The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (6 page)

“I never noticed that the preacher’s house is almost as big as the church itself,” Tom said. “Not to say either building is all that large—unless you compare them to the village houses.”

“Quiet neighborhood,” I said, glancing up and down the street.

“Too bad we hardly ever see people from this part of town on Main Street,” Tom said.

“It does seem a little like a ghost town,” I said. “Maybe most of these houses are empty.”

“Yards look too tidy. People
are
living here,” he answered.

As we walked hand in hand up the brick sidewalk, the church’s steeple looked regal against the dreary sky. Great care had been taken in this building’s construction. Arched stained-glass windows and ornate double doors beckoned. We climbed the few steps to the entrance and I reflected on how much I adored old churches—and the South had plenty of them to admire.

The sanctuary, with its wooden pews and simple altar, was deserted. We found Mitchell Truman in the church office, sitting at a desk dwarfed by the large man.

When I gently tapped on the frame of his open door, he looked up and smiled.

“Good afternoon.” He stood and I guessed he had to be six feet four. “I’m Pastor Mitch. So glad you stopped by our church.” His voice was deep and the rich baritone made him seem even bigger. I was willing to bet he gave powerful sermons.

Tom strode into the office, hand outstretched in greeting. “Tom Stewart. Nice to meet you, Pastor.”

They shook hands.

Then the pastor smiled at me, eyebrows raised.

“Nice to meet you, Pastor. I’m Jillian Hart and I’m so glad we found you—but if you’re busy—”

“Jillian Hart? The lady with the smart cats?” he said.

I smiled. “Why yes, but how—”

“Can I see them? The cats, I mean?” He sounded genuinely excited. “Several of my parishioners tell me you watch your cats on your phone.”

People do talk in Mercy, but I was surprised to learn they were apparently discussing
my
small life. I took my phone out of my jeans pocket and we spent a few minutes observing Chablis sleep on the sofa. When Syrah and Merlot finally sauntered into the kitchen, Pastor Mitchell laughed and sat down.

“What mellow cats,” he said.

“You can say that now,” I said. “You should have seen them earlier.” Just then, I felt pressure against my calf, same as when Syrah rubs against me. I looked down. Nothing. I glanced behind me, wondering if the pastor had a sneaky cat of his own. “You seem to love cats. Do you have one or two lurking around here?”

“No. I’d love a cat to keep me company, but my wife is worried about allergic parishioners who might have problems if we had animals in the church,” he said.

“I understand, but cats and dogs can be therapeutic and I am sure you counsel troubled souls in this very office. If you ever get her to change her mind, please go to the animal shelter run by Shawn and Allison Cuddahee and adopt,” I said.

“I will do just that.” The pastor looked back and forth between Tom and me. “Are you two looking for a new church home?”

“Not right now. We’ve come to ask about someone you know,” I said.

His face grew serious. “You understand if this person shared a confidence, I cannot speak with you about such matters.” Though his tone was formal, I sensed he was a warm and caring man.

“Clara Jeanne Sloan? Remember her?” Tom said, sounding a little too coplike. It made me uncomfortable and I wondered if the pastor felt the same way.

“Oh my, indeed I do,” he said, seemingly nonplussed by Tom’s official tone. “She left Mercy a long time ago.”

“We found her living in the mill this morning,” I said.

“What?”
If a person could be
plussed
, the pastor was now. “Oh no. Are you saying she’s…homeless? That she came back to Mercy and couldn’t call on us to—”

“We’re not sure how long she’s been there,” I said. “We could use your help before we…Well, we need to understand her better. Can you help us?”

“Most certainly I’ll help. We could go over to the mill
right this minute. We should. We need to help the poor lady.” He started to rise.

Tom held up a hand. “Hang on, Pastor. From what Jillian tells me, we can’t barge in like the savior patrol.”

“He’s right,” I added, hoping the crack about the
savior
patrol would be forgotten. Still, I couldn’t help but like how passionate Tom was about helping Jeannie.

“Do you have a plan, then?” Pastor Mitch eased back into his chair.

“Can you tell us about her history?” I said. “When we do go in and assist her to leave, I want her to feel we understand her.”

