Have Cats--Will Crime-Solve, page 1
Have Cats -
Will Crime-Solve
Maggie Pill
Have Cats – Will Crime-Solve
Copyright©2024 Peg Herring
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Editor: Trish Zenczak
Copyeditor: R. Hodges
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Chapter One
Lorilee
Under the awning on the side patio, I was surrounded by cat pans, some stinky, some clean, when the front doorbell rang. I paused, a long-handled scrub brush in one rubber-gloved hand and the hose in the other. In no mood to be interrupted, I stayed where I was. Callie, the calico who supervised my work from the kitchen windowsill, gave a little meow in case I didn’t know I was missing something, but I glared up at her. “If you’re so interested in meeting new people,” I muttered, “you answer the door.” Her blank stare hinted she was miffed at being chastised when she’d only been trying to be helpful.
When the bell rang again, Ed and Mayson came to the screen door and peered out, amazed that I was ignoring the exciting prospect of company. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning, and I’m already sweating like a pig,” I told them, scrubbing as I spoke. “I don’t need to reveal my state to some politician looking to lock in the senior vote.” Blowing upward to cool my brow, I dumped dirty water onto the grass, rinsed a pan, and set it in the sun to dry.
When the hollow chime sounded a third time, I tossed the hose down in disgust. Whoever was interrupting my work wasn’t going to give up and go away. I stomped around the side of the house, along a sidewalk edged with yellow coreopsis and white gerbera daisies. My hip burned from squatting over cat pans, and my whole front was damp from back-spray. I reached the front porch in a distinctly unwelcoming mood. “What do you want?”
A man of about my age—seventy plus a few—turned to face me. He was over-dressed for a January morning in the Selwyn Oaks Housing Development, missing a complete suit by only the necktie and jacket. In his arms he held Bruiser, a one-eared tomcat I call mine, though the old tom would object to being claimed by anyone. He ate a majority of his meals at my house, and he slept there too, when he felt like it. The cat’s back leg lay at an odd angle, as if it had an extra joint where no joint should be. The man held Bruiser against his chest, supporting his body weight with his arm and the injured leg with an outspread hand. “Sorry to interrupt your morning, but I found this guy in the swamp, where he took a bad fall. I’d seen him sitting on your wall last night, so I thought he might belong to you.”
“He’s as much mine as anybody’s.” Leaning close, I touched Bruiser’s knobby head. He opened his eyes and made a plaintive sound that was very un-Bruiser-like. “We’ll take care of this, kiddo,” I told him. To the man, I said, “He’s going to need a vet. Can you hold him while I get my purse and car keys?”
“Of course. If you want, I can ride along and hold him, so we don’t have to try to maneuver him into a carrier.” His use of we pleased me. Like we shared a common goal. He was a stranger, but he’d rescued my cat.
“That would be great,” I said. My ward, Jess, would help, but he already left for school.” I noticed that my visitor wasn’t bad looking, plenty of steel-gray hair, light blue eyes, and decent muscle tone for seven decades. It made me aware of things I seldom pay attention to, my baggy clothes, unkempt hair, and, because of the cat-pan cleaning, possible BO. Hurrying inside, I swiped at my pits with a towel, pulled on a dry shirt, and made a few passes through my hair with a brush. It didn’t help much with the day’s high humidity, but I did what I could.
On the short ride to Purr-fect Pets, a veterinarian office that’s also an animal shelter, I introduced myself. “I’m Lorilee Riley,” I said. Replying that his name was Nate Kemmie, Bruiser’s rescuer explained how he’d discovered the cat’s plight. “I’m new to the area. Someone said Cole Swamp is worth exploring, so I decided to take a walk there this morning, before it got too hot. About twenty yards past the barricade, I found this guy on the ground. A big old red maple branch was in pieces all around him. It must have broken off and he came down with it.” He stroked Bruiser’s head. “From the sounds he was making, I knew he was in a lot of pain.” To Bruiser he said, “Why in the world did you climb up there, anyway, old man?”
“Bruiser takes the cats having nine lives thing literally. He must be on number six or seven by now.” I turned in at the Purr-fect Pets driveway. “Here we are.”
After one glance at the cat’s leg, the receptionist, Sheila, called for Doctor Ahuja, the soft-voiced Sikh who tended all my cats. “You’ve done yourself some damage this time, Old Boy,” he told Bruiser as he gently relieved Kemmie of his burden. “You’ll be confined to quarters for a while, whether you like it or not.”
With my cat safely under professional care, I turned to Mr. Kemmie. “It’ll be a while before we know what happens next, so I’ll drive you home and come back.” I was thinking I’d stop at my house and box up some baked goods to bring back with me, since I seldom visited Purr-fect Pets without providing treats for the staff.
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay and see that he’s okay,” Kemmie replied.
