The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon

I forced a smile, then clasped my shaking hands. The adrenaline that had pumped through me after finding Dashiell was wearing off. I was left trembling as well as wishing I had a giant box of Tums.

Doc Jensen smiled when he came out into the waiting area a few minutes later. He gestured me into a cold, immaculate exam room that smelled of disinfectant and alcohol. Dashiell wasn’t sitting on the stainless table. Despite the vet’s relaxed expression, that could mean the poor boy was still in trouble.

Nodding reassuringly, Doc Jensen said, “You got to him in time, but his blood sugar remains low. He needs to stay with us overnight. Can you get Tom on the phone and see if that’s okay?”

How I wished I could get him on the phone. “Um, Tom’s out of pocket so I’ll be making the decisions. Do whatever Dashiell needs. That’s what Tom would want.”

“Will do. You go home and have a glass of wine, Jillian—‘cause it sure looks like you could use one. Say hi to your three amigos for me, pet them and relax. Stroking a cat gets your blood pressure down, you know. We’ll take fine care of Dashiell.”

He turned and left through the door leading to the back of the clinic while I went in the opposite direction and into the waiting area. I passed Glenda, who waved good-bye.

Once I’d climbed into my van, I thought, What next?

But the answer came immediately.

Find Tom. Find Tom. Find Tom.

Three

Before I left the vet’s parking lot, I took my phone from my purse, hoping Tom had left me a message. No such luck. I sighed heavily, staring at the screen. I touched the app for my cat cam. Watching my cats’ antics or just seeing them nap in the slivers of sun that striped the living room in the late afternoon always soothed me.

Maybe because there was no sun today, my fur friends weren’t lounging in their usual spots. I switched to the kitchen feed and the bedroom feed, but they were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they’d decided hiding from the woman who might come home and cram them back into those carriers was a good idea. That’s what I’d do. Hide.

I put my phone away and started for home, but as I turned onto Main Street I saw a Mercy PD patrol car parked in front of the best coffee shop on the planet—Belle’s Beans, with its green awning. Every shop on Main Street had exactly the same awning. Tradition and continuity were important parts of this small Southern town.

I knew who drove that particular squad car thanks to the dent in the right front fender—my best friend, Deputy Candace Carson, and her partner, Deputy Morris Ebeling. I’d meant to call Candace about Bob Cochran’s presence in Tom’s house, but had forgotten all about him until I saw the police car. What the heck was brother Bob up to? How had he gotten inside the house? Was the man even who he said he was?

What a relief my brain seemed to be functioning logically again—asking the important questions. I pulled into a parking spot near the coffee shop and hurried over to Belle’s Beans. Candace would want the same answers I did.

Today’s barista, or the “Belle of the Day” as owner Belle Lowry always said, greeted me with, “Hey there, Jillian. Vanilla low-fat latte?” She wore a BELLE name tag, but then, every barista who worked here sported one while on duty. Her real name was Beth.

“Nothing right now, thanks.” My gaze swept the crowded cafe. The quiet conversations and the familiarity of the place would have been comforting on any other day. Not now, though. The high glossy wood tables for two lining the periphery of the coffeehouse were all occupied. The center tables seating four were almost all filled as well. Belle had added free Wi-Fi last month, and several people were working on their laptops. I spotted Candace and Morris in a far corner and, as I navigated between tables, I heard acoustic music playing softly, piped in through overhead speakers. Another new addition.

Belle, a wise lady in her early seventies, always wanted her customers to feel comfortable. Sure, the coffee was the best I’d ever had. Plus, the refrigerated glass case filled with homemade pies, scones and cakes made the shop all the more popular—especially to someone like Morris. But music and technology could only improve a small business seemingly unaffected by the economic downturn. Yes, leave it to Belle to keep her shop thriving.

Candace stood before I even reached their table, her expression showing her concern. “What’s wrong?”

Morris said, “She looks right as rain to me, Candy. Or are you thinkin’ of becoming a psychic or somethin’? Oh yeah, I can see your shingle now. Candace Carson, Psychic Forensic Investigator.”

“Shut up, Morris,” Candace said, her stare locked on my face.

“Can we talk?” I said.

“Oh boy.” Morris rolled his eyes. “When I hear the words can we talk I know there’s a passel of hassles headed our way.”

“Sit.” Candace dragged a stool from an adjoining table.

The squeal of the legs scraping on the floor made my already frazzled nerves light up even more. Candace and I both sat and she took my hand. “You’re as cold as a corpse. What has you so upset?”

I took a deep breath and released the air slowly. “Might help me get this all straight in my head if I begin by telling you about my trip. I feel as if I have a jumble of computer wires for brains right now and I need to unwind them. Put everything in a straight line.”

“What you need first is coffee.” Candace turned to Morris. “Get this woman some coffee, would you?”

“Why, of course, boss girl. I’m thinkin’ I don’t want to hear this anyways.” Morris looked at me. “Your usual, Jillian?”

I nodded and started fumbling in my pocket for the twenty I always keep in my jeans. “Guess I could use a latte.”

But he waived off the cash and made his way to the counter. He sure must be anxious to get away from me, considering he’d offered to pay. Morris never paid.

“Go on. Tell me.” Candace swiped at a wayward blond hair on her forehead. She rested her elbows on the table and supported her chin with both fists. She may be twenty years younger than me, but she is an old soul. Guess being a cop made her more mature than the average young adult.

I quickly explained about Tom’s unreturned phone calls, his rush out of town, the sick cat and my concern about finding Bob Cochran in Tom’s house.

When I was finished explaining, Candace said, “Did you call Tom’s mother and ask about this man who claims to be her son? Or ask if she knows where Tom is, for that matter?”

“I wasn’t sure if that was wise,” I said. “Karen is well—unpredictable is the word that comes to mind.”

“Nutcase, you mean,” Morris said, setting a steaming vanilla latte in front of me.

“She’s no such thing, Morris Ebeling,” Candace said. “Free spirit, a little odd, but not crazy.”

“Nutcase.” Morris reclaimed his seat. “Please tell me we don’t have to pay her a visit ’cause she’s gone and painted her house a funny shade of orange or set some life-size sculpture in her front yard that leaves nothin’ to the imagination.”

“Nope. I think we’ll be making a call at Tom Stewart’s place.” Candace adjusted the two-way radio clipped to her forest green uniform shoulder. She then attached her cell phone to her belt. “Come on, Morris. Wrap the rest of your red velvet cake in a napkin and let’s move.”

He didn’t budge. “This is our break, Candy. We get thirty minutes.”

She placed both palms on the table in front of him and leaned close. “Tom Stewart might need our help. He’s more important than your cake break.” She pushed my latte closer. “Finish this and go on home. Chill out if you can. I’ll call you.”

Morris grumbled as he wrapped his cake in a napkin. Then they left.

But the relief I thought would come from having put this situation in Candace’s competent hands didn’t sweep over me, or even calm my stomach the tiniest bit. Still, I resolved to take her advice. I picked up my coffee, grabbed a to-go lid on the way out and headed for home.

I felt my shoulders sag with disappointment when I found myself at my back door and remembered I’d failed