The Cat, The Professor and the Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  I told Kara about the suspicious death and what had led up to it, but she was so taken with the kittens, I wasn’t sure she heard a word. And though I expected a hissing face-off between Wiggins and Chablis, it didn’t happen. Chablis took her time getting close, and just as I finished my story about the events of the last three days, my cat did something that totally amazed me. She curled up on a corner of the quilt near Wiggins’s tail and began to groom her new-found friend.

  “This shouldn’t happen,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” Kara stroked Wiggins’s head.

  “Not so much as a hint of a catfight—but then Dame Wiggins is probably the most unusual cat I’ve encountered, and Chablis is as gentle as Mercy Lake at dawn. Dame Wiggins did lead me to her litter, while most cats would have done just the opposite. This pretty calico seems to have a keen sense of what’s safe and what’s not.”

  “Dame Wiggins? What a funny name. She obviously understands that Chablis is no threat,” Kara said. “But I could have told her that right away. Chablis is a sweetheart.”

  I smiled. “She is that.”

  My cell phone rang for the second time today, and I saw Tom Stewart’s caller ID after I dug it out of my pocket. I answered with “Hey there. What’s up?”

  “What’s up is that I’m at your front door, but no one’s home. I wanted to talk to you about last night, and I even brought coffee,” he said. “Where the heck are you?”

  “I’m home, just didn’t hear the doorbell. I’ll be right there.” I closed the phone and looked at Kara. “A friend of mine is here. Do you mind if we visit?”

  She never took her eyes off the cats. “No problem. If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here with the kittens.”

  I smiled at Kara and went upstairs. A minute later, I let Tom in, and as he handed me a latte from Belle’s Beans, he said, “Whose car is that in your drive?”

  “Kara Hart. John’s daughter,” I said.

  “Oh. He had kids?” Tom said.

  “Just Kara,” I answered. I didn’t talk about John with Tom, didn’t really talk about him or Kara with anyone.

  Merlot and Syrah appeared, and they sauntered up to Tom and began sniffing his jeans for traces of Tom’s own cat, Dashiell.

  He handed me his coffee and knelt to pet them. “Kara came loaded, that’s for sure.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  “Her car is packed to the roof with stuff,” he said.

  “Really? Maybe Mercy is on the way to wherever she’s headed,” I said.

  “Mercy isn’t on the way to anywhere, Jillian. It’s a destination.” He rose and took his coffee. “Let’s talk about last night. I want to hear all about this latest mess you’re involved in straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  We went to the living room, but I was still processing that one little sentence.

  It’s a destination.

  Eleven

  Tom Stewart sat across from me in my living room while I related yet again all that had happened in the past few days. Tom is a great listener. Maybe working in security and doing PI work helped him hone those attentive skills, or maybe it was his former job as a police officer—the job he refused to talk about. I can’t fault him there, since I’m tight-lipped on certain subjects myself.

  But I was surprised when I finished telling my story. He didn’t start questioning me about the professor but rather said, “What’s with the daughter?”

  “Kara? She lost her job. She’s a reporter, and I guess no one is reading the newspaper anymore,” I said. “But what about the professor and—”

  “What newspaper?” he said.

  “The Houston Press.”

  “How old is she?” he asked.

  “Twenty-eight. No, twenty- nine. Seems I lost track of a year there,” I said. Had I even sent Kara a birthday card the year John died?

  “You were a stepmother to someone only twelve or thirteen years younger than you? How did that work out?” he said.

  No one, not even John, ever asked me that. “Kara was a challenge. I tried. I’m still trying.” But was I a lot like Kara? In protection mode? I had kept Tom at a friendly distance after we’d met last fall. I knew he wanted our relationship to be more than platonic, but I wasn’t ready then. And what about now? I still wasn’t sure.

  “So Kara is—”

  “Right here. What about me?” Kara said.

  I wondered how long she’d been standing behind the breakfast bar that separated the living room and kitchen.

  He turned her way. “Tom Stewart. Nice to meet you.”

