clark waiting. No telling what he might do."

  I leashed up Fancy and we walked towards the door. "You're not going to get in trouble for this, are you?"

  "If I do, I do. It's the right thing to do."

  I wanted to say more, but then we were outside and the sun was glaring down upon us and Officer Clark was watching us with his hand upon his gun.

  I'd never been more scared in my life, but at that point there was only one thing to do. Take the next step and hope it all worked out somehow. At least I knew I was innocent.

  As Matt drove my van with Officer Clark trailing along behind us it was clear he didn't want to talk. But I did.

  "Matt, you have to know I didn't do this."

  He didn't answer, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white.

  "If Janice Fletcher really was killed, then someone else had to have been there between the first time I arrived and the second. Did you print the place?"

  He glared at me for a second before turning his attention back to the road. "We aren't country bumpkins, Maggie. We know how to do our job."

  "I wasn't saying you were. But did you print the cat food cans? Or the plate that was used to feed them?"

  "Why would we do that?"

  "Because maybe Janice Fletcher died before she could feed those cats. If that's the case, the killer did it instead."

  "Why? Why would someone who'd just killed a woman stop long enough to feed her cats?"

  "Because they were annoying. The killer might've done it to get the cats to leave them alone. I would've."

  I stared out the window as we passed by a lush green field with a worn red barn in the distance. "Did I tell you about the green car? Or the jogger?"

  "No. And don't tell me about them now. We'll have to interrogate you again now that you're officially under arrest for the murder."

  "You know Mason Maxwell isn't going to let me tell you a thing now."

  He banged his hand on the steering wheel. "Why did you have to leave after you found the body, Maggie? Why couldn't you have just called it in?"

  "Like that would've helped. You would've just arrested me for murder then instead of now."

  "No. I wouldn't have."

  "Come on, Matt. Janice Fletcher and I were in the middle of a feud and I just conveniently happen to drop by her house and find her dead body? How could you not suspect me of murder?"

  "Maggie, if you didn't do this…"

  "I didn't."

  "If you didn't do this, I don't know how to prove it."

  I sank into the seat and crossed my arms. He was right. I'd assumed the autopsy would clear me. That they'd see that she'd tripped and fallen down the stairs and that would be the end of it. But if the autopsy showed murder…

  "What did the autopsy show?" I asked. "Why are you so certain she didn't trip and fall down the stairs?"

  "I shouldn't tell you that."

  "Please. Give me some sort of chance here."

  He drove in silence for a long time. It felt like an eternity, but I knew I had to let him come to this on his own.

  "Preliminary finding is that she didn't die from falling down the stairs. There was a blow to the side of her head consistent with a cast iron frying pan we found in the kitchen."

  "I never set foot in that kitchen. Well, not until after she was dead. I certainly never touched that frying pan."

  "According to the fingerprint analysis, no one ever has."

  "It was in the sink the second time I was there. Wet." I shivered, suddenly realizing something that hadn't occurred to me before since I'd thought she'd just tripped and fell. "Matt…Whoever the real killer is…They could've been there when I was."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What if they were still cleaning up when I was there? I heard crashing from the kitchen when I first walked in. What if that was the killer, setting down the frying pan? And when I looked down the stairs, I heard a noise down there, too. I just figured it was a cat. But what if it wasn't? There was that creaking sound on the steps I'd heard earlier. I thought it was a cat, but maybe…"

  I shivered, wondering if the whole time I'd been walking through Janice's house looking for her there'd been some killer hiding out trying to decide whether to bash my brains in, too.

  "This killer is calculated," I said.

  "How so?"

  "I came back and they didn't immediately attack me. Nor did th
ey run out the front door. They waited to see what I'd do. I bet if I had called the cops that they would've either run or attacked me and then run. Because otherwise they would've been stuck in that house and caught. It would've ruined their plan with making it look like an accident, but they would've had no choice."

  Matt pulled up in front of my grandpa's house. "Maybe."

  "Promise me you'll at least consider the possibility that someone else did this?"

  He shook his head. "What do you think I've been doing ever since I heard the autopsy results, Maggie? Come on. Ben's not going to wait forever."

