The Cat Collector Read online

  After looking at it, Steve gave it to Claudia. The photo showed a young man with a narrow face and docile eyes, appearing shy as he posed for the picture standing next to a small Christmas tree. He wore a plaid shirt and jeans.

  “Any reason he may have disliked Mrs. Worthington?” Steve asked.

  “Absolutely not.” Maria grew emphatic. “He never met her. As I said, I wanted to keep it quiet that I was having trouble doing the housework. Stanislaus came with me only when I knew she wouldn’t be home.”

  “Did he like Wrigley?” Claudia asked.

  “Wrigley seemed wary of him,” Maria admitted. “One time Stanislaus looked at Wrigley and joked that Mrs. W would put up a big reward if Wrigley disappeared. Wrigley stared back at Stanislaus and spit. Stan backed away. It seemed funny at the time, this deaf white cat on the floor hissing and intimidating a grown man.”

  “I appreciate what you’ve told us,” Steve said. “I’d like to keep this photo for now. Also, if you can find a hair of his on his clothes, or an unwashed glass he drank from, that would help.”

  “Why?”

  “DNA. We could compare it to the blood samples we took off the cat. The blood on Wrigley’s paws matches Mrs. Worthington’s. But we haven’t found a match for the blood around the cat’s mouth. If Stanislaus’s DNA is different, it would clear his name.”

  Maria’s expression brightened. “All right. I’ll bring you his hairbrush.”

  “And if you hear from Stanislaus, you’ll let me know?”

  “Of course,” Maria said sincerely. “I’m sure he’s innocent.”

  After Maria left, Claudia asked about Art Clingenpeel. “Is he still here?”

  “He’s in a holding cell downstairs, waiting to be transferred to Cook County Jail,” Steve told her. “Chicago police have warrants out for his arrest. He ignored a restraining order and forced his way into his ex-wife’s apartment to steal money. And he got into a dispute at a fast food place and threw hot coffee in a guy’s face. Security cameras recorded it.”

  Claudia felt shaken by this news. “He sounds dangerous. Are you sure you’re all right after tackling him? I saw the fight he put up.”

  “All in a day’s work.” Steve raised his eyebrows. “But I like that you’re worrying about me. You must care about me at least as much as you do your cats.”

  Claudia grew self-conscious, smiling slightly because she felt guilty not wanting to talk about her feelings, and decided to change the subject. “So have you learned where Clingenpeel was at the time of the murder?”

  “He wouldn’t tell us anything.” Steve’s demeanor became businesslike again. “Chicago police may be of help.”

  “Good. By the way, I’ve been wondering if there’s any way you or I could go to Mrs. Worthington’s house. I talked to Brent at the funeral and asked if I could get Wrigley’s things.”

  “Cats have things?”

  “Sure. Food bowls, toys, even cat furniture.”

  Steve laughed. “Cat furniture. That’s a new one on me. So Brent was okay with that?”

  “He seemed happy that I’m trying to make Wrigley feel secure. Can you go and get them? Or can we go together?”

  “You’d better come with me. I might not recognize all of Wrigley’s prized belongings.”

  She quirked her mouth and gave him a look. “Come on. You said you once had a dog. Didn’t he have a few toys? A mat to sleep on? A leash?”

  Steve slipped his arm around her waist. “You’re right, he did. I’d forgotten. Want to go over there now? I had the day off to attend the funeral. Got sidetracked, but I’m free now. You have the rest of the day, too, don’t you?”

  “Let’s go,” she happily replied.

  CHAPTER seven

  A Pair of Men’s Shoes

  As she walked into Mrs. Worthington’s big living room, Claudia immediately noticed that an elegant green velvet sofa had been pushed out of place by a large, gold and glass coffee table that appeared to have been shoved into it. A crystal vase, which perhaps had been on the table, lay on the floor broken. Dried blood that had soaked into the plush Persian rug beneath the table and sofa, still showed paw prints. A pool of blood, dry now, with paw prints extended a few feet onto the polished hardwood floor. A lamp beside the sofa had been overturned.

  Claudia stared at it all, tears welling in her eyes. “This is awful.”

