The Cat, the Lady and the Liar (36 page)

The thought of a sick Chablis pushed logic down to the hippocampus or wherever common sense goes when you have more important matters to attend to. I dropped my tote on the counter and hurried past the teak dining table. Since my kitchen, dining area and living room all blend together, the trip to where I’d heard Chablis sneeze wasn’t more than twenty feet. But before I’d taken five steps, I stopped again. Something else besides a sneezing cat now had my attention.

Silence. No background noise. No Animal Planet playing on the television. I always leave the TV tuned to that station when I go away. If the cats were entertained by
The Jeff Corwin Experience
or
Heroes
or
E-Vet
, I’d convinced myself, my absences were more tolerable. Okay, I’m neurotic about my three friends. Not cat-lady neurotic. At forty-one I’m a little young for that. But cats have been my best friends for as long as I can remember, and the ones that live with me now have been amazing since my husband, John, died ten months ago. They take care of me. So I try my best to take care of them.

Glancing back at the microwave, I saw that the clock showed the correct time—one p.m. Perhaps the high-def plasma TV blew up in a cloud of electronic smoke? Maybe. Didn’t matter, though. Not now. I’d only heard from Chablis, and none of my cats had shown their faces. I was getting a bad vibe—and I can usually rely on my intuition.

“Chablis, I’m home,” I called. I kept walking, slowly now—didn’t want to panic them if I was overreacting—and went into the living area. “Syrah, where are you? Merlot, I missed you.”

I breathed a sigh of relief when I found Chablis sitting on the olive chenille sofa, her blue eyes gazing up at me. Himalayans look like long-haired Siamese cats and Chablis was no different. Her gorgeous crystal blue eyes and her champagne fur were accented by deep brown feet, and she had a precious dark face and a fluffy wand of a tail.

Her nose was running and she seemed awfully puffed out—even for an already puffy cat. Was she totally swollen up by an allergen other than dandruff?

I knelt and stroked the side of her cheek with the back of my fingers, ran my hands over her body, looking for the mass of giant hives I was sure I’d find.

Nothing. She was simply all bloated fur and loud purrs.

“I am truly sorry for leaving you overnight. Are you telling me you have feline separation anxiety?”

Chablis blinked slowly, opened her mouth and squeaked. How pitiful. She’d lost her voice. She
had
to be sick. With a virus? Or leukemia? Cats do get leukemia.

Quit it, Jillian. Call the vet
.

When I stood to pull my phone from my jeans pocket, I heard Merlot’s deep, loud meow and saw him perched on the seat cushions that line the dining area’s bay window—a spot that provides a spectacular view of Mercy Lake. He knows the entire lake belongs to him, despite never having been closer than the window. But he hadn’t been sitting there when I first came in, and he wasn’t gazing out on the water. No, Merlot was looking right at me and his fur was all wild and big, too.

Since he isn’t allergic to anything, dumb me finally realized that they were both scared.

And then I saw why.

Broken glass glittered near Merlot’s paws—paws that could each substitute for a Swiffer duster.

My heart skipped. Broken glass . . . a broken
window
. “Merlot! Be careful.” Fear escaped with my words. I attempted to mask my distress by smiling as I walked over to him.

Yeah, like Mr. Brainiac Cat would buy this fakery.

I petted his broad orange and white tiger-striped head while making sure none of his paws was bleeding. He seemed fine other than that he reminded me more than ever of one of those huge, shaggy stuffed animals at a carnival.

I hefted him off the cushions—he’s a Maine coon, a breed that weighs four times more than the smallest felines. Merlot stays lean, usually hovers around twenty pounds. I was hoping to keep him clear of the glass, but he was having none of that. He squirmed free and jumped right back on the window seat and proved himself amazingly nimble by staying away from any shards. While I examined the damaged window, he intently examined me as if to ask, “How will you rectify this now that you’re finally home, Miss Gadabout?”

The jagged hole in the lowest pane was large enough for a hand to reach in and unlatch that window. And it
was
unlatched.

