When I heard Kara call out, “Jillian, your back door isn’t locked,” I felt my shoulders slump with relief. I’d been sitting with my back against the bottom of the sofa for thirty minutes.
“Um, I need a little help in here, Kara,” I called. I turned my head, and over the back of the couch I saw her put several grocery bags on the counter.
“Where are—oh my God.” She hurried around the dining room table and knelt by my side, joining Merlot and Syrah. “Who did this?”
“Wish I knew. Can you grab some shears from my sewing room? I am so very tired of these nasty plastic bracelets.”
She left and a few seconds later returned and snipped off the restraints.
“Thank you,” I said, rubbing my wrists.
She rested a gentle hand on my cheek and looked me in the eyes. “We need to call the police.”
I pointed out the remnants of my cell phone. “Can I use yours?”
“I’ll call 911. You’re probably too shaken up to dial right now,” Kara said.
“No, let me give you Candace’s number. Everyone is busy in town with another crime.”
“Another crime? What is going on in Mercy?” she said. Then she dialed the number I spieled off.
I was actually relieved she did the calling. Candace must have answered, because Kara explained how she’d found me. Then she disconnected and looked at me. “She’s on her way.”
I let out a long sigh of relief.
While we waited, we sat on the couch and I told Kara what had happened, spilling out words as if getting rid of them would also rid me of the memory of that horrible man. But I began to realize that her interested expression was . . . well . . . almost too keen. Was she making mental notes for whatever she planned to write about the current crime wave in Mercy, South Carolina?
When I finished telling my story, she stood, picked the zip ties up off the floor and said, “You’d better give me a key and the alarm code. Your door needs to stay locked at all times.” She started toward the kitchen.
“Where are you going with those?” I started after her.
“To throw them out,” she said.
“Candace will want them.” I held out my hand.
She gave them to me. “That’s true. Meanwhile, I better put the groceries away.”
The doorbell rang, and I hurried to answer while Kara continued on into the kitchen. Merlot and Syrah lingered just outside the foyer.
I opened the front door, and Candace immediately wrapped her arms around me. Rain was still falling, and her hug got me wet again, but I didn’t care. And this time the tears could not be stopped.
Then over her shoulder I saw Chief Mike Baca standing on the stoop holding an umbrella.
I pulled away from Candace, swiping at my tears. “Sorry. Come on in.”
“Glad to see you’re okay,” Chief Baca said.
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” Liar, liar. For some reason, I felt embarrassed about him seeing me like this. But being manhandled and threatened had created a vulnerability I apparently didn’t know how to deal with.
Candace removed her slicker. “What should I do with this?”
I handed her the zip ties. “We can trade. He used those on my feet and hands.” I took her slicker and the chief’s umbrella and hung them on the hall tree.
I was grateful for Candace’s arm around my shoulders as Syrah and Merlot led us into the living room. My boys sat in front of the entertainment center as if waiting for the show to begin. A lot friendlier show than the last one.
Candace produced a plastic baggie from one of her uniform pockets and dropped in the zip ties. She then held the bag up for inspection. “You would have gotten out of these eventually. Cheap hardware-store variety.”
Chief Baca said, “We don’t use them. They break.”
“Coulda fooled me,” I said.
Kara wandered into the living room, and I introduced her to Baca and Candace.
“Where were you when all this happened?” Candace asked her.
“I had a meeting with Tom, and then I went to the supermarket,” she said. “I felt so awful finding Jillian all tied up like that.”
Baca said, “Your stepmother is a strong woman.”
“Yeah, strong,” Candace said. “But still upset. Can you get her some sweet tea, um . . . what’s your name again? Kara?”
“Sure.” Kara started back the way she came.
Candace added, “I could use some myself. How about you, Chief?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.” Baca’s gaze followed Kara’s backside.
Oh brother. He’s my age. Too old for her; that’s for sure. And I could tell Candace didn’t seem too thrilled to meet Kara. I needed to keep us all on track.
I said, “You two have more important things to do right now than listen to me. The guy came to warn me, and he did a good job.” I sat on the couch and tucked my feet beneath me. Despite my protest to the contrary, I was still grateful for their presence.
“Warn you about what?” Baca said.
“Jillian’s apparently messing in someone’s business, or that’s what the guy told her,” Kara said. She gave Candace and me our glasses and then sat in her father’s chair.
“She also looked scared to death when she answered the door,” Candace said.
“Oh, she’s better now. You should have seen her earlier,” Kara said.
The heat of a blush warmed my cheeks. “It’s in the past and I’m fine.”
“Let me just say, the information you provided earlier concerning Rufus Bowen might help connect the two murders,” Baca said. “Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome, but of course I had to tell you about my talk with him. Should have done it the night before.” Maybe Candace was right about the chief changing his tune concerning me. He did seem friendly and was perhaps trying to set things right between us after last fall’s murder investigation.
“Did you say two murders?” Kara asked Baca.
“We can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, right, Chief?” Candace said quickly. She’d cocked her head, and she was glaring at Baca. I expected her to add another “Right?” but the look she gave him was enough.
