The Cat Collector Read online

  Before she could answer, Steve informed her, “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney—”

  “Oh, never mind all that,” Ethel interrupted. “Can I sit up?”

  Steve helped her shift to a sitting position on the floor, her handcuffed hands behind her. Claudia assumed Ethel would keep quiet.

  “It’s all that stinking bird’s fault!” Ethel cried, her voice harsh.

  “Shh, you shouldn’t say anything,” Claudia told her, kneeling next to her.

  “What does it matter now?” Ethel argued, spots of blood in her hair and ear from Hal’s attack. “I’ve lost everything. That awful parrot Tom took everywhere blabbed on him. He visited Eleanor after we left the clinic. When he came home the bird squawked, “Wrong sister. Shoulda married you.” She looked to Claudia for sympathy. “Well, how would you feel if you found out your husband wished he’d married your twin?”

  “Devastated, I suppose,” Claudia replied.

  “I asked Tom if that’s what he’d said to Eleanor. He wouldn’t answer. I kept after him and he turned off his hearing aid! He did that a lot. I just got enraged and picked up my scissors. I held them up to scare him. Made him admit that he did prefer Eleanor.”

  Sirens and motorcycles could be heard outside drawing near, but Ethel continued her rant. “He said he was sick of me talking, always demanding attention, and that Eleanor was considerate and quiet. He claimed he could have a real conversation with her. That she knew how to listen. Ha! So I . . . I stabbed him. It just happened. I didn’t mean to. But he was so disrespectful to me, who’d been his wife for forty-four years! Why, he cared more about that horrible parrot than me. I deserved better than that. Don’t you think?”

  Claudia leaned back on her heels and did not reply.

  The front door opened and uniformed police came pouring in, five or six of them. Steve got up to talk to them.

  Ethel began to look frightened. “I really will be taken to jail,” she said to Claudia.

  “Well . . . you did murder your husband. And tried to hide it with a phony alibi,” Claudia told her. “Did you think you could get away with it?”

  “I did . . . for a while.” Ethel glanced at Jasmine who was staring at her with stark, round eyes. “Will you take my kitty?”

  “Sure, of course I will.” Claudia hesitated. “What about Hal?”

  “Pluck him and cook him, for all I care.” Ethel looked up at the police officers who were gathering around her. “Alright, alright, I won’t put up a fight.”

  They lifted her to her feet and took her away. After they’d left, Steve helped Claudia get up from her kneeling position.

  “I have to go to the station to book Ethel,” Steve told her. “Did I hear you say you’d adopt her cat?”

  Claudia spread her hands. “I couldn’t say no.” She turned to see that Jasmine and Knickerbocker, who had taken refuge in the dining room, had noticed each other. Knickerbocker growled at Jasmine and she hissed back. And then they ignored each other. “Well, maybe they’ll get along. I hope Hal is okay.”

  She opened the door to the guest room, and Hal flew out. After a turn around the living room, he landed on Claudia’s shoulder. “Smart bird.”

  “You going to keep him, too?” Steve asked.

  She sighed. “I don’t know. You think maybe Eleanor would take him?”

  “Worth a try. Hal knows her.”

  CHAPTER eight

  Life Won’t Be the Same

  The following Sunday turned out to be a clear, sunny day. After attending church and enjoying their usual brunch at The Old Mill restaurant, Steve suggested to Claudia that they go for a stroll down the graveled pathway that was once the railroad track of a commuter train to Chicago. The railroad had gone out of business decades ago, and local suburbs had removed the old tracks and turned the wide path into a miles long, tree-lined promenade.

  As they walked, Steve caught her up on remaining elements of the Tom Radek murder case.

  “We found the murder weapon in the neighbor’s compost heap, where Ethel confessed she’d thrown the scissors as she fled the house. She’d shut the door on the parrot who was coming after her. She told us she changed outfits in her garage—she had some wash drying on the clothesline in there. She’d thrown her bloody clothes in someone’s trash can before driving off. Garbage has been picked up, so we may never find those. But there’s more than enough evidence, plus her confession, to convict her. Also, Greg Owen was at a car dealership buying a Mercedes at the time of the murder. But he’ll be put away for embezzlement. Mia should be happy about that.”

