by Ellen Riggs
Miss Bingham raised a hand that was gnarled with age but glittering with pretty rings. “Portia. Dear, please. I’ve known Ivy Galloway since she was a child and she’s always been an animal lover, just like you.”
“Just like me?” Portia’s words popped out with the indignant tone of Percy’s commentary earlier. “I am a trained and certified cat care provider. If I treated animals like this, I’d have no business at all.”
“Oh, you’re The Cat Lady,” I said. “I’ve heard about you.”
Daisy jumped in. “Portia Parson has run a pet-sitting service in Clover Grove for years.”
“A cat-sitting service,” Portia corrected. “And for decades.”
Miss Bingham’s bejewelled hand clutched Portia’s arm in the same way Daisy still held mine. They were both trying to contain a firefight.
“Portia’s been a godsend to me,” the old woman said. “I used to travel often and I always knew my pets were pampered. All cats adore her.”
“Isn’t that wonderful, Ivy?” Daisy said. “It sounds like you and Portia have a lot in common.”
Before I could speak, Portia jumped in. “We have nothing in common. Ivy’s animals are in constant peril from miscreants and murderers.” She stared up at Percy who stared back, still puffed. Perhaps she’d met the one cat who didn’t adore her. “I’ve been after the County to intervene. I’m starting a petition.”
“A petition! How dare you!”
Two voices overlapped with mine. Throw in Keats’ shrill yip, and it was loud enough to silence a crowded room.
One of the speakers continued before I could. “Portia Parson, you have some nerve coming into my establishment and insulting my daughter.” Mom’s glare threw off enough sparks to rival Portia’s. “Ivy’s risked her life for these animals again and again.”
“That’s exactly my point. There shouldn’t be any risk to animals at Runaway Farm,” Portia persisted. “Yet it’s all front-page news over there. I’m no fan of dogs, but this one shouldn’t need to throw himself in harm’s way to protect you, Ivy Galloway. You don’t deserve a dog like him.”
Suddenly I felt small. Minuscule. Ashamed. Keats rubbed against my leg and moaned.
“Portia Parson, you have crossed the line,” Mom said. “Take your fright wig and go. Don’t ever cross Bloomers’ doorstep again, or so help me, I’ll—”
“Mom!” This time Daisy’s voice and mine overlapped. I pulled my arm from my sister’s grasp and continued. “Don’t let The Cat Lady ruin your big night on my account. She’s only saying what lots of people in Clover Grove think.”
“Darn right,” Portia muttered.
“Portia, enough,” Miss Bingham said. “You’ve said your piece and while I think the world of you, I believe you’re wrong about Ivy.”
Portia tossed her wild hair and shrugged. “We’ll let the petition decide. If I get enough signatures, the County will need to evacuate your farm.”
Asher—tall, fair, blue-eyed and the literal golden boy of the family—responded to Jilly’s frenzied beckoning in time to hear Portia’s threat.
Since I couldn’t form the words, Jilly did it for me. “Can the County do that, Asher?”
My brother’s nearly perpetual smile flashed off and he straightened in his uniform. He’d had to snatch an hour while on duty, and Kellan had texted to say he couldn’t come at all.
“They’d have a heck of a time getting support for a move like that with so many vocal homesteaders who keep livestock,” Asher said. “There’s enough going on around here without pestering a hobby farmer whose inn contributes to the economy.”
“Too bad about the online smear campaign someone’s starting about the inn,” Portia said, with a smug smile. “Not me, of course. The only thing Ivy’s contributed to Clover Grove is gossip.”
Now my brother moved forward, pressing Portia back with his height and presence. Although his colleagues called him the golden retriever of cops, he still knew how to throw his weight around when his family was under attack.
“Miss Parson, if you don’t like the company, perhaps it’s time to move along,” he said.
“I’m not leaving until that cat is safe,” she said, glancing up.
Percy was nowhere to be seen now. Having had his second big show of the evening, he’d retreated to plan his next event.