  I'd hated the fact that Matt hadn't dragged Lucas Dean into the police station in cuffs over the whole Jack Dunner affair, but I was very grateful as we walked up to the house that he was such a decent, caring human being.

  "Okay. Come on, Fancy. Let's get you settled."

  She followed me out of the van, clearly confused as to what was going on. That's the hard part about having a dog—there are just some things you can't explain to them and some things they can't explain to you.

  I dropped Fancy and my purse off inside, gave my grandpa the two-second explanation of what was going on, and turned to leave. But the look in Fancy's eyes as I closed the door followed me all the way to the police station. More than anything, I hoped things would work out so that I could return to her. She, unlike everyone else in my life, really truly needed me.

  Chapter Twenty

  What followed after I arrived at the police station was five excruciating hours of interrogation. Not from Matt, at least. It was Officer Clark who stood and paced and yelled at me and demanded that I confess that I'd killed Janice Fletcher. That I'd become enraged and hit her in the head with a frying pan and then shoved her down a flight of stairs to try to cover up what I'd done.

  He smacked the table. He got in my face. He shouted until his face turned purple and spit went flying from his mouth. But there was nothing to confess to. I hadn't killed her. So as painful as those five hours were, there wasn't much to be said.

  Mason Maxwell sat at my side the entire time, repeatedly telling him that I'd been instructed not to answer his questions. If it hadn't been for Mason Maxwell, I would've said who knows what just to make it end. I would've never confessed, but there were a few times I wanted to shout back at Officer Clark that yes, I absolutely was glad that Janice Fletcher was dead. That I didn't like someone who would try to destroy my business, which she had clearly indicated she was going to do, and that even though I hadn't done it I was glad someone had.

  I didn't know where Matt was that whole time. I wondered if he was sitting in some room somewhere watching the interrogation on a video feed like they do in The Closer, but there was no way to know.

  At times I hated him for not being there to protect me, but I knew he'd made the best choice he could. Because he would've been just as hard on me. He would've had to be. It was his job and he was the kind of man to do his job well.

  Finally, Mason Maxwell stood up. "Enough. You've held my client in this room for five hours without food. She has rights."

  Officer Clark looked like he was going to refuse to let me eat anything, but finally he nodded. "Fine. I'll bring her lunch."

  He left the two of us alone. I glanced at Mason Maxwell and he pointed to the little light on the table that indicated they were still recording us. Wasn't Officer Clark oh so clever?

  "Thank you," I said. "For sitting through this. I appreciate it."

  "You are my client."

  "I know. But…I still appreciate it. I…You're a better man than I gave you credit for."

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything else.

  As the silence stretched on between us, I asked, "Do you think they'll let me out of here now that they've asked their questions?"

  "No. I think you're going to be here at least overnight while they decide whether or not to charge you."

  I sat back. Lovely. Just what I wanted was some night in the local lock-up for a crime I hadn't committed.

  "Can you check with Greta? Remember, the woman from the barkery? She said she was going to reach out to an investigator she knows. Maybe he'll have come up with something while we were sitting here. And let her know about the green car I saw. And the jogger. Maybe one of those will turn out to be the killer, although…" I shook my head. "I have to think the killer was in the house when I was there the first time. It's too short a time period."

  Mason Maxwell pointed to the light again.

  "I know. But I'm not telling you anything I wouldn't tell them."

  "You and your grandfather. Cut from the same cloth."

  "Only in the best ways." I tried to smile, but I was so tired by then. Five hours of some sweaty angry man shouting at you is not exactly my idea of a fun way to spend an afternoon.

  Officer Clark returned with a pair of handcuffs. "Mr. Maxwell, you can leave. We'll take the inmate to her cell now. Don't worry. She'll get food." He walked over to me. "Stand and put your hands behind your back."

  I could've made some snide remark about him finally getting his chance to handcuff me and how that must make him feel like a real big man, but I didn't. I just stood and put my hands behind my back.

