PAWSitively Sinister (A Klepto Cat Mystery Book 11)

by Patricia Fry

  Savannah turned toward Arthur, who immediately rose from his seat at the table.

  “Sure,” he said, hugging Rochelle briefly.

  “Can I come along?” Suzette asked. “I’ve never watched a psychic person work.”

  “Me, too,” Iris said, excitedly.

  Savannah looked to Rochelle for her response. She nodded, then glanced at Lily. “Not the baby. Keep the baby out here,” she said firmly.

  “I’ll entertain her,” Ruth said. “I do not want any part of that evil energy.”

  Rupert thinned his lips before saying, “I’ll stay out here with Ruth.”

  “Well, I’m not going in there,” Michael said. “What about you, Arthur… Craig… Peter?

  While the other two men shook their heads, Peter abstained. “I’d better keep an eye on Rochelle,” he explained. He appeared concerned. “Don’t want something… harming her.”

  Laura and Gail exchanged looks and both decided to stay put and enjoy a serving of dessert and coffee.

  Once the small group of Rochelle’s followers had gathered in the laundry room, she gave a few simple instructions. “I want you all to be quiet. Don’t say a word or make a sound. Stay outside the vortex area. I’ll show you where that is.”

  Everyone nodded. When they reached the door to the stairway, Rochelle turned and made brief eye contact with the other three women and Peter, then stepped through the doorway and down the stairs. She motioned for them to walk to the right, gesturing when it was okay for them to stop. She then moved toward the center of Ruth’s old room and stood silently with her eyes closed.

  The others watched as Rochelle began to sway slightly. Within a few minutes, she tilted her head as if she were listening for something. That’s when Savannah made quick eye contact with Suzette. They grinned at one another when they saw how mesmerized Iris seemed. Suddenly Savannah put her hand up to her mouth. Someone left that darn door open and here come the cats, she thought. The spectators, except for Iris, who seemed to be in a trance, watched as Rags walked straight to Rochelle and sat down.

  At the same time, Koko began marching around Rochelle in a small circle. She circled twice, then sat on the other side of her and stared in the same direction she and Rags faced. Savannah rolled her eyes at Suzette as the two of them watched Koko’s ears twitch and tweak in all directions. Suzette grimaced.

  After several seconds, without warning, Rags rose up on all fours. The fur on his back stood on end as he began to retreat, taking deliberate steps back, back, back, his head down and his eyes focused ahead toward the wall. Koko, in the meantime, sauntered up to Rags and sniffed him, jumping back as if she’d been struck by a bolt of electricity. When Rags sat down a short distance behind Rochelle, Koko continued staring at him.

  Soon, without warning, both cats walked to the wall in front of Rochelle and began clawing on it as if bent on digging their way through. Savannah grimaced. Darn it, she thought as she noticed deep scratch marks appearing in the maroon-print wall covering.

  Within a few seconds, Rochelle let out a deep sigh. “What are they doing?” she asked when she noticed the cats. She didn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t let them go through. They want to follow the other cats.”

  “Other cats?” Savannah whispered, furrowing her brow.

  “They’re in there,” Rochelle said rather weakly. “… with the spirits. Those spirits are lost, unable to release from the evil… the cats are with them.”

  Savannah glanced at Iris, who continued to stare into space and Suzette, who sat wide-eyed.

  Just then, Rochelle turned to face the others and pointed toward the two cats. “The answer is in there—behind that wall.” She walked to where the cats stood. “Savannah, come get Rags. It’s okay now.” Rochelle picked up Koko and handed her to Suzette. “Let’s get out of here—I think we’ve had enough for one night.”

  The group returned to the dining room to find Lily asleep in her portable crib. All eyes were on Rochelle as she sat down next to Peter. After a moment of awkward silence, Savannah asked, “Rochelle, can you talk about what happened in there?”

  She nodded. “Peter, I could use some water, please.”

  “Sure,” he said, heading toward the door. He turned back and asked, “Where’s the kitchen?”

