The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (27 page)

I smiled. “Perfect. Thank you, Ed.”

Tom and I lunched together and when he headed back to his office, I went to the pastorium. I wanted to get there before Beatrice Sloan showed up so I could fill everyone in on who would be arriving soon and why.

When Pastor Mitch led me through the hallway to the pastorium’s kitchen, he said, “Elizabeth is doing charity work in Greenville for a few hours. Jeannie seems quite well today and I know she’ll be glad to see you.”

As Jeannie emerged from the room off the kitchen, her walker leading the way, I could tell from her expression that she was indeed happy to see me.

“Wow,” I said with a smile. “You’re moving faster than yesterday.”

“This hip don’t hurt nothin’ like when I fell,” she said. “Never told you how glad I was you showed up with my Boots that night. I might still be lyin’ on that cold floor.”

I glanced at Pastor Mitch, but he kindly ignored the reference to Boots. He clearly was getting used to Jeannie’s ways and taking them in stride.

“I’m happy I could help,” I said. “Maybe we should all sit for a minute? I have something to tell you two.”

The pastor helped Jeannie ease into a ladder-back chair at the large table in the center of the room. He offered
tea or coffee, but I refused, anxious to get on with my confession that I’d invited Beatrice Stanley here.

Jeannie said, “Miss Jillian is bustin’ at the seams to tell us something. Ain’t that right?”

“Um, yes,” I said, distracted by the appearance of Boots. She’d jumped right on the table and sat close to Jeannie—and stared at me, her little mouth curved into her Cheshire cat smile.

Jeannie said, “Is it a present like that quilt? I’m lovin’ that quilt and Boots loves hers.”

“I’ve gone and done something perhaps I shouldn’t have—in hopes of getting a clue to help find out what happened to Kay Ellen. Thing is, I don’t know if this will lead anywhere, but—”

In his soothing baritone, Pastor Mitch said, “We trust whatever you’ve ‘gone and done’ is the right thing. Just tell us.”

Quickly I said, “I invited Beatrice Stanley here. She wants to talk to Jeannie.”

Jeannie looked at me, puzzled. “Who’s that?”

“She was married to Mr. Stanley. You remember him, right?” Pastor Mitch said.

“The boss’s wife?” She seemed frightened now and I wondered why.

“She’s not the boss’s wife anymore,” Pastor Mitch reminded her, and then turned to me. “Why does she want to talk to Jeannie?”

I said, “She wouldn’t say, but I intercepted her outside this house yesterday. Word is out in town that Jeannie is back. Well, not that she ever really left, but—”

“Mrs. Stanley never came to the mill village when the family owned the mill,” Pastor Mitch said, “but she would write the church a generous check every year at Christmas. She’s welcome here. Her generosity is not forgotten.”

But Jeannie’s face had paled. “I’ve done somethin’
wrong. She’s mad at me, right? For sneakin’ into the mill?”

“That’s not her business to be mad about anymore,” I said. “The mill no longer belongs to the Stanleys and Mr. Stanley died almost ten years ago.”

Jeannie gasped. “
Died?
That’s terrible. He wasn’t a nice man, plain mean most days, but he’d let me bring Kay Ellen to work when she was sick. And in summer when school was out. He did that for all us workers.”

And made Kay Ellen work, no doubt,
I thought. “I told Mrs. Stanley I have to be in the room when she talks to you. She’s agreed.”

Jeannie laid a hand on her chest and I saw how bruised it was from the IVs she’d had in the hospital. “That’s good. I like you bein’ around.”

“I wish I could be here, too, but I have a sermon to prepare,” Pastor Mitch said. “If you need me, I’ll be in the church office.” He pointed to the back door. “You can get to the church right through there and just follow the path. Jeannie knows the way.”

She nodded. “I do. But Mrs. Stanley will be wantin’ tea and—”

“I can handle making tea,” I said.

Pastor Mitch left after pointing to a sealed glass jar on the counter near the double porcelain sink. It was filled with tea bags.

I smiled at Jeannie. “Let me help you into the living room—or would you rather talk to her in here?”

“This is where I stayed most days back when me and Kay Ellen was here,” she said.

She seemed to be getting nervous again and I said, “Then I’ll bring her back and we can all talk. I’ll be right beside you.”

