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

by Leann Sweeney

  I blinked several times. Maybe Dirk carried the secretive family gene after all. “I can assure you he never told her. Do you know if he found the will?”

  “Nope. That’s the only conversation I’ve had with the man. I did mention if the will was in a safe-deposit box, he could get access as the executor and file it for probate.” He paused. “And I remember telling him that once that will was filed in court, it would become public knowledge. Anyone could find out how Mr. Jeffrey divided his estate. That piece of information seemed to surprise him.”

  “When exactly did you talk to Dirk?” I asked.

  “The day after Mr. Jeffrey’s body was discovered. I remember because that’s the same time all the cameras came to Mercy to cover Clyde the cat.”

  I reached into the pocket of my khakis for my phone. “I have to call Candace. She needs to know about Dirk.”

  Liam stood. “I’ll make that call. You need to relax, Jillian. Trust Candace to get her hands on that will as soon as she can.”

  While Liam made the call, Kara refilled my wineglass. “He’s right. You should use your visit with me as a minivacation. Recharge, forget about the case.”

  “You’re probably right. It’s so hard to leave it behind after meeting the family—especially LouAnn. Then there’s Birdie, who seems like such a fine person. But if she’s protecting her son—”

  “Jillian, stop. Drink your wine and chill out.” She walked across the patio and lit the barbecue. Moments later she brought out a platter of kebab sticks skewered with mushrooms, tomatoes, chunks of summer squash, onions and green peppers. Clyde tried to escape through the French doors when she made her first trip back outside from the kitchen, but Kara was wise to him and aborted his attempt. Old habits die hard. New place, new exit strategy.

  While she basted the veggies with olive oil mixed with herbs, Liam returned.

  “Candace sends her love and says she’ll take care of everything. She’ll find Dirk and bring him in. She’s glad you helped uncover what may turn out to be a true attempt to deceive . . . or maybe just a white lie.”

  I didn’t buy the white lie idea. “Surely he didn’t forget he was the executor of that will.”

  “No. But it’s only one piece of information—information she needs, of course.”

  “My impression was he cared about his uncle. But this seems odd. Or maybe it’s just typical for this family.” I explained what I knew about the sister, the cousins, the nephew and even Birdie and her son. Meanwhile, Clyde and Pulitzer, his new best friend, sat and stared through the lowest panes of glass. You’d have thought Kara had just thrown fresh tuna on the barbecue.

  When we sat down inside to eat, I said, “I promise no more talk of murder. I want to enjoy every bite of this meal. Not only does it smell delicious; it looks pretty enough to be on the cover of Bon Appétit.”

  Kara blushed. “Simple food can look pretty.”

  Liam insisted on cleaning up after we were finished eating. I was too exhausted to argue. I curled up on one end of Kara’s taupe-colored velvet sectional and Chablis immediately joined me. Prize, a sweet, quiet calico girl, found Kara’s lap while the boy cats chased a moth that had flown inside when we came in for dinner.

  “They won’t stop until they catch that thing,” I said.

  “You got that right,” Kara replied. “They do tickle me with their stalking instincts. You’d think they were chasing dragons.”

  I laughed. Instincts were as important to animals as they were to folks like Tom and Candace and Kara. No, they were more important, more deeply imbedded, more pure. Maybe we should all be as watchful, playful and fierce as cats.

  Twenty-five

  I awoke the next morning crowded to the edge of Kara’s queen-size guest bed by four cats. This was why I had a king-size bed at my house. And Clyde? He took up almost as much space as a large child. I peeked over the comforter toward the end of the bed, knowing what I would see.

  Sure enough, Syrah sat staring at me with a look that conveyed I had fallen short of his expectations. Didn’t I realize it was time for his breakfast? I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and checked the time. Wow. Well past his mealtime. I’d been tired, but I hadn’t realized just how tired until now.

  After slipping into the flip-flops by the bedside, I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Kara was dressed and about ready to leave—or I assumed as much since she had her car keys in her hand.