Again, I was pleased by his decision. We sat in the lobby for a while, but the place was busy with animals and their humans coming and going. It was difficult to talk with all the barking and growling. There were a few incidents of peeing as well, but that’s to be expected when a pet is in a stressful situation.
“I see a little cafe next door,” Kemmie said. “Would you like to go over there and have a coffee while we wait?”
I told Sheila where we’d be, and Kemmie and I crossed the alley and entered Patsy’s Pastries, which, it turned out, offered plain coffee, not an over-long list of trendy brews one has to decipher, like a word puzzle, in order to choose a drink. Because I was fond of baking, I didn’t often eat other people’s pastries, but Patsy’s cheesecake looked tasty. Kemmie chose an apple fritter roughly the size of New Hampshire.
At the cash register, he reached into his pocket and then turned to me, blushing. “My wallet’s home on the dresser. I didn’t think I’d need it for a walk in the swamp.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’ll get this.” He seemed unhappy, so I added, “Next time, you can treat.”
He nodded, though the line between his brows told me he didn’t like accepting charity. While I agreed in theory, a person doesn’t get to be my age without learning that circumstances often dictate what we have to accept.
“Did you move to Selwyn Oaks recently?” I asked when we were seated on bright red swivel chairs. The cheesecake tasted as good as it looked, and I took a second bite as my new friend answered.
“I’m a temporary resident.” Kemmie tore the fritter into fourths. “Last October, Hurricane Ian destroyed my condo in Fort Myers. I’ve been living in a hotel in Tampa since then, but my nephew called recently to offer me his place for a month. They were going on vacation, and Art said he’d feel better if the house was occupied.”
“You mean Art Fusilli?”
“Right.”
“Then you’re directly across the street from me.”
He made a little bow. “Nice to meet you, temporary neighbor.”
“I didn’t notice a car over there.”
He grimaced. “The storm dropped the condo roof directly on my bright blue, six-month-old Malibu.”
“A bad time all around.”
&nbs
“My neighbor told me Art was going to Europe...for a month, right?” Mitzi Talbot, a woman with delusions of adequacy, believed that she and I were great friends. She did her best to keep me updated as to goings-on in the neighborhood, though I didn’t much care. My interactions with Mitzi were almost never voluntary.
“Yes,” Kemmie replied. “Art’s daughter Ariel graduated from high school mid-winter, and she got a scholarship to study in Paris for a year. She was nervous about going there all by herself, so Art and Connie decided to take little Pete and travel with her. They’ll get her settled in her new digs and see the sights. Win-win situation.”
“Very nice, but I understand the trip almost didn’t happen.”
Kemmie chuckled. “Art was changing a light bulb in the garage and leaned farther than he should have. As he tells it, ‘Good gravy. I was on the garage floor before I knew it, and I’d done my poor arm in.’”
I recognized one of Art’s signature exclamations, along with “Holy Moley” and “Honest to Pete.”
As Kemmie went on with the story, I noticed he had straight, white teeth, his own, unless I missed my guess. “Fortunately, the trip was still possible, though less enjoyable for Art, traipsing around Paris with one arm in a sling.”
“Poor guy.”
“I was grateful for their offer of a place to stay. I’d been missing the privacy a home offers, even one that isn’t actually mine.”
Recalling my prolonged stay at a rehab facility after a car accident killed my husband and wrecked my hip, I said, “Privacy is precious, but we don’t realize that until we lose it.” Waggling my head, I said, “On the other hand, too much alone time isn’t good either.”
“I saw a young man wheel your trash bin out this morning. He’s your ward, you said?”
“Yes. Jess is a senior at Linville High, and he works five evenings a week for the veterinarian you just met.” After a beat I added, “He loves cats as much as I do.”
“How many do you have?” Nate asked. “I counted at least four while you were getting your things together.”
“If I call Bruiser mine, which is a stretch most days, I have eight. Due to one neighbor who isn’t a cat lover, that’s my limit, specified in the HOA rules. They’re also supposed to stay indoors, but Bruiser’s never read the rules.”
“Someone objects to you rescuing cats?” He seemed disapproving. “They are all rescues, right?”
It didn’t take a cat expert to conclude that. Bruiser, a polydactyl cat with most of one ear missing, looked like he’d gone eight rounds with Mighty Mouse. At the house, Kemmie had probably seen Mayson, who had only one eye. Esmeralda was beautiful but sadly underweight, still recovering from spending weeks on her own after Hurricane Ian. Ed was mentally slow, which is why his full name was Special Ed. “Yes. I give cats who’ve suffered trauma a home and a peaceful life.” I didn’t say my last thought aloud: Even though I have to fight Mitzi Talbot every step of the way.