  “It’s all so sad,” Claudia said. “Too bad Tom believed Ethel years ago when she told him her sister was going with him only because she felt sorry for him. If he’d married Eleanor, none of this would have happened.”

  “Marrying the right person is important,” Steve agreed. He hesitated and glanced at Claudia. “Look, I’ve gathered that you’re not in any hurry to marry again. But since we’ve been getting along well, seeing each other at church or on a case, you think maybe sometime we could go on a real date? I mean, like, dinner and a movie? Maybe a play in downtown Chicago? Or a Cubs game?”

  Though pleased with his suggestion, Claudia suddenly felt shy and self-conscious. She pulled her wool overcoat closer to her chest. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a date.”

  Steve bowed his head. “Me, too,” he admitted. “We’ll muddle through it together. Okay?”

  Claudia smiled as she felt her breaths coming faster. “Sure. That would be nice.”

  He smiled back at her and nodded. “Great. So . . . you think I could say you’re my girlfriend?”

  Her eyes widened. “Um . . .all right.”

  “Terrific.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and they walked on quietly.

  Her heart thumping, Claudia felt a little flabbergasted that now, all at once, she had a boyfriend. She’d have to get used to the idea before she told Amy or anyone else.

  After several moments of silence between them, he asked, “So how are your two cats getting along?”

  “Surprisingly well,” she replied, catching her breath. “There was some spitting and paw swatting for a few days, but now they seem at peace. Their food bowls are next to each other, and they eat together with no problem. By the way, Eleanor did take Hal. She was happy to give him a home because she knew that was what Tom would have wanted.”

  “Good. So you’re just a cat collector, for now anyway.”

  She laughed. “Hope I don’t get involved in any more murders. I don’t need any more cats. Not that I mind having Jasmine and Knickerbocker.”

  “I hope you do,” he gently contradicted. “You’re really good at getting people to talk. You were a great help on both our murder cases.”

  “I’d like to stick to being a veterinary technician, thank you very much,” she told him archly. When he looked disappointed, she added, “And being your girlfriend.”

  Steve gave her a big grin. And then he took her in his arms and soundly kissed her.

  Claudia’s toes curled, and she felt dazed as he released her. He took her hand and they walked on together as a couple.

  My life won’t be the same anymore. The thought unsettled her. Still, as they ambled along the tree-lined path on a sunny day, the future suddenly seemed happier.

  Novella III

  THE CLAIRVOYANT CAT

  By Lori Herter

  CHAPTER one

  A Few Years Earlier

  The small TV in the employees’ break room at the Briarwood Cat Clinic was tuned to the local noontime news. Dressed in green cotton scrubs, Claudia Bailey had finished her lunch and was stitching a needlepoint canvas when Trudy Avery, the clinic’s office manager, came in. A plump, pretty, fifty-something lady wearing a blue pants-suit, Trudy’s short hair was an eye-catching shade of blonde.

  “Busy morning, huh?” Trudy
said as she took her homemade salad encased in a plastic container out of the refrigerator. She sat down at the small table across from Claudia.

  Claudia nodded, looking up as she drew out a thread. “I always appreciate lunch hour.” She couldn’t help but gaze admiringly at Trudy’s hair, shining in the room’s ceiling lights. “I wonder if I should use a different shampoo or something. I’m blonde, but you’re blondie-blonde.”

  Trudy chuckled. “Honey, this all comes from a bottle.” She patted her bouncy locks. “Your hair is thick and long and beautiful. Leave it alone till you’ve got gray to hide. You’ll save yourself a bundle, too.”

  Claudia smiled. “Thanks for the good advice. And the compliment.”

  “What’s the picture you’re needlepointing?”

  Claudia held up the partly stitched square canvas stretched on a wood frame so Trudy could see.

  “A cat,” Trudy said, laughing. “Of course.”

  “When I saw this one at the needlepoint store, it reminded me of Taffy, the orange and white tabby my husband and I adopted. They’re both gone now. I have a photo of my husband on the fireplace mantle. I thought it would be nice to have a pillow made from this canvas, in memory of Taffy.”