  I could smell the stink of him—he was one of those men who get sour as the day goes on—as he stepped close and placed the cuffs on my hands. His ragged breath moistened my ear and I shuddered. He really needed to hit the gym every once in a while if he was going to work himself up that way during an interrogation.

  The metal of the cuffs against my skin made me finally realize just how serious this all was. I knew I hadn't killed Janice Fletcher, but at that moment I knew it was going to be almost impossible to prove it. I had a motive. I'd been there both right before and right after. I hadn't reported her death until the cops came for me. I mean, if I were on a jury and someone presented me with that case, I'd probably convict.

  And I was so not going to do well in prison. You might think that for a woman it would be better than for a man, but I was pretty sure that little ol' me, who'd never even been in a physical fight but wasn't exactly the type to cower in the face of conflict, wasn't going to do so well. I'd probably be beat up my first week there.

  I wondered if they allowed you books in solitary. If so maybe I could just ask to be put in solitary and spend the next decade reading. Put like that it didn't sound so horrible. But I bet they wouldn't let me choose my reading material. I'd probably be stuck with religious pamphlets and books devoid of any sort of nuance or moral ambiguity because some high and mighty morality police somewhere had decided it wasn't good to "incite the convicts".

  Ugh.

  Which would I choose? Reading horrible awful stories with a message I didn't want to hear? Or not reading for the next ten to twenty years? And what about music? Would they let me listen to music? How was I going to live without music?

  Mason Maxwell gripped my shoulders. "Hold it together, Ms. Carver."

  "Please, call me Maggie. After sitting here with me for all that time, we've gotta be on a first-name basis. Or at least, you can certainly use my first name."

  "And you can use mine, Maggie." He leaned closer and held my gaze. "Do not talk to anyone without me present. Anyone. I will get you released tomorrow. Until then, behave and stay silent."

  "Yes, sir."

  Officer Clark steered me down the hall to an area with six narrow cells, three on each side. He stopped at the second cell on the left. There was a toilet in the very middle of the far wall, a small sink on the wall to my right, and a large sleeping shelf on the wall to my left that was a little less than chest-high. A four-inch-thick piece of padded material was folded up on the bunk with two folded sheets on top. Must be what qualified as a mattress and sheets in these parts. Joy.

  I glanced across the way to the cell opposite mine. A woman I didn't know was leaning against the back wall, glaring at me, her muscular arms crossed. Some other woman was asleep on one of those mats, this one on the floor und
er the bunk. That explained why the shelf for the main bed was so high. It was the upper bunk.

  As Officer Clark pulled the metal gate closed behind me, I tried to see the positive. At least I didn't have a cell mate.

  Yet.

  But at some point I was going to have to pee and I didn't see how that was going to be possible without that woman watching me. Honestly, the mere thought of having to pee with an audience made me need to pee, which just made it all that much worse. Have you ever needed to pee and not been able to and then all of a sudden that's all you can think about? That was me.

  I swear, in that moment if Janice Fletcher hadn't already been dead, I would've happily taken her out for putting me through that.

  I tried to figure out where to go to make myself comfortable, but it's not like the cell was set-up with a desk and chair. I had the sleeping shelf, the floor, or I could lean against the wall and stare back at the scary lady. Knowing my luck I'd end with her as my cellie for my entire prison term and I most definitely did not want to do anything to provoke her. So the shelf it was.

  I made up my bed—if you could call it that—and settled in. To think that some people spend decades living like that. To think that my grandpa had. The few comments he'd made about prison had not been good. How had he made it through and turned out such a decent human being after?

  (I know. I wasn't even seeing the worst of prison life. I was in my little small town jail holding cell where I knew at least one friendly officer. Ridiculous of me, wasn't it? But when you've never even come close to anything like it, it's a shock to the system. And not a good one.)

  Officer Clark brought back a tray and shoved it through the bottom of the barred gate. The "food" was edible, but barely. Think gas-station convenience food. You know, those stale, tasteless cheese sandwiches that come in those little plastic containers and could probably last through a nuclear winter? Ever had one of those? It was like that. Except I couldn't actually tell you what any of it was, just that there was no taste to it and nothing to season it with.