The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon

mind.

“Really? You’re jumping to worst-case scenarios?” I could picture her lovely, indulgent smile, so like her father’s.

“Maybe, but—”

“Okay,” she said in a take-charge tone. “Clearly you’re beyond stressed about this. Did you try his landline?”

“I didn’t have the number with me. He hardly uses that phone. But maybe his cell is damaged or lost. Thanks for the suggestion. I’ll call his house right now.” An ounce of relief washed away some of my anxiety.

“Call me back after you talk to him—either now or later,” Kara said. “I don’t like to hear such strain in your voice.”

I hung up, the chill in the house making me shiver. No afternoon sun to warm things up. The murky, cloud- dulled day meant the cold would linger on. After I turned the thermostat up to seventy, I went through the living area and down the hall to my home office. I took my address book from my desk drawer. All three cats followed and jumped up on the mahogany surface to check out what I was doing.

Merlot crooned his concern—he has a special sound for intense interest in my state of mind. When I’m upset, all three of them seem to sense it and follow me everywhere. If I were to sit down on my sofa right now, they would be all over me.

First thing I did was add Tom’s landline number to the contacts on my cell phone. Then I hit call. His answering machine picked up.

Darn it.

I didn’t bother to leave a message, just disconnected. His voice on the answering machine greeting, so engaging and cheerful, made my stomach clench.

Trust your instincts. This disappearance isn’t like Tom.

I looked at the three curious feline faces staring up at me. “I have to do more than make phone calls, friends. I’m sure you’ll take much-needed cat naps while I’m gone.”

Tom lives about a five-minute drive away in a secluded neighborhood within walking distance from his mother, Karen’s, place. His mother. While I was traveling home, I’d considered calling her. But Karen is an odd bird. If I alarmed her unnecessarily, Tom would end up receiving endless visits from her when he did come home—or she might even take up residence in his guest room for a while. No. I couldn’t call her. Not yet.

The first thing I noticed when I turned on to Tom’s street was that the work van he used for his security business sat in the driveway. But rather than his Prius parked next to it, I saw an unfamiliar car. A white Ford sedan. Had he traded in his beloved little car for something so generic?

But wait. Maybe he’d had car trouble and this was a rental. It sure looked like one. But if so, it still didn’t explain his lack of contact.

I pulled in behind the Ford and was soon knocking on the door of his red brick home. The November wind had picked up just in the last few minutes. I pulled my barn jacket closer around me and turned up the brown corduroy collar. Arriving here on this familiar front porch made me think of Tom’s cat, Dashiell. His big tabby was recently diagnosed as diabetic. If Tom was out of town and left the cat behind, someone would have to be giving Dashiell his insulin. Maybe the car belonged to a cat sitter, a role I would have taken on had I been here.

The forty-something man who answered the door wore navy sweats and his feet were bare. He looked more like a guest who had made himself comfortable than a pet sitter.

He smiled and said, “I was hoping for company, and it seems as if my prayers have been answered.” He looked me up and down. “And answered in a very fine way. How can I help you?”

That voice. So like Tom’s voice. But he appeared a tad younger than Tom, had blond hair rather than dark hair and was maybe four inches taller. A good six foot four if he was an inch.

“I—I—I—” Words wouldn’t come.

“I’m not scary, am I? ’Cause you look like your panty hose are quivering,” he said.

What? I had to deal with a wise-guy stranger now? As politely as I could, I said, “I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“Bob Cochran.” He had a crooked smile, perfect teeth and broad shoulders—the kind of guy women fell for instantly. Especially with his bad-boy vibe. Younger women, that is. Not me. Being in my mid-forties may have brought a few wrinkles, but I’d gained wisdom and an eye for trouble. I liked the trade-off.

He went on, saying, “I take it you came to see Tom, but he’s not home. You’re welcome to come in, though.”

The wind whipped my hair across my face and I brushed it away. But though I was cold and more than a little confused, I didn’t know this man from Adam. I wasn’t about to go inside the house with a stranger. “Where’s Tom?”

“Good question. My brother hasn’t shown his face since I arrived two days ago.”

“Your brother?” I said. That explained the resemblance.

“Guess he never mentioned me. Figures. And you are?”

“Jillian Hart. Tom’s friend.”

He offered his charismatic smile again. “A friend with benefits?”

My cheeks heated up and I started to turn away. “I’ll come back when Tom’s home.”

Bob Cochran grabbed my elbow. “Wait. Sorry. That’s not any of my business. But maybe you can help me out. See, I expected Tom to be here and I’m a little puzzled he hasn’t shown up. Especially since he left his cat.”

Dashiell. Tom left Dashiell alone? I withdrew from Bob Cochran’s grasp but didn’t leave. I couldn’t now. “How is Dashiell?” I craned my neck to see past the man’s wide frame.

“He left instructions for a neighbor to care for the animal—the old lady next door. Mostly illegible notes about food and medicine. She came over, said something about how she could give the cat his shots and test him since she and this cat had the same problem, whatever that meant. But the stupid animal slipped by me when I let her in. Haven’t seen the thing since.”

“What?” I almost shouted around the lump of panic in my throat. “When did this happen?”

“Two days ago. I told the neighbor I’d come and get her if the cat came back.” He cocked his head and smiled again. “It’s only a cat. They always come back to where the food is.”

I had no time to enlighten this idiot about Dashiell’s medical problem.

I had to find Tom’s cat now.

Two

I turned and scanned Tom’s yard, looking toward the red pines and ashy shagbark hickories that hid the creek running along the edge of Tom’s property.

Taking off toward those trees, I shouted Dashiell’s name but slowed as the lawn sloped toward the water. What if Dashiell’s blood sugar plummeted? Or went sky-high from him eating birds, or even fish from the creek? What if he fell into the water? What if he was swept away?

Tears filled my eyes. Ever since Tom’s big sweet Dashiell had been diagnosed, he’d had major swings in his sugar levels. But Tom was now an expert at testing a drop of blood from the cat’s ear and keeping him as well as possible. What would two days without insulin do? Or would lack of food be the bigger problem? My gosh, was he dead?

My heart sped even faster at the thought. First Tom is incommunicado, and now this.

I reached the trees and called Dashiell’s name again, this time in a more gentle tone. I shouldn’t transfer my fear to him, especially if he was nearby and in trouble.

No meows in reply.

I scanned the blanket of decaying leaves and russet pine needles. Cats tend to stay close to where they feel safe, especially when they’re sick, and I was counting on that. Dashiell’s brown stripes would camouflage him out here, though.

I took deep breaths, calmed myself. Focus, Jillian.