The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (22 page)

Morris nodded, trying to smile. It just wasn’t working. He didn’t like pretentious people and Rachael had shown her hand.

“I most certainly understand,” I said quickly, knowing I needed to intervene—especially since I’d already caught Rachael in one lie Morris hadn’t been around to hear. She knew Kay Ellen. Belle said the group of teenagers had been together the day she saw them here. I tried to sound understanding when I said, “Hanging around with a mill village girl wouldn’t have been too cool back then—and I don’t mean that as a criticism. It’s just how things were, right?”

She smiled, and seemed relieved. “It’s not like we were snobs. Kay Ellen was a nice person and—” She flushed from her neck to her forehead. “I mean, I
heard
she was a nice person.”

Morris rolled his eyes. “What else did you
hear
?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” She stared at the teacup clutched between both hands.

I reached out and laid my hand on her wrist. In a soft voice I said, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Rachael. No one has to know you had a friend from the mill village. But Kay Ellen has been missing for ten years. Her
mother deserves to know what happened to her girl. If your child, heaven forbid, ever went missing, you’d want to know.”

She seemed to be thinking about this. Finally her eyes met mine and she whispered, “Her boyfriend’s name was Earl Whitehouse. His parents never knew about Kay Ellen. You can’t tell him I was the one who told. Please?”

“Judge Whitehouse’s kid?” Morris said, not bothering to keep
his
voice down.

“Quiet,” Rachael said harshly, glancing around, apparently to see if any heads had turned at the mention of the judge’s name.

I could tell by the set of his jaw Morris couldn’t care less who’d heard. “No one at the high school ever mentioned Kay Ellen Sloan hung around with the likes of you or the judge’s son when I did interviews there.”

Still keeping her voice low, Rachael said, “You only talked to a few kids and the principal and the counselor. How would they know anything? Kay Ellen was fun, she was pretty—but she was still from the village. We couldn’t have our parents know we included her in things. What would they say?”

What indeed?
I thought. Before Morris could chastise Rachael and make her shut down—and I could tell by the look on his face he was in chastise mode—I said, “This young man, Earl. Do you keep in touch?”

“No way,” she said. “But he didn’t do anything wrong. He was crying when she didn’t turn up. Crying real tears.”

Real tears?
I had the feeling Rachael Pickens was familiar with tears of the unreal variety—and that made me sad for her and for her unborn child.

She went on, saying, “I left Mercy when I went to college and never came back. My parents retired and moved to Arizona. But since Rick and I were in love and he had a great offer at the bank in Woodcrest, we moved. He’s
very successful—and that’s why you can’t say anything about this to him. I can’t be involved with the police.” She looked at her watch. “He’ll be home soon. I have to leave.”

“Wait,” I said as she stood, grabbed her purse and started for the door.

But Morris said, “Let her go. It’s Earl Whitehouse I need to talk to. And I’ll be wearing my uniform this time.”

Morris thanked me profusely before I took off for home. The gloom-and-doom face he’d been wearing of late disappeared. I almost kissed him on the cheek, but I feared it would have been too much for him. He now had a lead on a cold case he believed he’d botched. I felt lucky I’d been able to help, but not lucky I’d met Rachael Franklin Pickens. People like her I could do without, although I did have to give her credit for showing up at Belle’s and giving up Earl Whitehouse’s name.

As I pulled into my driveway, I wondered if this young man—a man who must be in his late twenties now—had murdered Kay Ellen. Perhaps his
real tears
when news of Kay Ellen’s disappearance spread through the high school, not to mention the tears he shed when he’d talked to Jeannie, were
guilty
tears. Maybe a spat between young lovers had turned ugly. I hoped Morris now had the key to unearthing the truth.

It was already dark and my motion sensor lights at the back door welcomed me home as did my cats. We’d spent the day quilting and I guessed they wanted me back at the sewing machine where they could keep track of me. Cats do like to keep track of the people they own, after all. But it was not to be. No sooner had I finished my Stouffer’s microwave dinner than Tom called. He said
we needed to pay someone a visit and felt I could be his sidekick on this job. Could I be ready in five minutes?

“Ready for what?” I said. “I’m in my usual blue jeans and a sweatshirt.”

