“Neither Norman nor Birdie seemed to have anyone in their lives. Why weren’t they together?”
“Knowing Birdie, I believe she rejected him. She’s a careful, thoughtful soul. Norman would have married her despite what the folks in Mercy might have thought about him settling down with a black woman. Still, he protected their secret, supported his son, but he couldn’t hide his sadness. He went on and led a life that included a cat, his love of numbers and not much else.” She nodded, her mouth a grim line. “I do believe he was devastated. Why else would he shut himself off like he did?”
I hoped the silence that ensued would allow LouAnn to consider what she’d just said. It didn’t take long.
“Oh my,” she said. “I’m exactly like Norman, aren’t I? Why, I could die alone in my house and not be found for days because I’ve shunned the world.” She twisted her ring more forcefully. “Oh my.”
“I don’t believe you’ll let that happen,” I said quietly.
“You’re right. I won’t.” She emphasized her words with a nod. “I don’t expect too much to change as far as my cousins go, though. None of my family except Dirk ever talked to me much over the years except when they wanted something.” She halted, apparently considering this. “Except when Norman took sick. Then all of a sudden, Millicent started calling for updates about Norman’s health and so did Ida Lynn. Wayne even stopped by. I hadn’t seen him in maybe ten years.”
“Why do you think that is?” But I had a good idea why.
LouAnn’s eyes slowly widened in understanding. “I have been so wrapped up in my own grief, I never thought about it until now. Why, it’s all about Norman’s money, isn’t it?”
Twenty-one
I couldn’t wait to get to the police station to tell Candace all I’d learned about the family’s history, but before I left LouAnn’s driveway, I pulled up my cat cam feed. All four cats slept in various places. Late-morning siestas were a necessity if they wanted to be ready to race after one another at dusk. I switched to the GPS app that Tom put on my phone last night, hoping it was active and I could see exactly where Emily Nguyen was right now.
The round, shiny red dot on the map of Mercy told me exactly where—and I didn’t like what I saw. Despite what I’d said about our talking to Kara together, Emily was at the newspaper office. I hadn’t even had a chance to phone Kara and tell her much of anything about Emily. This could spell disaster if Kara didn’t want to cooperate with an out-of-town media person—and I wouldn’t blame her if she refused to help Emily.
I hit the speed dial number for the Mercy Messenger. Kara answered on the first ring and thank goodness she didn’t say my name.
Sounding breathless and anxious, I said, “Kara, I know Emily Nguyen is there and why. I am so sorry I didn’t let you know sooner about her wanting to talk to you, but if she’s there, please don’t say my name. I’m on my way.”
“Sure,” Kara replied coolly. “I’m here all day. All day.”
I assumed that meant Emily had been pestering her for probably as long as I’d been talking with LouAnn. I pulled out of the driveway, and though I kept to the speed limit, I found it hard not to press down on the gas pedal and drive like Candace usually does—way too fast.
The Messenger office is on Main Street less than a block from Belle’s Beans. When Kara took over the newspaper, she rented out the two floors above the original offices. They’d sat long empty in the three-story, hundred-year-old building. Now, an interior designer occupied floor two, and a tax preparer, who only used the space a few months a year, rented the third floor.
The Mercy Messenger printed papers three days a week, but Kara had hired an eager young man in the last few months to make sure the paper’s Web site had news content, obituaries and advertising every day. I was so frantic to get to Kara’s small office at the back of the building, I blanked out when he greeted me and couldn’t remember his name.
“Hey there, um . . . um . . .” I stood there, staring at his handsome young face, still at a loss. What was his name?
“It’s Andy,” he replied to my unspoken question. “You look upset, Jillian. Can I help?”
“Kara’s expecting me.” I rushed past his desk, now remembering his entire name. Duh. Andy McMahon, fresh out of college and glad to have found any job in journalism to start building his résumé.