  I thought she was about to smile, but she contained herself. “Hi. You obviously know my name already.” She looked at me. “He’s got great eyes. Nice catch, Jillian.”

  “It’s not like that,” I said. Maybe not yet, anyway.

  Tom broke the awkward tension by saying, “Jillian was telling me you lost your job. Sorry to hear that.”

  Kara’s eyes narrowed, and then she put on that mask I’d seen so often when she was younger, the same one I’d seen when she’d arrived on my doorstep today. No emotion whatsoever. She said, “I’m tired. Think I’ll take a nap.”

  “Don’t leave,” Tom said. “Come and talk to us.”

  “Like I said, I’m tired.” She walked around the counter and started toward the hallway.

  “You’re not interested in a job prospect?” he asked.

  Uh-oh. What are you doing, Tom Stewart?

  She turned, that expressionless demeanor not giving anything away. “What kind of job?”

  “You were a reporter, right? What did you cover?” he asked.

  A flush raced up her neck and settled on her pale cheeks. “Most recently? Or do you want the whole resume?”

  “Sorry if I’m upsetting you,” Tom said. “I’ll get straight to it. We have a sorry- ass newspaper in this town. One editor and one reporter. But unlike the big city, where everyone gets their news from the Internet, people here still read their paper every day.”

  Why did I feel like an interloper in my own home? How had this happened, and why couldn’t I find my voice? But if I spoke now, I was certain I would anger Kara even more. A stranger she could handle, but me? Just as I’d done while John was alive, I avoided any kind of unpleasant confrontation with her and kept my mouth shut. I decided I could slug Tom later for succeeding where I’d failed. Yes, with a Louisville Slugger. Maybe Rufus Bowen could lend me one.

  Kara laughed. “You want me to take a job at some Podunk newspaper? And make what? A couple hundred dollars a month?”

  “You could bring your big-city knowledge to this small town. And what you write will be read. If it’s money you’re worried about, I can offer you part-time work, too.”

  “What?” I blurted, unable to hold back on that one.

  “She came to Mercy for your help, Jillian.” Tom looked at Kara. “That’s why you came, right?”

  Tom the listener had turned into Tom the Mr. Fix- it. How I wished I could be a Ms. Fix-it for Kara.

  She said, “I only came to crash for a few days and then . . .” Her words trailed off, and she averted her gaze.

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about. You haven’t called Jillian since, when? Since your father died? And then all of a sudden—”

  “You told him that?” she said. Clearly she was surprised by the idea that I might talk about her in her absence.

  “She didn’t tell me. I’m guessing, and it looks like I’ve touched a nerve,” Tom said.

  “The only thing I told Tom was that you lost your job,” I said.

  “But you were talking about me. Do you even want me here?” she said.

  “Huh?” I shook my head. “Kara, of course I do. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you came here. Listen, let’s have some sweet tea and clear up these misunderstandings. Are you two good with that?” I glanced at my untouched coffee on the end table. Sweet tea would be better than coffee for this conversation. Tom’s direct approach d
idn’t work for me . . . and the thought of Kara staying longer than a few days—well, I’d never imagined or expected such a thing. I might have wanted that kind of relationship with her once, but she’d rejected me for so long, I’d gotten used to it. I wasn’t quite sure how to start over.

  Tom raised his hand to indicate that he wanted tea—tea he didn’t really care for—so I guessed he was attempting to help me get through this little rough spot. Kara, to my astonishment, walked over and sat in her father’s old leather recliner. I guess she’d changed her mind about needing a nap.

  She smiled thinly and said, “Sure. Let’s all have something sweet.”

  But of course, I’d drunk all the tea I’d made earlier. I walked into the kitchen, put the kettle on to boil and grabbed tea bags and liquid cane sugar from the pantry. Kara and Tom were chatting away, probably about this part-time job he’d conjured from out of nowhere. A nice, quiet conversation that I couldn’t hear. Fine with me, because I wasn’t sure I wanted to listen to how nice she could be to him while all I got was poorly disguised hostility.

