The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim: A Cats in Trouble Mystery

by Leann Sweeney

  “Really?” I tried to sound surprised, not wanting her to know I’d already been given this information. But then I saw a look on Candace’s face I’d become quite familiar with—her “I need you to do something for me” expression.

  “Yup. The man had the big C. And right now, I need time and space to investigate this case. Learn everything I can about Norm Jeffrey. And that’s where you come in. Jillian, I need a favor.”

  Three

  I hefted Clyde up into my arms—gosh, he had to weigh twenty-five pounds—and carried him into the living room. “I’ll help any way I can.”

  Tom and Candace followed me—and so did my three cats, no doubt unhappy I wasn’t carrying a cat named Syrah, Chablis or Merlot.

  Clyde purred like an idling motor as I sat on the couch. He was so big, he could rest his head on my chest while the rest of him stretched out all the way to my knees. Syrah jumped up on the back of the couch and stared down at Clyde, his sleepy glare not concealing his jealousy. Meanwhile, Merlot and Chablis sat at my feet and looked up with undisguised indignation. But Clyde had traveled so far for loving comfort, I felt the need to offer him what I could.

  Tom came to the rescue. He picked up Chablis and sat with her on his lap at the opposite end of the couch. She would be the one most offended by my cuddling another cat. Merlot turned and decided Candace was the best option for his share of affection.

  Merlot was content to rest against Candace’s legs when she sat opposite me on the overstuffed chair, her glass of tea held with two hands. Syrah, meanwhile, sat in his favorite spot, a place where he could keep a close eye on Clyde.

  Candace leaned toward me. “You and Clyde present the perfect picture. This is what the newspeople want to see.”

  “But I thought you weren’t happy with the press presence here,” I said.

  “I’m not pleased, but I want you to invite a couple of them in for an interview. Let them see Clyde like Tom and I are seeing him right now. You can answer questions about him and about cats in general—because you know more about cats than any person I know.”

  “But—”

  Tom interrupted, saying, “You want her to invite those people into her house? What’s the plan, Candace?”

  But I understood. “Distraction, right?” I stroked Clyde, whose face now rested in the crook of my neck.

  She lifted her glass in my direction. “You got it. If we give them what they came for, I’m hoping they won’t notice I’m investigating a suspicious death. They’ll continue to focus on the journey of one determined cat.”

  I shifted, rubbed a thumb against Clyde’s cheek. His already loud purring amped up another notch. “I don’t know. Can’t Tom sit with Clyde and talk to them? If you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly a Kardashian.”

  “You’re better than any reality TV princess,” Tom said. “Better looking, more genuine. I’d be glad to help, but I have to work. I’ve put off this client once already—last week when it rained like God opened a spigot. But in my book, you are so made for a TV appearance like this, Jilly.”

  “I agree.” Candace drained her glass and stood. “It’s settled. I’ll talk to them, give them a time—I’m thinking this afternoon right about when the autopsy goes public. They’ll be here interviewing you, get their story and then hopefully leave town. And meanwhile I can pick up my search warrant, sneak back to the Jeffrey house and look for anything we might have missed in light of these autopsy findings.”

  Tom released Chablis. I could tell she was becoming a tad pissed off that I was holding Clyde. She made her way over to me and sniffed at him. He was so content, he didn’t even open his eyes. I stroked Chablis with my free hand and this seemed to mollify her—for the moment.

  Tom bent and kissed my forehead. “I have to get going. You’ll do great. And maybe you can sneak in a mention of your cat quilt business. Nothing like free advertising.”

  “Bye, babe. Drive carefully.” Clyde wiggled free, apparently feeling the need to accompany Tom to the back door.

  “Be careful when you open the door, Tom,” I called. “Clyde’s following you.”

  After we heard the back door close, Clyde soon ambled back to join us, that darling smile on his impish face.

  Before leaving, Candace said she would talk to the reporters and call me with the time they’d be arriving with their cameras and lights.

