“You mean your BFF, Deputy Carson? How did you talk her into snooping around over there? Did you know what you’d find?”
“Are you kidding me?” I couldn’t hide my irritation this time. “How could I know we’d find a dead man?”
She raised her eyebrows inquiringly. “Because you visited that victim earlier in the day? Or at least that’s what Buford Miller’s landlady told me when I called her.”
“Please make your point, Lydia.” I noticed Clyde had moved into the room now. Maybe he wanted a little of the attention Syrah was getting from Emily.
“My point? You need to keep your nose out of official business—and I don’t care if your friend wants to bring you along for Buford’s autopsy, you will not step through that door. You stay out of this.”
I took a deep breath, determined to remain calm. “I don’t even want to think about an autopsy, much less go to one.” I was certain Lydia knew as much. So why was she really here? “Any other warnings you want to offer before you leave?”
“I believe you should keep your word and give this girl what you promised—an interview about this cat, an animal that for some strange reason seems so important.”
It was Emily’s turn to pipe in. “Because you promised, Jillian, and the police aren’t giving me the time of day.”
I was puzzled. This didn’t jibe with Lydia’s usual practice. She never made friends or allowed anyone near anything even remotely connected to what she considered her investigation. “O-kay,” I said slowly. “Let me get this straight, Lydia. You want me to talk to this out-of-towner about Mercy’s unpleasant business? Don’t you think that might draw all those media people back here?”
Lydia let out an exasperated sigh. “Their interest has probably disappeared since you gave your little interviews. Yeah, I saw you on TV. You had nothing important to say and these murders aren’t something they’d care about. My friend Emily, who is such a sweet thing and understands the importance of my role for the county, is only interested in the cat. And you have the cat. Do what you promised and answer her questions.”
Emily stared at Lydia. “Murders? As in more than one person was found dead in that house?”
Lydia blinked hard and I could see her wheels turning. She’d just revealed a piece of information she knew she shouldn’t have—and probably because Emily had flattered her. And flattery often resembles friendship about as much as a shark resembles a dolphin.
“Murder. Buford Miller was murdered.” Flustered, Lydia turned to me. “Tell her about the cat. Me? I have work to do.”
Syrah ran behind Lydia as she scurried out of my living room and through the foyer. Once the door closed behind her, Syrah turned around and sat, staring at me as if to say, Thank goodness she’s gone.
“Okay, then.” I smiled politely. “What did I promise to tell you about Clyde?” I pointed behind her. “He’s right there, by the way.”
Clyde was definitely an interested observer, sitting there with his precious cat smile.
But Emily wasn’t about to be distracted now that Lydia had let an important tidbit slip. “She was lying, wasn’t she? So, tell me. Who else besides Buford Miller was murdered?”
Eleven
As I racked my brain for a way to divert Emily’s attention from questions about murder, my phone rang. Tom’s name and picture appeared on the display and just seeing his face settled me.
“Excuse me, Emily, but I need to take this call.” I turned away to talk and saw Clyde approaching Emily. Good. Maybe he can work some magic. I answered my cell with a cheerful “Hey there.”
“You busy?” Tom said.
I glanced back at Emily where she sat with Clyde. My two cats who hide every time Lydia comes around had decided it was safe to return. Happy for attention from our visitor, they butted against Emily’s legs as she scratched their ears.
“Um, you might say that. But aren’t you . . . working?” No way did I want Emily to overhear anything about the murders. I knew she paid close attention to what was said in her presence.
“Yes, and that’s the problem. I’m at the cousin’s house here in Mercy and the woman will only talk to me through the door. That’s not the best way to do an interview.”
“Okay. I understand you’re frustrated, but I have this . . . guest. Remember Emily? She’s here for the interview about Clyde’s second journey.” I turned to smile at Emily, but she was responding to the demands of all four cats now. And engrossed. Yes. Go Team Kitty.
Tom said, “Sounds like you need an excuse to escape and I could sure use your help.”
