The first thing I noticed when I turned on to Tom’s street was that the work van he used for his security business sat in the driveway. But rather than his Prius parked next to it, I saw an unfamiliar car. A white Ford sedan. Had he traded in his beloved little car for something so generic?
But wait. Maybe he’d had car trouble and this was a rental. It sure looked like one. But if so, it still didn’t explain his lack of contact.
I pulled in behind the Ford and was soon knocking on the door of his red brick home. The November wind had picked up just in the last few minutes. I pulled my barn jacket closer around me and turned up the brown corduroy collar. Arriving here on this familiar front porch made me think of Tom’s cat, Dashiell. His big tabby was recently diagnosed as diabetic. If Tom was out of town and left the cat behind, someone would have to be giving Dashiell his insulin. Maybe the car belonged to a cat sitter, a role I would have taken on had I been here.
The forty-something man who answered the door wore navy sweats and his feet were bare. He looked more like a guest who had made himself comfortable than a pet sitter.
He smiled and said, “I was hoping for company, and it seems as if my prayers have been answered.” He looked me up and down. “And answered in a very fine way. How can I help you?”
That voice. So like Tom’s voice. But he appeared a tad younger than Tom, had blond hair rather than dark hair and was maybe four inches taller. A good six foot four if he was an inch.
“I—I—I—” Words wouldn’t come.
“I’m not scary, am I? ’Cause you look like your panty hose are quivering,” he said.
What? I had to deal with a wise-guy stranger now? As politely as I could, I said, “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“Bob Cochran.” He had a crooked smile, perfect teeth and broad shoulders—the kind of guy women fell for instantly. Especially with his bad-boy vibe. Younger women, that is. Not me. Being in my mid-forties may have brought a few wrinkles, but I’d gained wisdom and an eye for trouble. I liked the trade-off.
He went on, saying, “I take it you came to see Tom, but he’s not home. You’re welcome to come in, though.”
The wind whipped my hair across my face and I brushed it away. But though I was cold and more than a little confused, I didn’t know this man from Adam. I wasn’t about to go inside the house with a stranger. “Where’s Tom?”
“Good question. My brother hasn’t shown his face since I arrived two days ago.”
“Your brother?” I said. That explained the resemblance.
“Guess he never mentioned me. Figures. And you are?”
“Jillian Hart. Tom’s friend.”
He offered his charismatic smile again. “A friend with benefits?”
My cheeks heated up and I started to turn away. “I’ll come back when Tom’s home.”
Bob Cochran grabbed my elbow. “Wait. Sorry. That’s not any of my business. But maybe you can help me out. See, I expected Tom to be here and I’m a little puzzled he hasn’t shown up. Especially since he left his cat.”
Dashiell. Tom left Dashiell alone? I withdrew from Bob Cochran’s grasp but didn’t leave. I couldn’t now. “How is Dashiell?” I craned my neck to see past the man’s wide frame.
“He left instructions for a neighbor to care for the animal—the old lady next door. Mostly illegible notes about food and medicine. She came over, said something about how she could give the cat his shots and test him since she and this cat had the same problem, whatever that meant. But the stupid animal slipped by me when I let her in. Haven’t seen the thing since.”
“What?” I almost shouted around the lump of panic in my throat. “When did this happen?”
“Two days ago. I told the neighbor I’d come and get her if the cat came back.” He cocked his head and smiled again. “It’s only a cat. They always come back to where the food is.”
I had no time to enlighten this idiot about Dashiell’s medical problem.
I had to find Tom’s cat now.
Two
I turned and scanned Tom’s yard, looking toward the red pines and ashy shagbark hickories that hid the creek running along the edge of Tom’s property.
Taking off toward those trees, I shouted Dashiell’s name but slowed as the lawn sloped toward the water. What if Dashiell’s blood sugar plummeted? Or went sky-high from him eating birds, or even fish from the creek? What if he fell into the water? What if he was swept away?
Tears filled my eyes. Ever since Tom’s big sweet Dashiell had been diagnosed, he’d had major swings in his sugar levels. But Tom was now an expert at testing a drop of blood from the cat’s ear and keeping him as well as possible. What would two days without insulin do? Or would lack of food be the bigger problem? My gosh, was he dead?