  “Morning, Jillian. Coffee’s made, I have bagels, yogurt, and there are leftover peaches from last night. Help yourself.” Then she focused her gaze behind me and grinned. “Your entourage, I see.”

  I turned to see four cats sitting in a row, silently encouraging me to serve them their breakfast before I made another move or spoke a word. I opened the pantry where I’d stowed their food last evening. Kara had already set four small glass bowls on the counter.

  “You put out a paper tomorrow, right?” I poured kibble into each bowl.

  “Yes, and I wish I could headline the edition with ‘Murders Solved,’ but I can’t. I won’t even offer speculation. Anything we discussed last night is strictly off-limits for my paper. I print facts and leave the conjecture to the readers.”

  “Not many in your field do that anymore.” I set the dishes on the floor and watched four cats decide which bowl belonged to whom. Because I’d overslept, they didn’t squabble too much. They were hungry.

  Kara said, “I have to go. I told Emily she could come by the office and watch us put the edition together. She seemed excited about a lesson in journalism, small-town style.”

  “Thank you for taking her on. Maybe I won’t even see her today.” I gave Kara a hug, her damp hair smelling like lavender. “Anything I can do around the house to help out? I don’t want to be a freeloader.”

  “Um, how many quilts have you made not only for cats, but for soldiers’ children? How many hours have you given to helping the animals at Shawn and Allison’s shelter? How much time have you spent helping Candace? You couldn’t be a freeloader if you tried.”

  Minutes later, she was gone. I wondered where her cats were and found them, curled together, in Kara’s home office, enjoying the heat of the morning sun penetrating the window. Bet they were worn out after last night’s playdate with my crew.

  But if I thought I could spend the day reading or watching movies on Kara’s Blu-ray player, I was wrong. After my breakfast and shower, I felt antsy—so out of the loop here on the outskirts of town. I wanted to know if Candace talked to Dirk about Mr. Jeffrey’s will. I also wanted to know if either she or Tom had made contact with the CI. In other words, I wanted to know everything.

  Birdie worried me, too. She’d been so upset about what the police found in Buford’s room. And then there was the issue of her son. Did he even know the identity of his father? Did any of us really know besides Birdie? The cousins were speculating—or perhaps making an educated guess once the son’s photograph had been found in Mr. Jeffrey’s nightstand drawer.

  I decided to call Tom, hoping he’d at least spoken with Birdie this morning.

  “You sleep well?” Tom asked when he answered my call.

  “Better than I have in a week. Did you talk to Birdie yet?”

  “Sorry, no. After Liam called Candace last night with confirmation that Dirk is the executor, we’ve been scrambling to gather his information. We’re about to interview him, but first, with Liam’s help, we pulled phone records proving he did call the county DA’s office the day after Mr. Jeffrey turned up dead. We’re going to ask Dirk to explain his lie and I’m guessing Candace won’t be as nice as the last time they spoke.”

  “I hope you get the truth and finally have a look at the will.” I almost asked him to please phone Birdie but decided he was far too busy. Instead, I told him I loved him and disconnected.

  Maybe I could call Birdie and explain that Tom was tied up, but that he promised to get busy on helping protect her house as soon as he could. I liked that lady and didn’t wa
nt her to think I hadn’t come through on a promise.

  After I had no luck finding Birdie’s phone number, I decided to visit her. The cats, now grooming themselves after their meal, could occupy one another. I turned Kara’s TV on to Animal Planet as I often did at home. Maybe I’d return here and see that nothing had been broken, scratched or toppled in my absence.

  I already had a key to Kara’s house and knew her security code—a system similar to mine that her former employer, my Tom, had installed just last month. My Tom. Gosh, that sounded so good, especially now that Kara knew we planned to marry.

  I left, feeling anxious about not having the assurance my cat cam offered. But as soon as I drove back to Mercy, the gorgeous foliage lining the narrow country road distracted me. This was truly a beautiful part of the county. The weather app on my phone indicated rain headed our way, probably as soon as tonight, so I rolled down the van window and took in the fresh, warm air while I had the chance. But dust and pollen always lingered in the air on this side of town and an open window might not have been the best idea.