“Someone’s broken in. Someone’s been in our house.” But stating the obvious couldn’t help them explain what had happened. Figuring this out was human territory. For a millisecond, I wondered if this—this
intruder
might still be here. I shook my head no. My cats are not fools. They’d be in the basement or under a bed if any danger still remained.

And exactly where was Syrah? My Abyssinian hadn’t made an appearance yet. I supposed he could have been frightened enough to stay in hiding, but no. He was the alpha cat of my little pack.

Okay, I decided. This break-in had upset him. That was why he wasn’t making an appearance. Either that or he was so angry I’d left him and his friends to be threatened by a burglar that he was hiding to teach me a lesson.

The thought of a thief frightening my cats produced anger and fear and the sincere wish that I’d had a human friend who could watch out for things just like this while I was away. Since my husband’s death, though, I’d been caught up in my own troubles and too proud to reach out to anyone. But making friends, getting to know my neighbors, might have prevented this whole episode.

I inhaled deeply, let the air out slowly.
You can change that, Jillian. But right now you need to find Syrah.

That was what John would do if he were here. Hunt for the cat in a methodical, logical way. Solve this problem quickly. But I wasn’t John and my calm began to crack like crusted snow before an avalanche. Between the silent TV, the scared animals and the absent Syrah, fear now claimed top billing.

“Where are you, baby?” I called, my voice tremulous. “Come here, Syrah.”

I hurried toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms, Merlot on my heels. Poor Chablis would have been on his tail, but was stopped by a fit of sneezing. I began the search through all three thousand square feet of my house, the house that was supposed to be our dream home, the one John and I had designed ourselves.

But this was no longer a dream come true. John had been far too young to die of a sudden and unexpected heart attack. Though I was coming to terms with his death, letting go day by day, thoughts of him always seemed to flood my brain when I was stressed. And a broken window and a missing cat were certainly enough to produce that state of mind.

I rushed from room to room, but didn’t find Syrah hiding behind my armoires or beneath the dressers or under any beds. He wasn’t in the closets or the basement, either. I went outside and checked the trees and the roof for a third scared cat. After all, the intruder might have let him out when he made his escape. But leaves had been falling for weeks, and spotting Syrah’s rusty gold fur against the reds, browns and yellows of the oak, hickory and pecan trees in my yard would be difficult.

Syrah, however, is my most vocal cat, and when I didn’t hear any meowing in response to my calls, I was sure he wasn’t nearby. Cats have such good hearing that they can detect the sound of a bat stretching its wings, and I was nearly shrieking his name.

I finally gave up, and when I came inside I found Merlot sitting by the back door. I was trembling all over as I crouched next to him. He rubbed against my knees and purred while I took my cell phone from my pocket, ready to report the break-in.

“Are you trying to comfort yourself or me?” I asked as I dialed 911. The last time I’d had to do that—when John collapsed—had been the worst day of my life. This event certainly wasn’t as horrible, but punching those three numbers again made it seem like John had died only yesterday.

My big cat circled me lovingly as I stood, nudging me, trying to comfort me as best he could. He knew how upset I was.

“What is your emergency?” said the woman who answered.

“Um . . . um . . . my cat is missing.”

The dispatcher said, “Ma’am, this line is for—”

“I’ve had a break-in. There’s a shattered window and—” My mouth was so dry, the words wouldn’t come.

“Your name, ma’am?”

“J-Jillian Hart. I live at 301 Cove Lane in Mercy.” Merlot and I walked back to the living room and I picked up the cable and DVR remote. I hit the MUTE button to kill the audio before I turned on the TV. The Sony plasma worked fine and was tuned to Animal Planet as it should be. I jabbed the OFF button, wondering what kind of thief would break into my house and turn off my expensive TV.

“Ma’am. Are you there, ma’am?” It came out like “Ah you there, ma-aaam?” Very Southern, reminding me that I was far from our longtime Texas home and far from anyone who really understood what an emergency this was for me.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“I see this is a cellular numbah, but are you callin’ from inside the home?”

“Of course. My cat is gone and—”

“Officers are on their way. Do you feel safe or do you believe the intruder might still be inside or in the immediate vicinity?” Her South Carolina drawl was so thick and I was so distracted by worry that she might as well have been speaking a foreign language.