My heart sped even faster at the thought. First Tom is incommunicado, and now this.
I reached the trees and called Dashiell’s name again, this time in a more gentle tone. I shouldn’t transfer my fear to him, especially if he was nearby and in trouble.
No meows in reply.
I scanned the blanket of decaying leaves and russet pine needles. Cats tend to stay close to where they feel safe, especially when they’re sick, and I was counting on that. Dashiell’s brown stripes would camouflage him out here, though.
I took deep breaths, calmed myself. Focus, Jillian.
Deciding I needed to block out the distraction of the gurgling creek water tumbling over rocks toward the lake, I stood as still as a statue and took several calming breaths. Then I let my gaze sweep slowly over the grass and leaves, as far to the right as I could see, then to the left where a fence separated Tom’s yard from his neighbor’s, then to the right again.
There.
Oh my gosh. There he was.
Fear rose again to take a choke hold on me. I felt paralyzed. Dashiell lay, unmoving, maybe twenty feet away on the steeper bank leading to the creek.
He couldn’t be gone. He couldn’t.
Help him, Jillian. Help him now.
I crept toward him, whispering, “Dashiell, baby. It’s Jillian. Are you okay, buddy?”
No response. Even when I knelt and stroked his head, he didn’t move. I lifted his limp body and held him close, willing him to be okay.
He was not okay. But despite the cold air, he felt warm. I remembered Tom’s description of the first time he knew something was wrong with his cat. He’d found Dashiell unconscious.
Unconscious. Not dead.
I moved his paw aside and pressed my hand on Dashiell’s chest.
And smiled.
I felt his heart beating. Felt the rise of his abdomen as he breathed.
I unbuttoned my jacket, carefully tucked him close to me and raced back to the house. Bob was still standing in the doorway, watching me with what appeared to be amusement.
What a jerk, I thought. “Please get out of my way,” I said, pushing past him.
Karo syrup. Tom kept Karo syrup for when Dashiell’s blood sugar dropped.
I ran through the living room into the kitchen. The syrup was sitting on the counter next to the scrawled note Tom had left for his neighbor.
I laid the nearly lifeless cat on the counter and opened the syrup bottle. Then I stopped for a second to think this through.
Tom’s words came back to me: “You can never be sure with Dashiell. He can pass out from low sugar or be halfway to a coma because his blood sugar is too high.”
If I used the syrup and his sugar was high, I could kill him.
I sensed Bob’s presence behind me. Standing way too close. “Please leave us alone,” I said through clenched teeth.
He backed up and said, “Sure. Just like seeing you playing cat rescuer. It’s kind of sexy.”
Ignoring him, I glanced around on the cream ceramic tile counter, looking for the black leather case holding the equipment to test Dashiell’s blood sugar. There, an arm’s length away.
With shaky hands I removed the small blood sugar meter, picturing how I’d s
een Tom test Dashiell. There were little needles and a cleansing pad inside the case. Like I’d remembered Tom doing, I cleaned the outside tip of Dashiell’s ear and stuck him with a needle. I winced when the small drop of blood appeared, but Dashiell didn’t even twitch.
At first I put the test strip into the meter the wrong way, but finally got it right and the digital display appeared. I pressed the test strip against that tiny bit of blood. The meter beeped and after a few seconds the display showed the number twenty.
Twenty. So low. Tom always said one hundred twenty was a good number.
I swiped my index finger around the inside rim of the syrup bottle. Then I rubbed the sticky stuff along Dashiell’s gums and repeated this about three times.
Slowly, Dashiell’s eyes opened.
Yes. Good baby. Yes.
He blinked and tried to meow, but no sound came out. I decided another dose of syrup couldn’t hurt, so I repeated the gum rub. Then I gathered Dashiell into my arms again, picked up the Karo bottle and hurried out of the house, passing the man with the stupid smile.
How could he be related to my Tom?