  Steve gave her a comforting hug. “Don’t look at it. Go upstairs and search for Wrigley’s things. I’ll stay down here and re-examine the scene.”

  Claudia wiped her eyes and climbed the curved staircase. At the end of the landing, she found what appeared to be Mrs. Worthington’s spacious bedroom. She stepped in and discovered an inviting window seat in the recess of a bow window that jutted out above her rose garden. The bed had a silk coverlet and lots of big pillows in aqua and coral prints. She walked across the champagne colored carpet to the coral velvet window seat, on which she found several cat toys—a stuffed cloth mouse, a ping pong ball, a feathered toy bird, and some multi-colored bows that looked like they came off of presents. Nearby she found a cushioned, fleece-lined basket that Wrigley must have napped in. White fur still clung to it. She also found a plastic tubular ring, about a foot in diameter, with holes where a cat could bat at the ball that rolled through it.

  Claudia picked up the toys, put them in the cat bed, and took them out to the landing. She looked down into the living room, where Steve seemed preoccupied examining the corner of the coffee table.

  “Found Wrigley’s things,” she told Steve.

  He glanced up. “Good. Need help carrying anything?”

  “No, thanks.” She paused a moment and gazed over the living room below, admiring the artistically painted Chinese screen decorating a corner of the room. She wondered if Mrs. Worthington had bought it on a trip to Asia. Then, to Claudia’s shock, she noticed a pair of men’s shoes, soles upward, just behind the screen. They could only be viewed from her position on the upstairs landing.

  One of the shoes moved, confirming that someone was hiding behind the screen on their hands and knees.

  Her heart began to pound with apprehension. “Steve? Maybe I do need help after all.”

  “Okay.” He walked around the couch and climbed the steps. When he reached her, she held her forefinger to her mouth to indicate silence, then pointed to the shoes behind the screen.

  He looked in the direction she showed him, eyes narrowing, and took out his cell phone.

  Claudia began breathing deeply, gripping the railing along the edge of the landing. He slipped his arm around her and gently pulled her away from the railing.

  “Better double-check to make sure you haven’t missed any cat toys,” he said in an easy tone that was loud enough to be heard downstairs. He led her into the bedroom and whispered, “Stay here.” Using his phone, he called for backup, then walked out onto the landing and headed down the staircase.

  Claudia remained in the bedroom for about ten seconds. She set down the basket and crept far enough out on the landing to see Steve at the bottom of the steps, his gun drawn.

  Steve quietly walked to the edge of the screen where the shoes were and shoved the screen aside, folding it at its hinges. There, a thin man on all fours with red-brown hair looked up in wide-eyed horror at the detective staring down at him, gun in hand.

  “I’m Detective O’Rourke, Briarwood Police. Stanislaus?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Lie flat on the floor. Hands behind your head.”

  Stanislaus did as he was told. Claudia could see that his left hand was swollen and red.

  “Looking for the Tarot card you dropped?” Steve asked him.

  “W-what Tarot card?” Stanislaus seemed to try feigning an innocent tone.

  “Thought if you found the evidence you left here, you’d escape being charged with the murder of Mrs. Worthington? That bite on your hand would give you away. I’m guessing your DNA will match the blood found on Wrigley’s mouth.”

  Sta
nislaus’s whole body began to tremble. “I didn’t mean to hurt her or the cat.”

  Meanwhile, Claudia heard sirens outside, then a car door slamming. In a few moments, a uniformed blond policeman entered the house as another car could be heard coming to a stop.

  Claudia cautiously stepped forward to get a better view.

  Steve motioned to the young officer, who pulled out his handcuffs.

  To the man on the floor, Steve said in a stern voice, “You’re under arrest for murder.”

  Stanislaus looked to the door, as if wondering if he could somehow make a run for it, but two more cops entered. Steve slipped his gun into the shoulder holster beneath his jacket and began to read Stanislaus his Miranda rights. “You have the right to remain silent—”

  The young man’s face crumpled. “I didn’t mean to kill her,” he insisted. “You’ve got to believe me! She wasn’t supposed to be home. I only wanted to take the cat and return it when she offered a reward.”

