The Cat, the Mill and the Murder: A Cats in Trouble Mystery by Leann Sweeney

composure.
    Candace pulled out the DNA kit. “With this. All I need is for you to open your mouth and let me touch your cheek with this long stick.”
    Jeannie’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Huh?”
    “You and your daughter share the same blood,” I said. “You get that, right?”
    “Course we do. But what does a long stick have to do with our blood?” she replied.
    “Blood and spit and bone are made of the same stuff,” I said. “Candace will get some of your spit on that cotton swab and…and—”
    “And then,” Candace went on, “when we find your daughter’s body, we can test her against what I collect on this swab, just to be sure it’s her.”
    The silence that ensued made my heart speed up. Then my stomach tightened as I searched Jeannie’s face for clues as to what she understood.
    “You found her, didn’t you?” Jeannie’s lower lip quivered.
    When Candace didn’t answer right away, she said, “Go on. Tell me, girl.”
    Candace took a deep breath. “We found bones. They might belong to Kay Ellen.”

Twelve
    Candace and I remained mostly quiet on the drive home to Mercy. Back at the hospital, we’d helped Jeannie understand how the bones or maybe even any traces left on the tarp could be compared to her saliva. She’d let Candace take the DNA sample then.
    When I told Jeannie I would return tomorrow and check on her, she’d asked me to bring Boots. I said I’d try, all the while wondering how I would communicate with a ghost cat. Then, on the way to the elevator, Candace had asked if anyone could ever help Jeannie understand there was no cat—implying, of course, that I should be the one to present this reality to the woman. I told Candace I didn’t think I was the person for the job—that maybe a therapist would be needed down the road. We’d left it at that. I mean, how could I convince Jeannie no cat existed when I myself believed Boots might still be around in a different form?
    As Candace drove up next to the back door of my house, both our cell phones rang. I got out of the car and spoke with Shawn, who told me a shipment of portable feral cat shelters had arrived and he was directing the truck to the mill. He wanted me to meet him there and help talk the police into allowing him to unload the shelters so the driver wouldn’t have to be paid to waitaround. He’d heard that something was going on inside the mill and there might be a problem. I agreed to meet him there but told him I wasn’t sure how much influence I would have getting him inside the place.
    When I disconnected, Candace stepped out of the squad car, her phone pressed to her ear. She said, “I’m on my way,” then hung up and looked at me. “The bone doctor is at the mill. But she wants Dustin there to help pull the bricks out. She figures he’ll know how best to do the job without disturbing any remains. Apparently she’s never excavated from a chimney full of cement before. Can you phone him to come or even bring him to the mill?”
    “Sure.” I explained about Shawn’s request—okay, his
demand
—that I meet him at the mill because of the arrival of the shelters.
    “Oh boy,” Candace said as she slid behind the wheel. “That crime scene is gonna be like a three-ring circus today.”
    I waved good-bye as she pulled out of the driveway. Once I stepped inside my house, I saw the chase was on—presumably Syrah, Merlot and Boots being the ones involved. Poor Chablis apparently was as clueless about this little ghost as most everyone besides my boy cats and Jeannie. Chablis wanted treats and a lap and she’d be happy. I could provide the former, but no lap—not on what looked to be another busy day.
    I opened the treat jar and took two out as I tapped the keypad on my phone with my other hand looking for Dustin’s contact number.
    He answered right away and said, “I’m so glad you called. I’m going crazy. I’ve worked up a few ideas from what I saw today on my iPad, but that’s about