  Suzette chuckled. “Hey, I’ll get it,” she said, jumping up from her chair and darting out through the door. “It’s easy to get lost in this place.”

  “Thank you,” Rochelle said, reaching for the tall glass of water. She took a few sips before saying, “There were people calling for help—calling from what seemed to be their graves. I thought it odd that there were so many, like maybe this place was built on an old Indian burial ground.”

  “So they were native Americans?” Arthur asked.

  “Oh no—people of all races.” Rochelle grew quiet before repeating, “Burial ground. There’s a gravestone down the road a ways, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, that’s a memorial to my sister,” Arthur explained. “She’s not buried there. At least that’s what my stepgrandmother told me.”

  Rochelle stared at Arthur for a moment, then said quietly, “I sense that they’re buried under this house. Was it a cemetery at one time?”

  When no one spoke, Savannah said, “Well, we’ve done some research on this place, and I don’t recall coming across that information.”

  Suzette shook her head. “I didn’t see it, either.”

  Michael leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “But during the time this place was built, they didn’t check for old burial grounds, did they?” He turned to Arthur. “Ever find any Indian artifacts around here?”

  He shook his head.

  “Did you say there are cat spirits in this… graveyard?” Savannah asked.

  “At least one—maybe more,” she said.

  Savannah chuckled nervously. “Gosh, sounds like ancient Egypt, where cats were buried with their deceased owners.”

  “Could it be that these spirits are trapped in the house—that they’re not actually buried here?” Iris asked.

  Rochelle stared at Iris. She narrowed her eyes as if in contemplation. “Could be, of course. When that happens, it’s usually because they have a commonality or attachment to one another or to the place—the environment. So yes, it could be that the spirits were attracted here for another reason.”

  She glanced around at everyone. “But I can tell you this: they want to leave. Something is keeping them from leaving.”

  “Did you get any clues as to what that is?” Craig asked. Iris looked at her husband, surprised that he would ask such a question. He said in his defense, “I’m curious from an investigator’s point of view, of course.”

  Iris nodded, a knowing look on her face.

  Rochelle thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I got fear and anger—revenge, maybe. But whatever it is, they want out and they’re reaching out to find a way.” She took a breath. “It’s odd… ” she started.

  “What?” Craig asked.

  “Well, I kept picturing a man—an elderly man. He was stooped and using a crooked cane—sort of like the old nursery rhyme, the crooked old man with the crooked old cane… ” she chuckled. “I don’t think… he… is… you know… with them. But he kept coming to mind as I was with the spirits.” She squinted and tilted her head. “I get the feeling that he’s still among us… living, but he’s old—looks older than he is in actual years.”

  “Sounds like the old gent who ran through here earlier today,” Ruth said.

  Rochelle looked at her. “Did he have a kind of bird face—you know, pinched—a pinched face with a long narrow nose, small eyes?”

  “Wow, yes,” Suzette said. “That describes him to a T.”

  Arthur nodded.

  Craig said under his breath, “Julian Fletcher.” He made eye contact with Savannah. “Wanna go check that guy out again tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” she said, only slightly reluctantly.

  Chapter 8r />
  “So you traced that black Jag to Julian Fletcher?” Savannah asked the next morning as she and Craig drove into the city.

  “Sure did,” Craig said. “He’s our man, all right. Now to find out what he knows and what he’s willing to tell… ”

  When they arrived at the former butler’s apartment, again, they found no one at home. “Ever do a stakeout?” Craig asked.

  “No,” Savannah said, suspiciously. “You mean we’re going to sit here and wait for him?”

  Craig nodded, a grin on his face.

  Nearly an hour later, Craig said, “There he is—him in his fancy Jag.”

  “I wonder how he got it,” Savannah said. “From the looks of his place, it doesn’t appear he has much income.”

  Craig coughed; cleared his throat. “Could be he took a bribe.”

  “A bribe?”

  “Think about it, Savannah. If there was anything unlawful going on in that house, from the sounds of it, he knew about it. And there are at least two family members left who may not want to be fingered.”