The building was long and narrow, with the largest room still housing an old and now-unused printing press. Kara outsourced the print edition of the Messenger since a web printer would have been bigger than the entire building and, well, unnecessary for the small number of print editions the town needed.
I usually loved walking down this hallway, which Kara had refinished while retaining the nineteenth-century details, like the original transoms, and the wood floor that creaked with age. But today the beauty of the newspaper offices didn’t have their usual soothing effect. Why was I so nervous? What did I think Emily had been saying to Kara?
What bothered me, I decided, was that Emily was such a wild card, she might do anything—even get Kara to reveal things about the investigation that Emily knew nothing about. After all, Kara’s longtime boyfriend, Liam, was an assistant county DA, so she probably had knowledge beyond what she’d reported in her newspaper. I reassured myself that Kara was too smart to ever do that, but Emily was, if nothing else, persistent.
Kara’s office door had a battered metal sign—EDITOR- IN-CHIEF—hung from the transom with a cord. She had found it at an antique mall and loved it. The door was closed, but I heard muted female voices beyond.
I knocked and heard Kara call, “Come on in.”
I couldn’t detect the earlier irritation I sensed on the phone and perhaps my showing up was enough to make her happy she didn’t have to deal with Emily alone.
I tried to seem surprised when Emily turned around in the chair that faced Kara’s desk. “We keep running into each other today, Emily, but . . . didn’t I say we’d speak with my stepdaughter together?”
“I am a little impatient,” Emily said with a laugh.
Kara walked around her desk and hugged me, whispering in my ear, “I could have used a heads-up.”
Her hair was fastened in a loose ponytail and she was wearing comfy clothes—a tunic-type cotton shirt and blue jeans—the stuff she wore on her “writing days.” She’d been interrupted, and hopefully it was just this disruption in her routine rather than Emily herself that had produced her annoyance.
Kara returned to her desk and I pulled a metal folding chair over to sit beside Emily.
“What did I miss?” I tried to sound as cheerful as possible.
“Nothing,” Emily said. “I haven’t been here all that long. You slipped out of that coffee place before we finished our conversation. Urgent business, Jillian?”
I supposed that since Emily couldn’t track me, she’d decided to take the direct approach and simply ask me where I’d been.
“Errands,” I offered, and looked at Kara. “So, I mentioned to Emily that since the events here are becoming much more about murder than about Clyde, maybe you could help her navigate how best to get her story out there first.”
“Emily and I were discussing that. I explained what I’ve learned about reporting the news in a small town—how different it is than in a bigger city. It’s not as in your face as she’s used to.” Kara smiled at Emily with more patience than I could have mustered—because I’m sure Emily had been badgering her with questions.
“But,” Emily said, “I pointed out that I have to get this story to my producer with the angle about the cat still prominent. Something like ‘Cat Returns Home Only to Discover Horrific Crime.’”
“Horrific? Really?” Kara said. “When did you last see that in a headline other than in a tabloid? And would you want to pair that word with cat?”
Emily sat back. “Hmm. You’re right.”
“The reason I wanted Emily to talk to you,” I said to Kara, “is because this investigation shouldn’t focus on Cly
de right now. Two men have been murdered.”
“But that’s my only in, Jillian.” Emily’s voice had taken on a whiny tone.
“No, it’s not the only way you can report on this,” Kara said. “If you bring people a compelling, interesting story with the correct emphasis, you will sell it. I assume you want to freelance this?”
“You mean go solo on this?”
“Yes—that is, if your contract with Channel Five allows it.” Kara raised her brows in inquiry.
“Since I am not a full-time news reporter—just weather and traffic—there is nothing in my contract that says I can’t freelance.”
“Okay, then.” Kara folded her hands on the desk. “This story is complicated. There are things we don’t know yet, things the police are still investigating. You wouldn’t want to offer this as an incomplete piece to your station or as a freelance article. Your news station would certainly want to investigate it themselves. I don’t believe that will get you where you want to be in your career. Does that make sense?”
Emily nodded her agreement, and for once, she didn’t talk back.
