The Cat, the Sneak and the Secret

by Leann Sweeney

  “Ode to Joy,” one of my all-time-favorite classical pieces, swelled from the organ located in the small space above the sanctuary. Candace gave me my flowers and she and Kara started down the aisle side by side. Karen, Ed and I followed. I held the bouquet tightly with two hands as Ed and Karen each linked their arms with mine.

  The butterflies disappeared the minute I locked eyes with Tom. His smile was all I could see, was all I needed. When I walked up the steps to the altar and gave my bouquet to Kara, he faced me. I caught a glimpse of Finn at his side, grinning from ear to ear. He was indeed Tom’s best man in every way.

  Our fingers intertwined and I was so lost in the moment that Pastor Mitch’s words seemed to float above me like tiny, shimmering stars. The actual exchange of vows couldn’t have taken more than ten minutes.

  When Tom was told to “kiss the bride” and our lips met, I felt as if I’d truly found everything I would ever need. Tom and I were home.

  We faced our friends to a burst of applause, but the people gathered here were still a blur through my misty eyes. I couldn’t wait to get to Kara’s house and spend time with each and every one of them.

  But Kara took her job as photographer seriously. While the guests made their way to her house, she took so many pictures inside the church and out that I thought the smile on my face might freeze and become permanent.

  Tom finally led me to his car and we took off for the party we’d been waiting for.

  “Did that just happen?” I said.

  “It’s a thing now, as Finn would say. A forever thing. And by the way, I whispered to you at the altar that you looked gorgeous, but I got the feeling you weren’t exactly taking in everything that happened. So I must repeat, you look amazing, wife of mine.” He slowed and pulled over to the side of the road.

  “What are you doing, Tom?”

  “I’d like a moment with just you and me.”

  We spent more than a moment holding each other, telling each other how much love we shared and then quietly staring into each other’s eyes. And then we were back on our way again to the party. Party rather than reception, I decided. This day so far had been formal enough.

  Kara had outdone herself and I was finally able to properly greet all the people who’d made it to the wedding. Hugs and laughter and joyful chatter followed. So many people from my last few years in Mercy joined us today. They included Ritaestelle Longworth, whose cat, Isis, had stolen my heart. Dustin Gray, a structural engineer who had helped Candace with a case involving the old mill, made the trip from Greenville. I knew he was smitten with Candace back then and I could tell nothing had changed. He only had eyes for her today and they were engaged in conversation near the hallway to the bedrooms where all the cats and Yoshi had been sequestered until the guests left. All of our many cats and a dog would become too exuberant and ruin the celebration for others—but never for me. I couldn’t wait to set them all free.

  Belle gave me the biggest hug by far. She wore a lovely pink dress and was wearing her glasses, so her neon pink lipstick was perfectly applied today.

  Tom and I talked with every single friend—B.J., Lois, Morris, as well as Shawn and Allison. I’d seen so little of Shawn’s wife since she started vet school, but she told us she was almost finished. Billy Cranor and a few other Mercy firemen, as well as Marcy and Jake, the best paramedics in the world, congratulated us. Of course Pastor Mitch and Elizabeth joined us, too. Resting her bones on the sofa was a new and dear friend, Birdie Roberts, whose son was now owned by the last cat I’d fostered—a ginger tabby with loads of personality. Birdie wore her “church clothes,” a pretty rose-colored dress and a hat with netting that covered her eyes. She reminded me of Queen Elizabeth—even down to her “sensible” shoes. Ed and Karen sat with her and when Tom and I drifted away toward the food, they continued the conversation we’d probably interrupted. One person who had complied with her noninvitation? Lydia Monk. But maybe she’d show up and surprise us—but I surely hoped not.

  Kara and Liam played the perfect host and hostess, carrying hors d’oeuvres on silver platters and refilling champagne glasses. There were toasts galore, and kindness, respect and love filled the room with more warmth than Kara’s fireplace provided for a cold but sunny day. I noticed at some point that Finn was nowhere to be seen and I assumed he’d gone to keep our fur friends company.