“I’ll make sure the cat gets home safely,” Asher said. “You have my assurance. Would you like a ride home? I’d be happy to take you, but I do have the squad car.”
Portia’s frizz seemed to collapse. “No thank you, officer. If I’m not welcome here, I’ll make my own way.”
“Of course you’re welcome here,” Iris said, stepping out from behind Asher. “Don’t be silly, Portia. In fact, I’d love to have you back for a complimentary haircut and spa treatment.”
“I don’t need a haircut,” Portia said.
“Everyone needs a haircut,” Iris said. “It freshens your outlook like nothing else. Plus I have a miracle conditioner that’ll make your hair glitter like a Christmas angel’s. Just give me a try.”
Jilly swept her golden hair over one shoulder to show it off for Portia. “I’m living proof of that. I don’t know how Iris does it.”
Mom straightened her shoulders. “I take—”
“Great pleasure in showing you how hospitable Bloomers can be,” Iris interrupted smoothly.
My eyes widened as Iris guided Portia to the front desk and wrote something on a business card.
“Iris will do well for herself,” Miss Bingham said. “I’ll send all my friends here. They drifted away because of the previous owner’s difficult clientele.”
Mom’s hackles dropped instantly. “Thank you, Miss Bingham. Word of mouth like that is pure gold.”
There was a sudden streak of orange as Percy leapt and landed lightly on the old woman’s lap. Her gasp turned into a chuckle as he turned several times and settled. “Oh, he’s purring,” she said, as her gleaming rings ran over his sleek side. “What a delightful ginger gentleman.” Looking up at me, she added, “Ivy, I can see your animals are gloriously happy and well cared for. Don’t you worry about Portia one bit. I can handle her.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Because word of mouth like a petition is pure coal.”
“Out of coal comes diamonds,” Miss Bingham said, lifting a hand from Percy to flash a few sparkling carats. “You’re being tested and you will prevail.”
Keats moved in so that Miss Bingham could run some jewels over his head.
“Keats, leave it,” I said, worried the furry enemies would pull a stunt on the stage of Miss Bingham’s lap.
“Never mind,” the old lady said. “That’s why God gave me two hands.”
Michael Bingham tapped her shoulder. “Are you ready to leave, Aunt Hazel?”
“Yes, but you and Caroline stay and have fun,” she said. “Parties are few and far between in Clover Grove.” Then she looked up at my brother. “I’ll take that ride, young man. Turn on the siren and let’s give everyone at the seniors’ home a thrill when we arrive.”
Chapter Four
The next afternoon was gorgeous when Kellan Harper and I set off for a walk. Fall weather like this was a trick that hill country visitors might fall for: balmy and brilliantly colorful, with the barest hint of a breeze that carried the scent of moss and anything else that hadn’t put up closed signs for the season. As someone born and bred in Clover Grove, I knew this was just the last kiss before the punch of winter. Hometown kids learned to wring the most from the days before the parkas came out.
Kellan knew this well, too, which was probably why his expression flipped from cheerful to pensive and back. Winters were no joke in these parts and made police work even harder.
There was no staying pensive for long when Keats was on the case, however. The dog was racing from bush to boulder to thicket, crouching and darting, and then repeating the maneuver. I shook my head as he blatantly stalked Kellan, rounding him up as if he were a flee
cy sheep instead of the chief of police.
I’d expected the dog’s mission to drive our little herd of two together to end when Kellan and I started dating regularly. Instead, it escalated, as if to say, “Get on with this, already.” I suppose when sheepdogs brought livestock together nature took its course quickly. Humans with a history like ours took a little longer to get over old wounds.
Unlike Keats, I was quite happy with the pace of the relationship. Kellan and I had been high school sweethearts, hit the rocks as college freshmen, and only recently started seeing each other after more than a decade. Further, we’d clashed often in the months since I’d been home because he thought I was interfering in his investigations of the three murders that had taken place on or around the farm.