  “You owe me, Candace Carson,” I called as she left through the back door. I tried to sound like I was joking, but a gnawing had begun in the pit of my stomach. I’m no fan of the spotlight and I am not one for inviting strange humans into my home. Fur babies are quite another story. But then, animals that you love and care for rarely turn on you. I had the sense this upcoming encounter might not be as simple a solution as Candace believed it would be. Not by a long shot.

  • • •

  The two reporters and their crew of four who knocked on my door at two o’clock had less equipment than I’d imagined. As they noisily invaded my living room, the reporters immediately informed me Deputy Carson had assured them they could each have a separate interview. So this would be doubly difficult. One of them was the man in the bow tie who’d knocked on my front door so early this morning. His name was Gerard Holcomb and my first impression was that of an abrupt and distracted man. I wasn’t getting a good vibe off him, especially when he pretty much ignored me after introductions, peppering the cameraman with orders instead.

  The other “correspondent,” as she called herself, was Tess Reynolds, the blonde I’d seen first thing this morning. She now wore a cream silk blouse and pencil skirt. She shook my hand, made eye contact and seemed interested in talking to me. I had seen her on a morning show she once hosted years ago. When I mentioned this, she quickly explained that she was a “special assignment” correspondent now.

  Up close, Tess looked every bit her age—which had to be early sixties. On television, she had never seemed to grow old and it struck me that I preferred seeing her in person. She seemed softer, more human. In contrast to Gerard Holcomb, she even acted interested in Clyde. But when I offered to pick him up and bring him to her so she could pet him, she held up her hands and stepped back. “No, no, no. Can’t have any cat hair on me. But he is sweet looking.”

  Mr. Bow Tie then insisted that I remove my “other animals” from his “set.” Yup. He called my house his set. I refused, but it didn’t matter. Merlot and Chablis scurried down the hallway to my bedroom once they felt they could safely get past the cameras and extension cords. Syrah, however, wasn’t about to relinquish his territory. He perched on the picture windowsill and stared at the man with impervious disdain.

  A young woman, maybe midtwenties, approached me with authority once Tess and Gerard began busying themselves deciding where to best “place the woman and the cat.” I was simply the woman. Clyde was just the cat. Regret and anxiety began warring for priority inside my head.

  “I’m Cindy and I’ll be doing your hair and makeup,” the young woman said. “You’re very fair, and with those red highlights in your hair, we’ll go with lighter rose shades.” She smiled and asked if she could set her makeup case on the dining room table. But she didn’t even wait for a response. She just walked to the table, set the case down and opened it.

  Hair and makeup? Why had I ever agreed to this? I thought someone would simply shove a microphone in my face, ask me a few questions and then these folks would leave. But they’d gone all Barbara Walters on me and I felt as if my life belonged to them now. Meanwhile, Clyde sat calmly at the junction of the kitchen and living room, unperturbed by this mayhem. I needed to take a lesson from him, get through this and hope they all left town as soon as they walked out my door.

  A good thirty minutes later, I was seated in my overstuffed chair. It had been moved so the view of the lake out my picture window was prominent in the background. This forced them to push aside the leather recliner that my late husband once sat in every night before bed for as long as we’d been together. I swa
llowed down the lump in my throat as I watched them move it, eager to shout, Be careful with that, but not wanting to sound rude.

  The cameraman was the only person who seemed interested in the scenery. After the sound man clipped a small microphone onto my shirt—a pink blouse the makeup lady “suggested” I wear after a thorough examination of my closet—he smiled as he looked out on the shimmering water. “What a view, Mrs. Hart.”

  I nodded appreciatively, grateful for the presence of someone who didn’t seem completely self-involved. As Tess began her interview, I found myself drawn to his encouraging smile rather than to her. At least he sensed my discomfort.

  “We’re here in the living room of Jillian Hart in Mercy, South Carolina. She’s graciously invited us inside so we can visit with a now-famous orange tabby named Clyde. Clyde is a wanderer, we have learned. He traveled more than two hundred miles to find his original owner.” She stared fondly at him sitting in my lap. “Such a bittersweet tale. Can you tell us how he came to be living here with you today?”