“You was sayin’ something about how it was that Kay Ellen passed,” Jeannie said. “What’s that mean, Miss Jillian?”

But the loud rapping on the front door interrupted us—and I was relieved. Jeannie knew her daughter died, but she didn’t know how. That conversation might have to come soon, but not right now.

I glanced at Boots and her presence relaxed me. At my house, at least two cats would want to greet whoever had come knocking, but Boots hunkered closer to Jeannie, her paws tucked under her. Jeannie stroked her and her expression calmed. That little ghost cat could work magic at times.

I hurried down the hall and let Beatrice Stanley in. Immediately she said, “Where is she?”

Remembering what Ed had advised, I said, “I’m so glad you agreed to allow me to be with Jeannie during this chat. I think that was gracious of you.” I hoped my words convinced Beatrice that she was in control—as she used to be once upon a time. “She’s in the kitchen waiting for you.”

“The kitchen?” she said with disdain as we passed through the lovely parlor. She glanced around as if she deserved to own everything in the room.

I had a sinking feeling that this would
not
be a pleasant meeting. Nothing about Beatrice Stanley was the least bit pleasant and I feared no matter how much I complimented her, it wouldn’t matter. She might have lost material goods, but she hadn’t lost the notion that she was entitled to them.

Jeannie was still stroking Boots when we entered the kitchen, but of course Beatrice couldn’t see the cat. I was sure Jeannie’s arcing hand rhythm in the air seemed odd at the very least.

Never taking her eyes off Jeannie, Beatrice slipped out of her camel hair coat. I should have commented on that coat when she’d arrived because it was a classic, probably an item from her former life—an example of the expensive clothes she had probably once worn all
the time. She folded the coat neatly and placed it on the chair next to her.

Jeannie, meanwhile, had not made eye contact with Beatrice, and this conversation, like those before in the mill, would probably go through me. I offered to make tea, but Beatrice refused and Jeannie didn’t even respond.

I sat down and said, “Mrs. Stanley, I believe you have a few questions for Jeannie?” I was breathing too fast and told myself to calm down. This was just three women in a room. No reason to be nervous.

“You’ve been living in my mill for ten years? Is that right?” Beatrice’s tone was imperious and not a great way to start this dialogue.

Jeannie didn’t answer. She put her arms around Boots and pulled her close.

Again, this must have seemed odd to Beatrice. She looked at me and said, “What’s wrong with her? Does she have mental health issues I should know about?”

“Nothing’s wrong with her,” I said. “She’s been through a trauma, that’s all. Maybe if you ask me what you want to know, I can help her tell you.”

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “Look at me, Jeannie Sloan.”

But Jeannie’s focus remained on the cat invisible to Beatrice.

In as even a tone as I could muster, I said, “Please have compassion for her situation, Mrs. Stanley. She’s been homeless a long time and isn’t used to being around people. Ask
me
your questions and I promise I’ll help you.”

“Where’s the compassion for
me
?” Beatrice shot back. But she took a ragged breath and said, “Oh, all right. Have it your way. I know that conniving, deceitful husband of mine hid assets so I wouldn’t get them in the divorce. They’re in that mill. I just know it.”

“You mean money?” I said, taken completely by surprise.

“Cash, my jewelry that went missing, anything he could grab without leaving a paper trail once he’d divorced me. To his great regret, I’m sure, he never got the chance to actually spend any of it.” She pointed at Jeannie. “And that woman has been inside the mill. She’s probably been helping herself to my money all these years. In fact, I’m certain she has.”

Unbelievable,
I thought. Jeannie had been scrounging through a Dumpster at night looking for food while she’d lived in the mill. She didn’t have this woman’s money. But denying it, I now knew from my experience with Beatrice, wouldn’t work. So I said, “From what I understand, you did still live in the family home while your husband was hospitalized. Wouldn’t such a big place be a more likely location to hide these assets? He would have easy access to—”

“Don’t you think my son and I tore that place apart before we were tossed to the curb?” she said. “No, that bastard stashed it in the mill. I’m sure of it.”

Jeannie whispered, “She said a bad word. That’s not right.”

I wanted to agree with her, but instead addressed Beatrice. “Okay, what if your husband set up offshore accounts or—”

“What
don’t
you understand about what I’m saying, Mrs. Hart?” Beatrice said through clenched teeth. “I know how my husband operated. What he took, what belongs to me, is hidden in that mill and this woman—” She pointed dramatically at Jeannie. “This woman knows where it is or she’s stolen it.”