When the Talbot family moved in next door, I’d done what I could to get along. Still healing from the car accident and still grieving Ben’s death, I simply couldn’t be the coffee klatch bestie Mitzi wanted me to be. When she felt I was avoiding her (It was true), Mitzi decided I suffered from dementia. (Why else would anyone dodge her fatuous remarks and constant advice?) Using my growing number of cats as evidence, she launched an anti-cat campaign, enlisting her younger son, Nasty Greg, as Evil Assistant. They tried to capture my cats (This was before the no-cats-outside rule), planning to turn them over to the local Humane Society.
The result was a huge blow-up, with a lawsuit (I threw a few clods of dirt at her. Big deal) that was dropped when I agreed to attend an anger management course (It was run by a guy named Gunter, who provided coping skills but no cure for having Mitzi and Nasty Greg live next door). I retaliated by having a seven-foot fence built around three sides of my lot and getting a court order forbidding any Talbot to step foot on my property. Not to be outdone, Mitzi got the eight-cats-inside-only rule added to our HOA handbook. Bruiser, being independent, unable to read, and unwilling to listen, simply ignored the rule completely. I didn’t explain any of that to my new friend, since I didn’t exactly come out of the whole mess looking like Sally Sunshine.
After a moment Kemmie observed, “Eight cats is a lot to care for.”
“And a lot to love.” Afraid he was about to conclude I was the local Crazy Cat Lady, I changed the subject. “I wasn’t always a pet rescuer. I spent years as a caseworker for the Florida Department of Children and Families, so I never felt like I had time for a dog or a cat.”
“Government work.” He smiled. “Then that’s something we share. I was a fed before I retired ten years ago.”
“Which agency?”
“The FBI, up in Detroit.” He grinned. “But I’m no Eliot Ness. Mostly I pushed papers across a desk.”
“You retired to Florida when you left Michigan?”
“The winters were really getting to me, the cold, the ice, the hassle of snow removal.” Touching his left leg, he added, “They tell me I’m due for knee replacement, but I’m putting it off as long as possible.”
“I can sympathize.” I chuckled. “Ever hope you might get lucky and die before you have to see a doctor again?”
“I thought I was the only one.” We laughed at ourselves, but then Kemmie’s expression sobered. “Nobody tells you that inside your head, you feel the same at seventy as you did at thirty.” His grin reappeared. “Or maybe they did, and I wasn’t listening.”
My phone buzzed to indicate a message, and I read it aloud. “Bruiser now has a pin in his back left leg. He’ll be staying with us for a day or two. He’s asleep, but you can visit him tomorrow.”
“Well, there,” I said, gathering our empty cups and napkins. “I should get home and see what the rest of my crew has been up to.” As we walked to my car, I said, “I can’t thank you enough for bringing Bruiser home.”
“Glad I could help,” he replied. “I’d like to meet the others someday if you’re not...busy.”
The hint was clear, and I was embarrassed as warmth in my cheeks signaled I was blushing. I had enjoyed spending time with Nate Kemmie, not in the man/woman sense, but being two people at about the same point in life. “If you’re interested in trying my peanut butter cookies,” I said, “stop in tomorrow morning around eight.”
Chapter Two
Jess
After school on Monday, I walked to work in a light rain, but I didn’t mind. Rain was a welcome relief from the heat of the day, and I had my hoodie, so my head stayed dry. When I got to Purr-fect Pets, I learned that Bruiser was there, recovering from surgery on a broken leg. “Lorilee didn’t text,” I said when Sheila told me. “She usually messages right away when something happens with the cats, good or bad.”
“Maybe she forgot.” Sheila raised her brows. “Ms. Riley had a man with her.”
“A man?” I’d heard the words, but they didn’t compute. Lorilee didn’t hang out with people. In the last few months, she’d had me, but there were no other males in her life unless cats counted, and they were all neutered.
Sheila brushed her bangs to the side, which she does at least a hundred times a day. “He was nice-looking, kind of dignified. About her age.”
“Huh.” As I changed into the old jeans and t-shirt I kept at the clinic for work, I thought about that. I’d never heard Lorilee mention a male friend, but now some man had made her forget to tell me about Bruiser’s injury.
I sent her a text. B awake bt groggy Seems ok
A minute later I got a text that, as usual, had complete words and proper punctuation. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know what happened. I meant to do it as soon as I got home, but I completely forgot.
I texted back, All gd.
Pocketing my phone, I went to help Doc with his last few cases of the day. As he worked, he told me what he was doing and why, helping to prepare me for my future as a vet. He also explained how he’d repaired Bruiser’s leg. “It was a serious break. We will keep him confined and X-ray again in a few days.”
“He won’t like the confined part.”
“No,” Ahuja agreed. “Bruiser is a very independent animal. Worse, he will have an Elizabethan collar, to keep him from licking or biting at the stitches and perhaps infecting the incision.” He rubbed his forehead with the back of his wrist. “You will have to keep him inside. A month would be good, six weeks, even better.”
