| |
––––––––
September stroked Macy’s tawny fur, cradling the big cat in her arms and rocking him gently. They sat huddled together in their favorite overstuffed chair in the living room. It faced the floor to ceiling window view of the circle drive. Normally the cat preferred to snooze on the back of the chair above September’s head, giving him an added elevation for scolding the dog. He rarely agreed to lap sit, except on extra cold or cloudy days. The fact that he didn’t protest her arms spoke volumes. Macy was sick.
She’d thrown away the bloodstained pink gloves and hurriedly changed into stone washed jeans and a green sweater that matched her eyes, and now wore boot-cut zipper boots. She’d wanted to race to the emergency vet with Macy and the dead man’s cat. But with the police on the way to address the murder, the cats had to take second place no matter how much she wished otherwise.
Pinkerton remained sequestered in the distant laundry room, meowing now and then in protest at the incarceration. September had belatedly scrubbed her hands and changed out of her shirt, but worried she’d exposed Macy to whatever had made the tabby cat sick. Feline illnesses easily transferred from cat to cat, and any virus or bacteria contamination of her hands could also infect.
Shadow lounged beside the chair, his stuffed bear braced between front paws, and mouth around the toy’s soft, misshapen head. He sucked the fuzzy pacifier with eyes half closed, body leaned against one of her legs. The contact that usually calmed September’s nerves did nothing to ease her tension.
“Please, don’t let my cat die.” She whispered the words, more of a hope than a prayer, not convinced God listened to her after all the awful things she’d done. But Macy was innocent. God had taken Chris and Dakota, but had spared Shadow. Maybe she’d been punished enough.
A car pulled into the drive, and September recognized Jeff Combs when he got out. When Detective Gonzales followed Combs, a dizzying sense of deja vu rocked her, and she squeezed Macy in reaction. He mewed in protest, and kicked with his rear legs, showing a bit more energy than he had in the previous twenty minutes. September soothed him with a soft murmur before placing him inside the fabric pet carrier she’d set next to the chair.
Shadow beat her to the front door. He still wore his halter, although she’d removed the tracking line and stuffed it in her coat pocket. When the doorbell bonged, he woofed twice, checked in with September, and sat quickly, anticipating the closed-fisted signal that always followed a doorbell chime. “Good-dog. Away. Go to bed.” She waved one hand, and pointed across the room and he reluctantly trotted over to settle on an overstuffed dog pillow near the fireplace.
She unlocked the deadbolts, unlatched the chain and pulled open the door. Managing a weak smile, September motioned the two men inside. As soon as Combs entered, Shadow wiggled his body with ears pressed flat, and woofed a greeting. But he didn’t break, and kept his butt planted.
“Hey Shadow, good to see you, too.” Combs kept his eyes on September, though, raised eyebrows requesting answers. Gonzales already had a notepad and pencil out of his pocket.
“Thanks for coming so quickly.” She motioned to the pet carrier. “Macy’s sick. So could we speed up the statement? I can answer any follow up once I get him to the vet.” Her voice caught. “I don’t mean to be unfeeling, but the man is beyond help.”
“If needed we can do follow up at dinner tonight.” Combs entered and crossed to the wagging Shadow to pat the dog’s neck before turning back to September.
September caught Gonzales’ surprised expression. Great, now the whole police department would think she and Combs were an item. But he only smoothed his dapper mustache, and didn’t move from the doorway. “Where’s the body?”
“Across the road.” She pointed out the open door, past the gate. “There’s a bois d’arc tree about a third of the way in the field, and his body is a few yards to the left of it. West of the tree, I mean, near an old fence.”
As if through a prearranged signal, Gonzales tucked his notepad back into his pocket and hurried down the front steps toward the crime scene. September slowly closed the front door after him. She latched each lock before taking a deep breath and turning to face Combs.
He’d settled on the arm of the sofa, and motioned her to take a seat. Combs pulled out a digital recorder, and took up the questions. “Start from the beginning.”
“This morning I heard a crash.” She pointed out the front window. “I ran out to see what happened—”
“By yourself?” Combs stared pointedly at Shadow. He knew she took self-protection seriously.
“Shadow was in the garden. And I’m getting better about that.” Her words sounded defensive, even to her own ears.
Shadow thumped his tail against the floor at the sound of his name, and she dropped a hand to touch his back. Should she tell Combs about the bat? Maybe she shouldn’t have thrown away the pink gloves. Then it was too late to mention, as he prompted her to go on.
“You spoke to the car’s owner? You know this person?”
“Sylvester Sanger.” The name left a sour taste.
“Sly?” Combs grinned. “He’s a piece of work. What’d he want?”
“He’s been calling and hounding me ever since...well, you know. Wouldn’t leave me alone, wanted to write a big tabloid piece, and didn’t respect my privacy.” Her cheeks heated at the memory. “He was a worm, but nobody deserves to die like that.”
