Where There's a Will

By Dee Stuart

If I weren't a cat lover, everything might have turned out differently.  But I am, and that's why I volunteered to feed Emma's cats after she broke her hip and was stuck in a wheelchair.

One rainy night last spring after I'd fed the barn cats and fixed Em's supper, she rolled her chair up to her kitchen table for a game of Kings-in-the-Corner.  Tom, her elderly gray and white house cat, sprawled on the tabletop watching us through slitted gold eyes.

“Slap that Ace on the two, Em,” I said.

“Shucky darn.  That's the second play I've missed.  Don't know what's wrong with me tonight, Susie.  I'm just not with it.”

Usually, Emma's mind is cat's claw sharp.  “You're super.  Just antsy, being stuck in that wheelchair.  Soon you'll be tearing around, cooking, cleaning like always.”

Anxiety clouded her blue eyes.  She shook her head.

 “Falling, breaking my hip made me realize I'm not immortal, Susie.  I have this odd feeling—“

I stared down at the cards, unable to meet her eyes, for Doc Jarvis had told me she'd never be free of that wheelchair – hard for her to bear, for though she's pushing eighty, she's wiry as a buggy whip. In fact, Emma's outlived all her family except her great-nephew Rick.   Rick's a hotshot legal eagle who has no time for her.  Unless he wants something.  I reached across the table and squeezed her hand.

“Don't talk nonsense, Emma.” 

But her eyes still held that vulnerable look that made me want to protect her.

“A body has to plan ahead, like putting up peaches for the winter.”  Her lips curved in a wry smile.  “Rick's been hassling me to make a will and this morning I finally wrote one.  He said he'll pick it up tonight to put in my safe deposit box.”

I stifled the feeling that Rick always had an eye out for the main chance.  Drop dead handsome, smooth as new honey, I'd distrusted him on sight and he'd done nothing to change my opinion.

“Is he still pressuring you to sell this place and move into a mobile home village?”

Emma nodded.  “But I love this farm.  Came here as a bride, you know.  I'll never sell out like old man Walker.”

She snapped the King of Spades down on the table.

Old man Walker had sold his section of rolling grassland to a developer who'd studded it with red brick ranch houses where my husband Joel and I live.  Our yard backs up to Emma's farm.  I teach fifth grade so I often drop in to check on her after school.  And I'd given her an old silver school bell to ring in case she needed me in an emergency.  When Joel's on the road selling farm machinery, Emma and I play “Kings” two or three nights a week.  If she's lonely, she never lets on.  Claims her cats are her best friends.  She's adopted a dozen stray barn cats, and Tom who guards the house.  Tom loves to stretch out on the parlor windowsill and watch the world go by.  At heart, he's a night prowler, a born brawler—used to limp home ragged-eared and battle-scarred.  Now Emma never lets him out at night. 

She pushed away from the table, fished two long, white envelopes from a drawer in the hutch and handed me one.

“Here's a copy of my will for you, Susie, in case Rick's copy,” she paused, “gets lost.”

With a reassuring smile, I tucked the envelope deep inside my purse. 

“Nobody will need this for a donkey's years.  What I need now is your grocery list.”

She backed up her wheelchair to the hutch and found her list and checkbook in a drawer.  “I'm fresh out of cash, Susie.  Mind cashing a check?”

“No problem.”

We both jumped at the sound of footsteps thudding across the front porch.

Emma sighed.  “Rick.  Too high falutin' to use the back door like ever'body else.”

We heard a key in the lock and the front door burst open.  Rick, sporting a white Stetson and cowboy boots, stomped down the hallway into the kitchen.  He gave me a sour nod.  Picking up Emma's old school bell, he shook it at Tom.  Tom hissed and arched his back.  Rick swept the cat off the kitchen table and dropped onto a chair at the table.

“You ought to get rid of all these stupid cats, Aunt Em.”

I thought, get rid of you is what she ought to do.  

Old Tom crouched in the doorway, tail swishing, glaring at Rick with hostile eyes.

Emma's eyes flashed defiance.

 “I love my cats and they love me.”

Rick waved a hand in front of her face, cutting her off. 

“Okay, okay.  Listen, Aunt Em, I'm a little pressed for cash right now.  How about floating me a small loan?”

Emma stiffened, as if bracing herself to do battle and looked him square in the eyes.  “I don't think so.”