“I’m listening.”
“I get that you don’t want to talk in front of her. Here’s the deal. This Rafferty woman has at least three cats. Could be more, but I’ve seen three for sure in the windows. I may be reaching, but she might let us in if you can convince her how much you love cats. It’s worth a shot. I even called Candace and put her on speakerphone while Mrs. Rafferty listened through the cracked door. She still wouldn’t budge and open up.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I spoke loud enough that Emily couldn’t help but overhear. After Tom gave me the address and I disconnected, I turned to Emily. “I have a small family emergency. Can we do this another time?”
“Something wrong with your stepdaughter . . . Kara, right? Because my research says she’s your only family.”
The thought that she had researched me didn’t sit well. But I had to get away. “I consider a few people in town my family, so Kara isn’t my only relative. I promise I’ll talk to you again and by then we’ll both know more about the . . . problem at the Jeffrey house.”
Emily patted each cat on the head and stood. “You keep putting me off, yet you’re so darn likable, I can’t get angry with you. Okay. You’re off the hook for now.” She placed her camera back in her bag and left without another word.
I sighed with relief when the door closed behind her. I turned on the television and watched her on the security screen as she slid behind the wheel of her car and drove off. But one thing was certain. I’d be watching in my rearview mirror on the way to LouAnn Rafferty’s house.
• • •
The drive to the cousin’s house took about five minutes and as far as I could tell, Emily didn’t tail me. LouAnn Rafferty lived on a narrow, winding gravel road not far from the lake. With all the rain we’d had in the early days of summer, trees lush with nourishment lined the way down the hill to the address Tom gave me. Wild turkeys walked along the side of the road, and this glimpse at Mercy’s natural beauty gave me a peaceful feeling. After a visit from Emily and Lydia together, I needed a few moments of tranquility.
Tom was leaning against his Prius parked in Mrs. Rafferty’s cracked concrete drive when I pulled in. His arms were folded, his annoyance evident.
I greeted him with a kiss and his features relaxed.
“I am determined to get inside and talk to that woman. I hope you can help me out.”
“Maybe I should have brought Clyde along. She probably knows him since Dirk mentioned she visited Mr. Jeffrey at times.”
We’d been walking toward the front door and Tom stopped. “Why didn’t I think of that? Good idea to mention Mr. Jeffrey’s cat.”
“Wait a minute.” I pulled my phone from my pocket. “I did bring Clyde along. Let’s go.”
The house needed some serious TLC. The front lawn could have used mowing, weeds had taken hold in many spots, and as we climbed the five steps to the sun-bleached front door, I noticed mortar missing between many of the bricks.
Tom rapped on the door, using the tarnished brass knocker. “Mrs. Rafferty? I’ve brought someone I think you’ll want to meet.”
I whispered, “Really? That’s how you plan to get her to come out here? She doesn’t know either of us and—”
The door cracked open and I could see the chain still attached. A pale and drawn face appeared through the small opening. Her iron gray hair hung limp below her ears and the profound sadne
ss in her expression was almost palpable. I felt a tug at my heart.
“Mrs. Rafferty, my name is Jillian Hart. First of all, I am so sorry for your loss.” I wished I could reach through the crack, grab her hand and squeeze it.
But then I saw a flicker of interest light her muddy brown eyes. “You’re the cat lady. The one who makes the quilts. I’ve seen your picture in the newspaper.”
I smiled. “That’s right. I do adore cats and would love to meet yours in person.”
“I have some, you know. Your quilts. Bought them from Martha at the Cotton Company.”
The Cotton Company was the local quilt store and the owner took my kitty quilts on consignment when I had a few to spare.
I glanced at the window to the right of the front door where a chubby calico cat had just jumped between the shade and the window to check us out.
“You bought them for your fur babies. How many cats do you have?”
“Four. But I can’t talk to you about Norman. Sorry.” She started to close the door.
“Wait.” I brought up the cat cam display on my phone and held it up so she could see. “Would you like to see Clyde?”