  “I remember she died last year. You live all alone now. Don’t you want to adopt another cat?” Trudy gently asked.

  “Maybe someday. I’m not ready yet,” Claudia replied. “Don’t know why, but I’m not.”

  “It’s hard to let go when you lose loved ones,” Trudy sympathized. She was quiet a moment, then pointed to the TV in back of Claudia. “Oh, look. They’re talking about that cat that predicts Cubs games.”

  Claudia turned to see the sixteen-inch TV on the counter next to the small sink. Trudy got up to make the volume higher.

  Ben Jordan, the handsome Chicago anchorman, sat at his desk in the studio with a photo of a white cat projected in back of him. “In a few minutes, we’ll go to Briarwood City Hall where Wrigley the Clairvoyant Cat is scheduled to predict whether or not the Cubs will win the World Series.”

  “Oh, goody,” Trudy said with excitement. “We’re just in time to see it live.”

  Claudia drew her brows together. “You believe the cat can really predict who’ll win?”

  “Well, Wrigley has been right 82% of the time,” Trudy said. “That’s a pretty good record. I read it in the Briarwood Press.”

  Claudia politely shrugged. “I stand corrected.” She wasn’t sure a cat regularly put on display during baseball season, in front of a bunch of news photographers with flashing cameras waiting to see which bowl the cat would eat from, made a happy life for a feline. But she kept her thoughts to herself.

  On the TV, the young, dark-haired anchorman was presenting a brief retrospective of how Wrigley was becoming well-known in Chicagoland as a Cubs prognosticator.

  “It all started three years ago. Mrs. Lydia Worthington brought the new kitten she’d adopted from the DuPage County Love-A-Cat Shelter to a charity event raising money to support the no-kill shelter.”

  As Jordan spoke, a photo came on the screen of a short-haired white kitten on a cloth-covered table with two small bowls of dry cat food placed before him. One bowl was marked Cubs and the other Reds.

  “It was playoff season,” the anchorman continued, “and in front of the curious audience, the kitten chose to eat out of the Cubs bowl. Lo and behold, the Cubs won! And that was just the beginning, as you’ll see in this interview we taped yesterday with Mrs. Worthington.”

  A new scene appeared on the TV screen. A pleasant and cheerful-looking white-haired lady, probably in her late seventies, sat in a garden with a large willow tree behind her. On her lap she held a full-grown, blue-eyed white cat who made an attempt to jump onto the glass-topped wrought iron table in front of her, but she gently restrained the cat from doing so. Jordan sat at the table with her.

  “Looks like they filmed this in Lydia’s backyard,” Trudy said. “She’s quite wealthy, I think. Lives on Castleberry Lane in a stately, two-story brick mansion with white columns and balustrades. Colonial Revival architecture, I heard someone say.”

  “That’s in the upscale part of Briarwood,” Claudia agreed. “How do you know all this?”

  “She had a charity event at her house that I attended last year. For homeless veterans. She’s widowed. Supports a lot of charities. She’s a lovely lady.”

  They both listened to the conversation on TV.

  “What first gave you the idea to have your cat, a mere kitten at the time, become a prognosticator?” Jordan asked.

  Mrs. Worthington’s face grew animated with infectious humor as she spoke in a lilting voice. “Well, on a sports report—I think it was your station—they showed a clip of a cat in Russia that predicts their big soccer games. I’d just adopted Wrigley. Actually I’d named him Blue at first, because of his stunning blue peepers.” She cupped the cat’s face, so the camera could show his deep-hued eyes. “I was in charge of the fund raiser for the Love-A-Cat Shelter that year. So I thought it would be fun to try copying what they do in Russia, and see what would happen. I wasn’t sure he’d eat out of either dish with everyone watching him so closely,” she explained, laughing. “But he did, and he picked the Cubs’ bowl and the next day they won. Everyone seemed to enjoy it so much, I brought him to other charity events. By the end of that season, local newspaper reporters were covering Wrigley’s predictions—I’d decided to change his name to Wrigley. The next year you TV reporters started showing up.”

  “And this year, Briarwood City Hall has been hosting Wrigley’s predictions,” the anchorman added.