The pastor nodded. “You seem like a wise woman. All right. Before we get started, would you two care for tea? I was just about to ask my wife to bring a pitcher over from the pastorium. If you’d prefer hot tea, we can arrange that. It is chilly today.”

“I am a confirmed iced tea addict,” I said.

Pastor Mitchell smiled broadly and asked Tom, “What can I offer you?”

“Whatever you two are having,” Tom said.

“Iced tea it is. Meanwhile, please have a seat.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the two leather padded chairs facing his desk.

Tom helped me take off my coat while the pastor made the call to his wife.

As we waited for the tea, Pastor Mitch filled the time by asking more questions about my cats, about Tom’s job and about my stepdaughter, Kara. Apparently he had met her when she did a piece about rural churches for the small local paper. Kara was editor-in-chief and owner of the
Mercy Messenger
.

When Mrs. Truman finally wheeled in an old-fashioned tea cart, Pastor Mitch knew far more about Tom and me than we knew about him.

The pastor stood and smiled warmly at his wife. She
was smartly dressed in gray wool. I even caught a hint of pearls beneath her coat. Her skin was a good two shades lighter than her husband’s and the mahogany-colored wig she wore beautifully accented her creamy skin tone.

After introductions, Mrs. Truman said, “So nice to make your acquaintance.” Then she turned to her husband. “I am glad you caught me, Mitchell. I have a meeting of the Pastors’ Wives Association in Greenville, if you’ve forgotten.” She looked at me. “Pastors’ wives have a lot to talk about.”

“These folks have come to ask questions about our Jeannie,” the pastor said.

She looked surprised. “But she’s been gone for so long. Why would you be asking about her now?”

“Because she’s not gone anymore,” I said. “She’s been living in the old mill.”

A wide-eyed Mrs. Truman said, “Oh no. Who would have thought anyone could live in that place? Is she all right?”

“Hard to say. We only met her briefly,” I said. “But I think she needs to be checked out by a doctor. If she’s been living in that dungeon-like atmosphere, I’m sure she has a few health problems.”

“You’re probably right,” the pastor said.

“Bless poor Jeannie’s heart. This is simply unbelievable. What are you waiting for, Mitchell? We need to get over there right now,” Mrs. Truman said.

The pastor explained how we wanted to approach the problem and Mrs. Truman, after some argument, agreed. “She was always a very stubborn soul. But Lord knows I cared for that woman. I tried to find her and her daughter a permanent home. We couldn’t continue to let them live with us. Our mission is to uplift the downtrodden. Give them hope as well as charity. I offered to relocate Jeannie to a place in the middle of the state near Columbia.”

“A shelter?” I said.

“Not exactly,” Pastor Mitch answered. “So many folks were displaced as the mills closed up in South Carolina. We learned of several retraining opportunities—sent dozens of our parishioners to these programs.”

Mrs. Truman nodded in agreement. “I found a nice, clean group home where Jeannie could be trained for a new position. Her job at the mill had been a simple one. Cutting loose threads from some kind of loom. Problem was, Kay Ellen would have had to go elsewhere.”

“I’m guessing Jeannie didn’t go for that,” Tom said.

“They packed up and left the pastorium the minute after I presented her with the opportunity to move,” the pastor said.

“Kay Ellen wanted to finish up at Mercy High School,” Mrs. Truman said. “The child had friends she’d gone all through school with, so I couldn’t blame her. Plus, she adamantly refused to be separated from her mother.”

“And yet,” I said, thinking out loud, “Kay Ellen ran away before she ever finished high school and left her mother behind? That doesn’t make sense.”

Mrs. Truman pursed her lips and nodded in agreement. “That’s
exactly
what I told Morris Ebeling when he came here asking about the two of them. I was not impressed with his
investigation
into their disappearance.” She checked her watch. “I could cancel my trip to Greenville. I would like to help in any way I can.”

I said, “Oh, don’t do that. There’s time. See, we have a meeting scheduled with Deputy Carson to discuss the options concerning Jeannie. Plus, I have put in some calls to friends who know of charitable organizations that might help. I’m waiting on them to call me back.”