She lifted a hand and started to reach through the small opening in the door.
I pulled back the phone a tad. I didn’t want to deny her a peek at Clyde, but we needed to get inside and talk to LouAnn and this seemed the best way to accomplish that. “Let us in and I can show you better.”
“Is Clyde on TV again?” She squinted at the phone I now held at my side.
Tom spoke and I was glad he sounded gentle, because this woman could use a giant dose of kindness. “He’s at Jillian’s house right now. She can tell you all about him.”
The door closed with a thwack and my stomach sank. But then I heard her fumbling with the chain. Seconds later, LouAnn Rafferty let us into her dark, cramped living room.
Cats owned this house. The giant kitty condo in one corner took up a generous amount of space. Four cat beds neatly lined the wall beneath a mounted large-screen TV. LouAnn may have been a recluse, but I’d noticed the satellite dish outside. She wasn’t completely cut off from the world.
The kitty quilts she’d mentioned sat folded on the two wing chairs facing a worn and claw-tattered chenille sofa.
“I told you I bought your quilts,” LouAnn said. “Problem is, I have only two and my children fight over who gets to sit on them. When the Cotton Company has others for sale, I plan to buy two more.”
I could fix that problem immediately—I always carried a few extra in my minivan—but for now, I wanted to meet her cats. “Where are the rest of your fur friends?”
“You saw Cinderella in the window. Snow White is under the couch, but she’ll come out in a minute. Curious girl, that one. Hansel and Peter Pan were eating when you knocked and those boys do not give up their meals for anyone or anything.” LouAnn carefully removed the quilts from the two chairs and gestured at them. “Sit down, Jillian. You being a cat person, you understand they will come to meet you in their own good time.”
Tom took the other wing chair, and as LouAnn sat across from us on the sofa, she clutched the quilts to herself like security blankets. Fairy-tale names? Security blankets? Trying hard to stay positive, I was encouraged that this dejected-looking woman had her cats for company. By the looks of her—a housedress that hung on her skinny frame, the unwashed hair, the dull eyes—I was certain LouAnn suffered from depression.
“Thank you so much for letting us in, Mrs. Rafferty,” Tom said.
“You’re welcome. Don’t much like people coming around—and I’m smart enough not to trust a strange man at my door, no matter what tale he tells me. But if you’re a friend of Jillian’s, that means you’re okay. Just don’t expect to haul me downtown to be questioned by the police lady that keeps callin’. Norman is dead and there’s nothing left to be done for him.”
“You don’t like to get out and about?” I was glancing around and began to notice hints of her probably once-happy life. Several pictures of her and, I assumed, her deceased husband hung on the wall above the sofa. I recognized the London skyline in the background of one photo. They’d traveled. They looked like a loving couple. They’d had a life.
“I do my errands once a week,” LouAnn said. “I often visited Norman on errand day—but as you know, I won’t be visiting him anymore. Of course he was sick. Real sick. His skin was all yellow the last time I saw him. Plus he missed his Clyde. Don’t understand why he let go of his cat and it took me a while to figure out where Norman sent him. He wouldn’t tell me.”
Her tone was flat, her demeanor the same, as if she feared to care about this man’s death, even if she’d visited him once a week for a long time.
“Sounds like he was a secretive man,” Tom said. “Did you notice anything unusual about him other than signs of his illness the last time you saw him?”
But before she could answer, two cats came wandering into the room, tails up. They couldn’t ignore the sound of strange human voices—or, they’d simply finished their food. One was a tuxedo cat, his coat shiny, his mittens whiter than white. The other was long-haired and sandy colored with dark brown stripes on his legs and tail. They walked right up to our chairs and the tuxedo jumped into my lap.
LouAnn almost smiled. “That’s Hansel. He’s my smartest cat—but then, he’s a tuxedo.”
I stroked his silky back and he began to purr. Not to be outdone, Peter Pan soon rubbed against Tom’s leg. He bent and petted him, saying, “I appreciate your choice of companions.”