His turn to go red in the face. “That would be correct. I thought Candace would be the best officer to come and take your statement about this intruder. If we need to call the paramedics or take you to an emergency room, then—”
“No. I don’t need medical attention. I’m just kind of angry about this guy getting in here, terrorizing my cats and just . . . I don’t know.”
“That’s a normal reaction.” Candace pulled out her notebook so I could give my second statement of the day. “Tell us everything you can remember.”
With one cat in my lap and one beside me, I related how I came out of the bedroom and saw the man sitting in my living room. I told them everything I’d told Kara: about the leather boots, his pale eyes, the citrus smell and how he slipped into robot speech every once in a while. As I finished my story, I said, “Whoever he is, he’s had practice with those zip ties. I hardly had a chance to blink, and they were on.”
Candace looked at Baca, eyebrows raised. “Law enforcement, maybe?”
“Could be.” He looked at me. “He threatened you by mentioning your cats. He indicated they’d disappear if you didn’t ‘stay out of this business’?”
I nodded. “He’s got to be the man in the white van, the one I saw the day of the professor’s murder. That’s the only explanation I can think of for him to use that phrase. Who else besides people we trust knew I was at the professor’s place that day?”
“This town talks. You know that, so we can’t make any assumptions yet. The guy was vague, and probably on purpose,” Candace said.
“I know you like corroboration, but I haven’t been involved in any other business that might lead to a man walking into my house, tying me up and tossing me around like a stuffed animal.”
“She’s right, Candy,” Baca said.
Candace took a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s say he’s been following you since the professor’s murder and sees you show up at the second murder scene. But why would he think you’re a threat? You didn’t see anything except a white van.”
“He doesn’t know I couldn’t see the driver.” But then a chill raced up my back. “Wait a minute. There could be another explanation. Maybe it’s not about the murders. Maybe it’s about the cats. Whoever took those cats was interrupted and probably didn’t like it one bit. When he drove off, he saw me by the side of the road.” Half to myself I said, “He said Syrah would do fine in the wild.” I must have gripped Merlot because he meowed. “Sorry, baby.” I returned to more gentle petting.
“What are you saying?” Baca said.
“He’s probably one of those militant animal activists, the kind that thinks people shouldn’t own pets. And he believes that’s where I might focus my energy—on the cats that disappeared from the professor’s backyard.”
Candace’s eyes were wide. “And he’d be right.”
“Hmm. I see what you mean,” Baca said. “Those kinds of activists are considered domestic terrorists. Many are violent offenders. But he’d only suspect you would focus on the cats if he knew about you. This person is aware of what you do for a living, and he may know more about you than you think. Like how you rescued those other cats last fall.”
“Could be he knows Shawn and he heard that I made sure all those cats found loving homes,” I said.
“But unless he followed you, how does he know you were at both murder scenes?” Candace said.
Baca nodded. “You didn’t turn back any white vans at the scene, Candy?”
“No. But there were several other vehicles that came down the road before and after Jillian’s arrival. That’s why I put up the traffic cones.”
I’d noticed Kara taking this all in, and she finally piped up. “Let me get this straight,” Kara said. “The two murders and this attack on Jillian are unrelated? Loosely related? What? And who’s Shawn?”
“Never mind,” Candace said, her tone none too friendly. “Guess we should have asked you to leave the room.”
Baca said, “But she freed Jillian, so she’s one of our witnesses. And this will be all over town tomorrow anyway. Not that anything we’re saying is such a big secret. This is just a lot of conjecture.” He turned then and looked at Kara. “You don’t know anyone in town to talk to besides Jillian anyway, right?”
Kara said, “I know Tom Stewart. And to be honest, I do plan to write about this.”
“For what publication?” Baca said. But he didn’t sound alarmed. He sounded interested . . . No, that wasn’t it. He sounded captivated.
Kara said, “I’m not connected to any newspapers, if that’s your concern, though I am a journalist. This sounds like a big story. Bigger than Mercy.”
I could read Candace’s expression, and her tight jaw and narrowed blue eyes told me she was steaming. “Bigger than Mercy? Really?” she said.
Kara laughed. “You are intense, aren’t you? Let me put it this way: If I write this story, Mercy will be bigger for it. How’s that?”
“Really?” Candace pointed at Kara. “Let me tell you something. You won’t be writing anything if you’re any good. Not right now. If you’re a decent journalist, you’ll wait for the facts. We don’t have enough, and that means you sure as hell don’t.”
Baca said, “Candy, please. You’re overreacting. And publicity might be just what we need.”
“My name is Candace. And if you think we need publicity, then good luck. Now, if y’all will excuse me, I haven’t used the ladies room all day.” She got up and stomped out of the living room and down the hall.
“She needs to regroup, Kara,” I said. “She’s a very dedicated cop and can get fired up easily.”
“She doesn’t bother me,” Kara said. “She should be that way in her profession.”
I felt a tiny bit of relief at her response. I don’t do well with conflict. “Anyway, I could use some regrouping myself. And I’m hungry. What about you, Mike?”
Kara said, “There’s actually food in the fridge. How about a turkey and avocado sandwich? Hummus and pita bread?” She smiled a smile that had all of John’s charm and more.
