The Cat, the Vagabond and the Victim (Cats in Trouble Mystery) - Softcover

Sweeney, Leann

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451415426 ISBN 13: 9780451415424

Publisher: Berkley, 2014

Synopsis

Things get hairy when a cat finds multiple bodies in this mystery in the New York Times bestselling Cats in Trouble series.

When Clyde the cat travels two hundred miles back home only to find his former owner dead, the story makes national news. While everyone seems eager to tell Clyde’s incredible tale, someone needs to step up to care for him. Because the media attention is creating chaos at the local shelter, cat quilter Jillian Hart agrees to foster the loyal orange tabby, hoping his location is kept secret.

But while the media circus around Clyde continues, Jillian learns the real story behind his owner’s death—he was murdered. Why would an eldery man already dying from a serious illness become a murder victim? As the local police search for an answer, Clyde makes another escape. Jillian is drawn into the case when she finds Clyde has returned to his home again—and he’s found another body. When the motive behind these murders is finally revealed, Jillian understands Clyde is in danger of becoming the next victim, and she must help find the killer before the claws really come out...

About this title

About the Author

Leann Sweeney is the New York Times bestselling author of the Cats in Trouble Mysteries. Leann was born and raised in Niagara Falls and educated at St. Joseph’s Hospital and Lemoyne College in Syracuse, New York. She also has a degree in behavioral science from the University of Houston. A retired registered nurse, she has been writing in the mystery genre for many years and also writes the Yellow Rose Mystery series.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

One

Visitors don’t often knock on my front door at eleven o’clock at night. But my friend Allison Cuddahee from the local no-kill shelter had called me in a panic to ask a favor. She arrived thirty minutes later bearing a gift.

The opportunity to foster a cat is always a gift as far as I’m concerned. This particular feline’s name was Clyde, and I already knew he was a celebrity. The press was onto him and his amazing story. See, various out-of-town reporters had been hanging around the Mercy Animal Sanctuary, hoping for photo opportunities. That was why Allison resorted to this late-night, stealthy delivery. I guess you could now call my home his “undisclosed location.”

I’m Jillian Hart, I live in Mercy, South Carolina, and I have a history of helping cats. After all, my three beauties—Syrah, Merlot and Chablis—are all Hurricane Katrina rescues. I found each of them in different shelters in the Houston area where I once lived. They’d been removed from flood-ravaged New Orleans and remained unclaimed months after the storm. But my now-late husband, John, and I gladly gave them a new forever home. I wondered how they’d get along with Clyde, who was being surprisingly quiet in the crate Allison set at her feet in my foyer.

“Thanks for stepping up again, Jillian,” Allison said. “We sneaked Clyde out the back door of the shelter and into my car because two particularly pesky reporters have been following Shawn around ever since this big boy was transported to our place. We were afraid they’d follow Shawn’s truck if he drove Clyde over here. Now let’s hope they weren’t paying attention to me.”

Shawn was Allison’s husband, and together they ran the local pet rescue shelter.

I glanced down at the crate. “I caught Mercy Animal Sanctuary in the background when the Today Show aired Clyde’s story. I suppose they found out about him because of the piece that ran in our town paper?”

“Who knows? It seems to me anytime a cat travels more than fifty miles, he or she makes the national news.”

“You two come on into the living room,” I said. “Can I get you some sweet tea? Water? A soda?” I took the bag of food and treats she’d placed on top of the crate and led the way through the foyer.

The sweet perfume of early summer’s pine and Carolina jasmine wafted through the air as Allison carried Clyde in his crate with some effort. Although of a slight build—three inches shorter than my five foot four—Allison had well-toned biceps and strong legs from her work at the sanctuary. If she was struggling with that crate, my guess was that I was about to meet a big boy—maybe bigger than my nearly twenty-pound Maine coon, Merlot.

“Nothing to drink,” she said. “I am exhausted and want to sneak back home before one of those weird reporters accosts me with questions. And I’m not talking about your Kara. She’s been nothing but wonderful.”

Kara was my stepdaughter, my late husband’s daughter, and the editor and owner of the local newspaper, the Mercy Messenger.

Allison set the carrier down near my chenille sofa, and my three kitties immediately surrounded Clyde. Syrah is a sorrel Abyssinian, Merlot a red tabby Maine coon, and Chablis a seal point Himalayan. I heard no growling coming from inside the crate—unusual, but a relief. Maybe Clyde would fit in here quickly.

I turned to Allison. “So you’re not upset that Kara broke the story about Mr. Jeffrey and Clyde in the Messenger?”

“Of course not. It’s these out-of-towners who bother me. It all started as a simple human interest piece as far as Kara was concerned.” Allison knelt by the carrier. “Shawn was happy to talk to her about Clyde—even though he’d rather be speaking with dogs, cats or birds. Who knew the major networks would run with this? Maybe that’s because it doesn’t quite have a happy ending yet.”