I’d called Mercy’s only vet as I sped to his office. The white-haired Doc Jensen met me in the waiting area and immediately took the half-conscious Dashiell from my arms. He headed through a door to the back of his clinic. Tom’s cat was in expert hands now and I felt my shoulders slump in relief.
“Where’s Tom?” the receptionist, Glenda, asked.
She was a fairly new employee, always cheerful—a caring, sweet lady with highlighted hair who wore colorful, pet-themed scrubs and always had manicured nails with painted-on paw prints.
“I—I’m not sure,” I said. “But I’ll pay, if that’s what I need to do. I left my purse in my van.” I started toward the exit.
“Wait, honey,” Glenda said. “You don’t have to be concerned about money now. First we have to get our Dashiell shipshape. Then we’ll think about the bill. I was just wondering why Tom couldn’t come. Work, I suppose.”
“Yes,” I muttered. “Work.”
Maybe that’s all his absence was about. A PI or a security installation job outside of Mercy. But he left without fully explaining to Kara? Nope. He wouldn’t do that. The worry, temporarily replaced by Dashiell’s emergency, settled into the pit of my stomach again.
I sat down on the built-in Formica benches lining the wall and realized for the first time that Martha, the owner of Mercy’s quilt shop, the Cotton Company, sat in a corner with a quilt square in her lap. She was appliquéing what looked like a Baltimore Album flower. An empty pet carrier sat on the tile floor next to her.
“Hi, Martha,” I said.
She looked up and her kind smile relaxed me at once. “Hey there, Jillian. Didn’t see you come in. I was so engrossed in my stitching they could have dropped a bomb in the parking lot and I wouldn’t have noticed. Did you sell a lot of kitty quilts on your trip?”
“Yes—but is Crazy Quilt okay?” I glanced at the carrier. She’d recently adopted another calico cat fittingly named Crazy Quilt not only because of her wildly patterned white, gold and black fur, but because she’d been known to shred bolts of fabric in minutes—that, and tear other things to bits. Crazy Quilt never visited Martha’s shop anymore.
“Crazy’s had her teeth cleaned and I’m waiting to pick her up. But where are your friends? I always wondered how you managed to take three cats to the vet when I could use the help of a Navy SEAL just to get my baby into a carrier.”
I smiled, almost forgetting my distress. Almost. “I brought Tom’s cat in. He’s sick.”
“Ah. Tom left town in a hurry and I guess he’s not back. You watching Dashiell, then?” She refocused on her handwork.
“Sort of,” I said, surprised. “How did you know Tom left in a hurry?”
“Saw him in his cute little car racing down Main Street a couple days ago. Had some man with him. Thought surely he’d get stopped for speeding.”
“Do you remember what time you saw him?” I asked. Urgency colored my question and made Martha look up from her work.
She cocked her head. “Something wrong, Jillian? You seem… upset.”
“Just worried about Dashiell,” I said. “You say Tom was speeding. What time of day?”
“I was walking down Main Street to get my morning fix at Belle’s Beans. Always buy my coffee right before the quilt shop opens. Tom didn’t even wave. Not like him to be impolite.”
“No… not like him at all,” I murmured. I shouldn’t have been surprised she knew more than I did. This was Mercy, after all. Small-town America doesn’t need the Internet or Twitter to get the word out.
Doc Jensen’s vet tech, Anthony, appeared and waved to Martha. “We’re gonna need your carrier, Miss Martha. And your help, I’m thinkin’.”
Martha planted her needle in her quilt square, folded her work and put it into her bag. Carrier in one hand and purse in the other, she walked toward Anthony. As she passed me, she said, “You need to get you some rest, Jillian. Your trip looks like it’s taken a toll.”
I forced a smile, then clasped my shaking hands. The adrenaline that had pumped through me after finding Dashiell was wearing off. I was left trembling as well as wishing I had a giant box of Tums.
Doc Jensen smiled when he came out into the waiting area a few minutes later. He gestured me into a cold, immaculate exam room that smelled of disinfectant and alcohol. Dashiell wasn’t sitting on the stainless table. Despite the vet’s relaxed expression, that could mean the poor boy was still in trouble.