“You like cats?” LouAnn sounded surprised.
“I have a big tabby named Dashiell. He’s diabetic and I’ve gotten rather handy with an insulin syringe.”
LouAnn finally released a smile and it was such a transformation. I could tell she’d once been a beautiful woman—and could be again if she gained a little weight and began to care about her appearance.
“You named him for Dashiell Hammett. You were saying earlier through the door that you’re a private investigator, so I guess that’s a great name for your cat. Personally, I am a fan of fairy tales, not detective stories—but you probably figured that out. I like happy endings.” Her smile disappeared. “Why is it so important to talk to me? I’m nobody. I don’t know why a man who’s dead from cancer has the police so interested.”
“Because he didn’t die from cancer,” Tom said solemnly.
LouAnn’s already pasty skin paled further. “Whatever are you talking about?”
“He died from an overdose of his heart medicine,” I said.
She was shaking her head and clutching the quilts tighter. Snow White, probably sensing her owner’s distress, quickly appeared from beneath the sofa and jumped into LouAnn’s lap. She was a white domestic shorthair with green eyes—a gorgeous animal.
LouAnn lifted her and spread one quilt over her lap so Snow White could curl up on it. She laid the other quilt next to her and Cinderella bounded from her window seat and settled on it immediately. After stroking them both for what seemed an eternity—but was probably more like thirty seconds—LouAnn recovered her composure and looked at Tom. “Norman would never take his own life. He was fighting the cancer hard. It was that shifty young man who came to care for him, wasn’t it? He did something to my cousin.”
“Are you talking about Buford Miller?” I asked.
LouAnn seemed to have completely returned to the land of the living if her facial expression was any clue. Those tight jaw muscles indicated her anger. “The boy never introduced himself to me when I was there and doesn’t that tell you something? I suppose this is about Norman’s money. This charlatan inserted himself into Norman’s life, probably got him to change his will and there you go. You hear about such things all the time on the TV. He killed my cousin because he couldn’t wait for him to die of natural causes.”
I said, “Actually, Buford was hired through a home health care service, so he probably had a background check and—”
“
Sorry to interrupt.” Tom glanced apologetically at me before facing LouAnn again. “But how much money in Mr. Jeffrey’s will are we talking about, Mrs. Rafferty?”
She thought for a second before saying, “Why, I don’t know the exact number. I’d guess at least a million dollars.”
My eyes widened in surprise.
Whoa. Now there’s a motive for murder.
Twelve
After LouAnn mentioned Norman Jeffrey’s small fortune, Tom began to ask where all this money came from. But she seemed so flustered by the news that he hadn’t died of cancer that Tom backtracked and decided to ease her toward those questions. He switched his focus to the family. She said their relationships were a little complicated and even an explanation about this seemed difficult. “I am rather parched, not to mention troubled by this news. And I’m not used to talking to anyone but my cats. Can I get you and Mr. Stewart some iced tea? I think a glass of tea might settle my mind.”
After we accepted her offer, LouAnn wandered into the kitchen, all four cats following behind, no doubt certain their mistress in the kitchen meant good things for them.
Tom whispered, “I guess before we leave I should tell her about Buford’s death, but I didn’t want her to get sidetracked. We need to know more about her family.”
“That’s what I was thinking, too, but we should tell her. Otherwise she’ll find out and wonder why we withheld an important piece of information like that. Do you want me to break the news?”
“I was hoping you’d say that. She did buy two of your quilts, so she obviously felt connected to you even before you showed up.”
LouAnn called from the kitchen, saying, “My children are begging for treats. I’ll be a minute.”
“Perfect,” I said quietly. “I’ll be right back.” I tiptoed out the front door and went to the back of my minivan. Now seemed like a perfect time to pull out a couple of the quilts I kept packed in the back. I knew LouAnn and her cats would appreciate them.
The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim: A Cats in Trouble Mystery Page 9