“It is sad about Mr. Jeffrey’s death and how poor Clyde never made it home in time to be with his friend,” I said. “But Candace won’t tell me much about what they found at the man’s house except to say that if not for Clyde, his body would still be lying there undiscovered.”

Deputy Candace Carson, a local police officer and my best friend, was investigating the man’s passing. Kara reported that his death was assumed to be from natural causes, but the coroner had not released an official report. Only three days had passed, though. Maybe tomorrow we’d know more.

Allison rested a loving hand on top of the crate. “Norm, poor Clyde’s best buddy, is gone, and I know this guy feels the loss.”

“I’m not sure I understand why Mr. Jeffrey—Norm—placed Clyde away from his home,” I said. “He sent him to stay with his sister or his nephew, right? At least, those are the two people on the news I saw giving interviews.”

She nodded. “Clyde was supposedly with the sister, a woman named Millicent Boatman. That other person on TV was her son, Dirk. Anyway, Mr. Jeffrey took the cat down to Hilton Head where the Boatman woman lived two months ago, but Clyde ran off. Then he showed up on Norm’s doorstep several days ago and raised a ruckus. Woke the neighbors, who wondered why in the heck Norm didn’t hear his old friend meowing at the door.”

I peered into the crate and said, “But there was no waking your friend, huh, buddy?”

Clyde, a gigantic orange tabby with the kind of upturned mouth that looks like a perpetual smile, blinked at me. This boy had traveled more than two hundred miles to get home. A combination of sorrow and admiration created a lump in my throat.

Allison said, “Shawn is not inclined to hand this cat back over to the sister without first talking to her away from the cameras. He wants to know how Clyde escaped from her house. And would you believe she hasn’t even shown up in Mercy yet? Too busy giving interviews to CNN, I guess.”

“And I gather they’re still thinking Mr. Jeffrey died of natural causes?” I said.

“Far as I know. The man did have cancer.” She whispered the last word. “Don’t know what kind—not sure I want to know.” Allison’s eyes filled as she fixed a short, burnished wave of hair behind her ear.

I said, “I guess Mr. Jeffrey must have been too frail to care for this big fella. Anyway, I promise to heap tons of love on him if he’ll let me.” I was feeling the need to comfort both Allison and Clyde now. “This guy knew his owner was ill and he needed to get home.” I watched Syrah, my bravest kitty, nose in close to the carrier door.

“Kara kept anything she knew about Mr. Jeffrey’s private medical issues out of the paper,” Allison said. “But those reporters must have got someone to talk. Like this Millicent person, maybe?”

Chablis rubbed against Allison’s knee, her curiosity about Clyde satisfied for now. Besides, she knew Allison needed a little comfort.

Allison sat cross-legged on the floor so Chablis could climb into her lap.

“Did you know that Norm adopted Clyde from us?” She stroked Chablis, who closed her eyes and raised her chin to offer her throat. Allison complied and stroked it.

“I had no idea.” I pushed two fingers through the carrier grate to let Clyde sniff my fingers. “When was that?”

“Clyde walked right up to our sanctuary door a couple years ago,” she said. “’Course he was a kitten and a third the size he is now. You can imagine our surprise when Candace brought him back to us the other day. We recognized him right away by his smile.”

I shook my head, troubled. “All they want to talk about on the news is Clyde’s voyage home. I heard next to nothing about poor Mr. Jeffrey and how much he probably missed his cat during his illness.”

Allison said, “Thing is, it’s not all that amazing for a cat to travel long distances to return home. Those TV folks don’t understand the true feline nature if they think it’s odd.” The passion for animals that both Allison and Shawn felt came through in her voice. “Animals love with all their hearts. There’re a few humans I know who could take a lesson from them.”

“That’s for sure. But I don’t understand why these reporters are still hanging around. I mean, the story’s over, right?”

“Oh no. Not over yet. One of those reporters was shouting at my husband this morning, yelling that he knew Shawn wasn’t in any hurry to turn over the cat to Millicent Boatman.” She shook her head in annoyance.

“How could they possibly know?” I said. “No. That was a silly question. The folks in Mercy do love to talk.”

“True,” she replied. “As far as Shawn is concerned, this cat will not be turned over to a woman who couldn’t hang on to him, so I am sure there will be a bit of a disagreement over who gets possession of Clyde. Like anyone can really possess a cat.” She grinned, and it warmed my heart to see her lovely smile.

“You got that right,” I said.

“Anyway, the story continues. Candace says—and you know how thorough Candace is when it comes to an investigation—anyways, she agrees that until she knows for sure who Clyde should go home with, he stays with us. Well, now with you.”

“Still, Mr. Jeffrey did give Clyde to his sister, so if she persists about wanting him back, then—”

“Nope. Not yet, anyway. Shawn worries that Clyde will leave Hilton Head again and might not make it back to Mercy the next time.” Allison continued to pet Chablis, who purred loud enough to wake the birds sleeping outside.

Clyde finally broke into the conversation, and the sound made me start. His meow was louder than a small dog’s bark. No wonder Mr. Jeffrey’s neighbors had heard him.

