Джанет Кантрелл - Fat Cat At Large

“Don’t you want to know what the emergency is?” asked Chase, standing up and regarding Hilda, who didn’t seem awake anymore. Something blue lay on the floor, in the shadow of the dark wood cabinets. “The woman here needs help right away. Hilda Bjorn. She’s been sick, but—”

“Help is on the way. You need to stay right where you are. Don’t move and don’t touch anything.”

Chase thought that was odd. “I should pick up my cat. He might disturb something. There’s blood.” There was something else on the floor, near Hilda’s head. Something small and round. It might have been a button.

Quincy was, in fact, ignoring everything else and sniffing poor Ms. Bjorn’s feet. She was barefoot, wearing a gown and robe. She must have felt his whiskers because she twitched her foot. Quincy transferred his sniffing to the door that led to the backyard.

“I repeat,” the voice on the line said, “don’t move and don’t touch anything.”

“Can I hang up now?”

Two policemen came quietly into the kitchen, their guns drawn.

Chase flinched and dropped her phone.

“Don’t move,” one of the men said, the square-jawed one.

“No, I won’t.” Her voice was faint, just above a whisper. She didn’t think she could have said it any louder at the moment. The barrel of the gun loomed, huge and deadly. She wished it weren’t pointing at her. She raised her hands in the air, surrendering. “My cat,” she said.

“Is that it?” the rounder-faced one asked, jerking his head toward the door and Quincy.

“ Him . That’s him .”

The policemen exchanged a private look.

“Go get it,” the lantern-jawed one said to her. “Then stand right there and don’t move.”

She walked to the back door, weak-kneed. Professor Fear’s face, wearing an incredulous expression, peered in at her through the windowpane. She saw a policeman come up behind him and motion him off the back porch. After she picked Quincy up, she stole glances out the door. Professor Fear stood in the yard talking to the policeman, waving his hands toward the house.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, one of the policemen knelt beside Hilda Bjorn until a pair of medics arrived. They scooped her onto a gurney and whisked her down the hall, seconds after entering the room.

Chase was relieved that Hilda’s color was good and she didn’t seem to be bleeding much.

The two policemen remaining in the kitchen huddled together across the room for a quiet conversation. One shook his head at everything the other one said.

“Is anyone there?” a familiar voice called from the front of the house.

It was Mike Ramos! Chase was so relieved to hear his voice she nearly dropped Quincy.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The square-jawed policeman raised his gun again, this time pointing it at the newcomer. Mike stopped in the doorway to Hilda’s kitchen, his eyes wide.

“What’s going on?” Mike asked.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” The policeman sounded as suspicious of Mike as he had of Chase. She wondered if Mike’s heart was hammering as fast as hers was.

“I’m Dr. Ramos. I live across the street. I was coming home for lunch and saw the commotion. Is Ms. Bjorn all right?”

“I think someone hit her on the head,” Chase blurted.

The round-faced policeman silenced her with a glare. The other one was talking on a phone.

“I saw the ambulance take her away,” said Mike. “Is she going to be okay?”

“Are you a medical doctor?” asked the policeman not on the phone.

“No, a veterinarian.”

“Isn’t that medical?” asked Chase.

“You be quiet.” Another one of those stern glares. He went to talk to his partner again. After further hushed debate, he turned to Mike. “Would you be able to take this animal?”

“Take him where?” Mike and Chase both said together.

The policeman unhooked a set of handcuffs from his belt. “We’re taking her in, but can’t take the cat.”

“You’re what?” Mike said it, but Chase thought it at the same time.

There was no answer. Mike threw Chase a worried glance. “What did you do?”

“I found Ms. Bjorn on her floor and called nine one one.”

“Quincy got out again, I gather.”

Chase nodded. She wanted to ask him what he was doing here when he had told her an appointment was coming in his door and he needed to hang up on their conversation.

“I’m sure this will get cleared up in a hurry.” Mike took Quincy from Chase, giving her a pat on the shoulder. It should have been reassuring, but she barely noticed, as the policeman, the round-faced one, grabbed her wrists and pulled them behind her to snap on the cuffs. They were cold and uncomfortable.

“Can I get my phone?” Chase asked. It lay on the floor where she had dropped it. It was unbroken, at least. The round-faced policeman picked it up and pocketed it.

“I’ll take care of Quincy,” Mike said, as he left. “Then I’ll go to the station. Call me when you know what’s going on.”

Chase nodded again, unable to speak her thanks. As soon as Mike was gone, tears started spilling down her face. It was distressing that she wasn’t able to wipe them with her hands secured behind her. The taller, square-jawed one took her elbow and guided her, not ungently, out of the kitchen and to the front room. He motioned her onto one of the soft chairs and she perched on the edge of the cushion, not able to sit back because of the awkward handcuffs.

After a few minutes she asked what they were waiting for. As she was speaking, a team of forensic people entered with cameras and bags of equipment. Oh yes, she thought, the CSI people. Detective Olson followed them. They all proceeded down the hallway, but Detective Olson soon returned.

He took a seat in the other easy chair and sat facing her. “What’s going on?” he asked the uniformed policeman. He didn’t seem like the monster he had been when he was grilling her.

“Suspect was found standing over the victim. Victim was on the floor, bleeding and unconscious, with a heavy piece of marble beside her.”

The detective turned to Chase. “Again?”

“Not exactly. This wasn’t a stabbing. And I didn’t do it this time either.”

The policeman, still standing, stirred a bit. He was frowning at Chase. She didn’t think he believed her. He stood at attention, his hands clasped behind him, and swayed slightly.

“I know, you were chasing your cat,” said the detective.

“Yes.”

“No, not really. Chasing your cat again? I was joking.”

“Quincy likes Ms. Bjorn. He’s run away and come here before.” She wished that policeman would stop swaying. And frowning.

“Tell me exactly what happened, Ms. Oliver.” Detective Olson took out a notepad. The whole scenario was all too depressingly familiar, from the use of Ms. Oliver to the notepad. At least she was in a living room.

She related how Quincy must have gotten out of the office as she hung up from talking with Mike. She called him Dr. Ramos, making herself a mental note to ask Mike, when she picked Quincy up, why he was going home to lunch right after he’d told her his next appointment was at his office.

After she’d told Detective Olson the rest, which wasn’t much—that she’d gone after Quincy, learned from Professor Fear that Ms. Bjorn had been ill today, and had entered her house to see if she could do anything for her—he wrote for another minute or so, then looked up.

“Why would you be concerned about the woman who is a witness against you?”

“She’s . . . she’s an old woman and she’s sick and she’s . . . wrong.”

“Were you thinking of attempting to change her mind about what she saw?”