Nodding reassuringly, Doc Jensen said, “You got to him in time, but his blood sugar remains low. He needs to stay with us overnight. Can you get Tom on the phone and see if that’s okay?”
How I wished I could get him on the phone. “Um, Tom’s out of pocket so I’ll be making the decisions. Do whatever Dashiell needs. That’s what Tom would want.”
“Will do. You go home and have a glass of wine, Jillian—‘cause it sure looks like you could use one. Say hi to your three amigos for me, pet them and relax. Stroking a cat gets your blood pressure down, you know. We’ll take fine care of Dashiell.”
He turned and left through the door leading to the back of the clinic while I went in the opposite direction and into the waiting area. I passed Glenda, who waved good-bye.
Once I’d climbed into my van, I thought, What next?
But the answer came immediately.
Find Tom. Find Tom. Find Tom.
Three
Before I left the vet’s parking lot, I took my phone from my purse, hoping Tom had left me a message. No such luck. I sighed heavily, staring at the screen. I touched the app for my cat cam. Watching my cats’ antics or just seeing them nap in the slivers of sun that striped the living room in the late afternoon always soothed me.
Maybe because there was no sun today, my fur friends weren’t lounging in their usual spots. I switched to the kitchen feed and the bedroom feed, but they were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they’d decided hiding from the woman who might come home and cram them back into those carriers was a good idea. That’s what I’d do. Hide.
I put my phone away and started for home, but as I turned onto Main Street I saw a Mercy PD patrol car parked in front of the best coffee shop on the planet—Belle’s Beans, with its green awning. Every shop on Main Street had exactly the same awning. Tradition and continuity were important parts of this small Southern town.
I knew who drove that particular squad car thanks to the dent in the right front fender—my best friend, Deputy Candace Carson, and her partner, Deputy Morris Ebeling. I’d meant to call Candace about Bob Cochran’s presence in Tom’s house, but had forgotten all about him until I saw the police car. What the heck was brother Bob up to? How had he gotten inside the house? Was the man even who he said he was?
What a relief my brain seemed to be functioning logically again—asking the important questions. I pulled into a parking spot near the coffee shop and hurried over to Belle’s Beans
. Candace would want the same answers I did.
Today’s barista, or the “Belle of the Day” as owner Belle Lowry always said, greeted me with, “Hey there, Jillian. Vanilla low-fat latte?” She wore a BELLE name tag, but then, every barista who worked here sported one while on duty. Her real name was Beth.
“Nothing right now, thanks.” My gaze swept the crowded café. The quiet conversations and the familiarity of the place would have been comforting on any other day. Not now, though. The high glossy wood tables for two lining the periphery of the coffeehouse were all occupied. The center tables seating four were almost all filled as well. Belle had added free Wi-Fi last month, and several people were working on their laptops. I spotted Candace and Morris in a far corner and, as I navigated between tables, I heard acoustic music playing softly, piped in through overhead speakers. Another new addition.
Belle, a wise lady in her early seventies, always wanted her customers to feel comfortable. Sure, the coffee was the best I’d ever had. Plus, the refrigerated glass case filled with homemade pies, scones and cakes made the shop all the more popular—especially to someone like Morris. But music and technology could only improve a small business seemingly unaffected by the economic downturn. Yes, leave it to Belle to keep her shop thriving.
Candace stood before I even reached their table, her expression showing her concern. “What’s wrong?”
Morris said, “She looks right as rain to me, Candy. Or are you thinkin’ of becoming a psychic or somethin’? Oh yeah, I can see your shingle now. Candace Carson, Psychic Forensic Investigator.”
“Shut up, Morris,” Candace said, her stare locked on my face.
“Can we talk?” I said.
“Oh boy.” Morris rolled his eyes. “When I hear the words can we talk I know there’s a passel of hassles headed our way.”
“Sit.” Candace dragged a stool from an adjoining table.
The squeal of the legs scraping on the floor made my already frazzled nerves light up even more. Candace and I both sat and she took my hand. “You’re as cold as a corpse. What has you so upset?”
The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon: A Cats in Trouble Mystery Page 2