  I filled a heavy pitcher with tea bags and waited for the water to boil. That’s when I heard the beginning of a catfight downstairs. I should have told Kara to close the door when she left the kittens, I told myself as I raced down the stairs.

  At first, I was bewildered by what I found. Merlot and Syrah were in the middle of the game room, both their coats puffed out so they looked like blowfish. The “you better stay away if you know what’s good for you” half hiss, half growl I was hearing came from my sweet Chablis. She was playing guardian angel to Dame Wiggins and her litter. The big-boy cats wouldn’t be getting near them if Chablis had her way.

  “Boys, I’m sorry.” I bent to stroke their ruffled fur. “It’s a girl thing.”

  Syrah, my dominant cat, slowly sat, never taking his eyes off his onetime best friend, Chablis. Merlot, the sensitive guy, turned and raced up the stairs. His feelings were hurt, but it wouldn’t last. Chablis was playing—what? Grandma?—and that made me smile. I felt the tension in my gut ease, and then I heard the whistling kettle call me.

  By the time we all had glasses of tea, Kara seemed more relaxed than I had ever seen her.

  Tom said, “She’s a columnist, not a reporter, Jillian. I guess we both stand corrected.” He gave me this raised-eyebrows look, one I understood to mean, “Go along with me.”

  “Sorry, I should have known there’s a difference,” I said. “Has Tom convinced you to save the Mercy Messenger from mediocrity?”

  She laughed, but this time without a hint of derision. “No way. But something big has happened in this town—that’s what you were talking about downstairs earlier, right? Both Tom and I think I could freelance on this. Animal mistreatment? A murder? That might be an interesting story.”

  “Who said the professor was murdered?” I glanced at Tom, who just shrugged as if to say, “Not me.”

  “No one said he wasn’t murdered,” she answered. “With Tom’s private-eye skills and you being right there at the scene yesterday, I could get plenty of facts about the case and end up selling this story to the wire services.” She turned to Tom, her eyes bright. “Or . . . what about this, Tom? A true-crime book. And that might just be the beginning of a big career. Bigger than anything stupid Houston had to offer.”

  Okay, she wants to stay, I thought. I liked that. Maybe I could work on breaking down that wall between us. Finally.

  Twelve

  When Kara did leave to take that nap she’d talked about, Tom came over and sat down at the other end of the sofa, spreading his right arm along the back of the couch until his hand was inches from my shoulder.

  “I did good, huh?” he said.

  I stared at him in exaggerated shock. I said, “You think so?”

  He looked at me, but I could tell the confusion I saw was completely fake. “Okay, Jillian, I may have overstepped, but the girl’s lost.”

  I sighed. “You’re right about that, but the way you just took over, it really made me feel as if I should be the one to—” My cell rang, and I pulled it from my pocket. It was Candace.

  “Can you meet me for dinner? I need to vent,” she said.

  “Sure. But can we both vent in front of Tom? Because he needs to be vented upon,” I said.

  “Meet me at the new diner. This sounds like fun.” She disconnected.

  I stared at the phone for a second, then closed it. “That was Candace. She’s upset, needs to talk. Are you brave enough to join us?”

  Tom rose. “Sure. Maybe I can help you understand where I’m coming from in offering to help Kara. Speaking of Kara, should you invite her, too?”

  “She looked so tired, I think she needs to rest, so I’ll leave her a note and make sure she gets her dinner later.”

  Before we left, I peeked in on Kara. Yup, sound asleep after her drive. Merlot must have decided beds were a good thing after all. He was stretched out at the foot, his lovely, long coat spread out so that he looked even larger than he is. He gave me a look that seemed to say, “I’ve got this problem under control.”

  We took Tom’s Prius since my van was blocked in by Kara’s car. During the drive to the diner, Tom spoke first. “I’m sorry if I upset you. But you’ve lived here for over a year and no one’s come to visit. After you came for Christmas dinner at my mom’s house, she started asking me questions about your past. And I realized I didn’t have much to say.”