Elizabeth Truman smiled. “I do believe Jeannie’s fate is in good hands. But please know we will be right beside you. Call us for any help you need. Truth be told, I am so
relieved Jeannie is alive and it gives us hope for Kay Ellen. Perhaps she is in that mill somewhere, too.” She turned to her husband. “Please text me if I’m needed and I’ll hurry back from Greenville. At any rate, I’ll be home by seven.” She said her good-byes and left.

Candace had also wondered if Kay Ellen was somewhere in that mill, too. She certainly could be. The place was huge and we’d only seen a tiny portion of the building.

The pastor told us to help ourselves to glasses of tea—and to wonderful-looking cookies shaped like flowers.

Once we were settled with our drinks and the melt-in-your-mouth lemony cookies, I said, “There is one thing Jeannie said about the mill. She said it was a
holy
place and she wasn’t leaving. Maybe if we know what she means, it’ll be easier to convince her to leave. Can you help us understand?”

The pastor tilted his bald head, considering the question. Finally he said, “People like Jeannie—folks without many skills, without an average IQ—how can I put this?” His brow furrowed. “They have a connection to the earth and to God and to their own instincts about what is right and wrong for them. Jeannie may not be the most brilliant person by modern standards, but she is brilliant in other ways. She understands where she needs to be, what her life is about. She probably believes she is in her own special and holy church. Am I making sense?”

“Yup. Makes sense,” Tom said. “She’s so strongly connected to the mill, she won’t leave willingly.”

“Or,” I said, “she believes she has to stay because that’s where her purpose lies?”

The pastor smiled. “I believe you’re both right. But I’m not sure how much these insights will help you solve the problem. Bottom line, I don’t believe she’ll leave without a fight.”

“If we can’t convince her, you’ll be available to help?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he said. “But you need to know that when Jeannie left our care, she was angry. She thought we were casting her off on others because we didn’t care. As my wife mentioned, she is a stubborn soul and might dig her heels in even more if she sees my face.”

My disappointment must have been evident, because the pastor went on, saying, “Let me tell you one thing that might work. Jeannie is like a child in many ways. She believes in magic and fairy tales. If you bring her options as if you’re telling a story about someone else, about this poor person who lives alone in an old house, and how you need Jeannie’s help to save this person, she might leave with you.”

Tom said, “In other words, lie to her?” He stood and I got the sense Pastor Mitch had just taken Tom right out of his comfort zone with the storytelling idea. “We have that meeting with Deputy Carson, but thanks so much for taking time to talk to us.”

The pastor smiled. “I would not consider such a story to be a lie. You asked for my help, so allow me to give you a bit more. You’ve involved the police and that might make your efforts more difficult.”

“Is Jeannie afraid of the police?” I asked.

“Not afraid. She was more upset with Mercy PD than she was with my wife and me,” he said. “She haunted that police station after her daughter disappeared. Bothered Morris Ebeling to death. I heard she even sat outside his house at times. In Jeannie’s defense, she didn’t know how to get things done in, shall we call it, a
socially acceptable
way.”

“Her girl was missing,” I said. “Sounds like she was beside herself.”

“Oh, we all understood. We knew Jeannie well. We sympathized. But in the eyes of the law, a teenager ran
off. Happens all the time. I believe Morris did what he thought he could.”

Now Tom was the one checking the time—on his phone. But I had another question.

“How about when Jeannie herself disappeared? Did anyone search for
her
?” I asked.

The pastor looked about as comfortable as Tom seemed to feel. “I say this as a man of God who is compelled to be honest. Jeannie’s absence went unnoticed for weeks. I feel guilty about that. Morris did make inquiries after I mentioned to him that I hadn’t seen Jeannie in quite some time. But when all was said and done, I believe there was a certain…
relief
that she was gone. To many in Mercy, she had become nothing more than a nuisance. We here in the church gathered people and searched for her, just as we had done when Kay Ellen disappeared months before—but I feared we’d acted too late. I am so very relieved she is alive.” He smiled—a smile filled with regret.

“At least you and your congregation were kind enough to make an effort,” I said softly.

“When she leaves the mill, I do want to see her—if she agrees, of course.”

“I will tell her myself,” I said. “Thank you for your time.”

After I put on my coat, Tom and I walked out through a side door the pastor pointed out in the hallway.

He let out a sigh of relief the minute we were outside. “Didn’t all that stuff about magic and fairies and stories bother you?”