  Sure enough, I spent the last five minutes of my drive sneezing, and by the time I pulled in front of Birdie’s house, my eyes burned. So much for the beautiful outdoors. Several cars lined the street in front of her house and I realized I might get to meet Birdie’s son—or rather Birdie and Mr. Jeffrey’s son.

  I knocked and soon her round face peeked from behind the lace curtain on the door. The stress I’d seen in her eyes gave way to relief and she quickly opened the door.

  “So glad you dropped by, Miss Jillian. Come on in.”

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time.” But by the look on her face, I could tell I was welcome and that lessened the uneasiness I’d felt building all morning.

  “Perfect time.” She took my hand and led me down the hall toward her living room. “You been cryin’?”

  “No. I am allergic to something that blooms in the summer.”

  “I’m so glad you’re not troubled.” She gripped my hand tighter and I noticed her fingers were ice-cold despite the warmth of her home.

  We walked into the living room and I saw Wayne Jeffrey sitting on Birdie’s Victorian sofa, his arms spread along the scrolled wood of the sofa back. “Fancy seeing you here, Ms. Hart.”

  “I—I could say the same.” What was he doing here?

  Birdie, intuitive as always, said, “I haven’t seen Wayne here in a very long time. He still hasn’t stated his business.”

  “My business?” he replied. “Did you ask Jillian what her business is? I mean, I am an old friend. But her?” He pointed at me. “How long you known her?”

  Birdie raised her chin. “Long enough. Why you here, Wayne?”

  “Got my reasons. You said something about coffee right before the town snoop showed up. How about it?”

  The chill I felt in Birdie’s hands now seemed to envelop the room.

  “I’ll get right on that, Wayne.” Birdie’s tone was even harsher than when I’d heard her speak to Buford the first time I met her.

  When she started for the kitchen, I said, “Let me help you.”

  “What?” Wayne said. “She can handle coffee. Meanwhile, I’d like to get to know you better, Ms. Hart. My cousins have been yakking on and on about you.”

  A smart comeback would have been nice, but I wasn’t the person to make it. Instead, I decided that if he wanted to know me better, I sure as heck wanted to know more about him, too. But first, he had to understand that he wasn’t running the show. I repeated my offer to help Birdie out.

  “No, dear. You visit with Wayne, keep him company now that he’s setting there like a potted plant on my sofa. Just make sure he keeps his feet off the coffee table.” She left the room slowly, her arthritic walk seeming more pronounced than the other times we’d met.

  At least someone was good at comebacks and I smiled inwardly at Birdie’s spunk. Easing into a brocade wing chair across from Wayne, I came up with the only thing I could think of to say. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Jeffrey.”

  “Is that so? That’s why you’ve been talking to my family? ’Cause you’re sorry? Or is it more about you worming your way into their affection so you can end up with my cousin’s cat now that he’s passed on?”

  I blinked several times, trying to figure this out. “You believe I want to keep Clyde?”

  “You seem to collect cats like some folks collect stamps. That animal meant a lot to my cousin and he’s going back with Millicent as soon as the funeral’s over. He stays in the family. You hear me?”

  Did he really care about Clyde? I wasn’t convinced. “If you believe I ever intended to keep Clyde as my own, well—where did you get such an idea?”

  “I saw you on the news with him, all prettied up and makin’ the world believe you’re the savior of all cats.” He leaned forward. “He doesn’t belong to you. You got that?”

  The menace in his tone was obviously intended to frighten me. But why? Keeping my voice even, I quietly said, “I have no intention of keeping Clyde.”

  Thank goodness Birdie appeared with a tray holding three mugs, spoons and a sugar bowl and creamer. I quickly stood and took it from her. She thanked me as I set it on the coffee table.

  Wayne leaned in and doctored one mug with cream and sugar. “Now here’s what I’m talkin’ about. My cousin Norm always did say you made the best coffee.” He sipped the coffee and smiled with satisfaction.

  Birdie glanced at me and I read the apology in her eyes. My guess was that she was sorry she hadn’t been straightforward about her relationship to Norman Jeffrey when Candace and I first came to visit.