I almost lost it seeing John’s smile so unexpectedly, but I took a deep breath, lifted Syrah from my lap and set him on the floor. I stood. “Turkey sounds great. You, Mike?”
“We have two big cases, and I have to get up to speed. But thanks for the offer. I’ll leave Candy here, though. For protection. I’ll find out who did this to you, Jillian. I promise.” He held out his hand to me.
I took it, and he drew me close, gave me a half hug. Awkward, yes, but much appreciated.
Candace reappeared a minute later, and when Baca told her she was staying with me, she didn’t protest.
She asked him to send over her laptop, case notes and the one thing she could not be without—her evidence-collection kit.
But her reaction to his instruction to watch over me was puzzling. Instead of bristling over being left here while two murder investigations continued, rather than fuming about being stuck in my house with Kara, whom she seemed to dislike, she’d calmly requested her necessities.
That didn’t make sense.
Sixteen
After changing out of her damp uniform and into a pair of my jeans and a T- shirt, Candace joined Kara and me at the kitchen table. I really wanted to know why she didn’t put up a stink when Baca told her to stay with me. But now was not the time.
We were all hungry, and Kara and Candace acted as if their tense interaction earlier had never happened. We finished off the deli turkey that Kara had bought—with a little help from Merlot. I chose to forego the avocado, but Candace piled her sandwich with not only avocado but cheese and spicy mayo. If I’d had a tub of lard, she probably would have spread that on the whole-grain bread. She’d had a busy week and obviously needed all those calories.
After Candace had a decent meal in her tummy, she played nice with Kara, asking her about her former job.
Kara said, “I’m a journalist and just left my position as a columnist in Houston.”
“What kind of column?” Candace asked.
“Pop culture,” she said. “My current interest is social networking—Twitter, Facebook, the online dating trends, issues like that.”
“You don’t write about celebrities, then?”
“Only if it involves social commentary,” Kara said. “I have written some pieces that touched on the music scene. The Tejano influence, for example, and rap music.”
“No Britney? No American Idol?” Candace said.
Where was she going with this? I wondered.
“Idol is of interest, of course. There are cultural implications. But I stay away from anything too . . . well . . . tabloid.” Kara examined her fingernails and seemed downright bored.
Uh-oh. Maybe attitude hadn’t left the building after all. It had just taken a different form.
“Isn’t that a sorry shame?” Candace said. “Those supermarket rags are my favorite. I love celebrity stuff. If you wrote for the Enquirer or one of those types of newspapers, then you’d be the celebrity.”
I knew that it was Candace’s mother who loved the Enquirer . Candace thought tabloids were trash and always made fun of the stories her mother believed to be one hundred percent true. So where was she going with this?
“Those tabloids aren’t newspapers,” Kara said.
“Coulda fooled me.”
I noted the smile playing at Candace’s lips as she stood and began to clear the remnants of our late lunch. She’d gotten under Kara’s skin and now seemed satisfied. I resisted the urge to say something. I wasn’t sure why Candace didn’t like Kara, but I also wasn’t sure how Kara would react if I got in the middle of their verbal sparring.
Candace said, “Rain’s let up. After we clean up, time for me to see if our bad guy left any evidence on your back porch that hasn’t wa
shed away. Darn it all if I don’t hate rain.”
She put the condiments away while I started filling the dishwasher. Kara retreated, saying she wanted to record notes on what she’d learned about the murders. After she was gone, Candace whispered, “Did your husband raise that spoiled brat?”
“What makes you think she’s spoiled?” I said.
“Intuition,” Candace said.
“John did let her have everything she wanted—and I warned him that wasn’t the greatest idea,” I said. “He was trying to make up for Kara losing her mother and for him working long hours. I guess, most of all, for not giving his daughter the attention she needed when she needed it the most. But he had no clue how to raise a teenage girl.”
“She was in college when you two married?” Candace said.
“A freshman at the University of Texas. A little late to set limits, and besides, it wasn’t my place. I hope you’ll cut her some slack, because I don’t think she’s over losing John or her mother.”
“But you’re getting there,” Candace said. “You actually criticized John, and you’ve never done that before.”
I picked up the sponge and wiped down the table’s mosaic-tile top. “He was no saint, and neither am I.”
“I took a grief-counseling course. To teach me how to say the right things to folks who’d lost loved ones. I recall that teacher telling us that once you stop idealizing the person who died, you’re on your way to accepting the loss.”
“Oh, I believe I’m accepting the loss, all right.” I walked over to the sink and dropped the crumbs I’d cleared from the table into the disposal. I told her about the kiss Tom and I shared last night.
Candace shoved my shoulder and said, “No way.”
I winced. I was beginning to feel sore all over after what had happened earlier. And I still had scratches and cuts from crawling over barbed wire.
She realized what she’d done and immediately apologized, then glanced toward the door. “Wish my stuff would arrive. I need to take pictures of your injuries. Did you know you’ve got bruises on your neck?”
My hand went to my throat. “No. And I don’t think I own a turtleneck.”
The Cat, The Professor and the Poison Page 13