I closed my eyes, processed her question. “I-I’ve searched the house. No one’s here but me and my two babies.”

“But you do fear for your safety, ma’am?”

“I fear for my
cat’s
safety and—” Tears sprang unexpectedly to my eyes and I bit my lip.

“Ma’am, is something happenin’ right this minute? Is this intruder back?”

“No. It’s just that . . . I don’t know where he is. I can’t find him.” How pathetic I sounded. Syrah was a cat, after all.

“I fully understand your concern. My name is Barbara Lynne. May I call you Jillian?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Tell me about these babies you mentioned. How old are they, Jillian?”

“Chablis is about five and Merlot is probably around eight. They’re fine. Well, not exactly fine because Chablis is having an allergic reaction and—”

“Oh my. Should we send an am-bu-lance?” Her previously unruffled tone was now laced with concern.

“I have medicine. She’ll be okay in an hour or two. I haven’t had time to give her an antihistamine. I’ve been busy searching—”

“Exactly where are your children, Jillian? I don’t hear them, but I assume they’re with you, with their mama?”

“Oh. Oh no. You’re confused. Chablis and Merlot are my two other cats.”

A pause, then, “Is that so?” Sweetness and concern had now left the building. She couldn’t have sounded any colder if she’d been standing in a blizzard in North Dakota.

I stayed on the line as instructed—I was “ma’am” again—and no longer felt any love from the dispatcher. She offered only an occasional “Are you still there?”

Meanwhile, my panic worsened as I waited for the police. Possibilities ran through my head. The person who broke in obviously let Syrah out. My beautiful, wonderful cat could be lying dead by the road after being hit by a car. He could have fallen off the dock into the lake and drowned. He could have—
No
.
Stop this.

I decided to do something constructive rather than continue to conjure up worst-case scenarios. To make sure Chablis and Merlot wouldn’t run out the door if they got the chance, I put my cell on speaker and set it on the coffee table, then dragged their travel carriers out of the foyer closet. For once, crating them wasn’t like trying to bag smoke. They were compliant, perhaps unnerved enough themselves to want the security of their carriers right now.

Not wanting them out of my sight, I kept them with me in the living room. I dreaded the arrival of sirens and uniformed strangers. It would only add to their trauma.

It didn’t take long for the cops to show. Five minutes later I heard the cruiser’s engine in my driveway, and the dispatcher quickly disconnected when I told her they had arrived. But the car had come without a siren—I guessed because this wasn’t an emergency that required one.

Mercy is a small town—teensy compared to Houston, where I’d lived with John for the six years we’d been married. Seemed like you could get anywhere in Mercy in five minutes. I ran to the foyer and answered before the police officers could even knock. I was sure glad I’d put Merlot and Chablis in their carriers because, as expected, they freaked out and started up with a cat duet best suited for an opera: loud, mournful and tragic.

Two officers stood on the porch, one male, one female. The man said, “Deputy Morris Ebeling. Are you Jillian Hart?”

“Yes. Come in.” I stepped back.

“Deputy Candace Carson,” the other one said as they came inside.

She looked to be in her twenties and Morris had to be about sixty, his face round and pasty. His stomach hung over his equipment-laden uniform belt, his gut reminding me of a sack of potatoes under his brown shirt.

I led them into the living room, and Candace immediately went to the carriers, knelt and murmured to Merlot and Chablis in a comforting voice. They quieted at once. She was an animal person, thank goodness.

“What exactly happened here, ma’am?” Morris’s accent made me think he could have been dispatcher Barbara Lynne’s daddy.

“I don’t know,” I answered. “I was on an overnight business trip and came home to find a broken window. And my other cat is missing. He’s an Abyssinian. Sort of amber with—”

“Is he an expensive cat?” Morris asked. “I mean, could someone have broken in to steal him because he’s worth buckets of money?”

“No way,” I said with a laugh. “He was a rescue. After Katrina. So were Merlot and Chablis. They’re all purebreds, but without papers.”