Combs paused, pencil in the air. “Killed in the car crash? That his Gremlin by the gate? Nobody inside when we drove up.”
September stood from the sofa, and Shadow followed her pacing with his eyes, whining in response to her agitation. “Sly was fine, a little bruised up but out of the car and talking and walking when I saw him. Had his cat in the car with him and said he wanted my help researching some lame story. I was so mad he’d messed up my new gate, I didn’t listen. I blew him off.” She turned away sheepishly. “When I got back to the house, Aaron said he saw Macy outside.”
“Your brother’s partner, right?” Combs craned to look toward the kitchen. “He still here?”
“He wanted to wait in the garden. I can get him.” She started toward the kitchen but Combs called her back.
“That’s okay, we’ll get his statement later. He didn’t talk to Sly or see him?”
“I don’t think so.” September rubbed her face, and settled back in the overstuffed chair. She let her hand press the mesh top of Macy’s carrier, anxious to grab him up and go. “When I couldn’t find Macy, I had Shadow search for a trail outside the house. We found Sly.” She shuddered.
“Did you touch the body?”
She ducked her head. “Didn’t have to. I could see he was gone.” Now would be the time to mention the baseball bat, but at that moment, Pinkerton yowled from the laundry room. She gestured that direction with a grimace. “The cat made contact, though. It was crouched on top of his body like a furry guard.” She shivered. “I couldn’t leave it out there. I called the police, and then Shadow found Macy.” She finished in a rush. “He’s sick. So’s the other cat. That’s all.” She waited. “Can I please take them to the vet?”
Combs shook his head. “You need to sit tight. Sorry about that, but you know the drill.” He stood.
Yes, she knew the drill all too well.
“Do whatever you need to do while I talk with Aaron. Gonzales will secure the body. We need you to stay out of the way. Stay in the house until I give you an all clear.” He started toward the kitchen.
At least she could get the animals ready for the trip to the clinic. September picked up Macy’s carrier and hurried after Combs to the kitchen, setting the carrier on the stained glass table before turning to the laundry room where Pinkerton continued to wail. She waited until Combs disappeared out the door, and resisted the urge to lock it behind him. He was a cop, after all. Another cop was across the road.
The sick feline’s tortured cry sounded again when September carefully entered the laundry room, prepared to block any escape attempt. But the tabby cat continued to yowl, tail held high—for the first time she could see it was a boy—and the kitty’s head pointed into the far corner of the room. He pawed the wall, crying with a frustrated vacant stare as if convinced a doorway should open for him. Shadow stuck his nose into the doorway, but politely kept his distance from the strange cat.
“Kitty? Pinkerton? I’m over here.” When the cat didn’t acknowledge her presence, she stamped the floor and slammed the door in case the cat was deaf. The tabby boy flinched from the sound, but continued to dig at the wall.
September wondered what sort of illness the cat had caught. Please don’t let it be contagious to Macy. The cat had no collar or tags but the white blaze on the cat’s muzzle and chin spotlighted the bright pink nose Sly had described. The vet clinic would be able to scan for a microchip—sadly, not all cats had them—and hopefully confirm if he belonged to Sly or not.
She found a clean pillowcase, held it open, and slid the bag over the top of the cat. The dazed creature walked right into the opening. September gently lifted the big cat, which began to purr and finally settled in the cradling material.
After she washed her hands one more time, September picked up the bagged cat, and deposited it on one of the cast iron chairs next to the glass kitchen table. She sat in another one. Her leg bounced up and down. She stood and paced, Shadow following her and whining. She opened the door and stuck her head out—technically, she hadn’t left the house—and saw Combs in the bare spots through the fence. He stood dwarfed by Aaron. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the tone of the bigger man’s voice sounded confused and strident.
September hated that she’d somehow managed to get family once again involved with her troubles. She’d make it up to him later.
She saw Combs pull out his phone. He listened a moment before whirling to look toward her. September quickly ducked back into the house, gently pulling the door closed, not sure why she felt guilty. She’d done nothing wrong. Thirty seconds later, Combs pushed open the door with one foot and stood in the opening, phone in one hand and recorder in the other, and said nothing for a long moment.
“What? Did Aaron know something?” She licked her lips. “Can I go now? Take the cats to the vet?”
He dropped the recorder in one pocket, and gestured with the phone. “Gonzales called. There’s only one big-ass bois d’arc in the field. You said west of the tree, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you sure he was dead? If you didn’t check for a pulse, didn’t touch the body, you can’t be sure.”
“He had no face!”
Combs dropped his phone into his pocket. He wouldn’t look at her, and instead waved a hand at the pet carriers. “Go on, you’re in such a hurry, get out of here. Any other questions, we can cover tonight.”
“Wait, tell me what happened.”
He finally met her eyes with his own. Cop eyes. Hard. Questioning. “Gonzales can’t find anything. There’s no body.”