  Savannah looked confused. “Well, Miriam doesn’t remember much, and, as far as we know, she has no money. I can’t imagine she’s in a position to buy him a luxury car.”

  He chuckled. “The naivety.” When she didn’t respond, Craig said, “Some of the street people are loaded. Most of them are mental and would rather not deal with riches and all the responsibility that comes with it.”

  “Really?” she said. “So what percentage do you think have that kind of money?”

  He shrugged. “Not many, of course. But it happens. Besides, there’s one more person we haven’t considered in all this.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Miriam’s father.”

  “Oh yeah,” Savannah said, mulling that thought over in her mind. “Do you know where he is?”

  “I have people working on it,” Craig said with a wink. He then turned his focus back to the Jag. “Man, is he ever going to get out of the car?” he complained.

  “Well, he is old. Probably takes him a while to unfold.”

  Craig laughed. “There he goes. He walks pretty fast.”

  Once Julian Fletcher had entered his apartment, Craig said, “Let’s go have a talk with him.”

  The detective’s knock was answered fairly promptly. “Julian Fletcher,” he said, “I’m Detective Craig Sledge and this is Savannah Ivey. We’d like to come in and talk to you, please.”

  The elderly man pushed the door closed, then opened it a crack and asked, “What do you want?”

  “We want to talk to you about the Peyton Mansion.”

  When the elderly man started to close the door again, Craig put his foot in to stop it and bluffed, “We can do this at the station or we can do it here.”

  Mr. Fletcher took a deep breath, opened the door, and slowly moved back.

  As the pair stepped inside, Savannah gasped.

  The man looked puzzled. “Don’t you like cats?” he asked in a rather accusatory tone.

  “Uh, yes. I like cats. I was just surprised to see… ” She pointed. “I have a grey-and-white cat just like that one.” Just then, something else caught her eye. “There’s another one. How many of them do you have?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  “Two, why? Is it against the law or something?” he asked in a cranky fashion.

  “No, it’s just odd to see two cats who look so similar to mine, that’s all.”

  Mr. Fletcher walked slowly toward a recliner chair and dropped into it. He made eye contact with Craig and then Savannah. “So what do you want?”

  “Just wondering about your affiliation with the Peyton Mansion—or I guess at the time it would have been the Randall Mansion,” Craig said, peering carefully at the old man from across the small room.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were there yesterday.”

  “Uh, yes. I drove out there… for the estate sale. Why? Do you hassle everyone who goes to the sale? Is this some sort of sting operation?”

  “I think there’s more to it than that, sir. I think you’re quite familiar with the place. In fact, I’d bet you lived there at one time.”

  “No, not me. I didn’t know the Randalls… I mean Peytons. Never been there before today. It’s quite ornate, isn’t it?”

  “I’ve been told that you were involved with the séances that went on there in the 1970s and eighties.”

  “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not into séances.”

  Craig grinned. “Well, you are into the spirit world, aren’t you Mr. Fletcher? Even your license plate refers to spirits.”

  “Oh, I bought the car with that plate. I plan to replace it as soon as… .”

  “Come on Mr. Fletcher, you can’t buy someone else’s personalized plate,” Craig bluffed. “You might as well talk to us—the truth is going to come out, anyway.”

  The elderly man started to fidget. “What truth?”

  “Oh, you know,” Craig said, realizing he was going out on a limb, “what really happened at those readings Madam Randall used to hold?”

  Julian shook his head. “You have the wrong person. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t remember running those fake readings… stealing from the guests… scamming people?” Craig asked.

  “I had nothing to do with that. It was all… ” He looked up, fright in his beady eyes. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about! You need to leave… now or… I’ll call the police.”

  “I don’t think you’ll do that, sir. Not with all that you have to hide.”

  “What have you found? I mean, what do you mean?”

  “Are you all right, sir?” Craig asked. “You seem to be in some sort of distress.”

  “I’m fine. But I think you should leave now. Julian stood and walked toward the door. Before reaching it, however, he slumped and fell to his knees. Craig and Savannah jumped into action, each grabbing an arm and helping him to his recliner.”