  “You know everything you need to know about me,” I said.

  “See, that’s the problem. You’re as guarded as Kara in your own way,” he said.

  I smiled. “I already came to the same conclusion.”

  “When I opened my big mouth with Kara, I was trying to help you. She may not be a blood relative, but—”

  “But she is a part of John,” I said. “Like I said, I realize that.”

  “She’s down and out, though she’s trying to cover it up,” Tom said.

  “Her father left her plenty of money. Enough to relocate, enough to live on while she looks for a job, and yet she shows up on my doorstep. She never accepted me when he was alive, so can you understand why I might be a little confused? And okay, I’ll admit it, I am hopeful she wants to connect with me, but it’s hard. Even after all this time, we’re still practically strangers.”

  “Maybe she needs a family and didn’t know any other way to approach you except by dropping in unexpectedly,” he said. “Even if she doesn’t need a family, you do. I mean, who do you lean on?”

  Good question, I thought. My parents died a long time ago, way before I met John. So I guess he was the one who—I blinked. I couldn’t think about this now, much less talk about it with Tom yet.

  Tom pulled into an angled parking place in front of the Main Street Diner. “You didn’t answer my question. Can we talk more later? I want you to let me in, Jillian.”

  “Sure,” I said. But was I sure? I didn’t know.

  “Are we okay, then?” he asked.

  “Certainly.” I gently tapped the corner of his turned-up mouth. “Your smile fixed everything.”

  “That’s a nonanswer if I ever heard one,” he said as we both got out of the car.

  The Main Street Diner had opened last month, and from what I’d seen from the outside, the restaurant suited Mercy’s small-town ambience right down to the green awning, which matched all the other ones on the street. There must be some kind of town ordinance about those awnings, I decided. I mean, people couldn’t all choose the same color by accident, could they?

  I’d heard from Belle, who owned Belle’s Beans, that this new diner was already cutting into her revenue. She once had a monopoly on coffee, breakfast muffins, pastries and ready-made sandwiches. I loved Belle, who was kind of wacky but made great coffee, and I almost felt like a traitor visiting this establishment.

  Tom held the door for me, and when I walked in I felt like I’d stepped onto the set of an old movie. The twin aisles of booths to my right were high-backe
d wood. To my left was a long, curving counter accented by chrome. The red leather swivel stools had chrome pedestals to match. A sign told us to seat ourselves—it was early for supper—and then I saw Candace waving at us from the back booth.

  I slid in beside her to give Tom plenty of room across from us. Even though the booth seats had no padding, they were comfortable. A small jukebox was attached to the wall behind the sugar, salt and pepper.

  Tom immediately took a quarter from his pocket and began to flip the laminated pages for a song. He chose “Jailhouse Rock” and settled back with a smile as the song started to play. I didn’t move my knee away when I felt his rest lightly against mine. Maybe he had no idea, and my moving away would give him the wrong idea. Or maybe it was a kind of apology for stepping in with Kara without talking it over with me first. In any case, I had to admit that it felt nice.

  A waitress in a pink and white uniform appeared, handed us menus and took our drink orders—iced tea all around.

  I turned and looked at Candace. “Why the need to vent?”

  She said, “Between Morris and Lydia, I might be checking into the Hotel California before this case is over. Or maybe I already have, seeing as how you can never leave.”

  “I’d love to help, but I don’t think I have much influence with those two.” I opened the menu, and the first thing that caught my eye was what was touted as the diner’s specialty, a Texas chili dog. In South Carolina? That was kind of like serving a Whopper at McDonald’s.

  “Lydia can drive anyone nuts,” Tom said. “She’s nearly driven me to the edge more than once. What’s going on?”

  “You know Morris is acting chief?” she said.

  “Jillian told me,” Tom said.

  “He won’t listen,” she said. “Not like he ever listened to me before, but we’re losing time while he waits on Lydia to find a pathologist to do the autopsy. Tough to accomplish on the weekend, I know, but still, she seems to be in no hurry.”