  “Our mayor said Wrigley has put Briarwood on the map,” Lydia said with a smile. “Our historic town has always been in the shadow of Wheaton, Oakbrook and Elmhurst. Not anymore. Especially not since Wrigley correctly predicted the Cubbies would beat the L. A. Dodgers to win the pennant this year.”

  Jordan leaned forward. “I hear you have a theory as to why Wrigley has such a good track record at foretelling whether the Cubs will win. Something about his blue eyes?”

  Lydia drew in a breath. “Yes, indeed. Now don’t be sad, but Wrigley is deaf. White cats with blue eyes often have a hereditary condition that makes them deaf. I’ve heard the statistic is 65 to 85 percent. That’s probably why no one had adopted him at the cat shelter.”

  Trudy turned to Claudia. “Is that true?”

  Claudia nodded. “It’s called congenital sensorineural deafness.”

  “Aww,” Trudy sighed, looking crestfallen.

  “Deaf cats do okay if they have a caring owner and they’re kept indoors,” Claudia assured her.

  Meanwhile on TV, Lydia was saying, “But you see, that’s why Wrigley’s a good prognosticator. His deafness allows him to concentrate more deeply and pick up vibes from the universe that other cats and we humans aren’t aware of.”

  Claudia rolled her eyes.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Worthington, for letting us interview you and Wrigley.” Jordan stretched out his hand across the table. Instead of taking his hand, the lady playfully held out Wrigley’s paw. He laughed and gently shook it.

  The TV screen switched back to the newsroom. “And now I’m told that Wrigley is about to make his prediction for the World Series,” Jordan said with enthusiasm. “Let’s go to Briarwood City Hall.”

  Trudy and Claudia leaned toward their small television as the scene changed to a spacious room with marble pillars. An antique wood table with carved legs had been set up, covered with a black tablecloth. A crowd of photographers had gathered around, many of them preparing their equipment, focusing their cameras. News reporters at the ready with microphones and digital recorders were also present.

  The mayor said a few words of welcome and introduced Lydia Worthington. The lady stepped forward wearing a white lace dress, while a young man in a suit and tie followed carrying a blue leather cat carrier.

  At the table, Mrs. Worthington held up an unopened bag of dry cat food. “This is Wrigley�
�s favorite, duck and green pea. His veterinarian recommended it especially. I’m opening it in front of everyone so you know his food hasn’t been tampered with and both bowls will be exactly the same.”

  Trudy turned to Claudia. “I wonder which vet he goes to?”

  “Don’t know,” Claudia said.

  “Wish it was ours,” Trudy murmured as they watched while Lydia opened the bag and poured an equal amount of food kernels into each small crystal glass bowl. One bowl had a sign beside it that read Cubs and the other had a sign marked Indians. Ribbons with the colors of each team streamed from underneath the glass dishes and draped over the edge of the table.

  “Now Brent Davies, my very handsome nephew, will open up Wrigley’s carrier.” Lydia motioned to the auburn-haired young man who had followed her. Smiling, he placed the carrier on a carved oak bench that had been placed nearby, zipped open the top flap and lifted out the white cat. He brought Wrigley, who appeared quite docile and did not squirm or put up a fight, to his aunt. She gathered the big feline in her arms and carried him to the table, as cameras began to flash. Lydia seemed to take care to place the cat in the middle of the table, equidistant between each bowl, which were placed about three feet apart. Then she let him go.

  Trudy braced her hand against her nose. “Gosh, isn’t this exciting?”

  Claudia had to admit, it was quite a scene to watch.

  Wrigley sniffed the dish marked Cubs, then walked over to the Indians bowl.

  “Oh, no,” Trudy whispered. “Go back, go back.”

  Wrigley hesitated, sat on his haunches for a moment, then walked over to the Cubs bowl again. He carefully sniffed the food—and began eating. Cameras flashed like crazy and people in the room began cheering.

  Trudy jumped up from her chair, clapping and yelling, “Yay!”

  Claudia grinned. “I hope he’s right. My husband would have been thrilled to see that curse ended,” she said, remembering how much Peter loved the Cubs.