The Cat, The Professor And The Poison

Sixteen

After changing out of her damp uniform and into a pair of my jeans and a T- shirt, Candace joined Kara and me at the kitchen table. I really wanted to know why she didn’t put up a stink when Baca told her to stay with me. But now was not the time.

We were all hungry, and Kara and Candace acted as if their tense interaction earlier had never happened. We finished off the deli turkey that Kara had bought-with a little help from Merlot. I chose to forego the avocado, but Candace piled her sandwich with not only avocado but cheese and spicy mayo. If I’d had a tub of lard, she probably would have spread that on the whole-grain bread. She’d had a busy week and obviously needed all those calories.

After Candace had a decent meal in her tummy, she played nice with Kara, asking her about her former job.

Kara said, “I’m a journalist and just left my position as a columnist in Houston.”

“What kind of column?” Candace asked.

“Pop culture,” she said. “My current interest is social networking-Twitter, Facebook, the online dating trends, issues like that.”

“You don’t write about celebrities, then?”

“Only if it involves social commentary,” Kara said. “I have written some pieces that touched on the music scene. The Tejano influence, for example, and rap music.”

“No Britney? No American Idol?” Candace said.

Where was she going with this? I wondered.

“Idol is of interest, of course. There are cultural implications. But I stay away from anything too… well… tabloid.” Kara examined her fingernails and seemed downright bored.

Uh-oh. Maybe attitude hadn’t left the building after all. It had just taken a different form.

“Isn’t that a sorry shame?” Candace said. “Those supermarket rags are my favorite. I love celebrity stuff. If you wrote for the Enquirer or one of those types of newspapers, then you’d be the celebrity.”

I knew that it was Candace’s mother who loved the Enquirer. Candace thought tabloids were trash and always made fun of the stories her mother believed to be one hundred percent true. So where was she going with this?

“Those tabloids aren’t newspapers,” Kara said.

“Coulda fooled me.”

I noted the smile playing at Candace’s lips as she stood and began to clear the remnants of our late lunch. She’d gotten under Kara’s skin and now seemed satisfied. I resisted the urge to say something. I wasn’t sure why Candace didn’t like Kara, but I also wasn’t sure how Kara would react if I got in the middle of their verbal sparring.

Candace said, “Rain’s let up. After we clean up, time for me to see if our bad guy left any evidence on your back porch that hasn’t washed away. Darn it all if I don’t hate rain.”

She put the condiments away while I started filling the dishwasher. Kara retreated, saying she wanted to record notes on what she’d learned about the murders. After she was gone, Candace whispered, “Did your husband raise that spoiled brat?”

“What makes you think she’s spoiled?” I said.

“Intuition,” Candace said.

“John did let her have everything she wanted-and I warned him that wasn’t the greatest idea,” I said. “He was trying to make up for Kara losing her mother and for him working long hours. I guess, most of all, for not giving his daughter the attention she needed when she needed it the most. But he had no clue how to raise a teenage girl.”

“She was in college when you two married?” Candace said.

“A freshman at the University of Texas. A little late to set limits, and besides, it wasn’t my place. I hope you’ll cut her some slack, because I don’t think she’s over losing John or her mother.”

“But you’re getting there,” Candace said. “You actually criticized John, and you’ve never done that before.”

I picked up the sponge and wiped down the table’s mosaic-tile top. “He was no saint, and neither am I.”

“I took a grief-counseling course. To teach me how to say the right things to folks who’d lost loved ones. I recall that teacher telling us that once you stop idealizing the person who died, you’re on your way to accepting the loss.”

“Oh, I believe I’m accepting the loss, all right.” I walked over to the sink and dropped the crumbs I’d cleared from the table into the disposal. I told her about the kiss Tom and I shared last night.

Candace shoved my shoulder and said, “No way.”

I winced. I was beginning to feel sore all over after what had happened earlier. And I still had scratches and cuts from crawling over barbed wire.

She realized what she’d done and immediately apologized, then glanced toward the door. “Wish my stuff would arrive. I need to take pictures of your injuries. Did you know you’ve got bruises on your neck?”

My hand went to my throat. “No. And I don’t think I own a turtleneck.”

“You don’t need to hide what happened to you, Jillian. It’s not your fault.”

“I guess you’re right, but before another minute passes,” I said, “I have to know why you’re willing to stay here with me. There’s something else going on.”

“I thought you understood, especially after what we just talked about,” she said. “I have to keep an eye on Kara. I can smell trouble a mile away, and she’s trouble. So while I’m protecting you, I’m watching her like a hawk. I don’t want her all up in my business, and that’s exactly where she wants to be.”

“She’s not dangerous. She’s looking for answers, just like we are,” I said.

