Лори Касс - Tailing A Tabby

Eddie’s tail flicked around, tickling me something fierce. “You can stop that anytime,” I told him, but since he was a cat, he kept flicking.

I tried to catch the end of his tail, but he tipped it out of reach every time. Finally I used both hands to trap it down against my leg. “Ha! Got you…”

My voice trailed off.

A trap?

I considered the idea. And found it good.

A trap.

There was only one little problem. How do you set a trap for someone when you don’t know where he lives? Or even his name?

• • •

I left Eddie with a small handful of treats and a new cat toy—one with bells inside that I’d probably regret giving him come two in the morning—and drove up to the care facility to talk to Cade. About ideas for setting a trap for the killer.

It was long past dinnertime, closing fast on sunset, and the halls were mostly empty. The only things moving were the always-busy staff and the birds in the showcase in the hallway a few doors down from Cade’s room.

I stopped to admire the bright colors of their feathers. That, as well as their merry chirping, was enough to lift anyone’s spirits. “And what’s your name?” I asked a little guy. His head poked out of a tiny nest just long enough to let me see his brilliantly blue plumage. “Let me guess. Blackie. No, Snowflake.”

“Sorry. He’s Chirpy.” A nurse’s aide was standing in front of a laptop computer on a cart, tapping away at whatever it is that aides have to tap away at. She hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago and I don’t know how she’d arrived so silently, but maybe that was something they taught you in the certification class.

“Chirpy?” I asked.

“Yeah, I know, not very original, but we let every resident who wanted to name a bird name it whatever they”—she broke off into a huge yawn—“Sorry. Whatever they wanted.”

I glanced at the birdhouse. There were dozens of the little guys in there, and a number of them looked exactly the same to me. “Um, how do you know which one is which?”

She tapped at the computer a few more times, then flipped the laptop shut and turned to me. “Don’t,” she said, nodding slightly.

I began to see the beauty of the plan. Smiling, I said, “I’m Minnie.”

“Heather,” she said, and yawned again. “Sorry. I just switched from working midnights and it’s taking me a while to get adjusted.”

I shuddered. People were meant to be in bed and sleeping from eleven to seven, not on their feet and working. However, I was very grateful there were people who could function on that kind of schedule, and I was even more grateful that I wasn’t one of them. “I don’t even want to imagine,” I said.

“Oh, it’s not so bad. Like they say, the only thing you miss working midnights is sleep. I could get to all my kids’ concerts and soccer games, no problem. I didn’t always stay awake, but I was there.” She grinned, and the resulting lines around her mouth made me revise her age up a few years.

“I always thought working midnights would be a little, you know.” I hesitated, then said it. “Creepy.”

She shook her head. “Not to me. Most everyone is asleep; you can chart without an interruption, practically. The best thing about midnights is that it’s quiet. Peaceful, even.”

I’d never thought about it that way, and said so.

She nodded. “And the shift differential is nice.” She rubbed her thumb across the tips of her fingers. “But the kids are older now, and my husband sleeps better when I’m home, so I switched over. Still, I kind of miss how nice and quiet midnights are. At least most of the time.” A darkness shaded her face. “Of course, it’s not all puppies and kittens. Sometimes…” Her voice trailed off and she glanced over her shoulder. Toward Cade’s room.

Inside my head, dawn broke, even if it was almost sunset. This must be the aide who’d told the police that Cade was in bed the night of Carissa’s murder. This was the woman whose statement was a critical part of keeping Cade out of jail.

“I stopped by,” I said, “to visit Russell McCade.”

“You know Cade?” Heather’s smile was wide. “I’ve been a fan for years, since I was a kid. The first real picture I ever bought was one of his prints. I’d love to have one of his real paintings. They’re so lifelike they almost jump off the wall. Maybe someday I’ll be able to afford a little one.”

She looked wistful and I didn’t say that if I didn’t get something figured out, her wish might come true sooner than she might guess. “He’s one of the residents you’re assigned to?” I asked.

“I was so lucky. He’s such a nice man you wouldn’t think that he’s such a famous artist. I mean, people all over the world know who he is.” Her eyes were wide. “He said he’s sold paintings to people in over fifty different countries. I’m not sure I could even name fifty countries.”

My new friend seemed a trifle dazzled by Cade’s fame. I wondered if she’d act the same way around Trock Farrand. Or Greg Plassey, come to think of it. “He does have a lot of talent,” I said.

Heather nodded vigorously. “Tons and tons of it. People like him should be given breaks, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you think that people with that much talent should be given more leeway than other people?”

I didn’t, actually, but the hallway of a medical care facility wasn’t really the place to begin that kind of discussion. “Well…”

“People like Cade. Sorry, here comes another yawn.” She covered her mouth, then went on. “They’re not the same as the rest of us, so they shouldn’t be held to the same standards, don’t you think? I mean, we need to protect their gifts as much as possible, so it’s only right to protect them.”

“Protect them?” A cold draft brushed at the back of my neck.

“Well, sure. If it takes… well, not an outright lie, but just a little lie, to make sure Cade gets back to painting as soon as possible, how could that be wrong?”

I stared at her. No question, Heather had been the aide who’d told the police that Cade was in bed at the time of the murder.

And she’d lied.

“Oh, jeez.” She fumbled in her pocket. “There’s my beeper. Got to go. Nice meeting you.” Off she went, her soft shoes soundless on the carpet.

She’d lied.

Cade hadn’t been in his room the night Carissa was killed.

She’d lied.

The two words repeated themselves over and over again in my head, filling my brain and driving out every other thought.

Heartsick and suddenly tired beyond belief, I turned and made my way home.

• • •

“Minnie?”

I was sitting at the dining table, halfheartedly working away at a plan for the trap, and jumped at the sound of my name. Eddie jumped, too, mainly because he’d been on my legs and had been forced into jumping when I did or risk being tumbled to the floor in an untidy heap.

“Minnie,” Cade said. “I need to talk to you.”

I could feel my chin sliding forward to form the expression my mother always called my stubborn look. He might want to talk to me, but I certainly didn’t want to talk to him. He’d lied to me. He’d had Heather lie for him. What else had he lied about?

“Minnie, please. I know you’re in there and the nice young man from the facility who gave me a ride won’t be back for an hour. How much of this do you want your neighbors to overhear?”

None, but my cranky neighbors, the Olsons, were out of town and my nice neighbors, Louisa and Ted, were headed out early the next morning and had said good night half an hour ago, earplugs in their hands. Still, if Chris saw Cade standing on my dock at this time of night, he’d have a new rumor circulating around town by tomorrow noon.