The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (17 page)

“What’s the boy’s name?” I said.

She stared straight ahead. “I promised I’d never say. And I keep my word. Don’t want to bring shame on the boy—and he would be shamed because one of his kind loved a mill girl.”

Before I could press Jeannie further about this important piece of information, I heard cheerful hellos coming from the door. I turned and saw Pastor Mitch and Elizabeth come into the room.

Jeannie turned her face away from them, but at that instant, I saw Boots—yes,
saw her again
—jump on Jeannie’s stomach. She was so surprised and so happy, the sulky attitude brought on by these new visitors disappeared. She let go of my hand and rested it on Boots’s back.

The Trumans stood at the end of the bed, their smiles genuine and caring.

Jeannie looked at me. “You the one told ’em I was here?”

I nodded.

“Guess it’s okay then.” She lifted her eyes and took in the pastor and his wife. “We’re over our troubles?”

“We are,” the pastor said, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights in the hospital room.

Elizabeth opened the tote bag slung over her left arm and pulled out a multicolored afghan. “Remember Cora? She made this, wants you to be comforted by her handwork.”

Jeannie’s eyes widened like a child at Christmas. “That’s for me?”

Elizabeth spread it over Jeannie’s feet. Immediately Boots scooted down to the end of the bed and curled up.

Jeannie glanced my way. “Did you see that?”

Before I even knew what I was doing, I smiled and nodded.

“See what?” Pastor Mitch said.

I could feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Nothing. What else do you have there?” I said to Elizabeth, who was pulling a tin out of her bag now.

“My lemon cookies.” Elizabeth walked over and set them on the small table beside the bed. “For when you’re ready to eat.” Then she came in close to the older woman and took Jeannie’s face in her hands. “I missed you, Jeannie Sloan. The Lord has missed you in his house of prayer, too.”

I stood. “I’ll leave y’all to visit.” I looked at Jeannie. “But I’ll be back.”

I left quickly after saying good-bye, a mix of emotions swelling in my chest—and thoughts about what she had told me swirling in my brain.

Who was this boy?
We had to find out.

Driving home, I received a call from Kara. She wanted me to meet her at Belle’s Beans. Neither of us said anything about the events of the last two days, but I was sure that was what she wanted to talk about. I never passed on an opportunity to have coffee with Kara, and no matter what she wanted to talk about, today was no different.

When I walked into Belle’s thirty minutes later and the smell of fresh-made coffee and baked goods hit me, I felt tension leave my body. Funny how the comfort of food and drink can reduce stress better than any drug. It worked almost as well as a cat on my lap.

Kara was sitting at a back corner table and when I started for the counter to order a latte, she gestured for me to come over. I saw then that she’d ordered for me. I waved at the “Belle of the Day” barista behind the counter and bypassed her. Belle Lowry, who owned the place, had every barista wear a
BELLE
nametag—no matter what the barista’s gender. This was her special way of advertising.

After I kissed Kara on the cheek, I slid onto a stool opposite her and said, “Thanks for the coffee.” I pulled off my gloves and stuffed them in my pocket. It was chilly in here—or I’d brought the chill with me—so I kept my jacket on.

“Vanilla latte for you,” she said.

“Thanks. Just what I need.” I gripped the tall paper cup with both hands and enjoyed the warmth.

“We’ve passed on the road twice in the last few days, so I thought we should sit down for a talk,” she said. “This is not for publication in the
Messenger
. I’m just concerned about you. I heard you found Penelope Webber’s body.”

“I did. Pretty awful, I have to say.” I picked up my latte and sipped the rich milk and vanilla-laced coffee. Belle used Madagascar vanilla and this made the drink a customer favorite.

“You okay after such a horrible discovery? You sure look tired,” Kara said.

“Didn’t sleep well after all the trouble last night,” I said. “Plus I’ve already been to the hospital this morning.”

“To the county hospital? Why?” she said.

“It’s kind of a long story—one you might want to write about after the police are ready to release information. For now, it’s just the two of us talking.” I stared into her brown eyes—the ones so like her father’s—and I saw her concern. She wouldn’t print anything until she knew the time was right.