  I told her about his needing a foster home after his owner’s untimely death and how I had fostered cats in the past.

  Without a mention of poor Mr. Jeffrey, she went on. “The world is amazed at Clyde’s stamina. Did he have any health issues after such a long journey?”

  “No, ma’am. He has a great appetite and his paws are in perfect shape. Our local vet found absolutely nothing wrong with him.” I forced a smile and stroked the cooperative Clyde. He lay on one of my kitty quilts that I’d draped over my lap. Tess thought it would be a nice touch to have him sitting on a quilt.

  Meanwhile, Syrah had taken his favorite spot on the sofa back and his expression seemed to mock us both. It was as if he were saying, Why are you doing this? You sound ridiculous—and Mr. Big Cat? What’s with you? Have you no pride?

  I fought a sheepish grin, knowing this would be a perfect assessment had Syrah been able to talk.

  “We understand you helped out another famous cat—one belonging to local socialite and philanthropist Ritaestelle Longworth. How do these two cats compare?”

  I was momentarily stunned by her question. How did she know about Ritaestelle and her cat, Isis? And what else did these people know about my life? I took a deep breath before I answered. “Isis and Clyde are very different, but both special. Just like each person is unique. I haven’t known Clyde that long, but he is a calm and loving boy. And I can tell he is missing Mr. Jeffrey. I could never be a substitute for the man who originally rescued Clyde.”

  “Yes, he was a rescue cat, wasn’t he?” She tilted her head and again smiled at Clyde. “I understand rescues are often very bright. And this one must have his own GPS to have come so far.”

  “Actually, scientists believe cats do have a kind of GPS in their brains and—”

  “So interesting, indeed,” she interrupted. “What’s in Clyde’s future? Will he live with you or go to one of the former owner’s relatives? Or perhaps one of our viewers will have the opportunity to adopt him. I know the e-mails and tweets are already flooding into the network.”

  Her suggestion struck a nerve. This wasn’t a game show with Clyde as the prize to be offered up to their viewers.

  “That’s not up to me,” I answered, trying to keep my tone Southern sweet. “Please remember, Mr. Jeffrey will always be Clyde’s owner in his heart. Right now, this boy needs love and attention. That’s my only focus.”

  Her interview ended with a question about my kitty quilt business and whether Clyde had decided the one he sat on belonged to him. I wasn’t sure what I answered as I was still stunned by her lack of empathy for a dead man.

  Gerard Holcomb was up next and his questions were similar. But though Tess seemed pretty much the same on camera and off, Gerard turned on the charm. He became a totally different person than the man who had pounded on my door and marched into my house.

  I even found myself smiling broadly when he said, “You and this cat have already formed a bond. When you watch this interview once it airs, you’ll see what the world is seeing. I understand you have cats of your own.”

  I told him about my three Katrina rescues and beyond the cameraman, I saw Tess’s face fall. She hadn’t thought to ask about my other cats and knew she’d missed an opportunity to add even more emotion to the interview. Her research hadn’t revealed all the details of my small-town life. But somehow Gerard knew, probably by instinct, that my own cats might have an interesting backstory similar to Clyde’s.

  He finished the interview by asking the cameraman to get a close-up on Clyde’s wonderful, gentle expression and I felt more relaxed than I had all day.

  But the minute the red light on the camera went off, he reverted to being a jerk. People, unlike cats, have the ability to often disappoint.

  Four

  Once the television people went out the front door, I was thankful to see them pack up all their equipment and drive away. If Candace and I had our wish, they were off to the airport. I felt as if a weight had been lifted—until Clyde began pacing around the house and meowing mournfully. This was not his home, no matter how easily he had embraced me and my cat family.

