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

The people who live near the mill still don’tmingle much in town. I’ve heard plenty of unkind remarks about the residents.”
    Ed said, “Prejudice is for dumbasses and we got a lot of dumbasses left in Mercy.”
    I’d learned about how towns treated the village residents from my college course work about the textile industry—not Mercy, per se, but the textile towns in general. It was a sad part of our history that few people today seemed to know about. But though I felt exactly the same as Ed, I wanted to get back to why we’d come today. I said, “What did Jeannie do after the mill closed?”
    “Her parents was older than dirt by then and she’d been carin’ for them. I’m thinkin’ there was some kind of severance they lived on—plus their social security. Jeannie buried her parents and not long after she and Kay Ellen got kicked to the curb by the bank. Pretty cold how we treat some folks in this country, them who’s worked hard all their lives.”
    “Do you know anything about the police investigation?” Tom said. “Did they believe from the get-go Kay Ellen ran off? Or were there indications she met foul play?”
    Ed grinned. “Listen to you soundin’ like a cop again. You’d have to get with Morris on the particulars, but Kay Ellen didn’t take a damn thing with her when she ran off. Not even her purse, or so I heard. What young thing leaves without her purse?”
    “You’re right,” I said, half to myself. I looked at Ed. “Does the same preacher still work at Mill Village Baptist?”
    “He does. Name’s Mitchell Truman. You probably seen him around town. Tall black man with the shiniest skull I ever did see.”
    Tom stood. “Guess I know where we’re headed.”

Six
    During the ride to the outskirts of town and the Mill Village Baptist Church in Tom’s brand-new Prius—loved the new car smell—I took a moment to check on my cats. They had to be exhausted after all their running around this morning. But though Chablis lay sound asleep on the sofa, Syrah and Merlot were not on any of my four screens. I guessed they’d taken their chase to the basement and perhaps decided to nap down there.
    The church sat one block from the mill, and the pastorium next door was set farther back on the property. Both structures were the same red brick as the rows of identical mill village houses lining the streets.
    “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