Kara glanced around the café. Since it was now late morning, the place wasn’t too crowded. “Just keep your voice down while you tell me what’s going on. There are plenty of ears in this town ready to share gossip with the first person they see.”

“I know.” I leaned on the table to get closer to her and, in a low voice, explained about Jeannie and the skeleton. I talked about everything that had gone on since the day before yesterday.

When I was finished, Kara sat back, her eyes wide. “Wow. I heard rumblings about bones in the mill. I was sure they’d find out it was some animal that died in there
a long time ago. But this is the first I’ve heard about this Jeannie person.”

“I’m glad her reappearance isn’t part of the town gossip talk yet,” I said. “I sure hope she’s left alone once people do know.”

“The murder of Penelope Webber has grabbed the spotlight,” Kara said. “She was well-known, but finding any extended family has been difficult. I know because I tried so I could get a quote for the paper. I think that’s sad.”

“Her house is so big. I thought she at least had out-of-town family—maybe even children,” I said.

“Word on the street is she never married and never had children,” Kara said. “B.J. told me they’re looking into a sister who might live on the West Coast but I sure couldn’t find her. A stabbing is so personal—I mean you always hear that, right? The murderer in those kinds of cases is usually someone the victim knows well.”

“Her door was unlocked—as though she’d let her killer in,” I said. “That’s another clue she knew who murdered her. Someone who was very angry, in my opinion.”

“I’ve been covering this mill renovation story,” she said, “and the two groups vying for the…let’s call it the
prize,
don’t seem to like each other too well.”

“I noticed that when I met them yesterday,” I said. “They sure seem to have different visions for the mill’s future.”

“I agree,” she said. “Ward Stanley seems a little desperate—as if he wants vindication for the bankruptcy, for the loss of jobs and for the stain on the community that mill has become.”

“But wouldn’t you say it’s more self-serving than altruistic?” I asked. “Seems to me he’s trying to save face rather than save the town.”

“Yup,” she said. “I’ve been at every town council
meeting. I mean, how many jobs will a condo project create in the long run? Sure you’ll have the renovators and contractors. And the bank will be happy if they can loan out mortgage money. But the urban village group will do the same and provide jobs for shop owners and museum keepers, and they plan to rent out a large common area for banquets and weddings.”

I smiled. “I see which way you’re leaning. But we don’t get a vote. This is private money coming in. Either idea would work.”

“Condos don’t draw tourists,” she said. “This town needs something new like the urban village, so yes, I’m hoping their investment group wins.”

I took another long drink of my coffee. “Seems wrong to be talking about these projects when Penelope was the one leading the debate. Do you think her death might have been connected to these plans for Mercy’s future?”

She cocked her head, her long dark hair blanketing her left shoulder. “I hadn’t thought about it—hadn’t had time to think about it. But there are people in this town who want everything to stay the same—that run-down mill included.”

“Mill villagers or town people?” I asked.

“Hmm. Good question,” Kara said. “I know next to nothing about the mill villagers and how they feel about living in the shadow of a decaying structure. If I lived there, I’d want it cleaned up. Wouldn’t you?”

“I’d have to put myself in their shoes,” I said. “Their neighborhood would change. More traffic, more strangers around no matter which project goes forward. Change isn’t an easy thing for many folks and there would be plenty of change.”

Kara rested her chin on her fist. “Would killing Penelope Webber stop the mill cleanup from going forward,
though? I mean, the state’s mill renovation legislation with tax breaks for places like Mercy makes it pretty darn sweet to clean up that mess across town.”

I had a thought then. A dark thought. Lowering my voice to barely a whisper I said, “What if her murder is about kickbacks? What if Penelope favored one project over another? What if that made someone very, very angry?”

Kara nodded. “You know what? You could be right. My investigative journalism background could come in handy here. I sniffed out plenty of political backroom deals back when I was a reporter in Houston. I can do it again.”

I felt my face drain of color. “How many of those investigations involved vicious murders? Now I wish I’d never even talked with you about this.”

Kara reached across the table and gripped my forearm. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m betting Penelope Webber thought the same thing.”