  But when he showed up with Lindsey and Seth in tow, I had to smile. Lindsey had told me this morning she would feel awkward at the wedding, even though I asked her to join us. She said she needed time to talk to Seth about all that had transpired. He deserved to hear a more in-depth truth from her, not the version Rebecca would tell him.

  We’d decided on cupcakes rather than a big fancy cake, and as people began to leave, I noticed they carried their wedding favor wineglass in one hand and a cupcake in the other. Soon only a few of us remained, but I was glad that group included Seth and Lindsey. Candace, Kara and I changed out of our wedding clothes and into jeans and sweaters. I was certain Tom was dying to get out of his suit pants and dress shirt and into something more comfortable, too. The tie and jacket had been discarded the minute the picture taking was over.

  Once everyone was settled in the living room to relax, I said, “Anyone object to cats and a dog joining the party now?”

  Of course no one did. Ed and Karen had dropped off Dashiell before the ceremony, so with my three, Magpie, Pulitzer and Prize, that meant seven cats. Yoshi knew he was outnumbered and stuck close to Finn, who took a spot on the floor with a can of Dr Pepper in hand.

  Cat races commenced, but no one seemed to mind. Seth loved watching them, but a pensive Lindsey concerned me.

  She was sitting on the floor next to Finn, and I settled next to her. “You look worried. Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t want to trouble you. This is a big day and you don’t need to be thinking about me.”

  “It is a big day, but it’s one about friends and family. You’ve become one of my friends, so tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I don’t think this is the time to burden you with any more of my problems. You’ve handled so much. You and Finn have been so kind and generous. Enjoy your day with your new husband. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’d enjoy this day a lot more if all my guests were happy—and you’re upset. You know you can tell me, right?”

  She nodded but said nothing.

  I took her hand. “Come on, Lindsey. Spill whatever is bothering you.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?” she said with a laugh.

  “Glad you finally understand that about me. Come on. The straight scoop. Right now.”

  She took a deep breath. “Okay. See, my dad left a lot of money to Amelia, and now my mother is trying to get all chummy with Lucy—even saying she can probably have the big house that Zoe, Toby and Owen lived in. I can’t let my mother control and ruin another child. She’s my sister and I want to protect her from that.”

  “You know, I spent a little time with Lucy. My guess is she’d like to return to Charleston. You might want to encourage her to take the money and run. Get as far away from Rebecca as possible.”

  Lindsey’s relief was almost palpable. “Thank goodness you said that. It’s a great idea. And I should be getting out of your hair, too. I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

  “No way. You stay as long as you want. Maybe you and your mother will never work things out, but time apart might be a good thing for a while. Besides, you can help with what’s become a taxi service until Finn saves enough money for a car. We told him we’d foot the bill for the university, but he’d have to buy his own wheels.”

  She smiled. “Sorry. I may have stepped on your parental toes a little. I lent him money to buy a truck. Seems Daddy left me a bundle, too, and Finn’s been such a friend to me when I felt as if I had no one—before you and Tom, that is.”

  “Don’t forget Se
th. He loves you a lot.”

  “I could never forget Seth. Thank goodness he’ll be leaving for school soon. He needs distance, too.”

  Magpie, who’d been in a furious game of chase with Syrah, Pultizer and Prize, stopped dead in front of Lindsey. She crawled into her lap and put her paws on Lindsey’s chest so she could see her up close. Apparently satisfied, she dropped one of Kara’s earrings in her lap and sped off again.

  That little sneak, I thought.

  • • •

  We arrived home late after spending hours talking and joking and watching cats and a confused dog as our entertainment. Finn, Lindsey and Seth left before we did and offered to bring the animals back to my house. That didn’t mean the whole crew didn’t beg for treats the minute Tom and I came in through the back door. Even Dashiell was eager, though his special diet didn’t include anything with too many carbs because of his diabetes. Tom had treats for him that were pure protein, but we did have to separate him from the others so he wouldn’t sneak a little kitty junk food on the side. Try explaining diabetes to a cat. It doesn’t work.