  Savannah rushed into the kitchen to get him a glass of water.

  “Is there any medication we can get for you?” Craig asked.

  The man pointed. “The blue bottle.”

  After he took a couple of the pills and sipped some water, he slumped down in the chair and said, “I knew this day would come.”

  He looked up at his guests. “My life has been full of misery all these years, remembering… afraid to look anyone in the eye for fear they could see into my soul… and knowing that the mansion would someday reveal the secrets.”

  “Do you mean the personal prop… ”

  Before Savannah could finish her sentence, Craig interrupted, “What do you mean, Mr. Fletcher?” he asked. “What secrets?”

  He looked at Craig, then Savannah. “Uhm… ”

  “Come on Mr. Fletcher, we know what went on there. We want you to explain it to us. Can you do that?”

  He stared ahead, then began speaking, as if to himself: “She was a witch, you know. She claimed to be a healer, but she was a witch and a… she made all of those people disappear so that she could use them later.”

  “Do you mean she stole their identity?” Craig asked.

  “Heavens no,” he laughed. “Not in the way people do it today.” He thought for a moment. “But yes, in a sense, yes, she did steal their identities. She lured them to her den and then handpicked those that would be hers—I mean would be hers for eternity—and the rest were free to go—minus, of course, what the cat and the child took.”

  “You’re talking in riddles; can you explain?”

  Julian looked up and remained quiet.

  “Let’s start here, shall we?” Craig took out a piece of paper. “Have you ever heard of Abel Portelli, Albert Cobos, Roy Simpson, Richard Marshall, Stanley… ”

  Before Craig could finish, Julian Fletcher put his hands over his ears. “Stop! I say, stop!” He shook his head, looked down, and mumbled, “I didn’t know all of thei
r names. It was better that way.”

  “Well, we have pictures. Maybe that will help.”

  The man slumped—fright in his eyes. He took a deep breath. When Craig handed him a page with photos taken from the driver licenses and other personal papers found in the pit at the mansion, Julian Fletcher began to sob.

  ****

  That afternoon when Savannah and Craig returned to the mansion, they found Arthur and Suzette having tea with Iris in the living room of the Acacia Bungalow and joined them.

  “Michael has Lily,” Iris said. “I think the two of them are napping.” She glanced up. “Oh, here they come now. Naptime over?” she called out to Michael as they approached through the front door.

  “Ma-ma, Ma-ma,” Lily said, when she saw Savannah.

  “Hi, sweetie,” Savannah cooed, taking the baby from Michael and cuddling her. She leaned toward her husband and kissed him before settling into a wingback chair.

  “So how did your fishing expedition go?” Michael asked, looking from Craig to Savannah.

  “Fishing expedition?” Craig repeated, chuckling. He took a deep breath and let it out. “Well, the butler is obviously involved in whatever was going on here.”

  “That old guy was the butler here?” Suzette asked. She laughed. “Yeah, I could see that.”

  Craig nodded. “He identified half of those pictured on that page. He said they were all clients of Mrs. Randall and that he doesn’t know what happened to them.”

  “He got so upset,” Savannah said, “that we left, but we think he knows more than he told us.”

  “Did he say anything about the pit with all the jewelry?” Michael asked.

  “A little,” Craig said. “He was aware of it, but vague as to why they put the loot there—what their plan was.” He looked around at everyone. “I called Ruth’s sister and talked to the homeless granddaughter. I asked her what she remembers about the butler. She wanted to know where he was. She thought that talking to him might help her remember things.”

  Just then Savannah’s phone rang. “It’s Rochelle,” she announced as she stood to take the call in a more private area.

  When she returned, Craig asked immediately, “What’s wrong?”

  Savannah dropped into a chair and said solemnly, “Miriam went to Julian Fletcher’s apartment and found him dead.” She glanced around at the others. “I guess she took some homeless guys with her. When Fletcher didn’t answer the door, they peeked in a window and saw him. They called for help. The paramedics thought he’d taken some pills.”