“You’re ready. I’ll pick you up,” he said and hung up.

He liked a little intrigue and he’d for sure pulled me right in. It wasn’t until I was sitting next to him in his Prius that he told me what had been going on in
his
life today. He’d been very busy.

“What’s this about?” I said.

“We’re headed to the mill village,” he said. “See, I had a call from Mike Baca this morning. With two big cases and not enough officers, he offered me contract PI work. This is an identity check. I
love
this kind of case. Only took me about six hours to figure it out and I’ll get a nice paycheck from the town of Mercy. I told Mike I’d take money only if I discovered things important to the investigation about this person’s background.”

The dash lights revealed his smile and I could tell he was pleased. Tom not only installed security systems; he’d been doing investigative work ever since he’d left the police force in North Carolina. Most of the time in his current job, he followed people and took pictures for divorce cases. Pretty boring, he always told me. But this case, whatever it was, couldn’t possibly be boring. Not with the way he was grinning.

“So what’s the deal?” I said.

“You’ll see. And you’ll be surprised—if I’m right, that is.”

A few of the mill village brick bungalows showed signs of life inside. Bright yellow seeped around closed blinds, porch lights were on, but many of the houses were dark. Were they empty? Foreclosed on? It made me sad to see this place at night, a once-vibrant community so desolate.

The house we parked in front of did have an amber
bug light casting a faint glow on the driveway and carport, and though the curtains were drawn on the two small front windows, lights shined inside. Someone lived here.

“Come on, Tom. Tell me what you’re up to,” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “There’s a slim chance I’m wrong and in front of the woman I love, well, I’ll want to save face.”

As we walked to the front door, I noticed a car in the carport—a Lexus SUV. A
Lexus
? Unfortunately, a vehicle like that seemed out of place in this neighborhood. I said, “You don’t have to save face with me, Tom. Come on. Tell me who lives here.”

“A woman named Wanda Burgess. There. Is it all clear now?” he said with a sly smile.

“You know it’s clear as mud.” We’d reached the door and I punched his arm playfully. “Tom, tell me.”

“You’ll understand in a minute.” He knocked on the door. A nice knock, a polite knock.

The door cracked almost at once and a woman who looked to be in her late sixties peered at us through thick glasses. “Can I help you?”

“You can, Mrs. Burgess. We want to talk to your son,” Tom said. “I believe he’s staying here while he’s in town.”

“You must be mistaken,” the woman said unconvincingly.

A male voice came from inside, saying, “Don’t lie for me, Mom. Let him in.”

She turned away from us. “Are you sure?”

“He knows. I’ve been waiting for someone to figure it out,” the man said.

She opened the door and we stepped inside.

Lucas Bartlett stood in his mother’s tiny living room.

After Lucas Bartlett introduced us to his mother, Mrs. Burgess offered us coffee and I readily accepted. She hurried into the kitchen just off the living room. We’d walked into her home under strange circumstances and I knew she felt uncomfortable. If it were me, I’d want to make coffee, bake a cake, work on a quilt—anything besides talk.

“Have a seat,” Bartlett said to Tom. He waved a hand at a red chintz love seat that had seen better days, while he sat in an old swivel rocker circa 1970.

The arms of the love seat were threadbare, but I had to say, it was a surprisingly comfy sofa.

Bartlett said, “Not the quality of furniture you’re used to, I’m sure. She won’t let me change anything in this house. Or buy her a new home in town. My mom believes she belongs here, where she’s spent all her life.”

“I think this is a lovely home, so I don’t blame her,” I said, glancing around the living room. The furnishings may have been old, but the tidy room felt welcoming. One wall was filled with photographs and I was drawn to a larger version of the picture Candace had given me to return to Jeannie. I pointed at it. “Who’s that in the picture?”

Bartlett turned to look. “My father and two of his friends. Why do you ask?”

Ah. That’s why the man standing next to the person I believed to be Jeannie’s father had looked familiar. Lucas Bartlett had his dad’s jaw, the same-shaped face. But since Jeannie’s story hadn’t made its way into the grapevine yet, I couldn’t share what I knew, so I said, “Just wondering. It’s a great picture.”