I breathed a sigh of relief, felt the muscles in my tight neck relax. Thank you for speaking her language, Kara.
Kara went on. “Here in Mercy, I may know certain facts about an ongoing police investigation, but I’ve learned that law enforcement is my best friend. They understand my job and I understand theirs. If I jump the gun, report half-truths, get people stirred up, well, next time when I show up at a crime scene, no one will give me the time of day.”
Unfortunately, Emily didn’t quite understand what Kara was trying to teach her. She said, “But on CNN they—”
“We don’t have CNN here,” Kara cut in. “And in my opinion, the big news outlets blur the lines between fact and fiction in their rush to be the first ones to report. I don’t operate like that.”
“But my station in Asheville—”
“You sat here and told me your story before Jillian arrived. You quit meteorology school because you want to be an on-air news reporter and you believe Clyde is your ticket. You’re misguided. They’ll take this story and they’ll hand it to someone with more experience. You’re still the weather girl.”
Emily slumped in her chair. She’d heard this from me, but coming from Kara, it seemed finally to sink in. “I can’t give up,” she muttered.
“I am not about stomping on anyone’s dreams, Emily. Here’s the deal. You go back to your motel room and Google my name—Kara H-A-R-T. You’ll get a lot of hits. I’ve sold freelance pieces about crimes in both the big cities and here in Mercy. If you want to become a true journalist, not merely a town crier who shrieks out the latest rumor, we can work together. I’m willing to share a byline with you on this serious crime piece. I can open a few doors you have no access to, but I’ll only do that if you agree to start acting like a responsible reporter.”
I almost stood and applauded. Kara was an amazing person. She’d taken Andy under her wing and now she was doing the same for Emily. Part of this was because she understood the skill needed to break in to the crowded news arena. But she cared about the victims here in Mercy and perhaps wanted to instill some much-needed compassion in Emily.
Kara stood. “You go do your research on me. Meanwhile, Andy has been assigned to do the legwork on this story. He’s got a degree in journalism—something you really should think about pursuing yourself, even if it’s broadcast journalism. But for now, you can learn a lot from Andy. I’ll ask him if he’s willing to show you a few steps you seemed to have skipped in your desire to report on these murders.” She reached out her hand. “Okay?”
They shook hands and Emily offered Kara an enthusiastic “Yes.”
She turned and hurried out of the office but a few seconds later stuck her head back in. “Thank you so much, Jillian.” Then she was gone.
I released an even bigger sigh than earlier. “Thank you, Kara.”
“No problem.” She took her seat behind her beloved gouged and scratched desk, one she’d rescued from a neighbor’s curbside trash when she worked as an investigative journalist in Houston. “Emily has decent instincts but absolutely no clue how to play nice with others. She wants to be a reporter and somehow has confused that concept with becoming a news reader on TV. If she’s as smart as I think she is, it would serve her to set reachable career goals.”
“I completely agree. And now, I have to admit to something that has me feeling a little guilty—how I knew Emily was here with you.” I went on to explain about the slap-and-go GPS device that Tom had transferred to Emily’s car.
Kara shook her head in amazement. “Wow. Does Emily want to be a journalist or a private investigator?”
“I can only hope Lydia Monk doesn’t get wind of how easily she could stalk me. Anyway, I’m on my way to talk to Candace about information I’ve learned from LouAnn Rafferty and—”
“One of the cousins?”
“Yes. Since I’m here, I thought I’d fill you in on what I’ve just learned about that family.”
“But this isn’t for public consumption, I assume?” Kara said.
“Right, but you can use it later, I’m sure—maybe just for background.” I went on to explain what I’d learned about the love of Norman Jeffrey’s life and about his son.
“Wow,” she said when I’d finished. “So many questions are bombarding my brain cells right now.”
“Yes,” I replied, glad she understood. “But a few words are front and center in my thoughts—Last Will and Testament. I mean, there’s big money involved here. Did Norman Jeffrey reveal his deepest secret when he wrote his will and decided who he’d leave his money to?”