“Answers that I need to find, not her,” Candace said.

She seemed upset that I was defending Kara, but before I could reassure her, the doorbell rang.

When I answered, with Candace right beside me, Billy Cranor stood bearing gifts: the evidence kit with the camera, the laptop and a file folder. He stepped inside and brought Candace’s prized possessions into the living room.

“Heard some butthead came around threatening you, Ms. Hart,” Billy said. “Wish I’d been here.”

I smiled. “I wish you’d been here, too.”

Billy set Candace’s things on the end table, and of course his appearance brought cats out from under the dining room table to investigate. They knew Billy and found him far less fascinating than Candace’s belongings. But though Merlot and Syrah were all over that evidence bag, Chablis didn’t come up from the basement to visit. She sure must have loved cuddling with her adopted kittens.

“Long time no see, Candy.” Billy laughed. “What’s it been? Two hours?”

She smiled and fixed a few wayward strands of blond hair over her ear. This was her fireman-calendar fantasy man, but he always treated her like a sister. And that bothered her. “Kind of you to drag my stuff around town. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. We’ve got more trouble in Mercy than we know what to do with. Any way I can help, I will,” he said.

“Hi,” came Kara’s voice from the foyer. “We have more visitors?”

“Kara, meet Billy Cranor,” I said. “He’s a volunteer fireman and also knows how to fix just about anything. Works at the hardware store.”

She entered the room, and I couldn’t look at Candace after I saw Billy nearly start panting at the site of Kara in her tiny shorts and tank top. I’d never seen Candace jealous before, but that might be about to change.

“Pleased to meet you, Kara. You got a last name?” he said.

“Hart,” she answered.

“Are you Ms. Hart’s sister, then?” He looked at me. “You never said anything about a sister.”

Kara laughed. “She married my father, that’s all. We’re not blood relatives.”

“How long you visiting for?” Billy said.

Candace was moving her evidence kit away from further cat inspection, but Billy’s question made her head snap up. She and I were both interested in the answer.

“Don’t know. Very cute town. And it’s growing on me,” Kara said.

“Mercy is the finest place you’ll ever want to visit,” Billy said.

“Except for the murders, you mean?” Kara said.

Billy’s face reddened, and his interest in Kara seemed to go from “Gee, I’d like to get to know you better” to something more like “What’s your problem, lady?” Did Kara have a clue how condescending she sometimes sounded?

“Still the best place in the world,” Billy said. “Listen, I got to get back to work. Have an engine to clean after all this rain. Fire trucks gotta sparkle.” He nodded at Candace and me. “Take care, ladies.” To Kara he said, “Nice to make your acquaintance.”

“One favor, Billy?” Candace said.

“Sure.”

“That professor’s family is due in town,” Candace said, “but we don’t know when. You’ve always got your ear to the ground, so will you call me when they get here?”

“You betcha,” Billy said.

After he left, Kara said, “Nice body, but such a hick. Did my father really like Mercy and these types?”

“I thought you said the town was growing on you. Your father loved Mercy,” I said softly.

Kara said. “He must have had his reasons, and that tells me I need to understand the town better if I’m going to write the book that’s starting to come to life in my head.”

Candace, her cheeks rosy with what I assumed was anger, had her camera out. “Jillian? How’s about we go to the bedroom and I’ll photograph those bruises.”

“Sure.” We started down the hall together, but Kara was on our heels.

“Mind if I watch?” Kara said as we entered my bedroom.

Merlot and Syrah had the same idea and were already sitting on the bed.

“It’s up to you whether you want an audience, Jillian,” Candace said.

“I guess I don’t mind,” I said, though I really did. But saying no to Kara seemed to be as difficult for me as it had been for John. “Guess you want me to take off my shirt, Candace?”

“That’s right.” Candace surveyed my room. She walked over and closed the door that led to the master bath. “Stand in front of the door. The lighting will be right.”

Candace proceeded to photograph my bruised neck, the blue marks on my biceps where the man had lifted me off my feet and the red abrasions on both wrists. My ankles hadn’t been bound as tightly as my wrists, and there were no marks there. All the scrapes and bruises on my legs had come from my trek to the professor’s house through the fields.

As I was putting my T-shirt back on, Kara said, “When I write my book about these murders and if it turns out Jillian’s attacker was involved, can I get copies of those photos?”

“Not my call,” Candace said brusquely. “As of now, these pictures are part of an ongoing investigation.”

“I see,” Kara said.

“This guy wore gloves the entire time?” Candace asked me.

“Yes,” I said. I motioned to the cats. “Come on, boys. Time for wet food.”