  Steve continued reciting. “If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you—”

  “But she was home,” Stanislaus went on in a pleading tone, as if looking for mercy. “She started hitting me with a vase. I pushed her and she fell against the table. I thought she’d come to. I grabbed Wrigley and ran.”

  Steve had finished the Miranda rights. “Where have you been hiding?” Steve asked. “Maria’s been worried.”

  “In the janitor’s closet at the school.”

  Steve eyed the other officers. They took hold of Stanislaus, lifted him to his feet and walked him out the door. Steve told them he’d be at the police station shortly.

  Claudia grabbed the basket of toys she’d left in the bedroom and hurried down the steps. She set it on the couch and threw her arms around Steve. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

  “You did an admirable job tipping me off he was here,” Steve said, hugging her.

  “How did he get in?” she asked.

  “Maybe when he cleaned the house with Maria, he left a window unlocked somewhere. The security system hadn’t been set. We’ll find out.” He took her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Have to go book him. Two culprits in one day. And you helped me get both of them.”

  “It all seemed accidental on my part,” she said. “You’re the one doing the dangerous stuff.”

  “I haven’t had to draw my gun in a long time,” he said, patting the shoulder holster under his jacket. “Most cops never have to use their weapon.” His eyes delved into hers. “Being a detective’s spouse might seem scary to you right now. I understand that. But Briarwood has a low crime rate. I could reach retirement never having pulled out my gun again.”

  She nodded and looked toward the door. He’s sure bringing up marriage a lot. “It’s not exactly the time to discuss that. You have to book Stanislaus.”

  He smiled, bringing out the attractive creases in his cheeks. “Never seems to be quite the right time.” He kissed her. Then he took her by the shoulders and held her away from him. “I’ll come by your house later. Would you like to make a reservation for dinner tonight at The Old Mill? To celebrate that we solved the case?”

  She blinked, her head still whirling slightly from his surprise kiss. “All right. Six-thirty?”

  CHAPTER eight

  Wrigley’s Psychic Advice

  Steve rang her door bell at about five o’clock that afternoon. It was too early to leave for the restaurant. Claudia invited him in and offered him some iced tea.

  As he stepped into her living room, she noticed he’d changed to a different suit, this one blue pinstripe with the yellow and navy plaid tie she’d given him on his birthday a few months ago.

  “Hope the cleaners can get rid of the grass stains on your other suit. You look great. Nice tie,” she quipped.

  “I thought so,” he agreed and gave her a kiss. He turned toward the couch. “What’s this? Jasmine and Knickerbocker are in the same room with Wrigley?”

  The Himalayan and the Maine Coon were staring at them from their napping spots on either side of the back of the sofa. Wrigley had curled up on the seat cushion, his blue eyes alert and wary.

  “I’ve been letting them see each other little by little,” Claudia explained with a pleased smile. “There’s been some hissing and swatting. But today everything’s copacetic. I think they sense that Wrigley is deaf. Yesterday morning I dropped the pot I use to cook oatmeal. They scooted a few feet at the clatter, but Wrigley took no notice. They sat and stared at him. After that they’ve been more accepting, like letting him share the sofa. They may even feel protective of Wrigley.”

  “Cats can feel protective?” Steve said with surprise. “I know dogs do.”

  “Cats have feelings, too. They just hide them more.”

  Steve nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s why you have such an affinity with felines.”

  Claudia didn’t know whether to smile or frown. His perceptive comment made her self-conscious. “Want to come into the kitchen? Iced tea is in the fridge.”

  “Sounds good.” He followed her and sat down at the square kitchen table on which she’d spread Saturday’s Chicago Tribune. All three cats followed, too, one by one, their paws silent on the taupe-colored tile floor.

  “Have a look at the paper, if you like,” she said as she filled two glasses with ice at the quartz-topped counter next to the fridge. “I was checking the end-of-summer sales.”

  Steve appeared amused as he glanced over the pages opened out to department store ads. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have a look at the sports section.”

  Just like a man. “Sure, go ahead.” She took a pitcher of tea out of the fridge and poured it over the ice in the glasses.