  Hoping to rescue her from self-admonishment, I smiled at her before I addressed Wayne. “Mr. Jeffrey talked to you about Birdie, did he?”

  “No. My cousin didn’t much care for me. As for his private business, we were left to figure the whole mess out. Norm never said who his woman was, but once he decided this one here was too good to sweep my cousin’s floor, we understood. We aren’t a stupid family, are we, Birdie?”

  Birdie sat on a padded straight-back chair next to me, her hands grasped together in her lap. “Stupid is not a word in my vocabulary, Wayne.”

  The coffee on the tray tempted me. I wanted a cup just so I’d have something to hang on to as the tension in the room crept ever higher. But if Birdie wasn’t having coffee, I wasn’t, either.

  Before another word was spoken, I heard a door open in the kitchen. We all looked in that direction and Birdie’s eyes widened, her expression bordering on terror. She offered Wayne a pleading look and shook her head ever so slightly.

  A male voice called, “Mama, why are all those cars out front?” A thin, light-skinned black man with a receding hairline and the most beautiful golden eyes walked into the room. “Oh, I didn’t know we were expecting company.”

  He walked over to Wayne and extended his hand. “Theo Roberts.”

  Wayne didn’t stand, but he did shake Theo’s hand. “And I’m Wayne.”

  I noticed Birdie take a deep breath and quietly blow it out, her eyes fixed on Wayne. He hadn’t mentioned his last name—at least not yet. If he’d said Jeffrey, Theo might start asking questions Birdie wasn’t ready to answer since that name had been in the news.

  I rose and Theo took my extended hand in both of his. “And you are . . . ?”

  “This is a new friend of mine,” Birdie said. “Nice lady named Jillian Hart.”

  Theo smiled broadly. “I thought I recognized you. You’re the one who has poor Mr. Jeffrey’s wandering cat.”

  Wayne mumbled, “For now.”

  Theo turned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Nothing.” Wayne stood, his gaze on Birdie. “Time for me to head out. Didn’t know you’d invited Ms. Hart over. We’ll talk again, though.” He raised one bushy gray eyebrow, his blue eyes stone cold.

  He left without any further acknowledgment of Theo or me.

  “Who was that man?” Theo asked. “He seems to
have upset you, Mama.”

  “He’s nobody. Sit down and have coffee. Have a proper talk with Miss Jillian. I’ll get another cup for myself.” She started to get up.

  Theo stopped her, saying, “Please stay where you are. I can at least save you a few steps.”

  Five minutes later, we all held mugs of the delicious coffee Birdie made so proudly from beans her son sent to her from New York. We made small talk about my brief television appearance, I asked about Theo’s job—he was a professor of economics—and Birdie seemed to slowly calm down as the conversation went on. Especially since we never returned to questions about Wayne’s visit.

  From the nonverbal cues I picked up on, I surmised that Theo knew little or nothing about Birdie’s relationship with Mr. Jeffrey or with extended family members like Wayne. She’d probably never told her son who his father was and the thought that he might learn this from someone as nasty as Wayne Jeffrey must have horrified her.

  It struck me then that I shouldn’t know who Theo’s father was when he did not. It seemed wrong. I hoped Birdie would sit down with him before Wayne came back—because I had the feeling he would return. The man looked ready to splay open Birdie’s old wounds in front of her son. Tom’s first impression of Wayne had been that he was “okay.” I now begged to differ.

  “How did you meet my mother?” Theo asked.

  I told him about my earlier visit with Candace and our talk with Buford right before his murder. “But today I came to explain about the delay in setting her up with a security system. I have a friend who can make sure none of Buford Miller’s nefarious friends ever bother her, but he’s helping the police right now and can’t get to the job immediately.”

  Birdie looked at Theo. “You think I need cameras watching my front porch, Son?”

  “This neighborhood has changed, Mama. I wish I did a background check on Buford Miller before you ever allowed him to live here.” He looked at me. “Since you have a reliable person who can install a security system, I’ll be happy to pay for it.”