We all walked back toward the kitchen, but Candace stopped. “Wait a minute. He wore a black ski mask, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“And he was holding the very red- haired Merlot when you came in the room?” she said.

“You think he left fiber evidence on Merlot?” I said.

“I better check him out.” Candace had put her case on the sofa and now took out a pair of latex gloves, a large magnifying glass and a pair of long tweezers.

So while Syrah ate his salmon dinner and Merlot chomped down on his grilled beef, Candace sat next to him on the floor with her magnifying glass. She examined his long red coat one section at a time.

Kara stood above Candace, watching with interest.

I opened the fridge for some sweet tea and was surprised to discover that my refrigerator had become a foreign country. Candace had made lunch, so I hadn’t looked in here since Kara went to the store. I saw a half dozen prepackaged containers of sushi rolls and enough Red Bull to energize a pro football team. It reminded me of when Kara had come to spend Christmas with John and me and always filled the fridge with some kind of new and trendy food. Thank goodness for the whole deli chicken and containers of potato salad and olives. I wasn’t a sushi fan.

I asked if anyone wanted a drink but got no reply, so I shrugged and poured myself a glass of tea.

Candace’s “Aha” came seconds later. She leaned back and held up her tweezers. From where I stood across the kitchen I couldn’t see anything, but I assumed she’d found a teensy thread in all that fur.

She said, “Ski masks may be good at concealing faces, but they shed almost as much as Merlot here.”

“Really?” Kara said.

“It’s near impossible to come into someone’s house and not leave evidence of your presence behind. Take you, for instance: long dark hair, obviously colored. Hard not to leave any of those hairs around. Some of them could even contain your DNA.” Candace looked at me. “Would you mind getting an envelope out of my case? You know the ones I use.”

When I brought her the small paper envelope, I also brought her a pen. I knew the routine.

Candace placed her tiny, fuzzy black fiber in the envelope and wrote the date, time and where she’d found the fiber on the front. Then she stood. “I’ll check the sofa to see if there are any more of these.”

She came up empty there and said, “I doubt the rain left us any nice tire tracks, especially since other vehicles have driven in and out of your driveway since the event. But did you hear anything after the door slammed? The sound of an engine, maybe?”

“The event? It wasn’t exactly a rock concert.” Then I felt awful for being sarcastic. “Sorry. Guess I’m still a little on edge. To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention.” I finished off my tea and said, “I was just glad he left. But something has me wondering-guess it was the food in the fridge that sparked something in my head. How did he know he’d find me alone?”

“The food? What are you talking about?” Kara said.

“You were at the store,” I said. “How did someone know you wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon?”

Candace shook her head. “The bad guy might not have even known she was staying here. He got lucky is all.”

“But what if he did know?” I said. “If this was an activist, he’s probably not working alone. Someone could have been following Kara, too.”

“No way,” Kara said. “I would have noticed.”

“Not if they were good,” Candace said.

“That settles it.” Kara made a beeline for the back door and went outside.

Candace said, “What’s with her?”

“Don’t know,” I answered, “but I’m guessing she’s not fleeing in terror.”

And she wasn’t. Kara came back inside a minute later, making sure to wipe her feet on the mat by the door. She held something wrapped in navy felt and lifted the fabric for Candace’s inspection.

Candace stepped back when she looked inside. “Is that loaded?”

“Yes. I was traveling alone. I have the right to protect myself,” Kara said.

I was shocked but spoke as calmly as I could. “I have rights, too, and this is my home. I want you to unload that gun,” I said. “You might accidentally shoot one of my cats. Or me.”

Kara looked at me like I had a screw loose. “Are you crazy, Jillian? Someone came into your house and threatened you. Someone might be following me, so-”

“And that’s why I’m here. For protection,” Candace said evenly. “Jillian has asked you to unload your.38 snubnose or put it back where you got it.”

“From what Tom told me,” Kara said, “ South Carolina has the same law that Texas does-the right to carry a loaded handgun in a concealed place like the glove box.”

“Without a permit. I know,” Candace said. “But it’s not in the glove box now. So please do as Jillian asked.”

“Is the safety on?” I said, still horrified at her bringing a gun into my house. Handguns can hurt their owners, too, and I was worried about Kara carrying that thing around.

“Revolvers don’t have safeties,” they both said in unison.

“Even more reason to get that thing out of here,” I said.

“Fine, but I wanted both of you to know I have this. No one is about to intimidate me. No one.” She rewrapped the gun, whirled and went back outside.

Candace shook her head, her expression troubled. “John’s daughter has issues, Jillian.”

“But John’s daughter happens to be my family. Can you be nice to her? For me?” I asked.

“I’ll try, but you be careful, ’cause I can guarantee you I won’t be turning my back on her.”