  In my opinion, cats grieve. After all, the part of the cat’s brain where emotion is centered is almost identical to a human’s. Clyde had worked so hard to get home to Mr. Jeffrey and instead he found himself in a strange house. I tried to comfort the big boy, but Clyde didn’t want treats, or tuna cat food or even real tuna water, and believe me, that was something cats rarely turned down. He simply needed time and petting and, most of all, acceptance.

  My kitties seemed to sense his suffering as well and they let him be. I decided to follow suit and get on with a day mostly lost to watching or worrying about the media people. I’d wanted a chance to make the interview more about Mr. Jeffrey, and about how a cat traveled all those miles out of need to be with his friend. But little of that would air on television tomorrow because they hadn’t asked me those sorts of questions. Now, I felt like a trial witness who had a complete story, one that would shed light on a crime, but I hadn’t been able to tell it because I could answer merely what was asked. So Clyde’s story would only be half told.

  I busied myself with Internet orders for my kitty quilts the rest of the day. The time flew by, and before I knew it, Tom texted that he would bring over dinner.

  Thirty minutes later, Tom arrived. What he hadn’t told me was he was also bringing a big box of fresh peaches. He kicked open the back door, his arms loaded with peaches and pizza. When I came to help him, that was when it happened.

  Clyde slipped out and ran toward the lake.

  “No,” I cried. I was barefoot but had a pair of flip-flops near the door. I grabbed them.

  Tom juggled the box as I pushed past him to chase after Clyde. At the top of the back stairs, I put on the almost-shoes and ran down in the direction Clyde had gone. But I couldn’t see him anywhere.

  Tom was right behind me.

  “I’m so sorry,” he called as I hurried along the shore, looking ahead and then up the slope toward the empty wooded lot next to my house. Tom caught up to me and I stopped, hands on hips.

  “He’ll be hard to find between all those trees.” I glanced at Tom’s stricken face. “Don’t blame yourself. It’s my fault. Clyde was . . . distraught after being put on display. I should have figured he was planning an escape. That is his MO, after all.”

  “I don’t see him anywhere.” Tom looked left and right, then up the hill until his gaze stopped at the tall pines and black walnut trees at the top. “Is he a climber, you think? We could get Billy Cranor out here with the fire ladder if we need to.”

  Billy was a local volunteer fireman and a good friend.

  “That’s a big if—and it’s getting dark.” I shook my head, feeling guilty and helpless. “My cats know the word treat and would come to me in a heartbeat, but this guy couldn’t care less about food—at least today. All those cameras and strangers in my house probably unnerved him. H
e didn’t like it any more than I did.” I stared at the grass, shoulders slumped. “I should have known better, should have anticipated this.”

  Tom rested a hand on the back of my neck and gently squeezed. “My turn to say it’s not your fault. This is what cats do—especially Clyde. We’ll find him, but it might take time.”

  I leaned into him. “I know exactly where he’s going—it’s just a matter of what route he’ll take and how long until he gets there.”

  “Are you thinking he’ll head back to the Jeffrey place?”

  “That’s right.” I scanned the trees again. “But I can’t give up until we at least look for Clyde in that miniforest. I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t hunt for him.”

  After I traded the flip-flops for tennis shoes, we found a couple of flashlights and spent an hour calling for Clyde in the empty lot. Then we trekked up and down the road in front of my house, the heat of the day dissipating into the darkness. Nothing but squirrels and birds to be seen. So we got in Tom’s Prius and drove down the road leading out of my neighborhood in the hope of catching sight of him. Still nothing. The entire time, I worried for Clyde’s safety as he roamed the rural landscape of Mercy all by himself.

  Finally, pitch darkness forced us to give up and return home. Syrah, Merlot and Chablis sat by the back door and stared up at us when we came in. Merlot craned his neck as if looking behind me for Clyde to appear.

  “We lost him, friends,” I said to my three.

  Tom took my hand and pulled me into the kitchen. “I know you feel awful, and I do, too, but we’ll get him back.”

  The pizza Tom had brought with him, cold by now, sat on top of the box of peaches he’d set on the counter. But I’d lost my appetite.