  She set his drink on the table and sat down with hers opposite him.

  “Hmm.” There was an element of worry in his tone as he perused the paper.

  “What? Your favorite team is losing?”

  “No,” he replied. “Just the opposite. The Cubs will be in the playoffs.” He looked up from the sports page on which there was a photo of the Cubs’ best pitcher in his uniform. “Fans may be looking for Wrigley to prognosticate.”

  Claudia raised her fingertips to her mouth. “Oh, no, you’re right.” She turned to search the floor and found Wrigley sitting near her chair. She reached down to pick him up. Instead of staying on her lap, the cat climbed up onto the table, walking over the sports page.

  “What do you think, Wrigley?” Steve asked with jaunty humor. “Should we put you in front of the cameras so you can make predictions on the playoffs?”

  Wrigley meowed loudly, looking at Steve and then Claudia. Spreading his paws, he began clawing the photo of the Cubs pitcher, shredding the image and the news article. When he was finished, he walked off the newspaper and sat in a regal pose on a corner of the table, tail wrapped around his paws.

  Amazement lit Steve’s eyes. “You think he meant that as an answer?”

  Claudia looked from Steve to Wrigley, feeling an eerie sort of astonishment. “Hard to take it any other way.” She pushed a stray hair off her face. “Well, I can’t say I mind his answer.”

  “Me, either,” Steve agreed. “I think all of us would be happier and safer keeping Wrigley out of the spotlight.” Steve reached out to scratch the side of the cat’s neck, which made Wrigley close his eyes and purr.

  Steve straightened his posture, his eyes brightening even more. “Say, why don’t we ask Wrigley to prognosticate one last time? Just for us.”

  Claudia wrinkled her brow. “About the Cubs?”

  “No. About us.” He looked around the kitchen. She saw his gaze hone in on the bag of duck and green pea cat food sitting on the counter between the refrigerator and the stove.

  “About us?” Claudia repeated, perplexed.

  “Where do you keep clean cat food bowls?” He rose to grab the bag of food, then began opening her cupboard doors.

  “Bottom shelf, door on the left,” she said with some impatie
nce. Here he goes taking over my kitchen, and he won’t even say for what.

  In no time, he had shoved away the newspaper, set two small white bowls in the middle of the table, and poured cat food into each one. Wrigley watched with keen interest. Steve took a pen from his pocket, tore off two small pieces of newspaper, and wrote Yes on one and No on the other. He arranged them in front of the bowls.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she asked.

  “Asking Wrigley for his psychic advice.” He lifted the cat to its feet and set him in front of the two bowls. He got in front of the blue-eyed feline and said, “Wrigley, should Claudia marry Steve?”

  “What?!” Claudia exclaimed.

  “Shh. See which bowl he chooses,” Steve told her in a hushed voice.

  “This is ridiculous,” Claudia objected, her dander rising.

  “Let’s just see what he does.”

  Wrigley crouched in front of the white dishes, sniffing the Yes bowl and then the No bowl. He began eating out of the No bowl.

  “Oh.” Steve stared at the cat, his shoulders slumping.

  Claudia found herself neither happy nor unhappy, just bewildered. If she really didn’t want to marry again, shouldn’t she feel relieved? “This is just stupid, Steve. We don’t need a cat predicting our future.”

  “But Wrigley is right eighty-two percent of the time,” Steve said.

  “Well, that means he’s wrong eighteen percent of the time. Isn’t that why Clingenpeel wanted to wring Wrigley’s neck, because he’d bet on a prediction that the cat got wrong?”

  “Still,” Steve said in a surprisingly sensible tone, “he’s got a very good track record. You know, I think Wrigley may be right. Marriage may not be our best option.”

  Claudia drew her brows together. He’s sure singing a different tune all of a sudden! She glanced at the table. “Look, Wrigley’s eating out of the Yes bowl now.”

  “That doesn’t count,” Steve said. “You have to go by his first choice.”

  Claudia rolled her eyes. “Maybe he’s confused. He never made predictions on a kitchen table in front of only two people. And two cats.”