  Other than the pets, the house was quiet and as soon as Tom took Yoshi out for one last potty break, the dog raced down to the basement to be with Finn.

  I’d left my dress with Kara and she said she’d box it up carefully and bring it to me next week. I was grateful for how easy she’d made this wedding for me and told her so with big hugs and a kiss. Everything had been absolutely perfect.

  Tom spread his arms. “Our home. I can’t believe we finally made this happen. Come here, wife.”

  “Sure, husband.”

  We kissed and as we made our way down the hall toward our bedroom, the kitties trailing behind, I said, “Have you ever slept with five cats?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good. Neither have I. But if I’m in your arms, I can handle anything.”

  Read on for a look at the first book in Leann Sweeney’s Cats in Trouble Series,

  The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

  Available from Obsidian.

  My cat is allergic to people—yes, odd, I know—so when I came in the back door and heard Chablis sneeze, I stopped dead. Why was she sneezing? This couldn’t be a reaction to me. I use special shampoo, take precautions. Chablis and I are cool.

  Besides, she hadn’t been near any humans for more than twenty-four hours, since I was just arriving back from an overnight business trip to Spartanburg, a two-hour drive from my upstate South Carolina home. I’d left her and my two other cats, Merlot and Syrah, alone in the house, as I’d done many times before when I took short trips out of town. So how did human dander, better known as dandruff, find its way up her nose?

  I released my grip on the rolling suitcase and started for the living room, thinking there could be a simple explanation for a sneezing cat other than allergies. Like an illness.

  The thought of a sick Chablis pushed logic down to the hippocampus or wherever common sense goes when you have more important matters to attend to. I dropped my tote on the counter and hurried past the teak dining table. Since my kitchen, dining area and living room all blend together, the trip to where I’d heard Chablis sneeze wasn’t more than twenty feet. But before I’d taken five steps, I stopped again. Something else besides a sneezing cat now had my attention.

  Silence. No background noise. No Animal Planet playing on the television. I always leave the TV tuned to that station when I go away. If the cats were entertained by The Jeff Corwin Experience or Heroes or E-Vet, I’d convinced myself, my absences were more tolerable. Okay, I’m neurotic about my three friends. Not cat-lady neurotic. At forty-one I’m a little young for that. But cats have been my best friends for as long as I can remember, and the ones that live with me now have been amazing since my husband, John, died ten months ago. They take care of me. So I try my best to take care of them.

  Could the TV be off because of a power failure?

  Glancing back at the microwave, I saw that the clock showed the correct time—one p.m. Perhaps the high-def plasma TV blew up in a cloud of electronic smoke? Maybe. Didn’t matter, though. Not now. I’d only heard from Chablis, and none of my cats had shown their faces. I was getting a bad vibe—and I can usually rely on my intuition.

  “Chablis, I’m home,” I called. I kept walking, slowly now—didn’t want to panic them if I was overreacting—and went into the living area. “Syrah, where are you? Merlot, I missed you.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I found Chablis sitting on the olive chenille sofa, her blue eyes gazing up at me. Himalayans look like long-haired Siamese cats and Chablis was no different. Her gorgeous crystal blue eyes and her champagne fur were accented by deep brown feet, and she had a precious dark face and a fluffy wand of a tail.

  Her nose was running and she seemed awfully puffed out—even for an already puffy cat. Was she totally swollen up by an allergen other than dandruff?

  I knelt and stroked the side of her cheek with the back of my fingers, ran my hands over her body, looking for the mass of giant hives I was sure I’d find.

  Nothing. She was simply all bloated fur and loud purrs.

  “I am truly sorry for leaving you overnight. Are you telling me you have feline separation anxiety?”

  Chablis blinked slowly, opened her mouth and squeaked. How pitiful. She’d lost her voice. She had to be sick. With a virus? Or leukemia? Cats do get leukemia.