Bartlett’s jaw tightened. “One of the few my mother has of my dad.”

“That’s why you want to buy the mill, right?” Tom said. “Because of your father?”

Bartlett folded his arms. “How’d you find out about me?” he said, avoiding the question.

“The police have me on contract,” Tom said. “I sometimes do investigative work for them—especially when Mercy’s small force is struggling with two tough cases. It wasn’t difficult to figure out you had two identities. You’ve been planning this for a while, from what I could tell.”

“You said
two
cases,” Bartlett said. “You mean Penelope’s murder and those old bones they found?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “But I came here about you. You have a score to settle, I get that, but why—”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What score?”

Just then, Mrs. Burgess came into the room carrying a tray with coffee cups, sugar and cream. She set it on the maple coffee table in front of Tom and me. “He’s thinkin’ he has to finish old business. Mill business,” she said. “I hope y’all like the darker beans. That’s what we drink.”

I smiled at her. “My favorite.” I took one of the pretty porcelain cups—probably her best china—and carefully added sugar and cream.

Tom did the same, the little cup looking fragile in his large hand.

I glanced between Bartlett and his mother. “What old business?”

“You didn’t tell her?” Bartlett said to Tom.

“Haven’t even told the cops yet,” Tom said. “Thought I should give you the chance to come clean on your own. They won’t be happy you came here using a fake name—but the rest of it? The success you’ve had, the fortune you’ve earned? That’s all true and you should be proud.”

“Who’d have thought a kid from the mill village would ever go to an Ivy League school?” he said with a sardonic laugh. “And I’m sure you’ve learned, I went to Yale, not Harvard, as I told Jillian.”

Tom nodded. “You made a name for yourself there—one you couldn’t cover up. What I want to know before I talk to the police is why you had to create this fake identity. Why
not
be proud of your accomplishments?”

Lucas Bartlett’s laser stare and his angry downturned lips made my stomach clench. Wanting to ease the tension, I said, “Is Lucas your real name? Or should we be calling you something else?”

Mrs. Burgess said, “He’s Landon. Landon Burgess—just like his daddy.” She’d dragged in a kitchen chair and was sitting next to her son. She turned to him and said, “I want the same answers Mr. Stewart does. I’m proud of you, Son. I just don’t get why you’re not proud of yourself.”

Lucas—or rather
Landon
—sighed heavily. “It’ll all come out now. I could have pulled it off, convinced the council to accept my proposal, but now everyone is under a microscope. The fact that you’ve uncovered the truth before I could seal the mill deal will ruin everything.”

“You’re the stranger in town,” Tom said. “Or at least they thought so. They hired me to do routine background checks on the strangers. If it makes you feel any better, I looked into the other man new in town, Dustin Gray. He’s young and doesn’t lie, so his life is an open book. You were the tough one to figure out. You set up this Lucas Bartlett guise five years ago, but you couldn’t hide
all your business dealings as Landon Burgess. And Landon Burgess’s roots led right to Mercy. You’ve been planning this a long time, man.”

Landon said, “As soon as South Carolina passed the mill renovation legislation, I knew what I needed to do. But I couldn’t do it as Landon Burgess.”

“Why not?” I asked.

He decided to take the coffee left on the tray, but I noted the cup rattled a little in his hands.

After he sat back down, he said, “I’m from the mill village—born in this very house. Do you think for one minute any proposal I offered would be accepted?”

“Why not?” Tom said. “Your money is just as green as the next person’s.”

“You don’t get it,” he said tersely.

“I get it,” I said softly. “And you could be right. I don’t claim to know all the council members. The few I do know wouldn’t care about where you came from, but the others? Their prejudices might not allow them to ever vote for your proposal.”

Tom looked surprised. “It’s that bad, huh?”

“I’ve discovered that town people and village folks do not socialize much in Mercy,” I said. “The mill culture was paternalistic, and that way of life creates prejudice that lasts for generations.”

“She’s right.” Landon gestured as if tipping a hat. “Kudos to you for your knowledge and understanding.”

His words still held a bite. His anger was deep, but I sensed there was more to this story. I said, “So did you work in the mill as a child beside your father? I know the labor laws weren’t supposed to allow it, but children still went into the mills, didn’t they?”