He wasn’t wrong. Although I disagreed with his assertion that I was utterly reckless, I’d definitely stuck my nose in where it didn’t legally belong. Who could blame me when my farm, livestock and reputation were on the line? Besides, what Kellan didn’t like to acknowledge was that when Keats stuck his long nose into these investigations, the dog not only turned up clues the police hadn’t, he also helped to take down the perpetrator in each case.
Even so, I wouldn’t have blamed Kellan for wanting to leave our old romance buried as deep as the murder victims. Instead, here he was, helping me check on a feral cat colony. All it had taken was one text and he was at the farm in under an hour. In uniform, no less.
“I’m glad you asked for backup instead of running off half-cocked to investigate on your own,” he said, apparently oblivious to his black-and-white stalker. “It’s good to see some caution emerging.”
The smirk on his face might have been annoying if he weren’t so darned handsome. Chief Harper—better known by Jilly as “Chief Hottie”—was a far cry from Kellan the high school boy-next-door. There were moments where I felt like I was batting out of my league, but I wouldn’t let that stop me. Keats seemed to think Chief Hottie was getting a decent deal and the dog had great instincts. If he thought Kellan and I should herd up, who was I to argue?
“I’m not scared of going over to feed Edna’s cats,” I said. “Jilly offered to come and of course Keats has me covered.”
“No?” He looked a little disappointed. Maybe he wanted to be my hero instead of Keats.
“I wouldn’t ask the chief of police to join me to feed a feral cat colony. He has more important matters to deal with.” I grinned as Keats crept up, stiff-legged and belly low. “I was asking Kellan Harper, regular citizen.”
His serious dark blue eyes lit up and he grinned, too. “You mean you were asking your boyfriend.”
My face promptly burst into flames, or so it felt. My comment had been far clumsier than Keats’ elegant attack.
“Something like that,” I muttered, glad of an excuse to watch the dog versus meeting Kellan’s eyes. “I wouldn’t presume.”
We’d only had a few dates and a few truly great kisses. I thought it would take far more than that to gain girlfriend status given all the barriers in our path. Kellan didn’t share my natural affection for animals, for starters, and he certainly didn’t care for farms. He was fastidious about his appearance and orderly in his behavior. Meanwhile, I was most comfortable in overalls and my life at Runaway Farm was about as far from orderly as it got. The way rescue animals kept appearing, it would only get worse.
“You can presume,” Kellan said, coming closer without realizing that the move wasn’t of his own free will. At least not entirely. “I’m sorry I got to the party too late to back you last night. There was a break-in at the hunting supply store, and a couple of rifles are missing.”
“No worries,” I said, glad of the distraction. “I hope no one gets hurt.”
Finally, Keats made his final lunge from behind. In the same moment, there was a flash of orange on the path before us. The canine missile shot between us and collided at our feet with a puff of marmalade fur and a cacophonous blend of growling, snarling, hissing and spitting. Kellan raised his arms, either to steady me or find his own balance, and I did the same. One more thrash of fur sent us reeling into each other’s arms.
My forehead hit Kellan’s nose with a crunch that sounded painful. His muffled yelp confirmed it.
“Sorry, sorry,” I blurted.
I tried to pull away but he didn’t let me. Instead he put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a dazed look. “What just happened?”
“Sneak attack,” I said. “Front and rear.”
Percy released himself from the clinch and took off with Keats in pursuit.
“They’re working in tandem now?” Kellan touched his nose and winced. “I don’t stand a chance.”
“Of course you do.” I hoped he didn’t mean “stand a chance” with me. “You’re the youngest chief of police in the County and beyond. What border collie can make that claim?”
“I might be slightly smarter than the dog, but combined with the cat, I’m not sure.”
Leaving his arm around my shoulder, he turned me forward and we started walking again.
“I don’t think Percy’s on the same scale,” I said. “Although he has a mysterious agenda, like all cats.”
There was high-pitched barking ahead as Keats vented his frustration. I knew from experience that Percy had jumped out of reach to taunt the dog from high places. Keats hadn’t yet learned that his best strategy was to walk away and Percy would follow. The cat had flustered my brilliant dog in a way cold-blooded killers could not.