Merlot backed off a couple feet from the crate, and this time, his tail puffed and he growled. Syrah’s coat stood on end, too. But Chablis? She was content in Allison’s lap, completely unaffected by Clyde.

“Wow. That’s quite a voice he’s got,” I said.

“He can be very vocal. He had to be to get the neighbor’s attention. Hope he doesn’t keep you awake tonight.” Allison gently moved Chablis off her lap and stood. “And now, I need to go home.”

I rose, too. “Is Clyde on scheduled meals? I mean, he seems awfully big and—”

“Big, yes. Overweight, no—probably because of the long trip he just made. We’ve been filling his bowl as soon as it’s empty because he’s hungry all the time,” she said.

“What about his feet after his trek? Are they okay?” I asked.

Syrah had jumped on the sofa behind me so he could look down at the crate—and be higher than our new friend, Clyde.

“His feet are fine,” she said. “All he suffered was a little dehydration. He didn’t even need worming. My guess is this guy made friends along the way—and he made good time, too. Took him a couple months. Probably walked five to ten miles a day.”

“Wow. I’d be exhausted—and probably lost—if I were him. But since cats have their own little GPS in their brains, they aren’t quite as directionally challenged as someone like me.” I picked up the bag of kibble. “I’ll be starting Clyde out in the basement guest bedroom. As soon as you called, I ran down there and put out a clean cat quilt, a litter box and fresh water.”

Allison smiled. “You’ll spoil him rotten. And he deserves to be spoiled. I’ll carry him down for you. This boy is heavy.”

“I believe I’ll let you do that. I don’t want to drop him.”

Fifteen minutes later, a tired Allison was on her way home and Clyde was already digging into his food while I sat by and watched.

I knew my three cats would not be joining me in bed tonight. They’d be parked outside the guest room door until dawn. Cats do not like a closed door, especially when a visitor is on the other side.

I’d miss them, but cats have to do what cats have to do.

Two

At first, the loud and insistent knocking on my front door seemed to be part of a dream. Was I experiencing Allison’s late-night visit all over again? But the noise persisted and grew even louder. I sat up and squinted at the nightstand clock. Seven a.m.

Seven a.m? What the heck?

I grumbled as I got out of bed and found the jeans I’d left on the floor last night. My friends do not knock on my front door; they come to the back of the house. And they call first—at least most of the time. So, though I wanted to cover my head with my pillow and grab another hour of sleep, I had to find out who was being so demanding. Maybe a neighbor had lost a pet . . . or maybe Allison needed me to do something else for her. But she could have phoned. No, this was something else, and I had a bad feeling about it.

Groggy from staying up too late playing with my new friend, Clyde, I felt almost hungover as I rummaged in my dresser for a T-shirt. What a fun cat that big boy was, and once he started playing the “paws under the door” game with my crew without any hissing or growling involved, I decided it was okay to let my three curious felines into the room to meet him right away. It helped that mine were used to an occasional feline guest, but I still thought it best that after I supervised their getting to know one another, I’d shut them out for the night.

Now, when I could have used another hour of sleep, I’d been awoken by some person pounding—yes, now they were pounding—on my front door.

I grabbed my cell phone as I hurried to see just what was so urgent. When I peered through the peephole, I saw something I certainly didn’t expect: a man who I could have sworn was wearing makeup—and maybe even hair spray.

Huh? Since I couldn’t see beyond the distortion of his large sandy-haired head through the peephole, I hurried back to my living room, grabbed the remote and turned on my television. It was a new smart TV, and my security expert and boyfriend, Tom Stewart, had set it up so I could access a screen that showed the view from every security camera installed outside my home.

Sure enough, I could see the entire picture of what was transpiring out there.

“Darn it all,” I muttered. But I was glad for all my cameras. Tom installed them after Syrah had been catnapped a few years ago, and I could have never anticipated how much I appreciated being able to see most of my property, both inside and out. Plus all the feeds were connected to my smartphone. Even if I was away from home, I knew what was happening here. I’d told Tom he could probably make a fortune selling his techniques for this sort of thing, but he said other companies already did similar work and that he didn’t really care to get involved in business that might involve travel or take up more time than his PI and security business already did.

Various other people besides this man loitered on my lawn, drinking coffee or staring vacantly at the front of my house. The man at the door had on a suit and there was a woman with swept-back blond hair who wore an expensive-looking print dress and high heels, but others wore shorts, T-shirts and headphones. And not small earbud headphones, either. Big headphones. Cables snaked along my driveway to a van with a satellite dish on top. Yes, the TV folks had found Clyde. And, of course, they’d found me, too. I was again reminded there are no secrets in the small town of Mercy. Not for long.

I found Candace’s number in my speed dial. Though worried I might wake her, I had no idea what to do about this situation. I might need her police presence here.

Fortunately, she seemed quite alert when she said, “Hey there. What’...

Edition details

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2014
• ISBN 10: 0451415426
• ISBN 13: 9780451415424
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Language: English
• Number of pages: 304