“I’ve got to write notes, think about all these family connections. If I don’t write it down, it won’t make sense to me later. Meanwhile, you need to go straight to Candace with this information.”
I stood. “I’m on my way—but I am so sorry about Emily showing up here. Thanks for understanding.”
“No problem, Jillian. I understand people like her. In this business, you run into them all the time.”
We hugged good-bye, but as I walked down the hall ready to leave, I heard male voices in the office. When I made it to the end of the hall, I found Dirk Boatman and Wayne Jeffrey standing in front of Andy’s desk.
Dirk smiled in greeting and Wayne nodded, his expression inscrutable. I felt uncomfortable in Wayne’s presence, though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because I couldn’t get a read on him.
Andy said, “Nice seeing you again, Jillian,” before looking up at Wayne again. “So you want the obituary to run a day or two before the funeral. And when is the funeral?” He poised his fingers over his laptop keyboard.
Dirk said, “We thought my uncle would be given to us earlier, but because of the autopsy, the body will be released to us today—so we’re thinking in about three days?” He glanced at Wayne as if for confirmation.
I was almost out the door when I heard Wayne’s answer. “Norm left you in charge, Dirk. You decide. But if I were making the call, I’d say put a rush on all this death business so we can get on with our daily stuff.”
I walked out, wondering what Wayne meant about Dirk being in charge. I thought I understood, but perhaps I could get clarification from a certain someone. Considering how she felt about me, I figured Tom might be able to get her to open right up.
Twenty-two
As I walked into the courthouse building and headed toward the police station, I called Tom’s cell. He said he and Candace were meeting to compare notes on both cases, and I should join them.
When I entered the office, B.J., who had a phone to his ear, waved me toward the break room down the hall. Tom and Candace were eating takeout from the Main Street Diner and my mouth started watering immediately. One of those famous chili dogs could sure provide a nice, if short, distraction from what had certainly been a stressful day. I sure hoped they’d over-ordered.
As if reading my mind, Tom reached in th
e open box between them on the table and held up a dog wrapped in white paper.
“Bless your heart, Tom Stewart.” I sat in the one remaining chair after greeting Candace with a small hug and Tom with a kiss. Home fries and a glob of ketchup filled the box, along with two more wrapped hot dogs.
We all ate in silence for a minute or two, and finally I spoke. “I have a lot to tell you, but first, Tom, I need a favor.”
“Give a woman a free chili dog and see what happens? A to-do list.” He winked at Candace and smiled at me. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and ask.”
I grinned but then grew serious. “Can you call Lydia Monk and find out who is the executor of Mr. Jeffrey’s will? She might know since she handles the death certificates at the coroner’s office.”
“Why did this show up on your radar right now, Jillian?” Candace asked. “Do you know something I don’t?”
I told them about seeing Wayne and Dirk at the newspaper office and how their conversation about Dirk being in charge had me wondering. “Did Mr. Jeffrey appoint Dirk executor? Certainly a will would tell you and Tom more about who would benefit most from Mr. Jeffrey’s death.”
Candace nodded. “We didn’t find a will in the house, so I already called probate court, hoping the will had been filed and we could have a look. It hasn’t, and really, we don’t even know if there is one.”
Tom balled up his now-empty hot dog wrapper. “A man like Jeffrey? There’s a will. But why call Lydia? Why not ask Dirk straight away?”
“I intend to—especially if it means we can limit Lydia’s involvement in the case,” Candace said. “We’ve been in fact-finding mode from the get-go, but once I start asking questions about inheritance, that could send a message to the entire family that we consider all of them suspects. And I do, by the way. Even the ones who seem like sweet or maybe not so sweet old ladies.”
Tom looked between Candace and me. “If Dirk’s the executor, as Jillian suspects, you’ll be asking him questions anyway.”
The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim: A Cats in Trouble Mystery Page 16