*   *   *

Unsettled by the determination I’d seen in Kara’s eyes when we parted with a hug outside Belle’s Beans, I left a message on my way home for Candace to call me. I wanted her to know about this conversation. Kara wouldn’t print anything yet, but she did intend to dig a little deeper into the backgrounds of both Ward Stanley and Lucas Bartlett, something, she said, she should have done when the proposals for the mill came in anyway.

As I pulled into my driveway, I told myself Kara was compelled to investigate in her role as editor of the newspaper. That was just how she operated. But I couldn’t quite convince myself her eagerness today wasn’t my doing.

Three cats sat waiting for me when I walked in the back door, but I’d only managed to kneel and pet my
friends before my phone rang. Not Candace. It was a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello?” I said after I connected.

“Mrs. Hart? This is Pastor Mitch. Do you have a moment?” he said.

“Sure.” I tossed my empty Belle’s Beans cup in the trash and walked into the living room. Chablis followed and the other two cats stayed back. Did that mean Boots had come inside with me? I so wished she would stay with Jeannie.

“Elizabeth and I talked to the doctor. We told him we’re willing to take Jeannie to our home when she’s ready to be released. If she agrees, this is what will happen. But the timing is much quicker than we realized. She can come home the day after tomorrow.”

“But she had a big operation, didn’t she? That seems so soon and—”

“I agree, but the doctor assured us in this time of high technology for a surgery like hers, three to five days is routine.” His tone darkened when he said, “It would seem three days is more common when one has no insurance and no funds.”

“I see. How can I help?” I stroked Chablis. She’d crawled into my lap the minute I sat down and was already purring like a diesel engine.

“Jeannie trusts you,” he said. “She will need rehabilitation, although they were getting her up for a walk when we left the hospital. The doctor explained the rehab process, but perhaps you could be involved, maybe to simply hold her hand, motivate her a little. Is that possible?”

“Absolutely possible,” I said.

We talked more about the rehab center where she would go a few days a week, the walker he’d learned Jeannie would need and how best to help her through what would probably be the biggest shock—that she could not return to the mill.

I had just hung up from my call when I heard the slamming of car doors in my driveway. Seconds later I was leading Lydia and Candace into my living room. The assistant coroner’s arrival sent poor Chablis racing for my bedroom. Merlot and Syrah hadn’t come around me since I’d come home. They were obviously preoccupied—and I feared I knew why.

Lydia wore a fringed purple suede jacket and dark pink jeans. At least today her hair was tamed by barrettes. I could tell by Candace’s demeanor she was none too happy to be accompanying Lydia here.

“So
you
found the body, huh?” Lydia said as she plopped down on my sofa. “Let’s chat about that discovery and exactly why you were over at Penelope Webber’s house in the first place.”

An exasperated Candace said, “I’ve told you twice already I sent her there. What is it about—”

Lydia held up a commanding hand. “My job as an assistant coroner in the state of South Carolina and Mercy County is to investigate suspicious deaths. Not with hearsay. With direct knowledge. You got that, Candace?”

Candace rolled her eyes. “Got it.” She looked at me. “Tea, anyone?”

“Not for me. This is not a social call,” Lydia said.

I’d never name any visit from Lydia a
social call
, but I wasn’t about to say it aloud.

“I’m having tea. Jillian?” Candace raised her eyebrows at me.

“Not right now, but you go ahead,” I said. As Candace walked into the kitchen, I sat on the chair opposite Lydia. “What do you need to know?”

“Time of day you found the body, how you got in that house and why in heaven’s name you
did
go inside, for starters.” She pulled her small tape recorder as well as a notebook from her oversize satchel-slash-purse—the one with a zebra print.

After she turned on the recorder, I again related the events of last night, trying to be as detailed as possible so Lydia would leave quickly.

When I was done talking, she said, “This murder weapon. Exactly how is it that you knew it was—” She flipped through notebook pages. “Ah, here it is. How did you know it was a heddle hook when no one else did?”

“Because my background is in fiber arts,” I said.

“Who in the heck has a
background
in fiber arts?” she said. “And what does that mean, anyway?”