Kellan touched his nose and sighed again. “I suppose this is a ‘love me, love my cat’ situation?”
My face flushed again at the word “love.” It was just an expression. There was no way he felt that way… yet. Someday I hoped he would. For now, I’d keep things light.
“And my alpaca,” I said. “Plus my llamas, donkeys, cows, sheep, chickens, horse and goats.”
“Thank you,” he said, grinning.
“For what?”
“For leaving out the pig. There is no way I am warming to that sow. She’d take me down without even noticing.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said. “She’d definitely notice. And she’d like it.”
“Lovely.” His arm tightened around my shoulders. “What’s our mission today, anyway? Your text was deliberately vague.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come out for a missing cats report.”
“Missing cats? How can you tell when there’s over forty of them?”
“That’s the thing: there’s probably only twenty now. The tamest ones seem to have vanished since Edna left.”
“They probably went back to the swamp. That’s their home, right?”
I shook my head. “Edna’s their home. Her food station is their home. The insulated shelters she installed are their home. They wouldn’t just leave each other. Colony means they stay together.”
We turned from the main path into a smaller one that led to Edna’s. The interconnected series of trails that ran between all the houses in the area were rough and best navigated by ATVs. At least I assumed so, since my rides in a golf cart were jarring enough to cause whiplash.
Kellan’s head swivelled constantly now, aware that he might be ambushed at any second. “Well, what’s your theory, Sherlock? Mine is that your Dorset Hills rescue brigade has been pilfering felines.”
“There’s a plan in place to rehome most of the cats, and Edna agreed to it. But she wanted to be home to interview prospective owners. That’s reasonable.”
“But the pet brigade doesn’t seem reasonable. After all, they call themselves the Rescue Mafia.”
“They didn’t choose that name themselves,” I said. “And they’d tell me if they were deploying early.”
“You’re sure about that?”
His arm dropped as we circled Edna’s house and an instant chill seeped into my bones. Kellan’s job was all about law and order. The very existence of a Rescue Mafia was an insult to who he was.
“I’m sure. Something els
e is happening and I hoped you’d use your investigative skills to help me figure it out before any more cats go missing.” I stopped walking as a terrible thought struck me. “What if someone’s poisoning them?”
“More likely a predator,” Kellan said. “There’d be evidence of poison, including remains.”
“Wouldn’t that be true of a predator, too?” Shivering, I crossed my arms. “It was a mistake to bring Keats over here.”
“What about Percy? Doesn’t he count?” Kellan smirked again before bending over to brush orange fur from his uniformed pant legs. No matter what he was wearing he ended up covered in more fur than I did. It was like the pets knew how much he hated it and did a full day’s shedding all at once.
“Percy brought himself over. He was shut in the house when I left.”
I called for the dog and cat and they both joined us at the feeding station Edna had built with her own hands before she left. For an octogenarian and former nurse, she had impressive carpentry skills. It was like a garage without walls, surrounded by fencing with small cat doors. Half a dozen insulated boxes offered all-season accommodation should it be needed.
“Hey,” I said, as we unlatched the gate and walked into the enclosure. “Something’s changed.”
Pulling out my phone, I examined the photo I’d taken the day before to record the exact positioning of bowls. I’d suspected things had been moving around in ways cats couldn’t really manage. The change was too precise for predators. It was as if someone just preferred a different setup. The kibble looked different, too.
The dog and cat initially followed us inside and then turned back. Keats’ ruff came up first but Percy’s wasn’t far behind. Suddenly they both bolted into the bush, where we heard sticks breaking and then an odd clattering sound.
“If that’s a fox, it’s a big one,” I said. “Or a bear.”
“Human,” Kellan said. “Stay here while I go check things out.”
I looked down at the metal bowl in my hand and said. “No need. I know exactly what’s happening.”
He looked over my shoulder as I pinched finger and thumb together to pull two long strands of hair out of the bowl: wiry gray corkscrews.