“Stealin’ is wrong,” Jeannie mumbled.

“Yes, it is,” Beatrice said. “So cleanse your conscience. Tell me what you’ve been doing in my mill all these years. How did you survive if you didn’t take my money?”

Her mill. Her money
. The woman was living in the past. And with her condescending attitude, I was finding it difficult to remain patient. But I had to. For Jeannie’s sake. I turned and said, “Jeannie, Mrs. Stanley believes you took something that belonged to her. I don’t believe that, but I will ask you. Do you know anything about any money or jewelry in the mill?”

“Don’t know nothin’. You should ask the creepers. Maybe they know,” Jeannie said.

The creepers
. I’d thought Jeannie, because she’d lived alone for so many years, might have been having hallucinations, that these creepers were figments of her imagination. But what if they weren’t? Had someone been sneaking into the mill and looking for what Beatrice Stanley so desperately wanted?

“Creepers?” Beatrice said. “What in heaven is the woman talking about? She
is
mentally ill.”

Trying to explain to this woman anything about Jeannie’s experience for the last decade was futile. I said, “Did you ever enter the mill after it was closed up, Mrs. Stanley? Look for this money you say your husband hid from you? Because perhaps Jeannie heard you and—”

She laughed derisively. “Are you implying
I’m
one of these
creepers
? How ridiculous. I wouldn’t think of breaking into the building, not like
she
did, even though it’s rightfully mine. Ask her again. She may act simple, but she knows exactly what I’m talking about.”

I sighed. This was going nowhere. But I again turned to Jeannie. “Do you know anything at all about money or jewels? Know of any hiding places?”

Still gazing at the table, her ghost cat close to her breast, she didn’t speak, just slowly shook her head no.

I wanted to question Jeannie further about these creepers I’d thought were imaginary, but I wasn’t about to do so in front of this unsympathetic, hateful woman. I
looked at Beatrice and said, “Who else knew your theory about hidden assets besides your son?”

“My
theory
? You think I’m making this up?” she said.

“I’m trying to
help
you.” My patience was spent. “Why would the money be inside the mill?”

“Because Ward—my husband, not my son—practically lived in that mill. From what I heard, that one over there—” She waved a hand at Jeannie. “That one was living in my husband’s old office, not to mention hanging around a dead body. Now she’s lying about what she did to me. She ruined my life.”

Jeannie lifted her head and emphatically said, “I don’t lie. Not never.”

It was the first time they’d made eye contact and I thought I saw Beatrice shrink back a little. “You can’t make me believe that.” She stood and grabbed her coat. “When the truth comes out, when they start tearing up that mill, they’ll find evidence—a ring, a bracelet, a stack of hundred-dollar bills—and you’ll be put in jail because most of my fortune is probably gone now. You know you’ll end up in jail, don’t you?”

Jeannie looked over at me, panic in her eyes. “Am I goin’ to jail?”

“No, Jeannie, because you didn’t steal anything.” I stared up at Beatrice Stanley and I couldn’t keep the ice out of my tone when I said, “You know the way out.”

Boots followed on Beatrice Stanley’s heels as she marched down the hallway as if to herd her out of the house.

Big fat tears were streaming down Jeannie’s face; I pulled my chair close to hers and put an arm around her shoulder.

“You won’t go to jail,” I said. “She’s just an angry person who likes to take it out on other people.”

Jeannie wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. “I never took no money. Why did she say that?”

“I guess because you were living in the mill and she thinks someone hid her money there. It’s her way of asking if you know anything.”
And she could be right about there being money hidden there,
I thought to myself. “Tell me more about these creepers. Did you ever see them?”

“Nope,” Jeannie said, shaking her head. “But they was pulling up boards and one time they came into the office while I was out gettin’ food.”

“How did you know if you weren’t there?” I said.

“’Cause my stuff was all thrown around. And they pulled up the floorboards and then hammered ’em back down. But not the right way. They didn’t go near where my Kay Ellen lay, though.”

“And how could you tell?” I said.

“The hearth was dusty—hadn’t gotten to clean it that week yet. It was still dusty when I come back that night. I cleaned it then.” She swallowed and her eyes filled again. “It’s a holy place.”