  Quit it, Jillian. Call the vet.

  When I stood to pull my phone from my jeans pocket, I heard Merlot’s deep, loud meow and saw him perched on the seat cushions that line the dining area’s bay window—a spot that provides a spectacular view of Mercy Lake. He knows the entire lake belongs to him, despite never having been closer than the window. But he hadn’t been sitting there when I first came in, and he wasn’t gazing out on the water. No, Merlot was looking right at me and his fur was all wild and big, too.

  Since he isn’t allergic to anything, dumb me finally realized that they were both scared.

  And then I saw why.

  Broken glass glittered near Merlot’s paws—paws that could each substitute for a Swiffer duster.

  My heart skipped. Broken glass . . . a broken window. “Merlot! Be careful.” Fear escaped with my words. I attempted to mask my distress by smiling as I walked over to him.

  Yeah, like Mr. Brainiac Cat would buy this fakery.

  I petted his broad orange-and-white tiger-striped head while making sure none of his paws was bleeding. He seemed fine other than that he reminded me more than ever of one of those huge, shaggy stuffed animals at a carnival.

  I hefted him off the cushions—he’s a Maine coon, a breed that weighs four times more than the smallest felines. Merlot stays lean, usually hovers around twenty pounds. I was hoping to keep him clear of the glass, but he was having none of that. He squirmed free and jumped right back on the window seat and proved himself amazingly nimble by staying away from any shards. While I examined the damaged window, he intently examined me as if to ask, “How will you rectify this now that you’re finally home, Miss Gadabout?”

  The jagged hole in the lowest pane was large enough for a hand to reach in and unlatch that window. And it was unlatched.

  “Someone’s broken in. Someone’s been in our house.” But stating the obvious couldn’t help them explain what had happened. Figuring this out was human territory. For a millisecond, I wondered if this—this intruder might still be here. I shook my head no. My cats are not fools. They’d be in the basement or under a bed if any danger still remained.

  And exactly where was Syrah? My Abyssinian hadn’t made an appearance yet. I supposed he could have been frightened enough to stay in hiding, but no. He was the alpha cat of my little pack.

  Okay, I decided. This break-in had upset him. That was why he wasn’t making an appearance. Either that or he was so angry I’d left him and his friends to be t
hreatened by a burglar that he was hiding to teach me a lesson.

  The thought of a thief frightening my cats produced anger and fear and the sincere wish that I’d had a human friend who could watch out for things just like this while I was away. Since my husband’s death, though, I’d been caught up in my own troubles and too proud to reach out to anyone. But making friends, getting to know my neighbors, might have prevented this whole episode.

  I inhaled deeply, let the air out slowly. You can change that, Jillian. But right now you need to find Syrah.

  That was what John would do if he were here. Hunt for the cat in a methodical, logical way. Solve this problem quickly. But I wasn’t John and my calm began to crack like crusted snow before an avalanche. Between the silent TV, the scared animals and the absent Syrah, fear now claimed top billing.

  “Where are you, baby?” I called, my voice tremulous. “Come here, Syrah.”

  I hurried toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms, Merlot on my heels. Poor Chablis would have been on his tail, but was stopped by a fit of sneezing. I began the search through all three thousand square feet of my house, the house that was supposed to be our dream home, the one John and I had designed ourselves.

  But this was no longer a dream come true. John, at fifty-five, had been far too young to die of a sudden and unexpected heart attack. Though I was coming to terms with his death, letting go day by day, thoughts of him always seemed to flood my brain when I was stressed. And a broken window and a missing cat were certainly enough to produce that state of mind.

  I rushed from room to room, but didn’t find Syrah hiding behind my armoires or beneath the dressers or under any beds. He wasn’t in the closets or the basement, either. I went outside and checked the trees and the roof for a third scared cat. After all, the intruder might have let him out when he made his escape. But leaves had been falling for weeks, and spotting Syrah’s rusty gold fur against the reds, browns and yellows of the oak, hickory and pecan trees in my yard would be difficult.