Rick pushed the old school bell on the table farther out of reach.  Smiling, he leaned toward her in a chummy sort of way. 

 I knew what was coming.  Unwilling to witness an argument, I said, “I'll be on my way, Em.”

Smiling, Em warned, “Take care Tom doesn't skin out with you.”

“Will do.” 

I slipped out the back door, and shivering under a needle-fine spring shower, ran down the path toward home. The next evening, lugging a sack full of groceries, I let myself in Em's back door.

“Emma?” I called “It's me, Susie.”

Silence pressed around me, pounded in my ears.  I ran into the living room and stopped short, staring into the hallway.  My heart seemed to stop beating.  Em lay face down near the front door beside her over-turned wheelchair.  A reddish-brown stain spread under her head over the white- tiled floor.  As reality sank in, waves of horror and disbelief surged through me.  Kneeling down beside her, I felt for her pulse.  Gently, I touched her cheek.  Never again would Em and I play “Kings.”  I ran to the phone.

***

It seemed hours until the sheriff, the coroner and Rick arrived.

“Died instantly – never knew what hit her,” the coroner said.

I hoped he was right.  After the coroner took Emma away, the sheriff, a tall, weather-beaten man, frowned down at the wheelchair.

“Don't rightly see how Em could've upended that chair.”

“Obviously,” Rick said in a voice heavy with sarcasm, “someone came to the door.  She had to reach up to unlock it, lost her balance.  The chair tipped over and she fell and struck her head.”

The sheriff scowled and rubbed his chin.  “Nobody round these parts uses the front door.”

Rick's dark eyes glinted with triumph.  “That just proves whoever came to the door was a stranger.”

The sheriff's scowl deepened.  “Em was lying face down like she'd fallen forward.  But the gash is on the back of her head.  Appears to me somebody did her in.”

Rick nodded.  “Good thinking, Sheriff.  Everyone knew Aunt Emma took in strays.  Probably a burglar came by pretending to drop off a stray.  She let him in.  He killed her, then robbed her.”

“Hold it,” I said.  “If this burglar was a stranger, how did he know Emma took in strays?”

“Right,” said the sheriff.  His hawk-eyed gaze swept the room.  “Anyways, thieves almost always ransack a place.  Em's is neat as a pin.”

I glanced quickly around the parlor, through the archway into the dining room.  Emma's antique silver spoons, her flow-blue china and Tiffany lamp were still there.  In positive tones, I said, “Nothing's missing.”

Rick bolted into the kitchen, found Emma's billfold strode back to the entry and flipped it open under the sheriff's nose.

“Empty.  Obviously, the killer only wanted money.  He cleaned her out.”

“Wrong!”  I said.  “Emma was flat broke yesterday.”

Rick flushed scarlet. “Her killer wouldn't know that,” he snarled.  “When he found out he flew into a rage and—“

The sheriff broke in.  “Ever'body knows farmers are short on cash.  The killer's got to be somebody with a real strong motive.”  His eyes narrowed.  “Somebody like you, Rick.”

Rick gave a fake laugh.  “Ridiculous.  Aunt Emma was fine when I left last night.  Anyway, I'm her sole heir and with the old girl pushing eighty, time is on my side.  I'd be a fool to risk a murder rap.  I'm no fool, Sheriff.”

No, I thought savagely.  Just a smart-aleck lawyer.  I've got this gut feeling about you, hotshot, and if only I can prove it, you'll be riding to hell on a fast horse.

The sheriff's speculative gaze bored into Rick.  “Emma was no fool either.  I'd sure like a gander at her will.”

A startled look flashed across Rick's face.  “What will?”

In hard tones the sheriff said, “If Emma didn't want the state to get half of all she owned, I reckon she made a will.”

“In the nick of time,” I said.  “Like yesterday.”

Rick looked as though I'd smacked him with a wet fish.  “So—she made a will.”

My benumbed mind whirled.  Emma had given me my copy before Rick arrived.  Clearly, she hadn't told him this news.  Had she forgotten to give him the original – or had she changed her mind and not given it to him after all?

“Yesterday?”  the sheriff drawled.  “Mighty interesting coincidence,”

A demanding yowl pierced the air.  All heads swiveled toward the parlor window where Old Tom sat hunched on the sill outside, watching us with accusing eyes.

I gasped.  “How did Tom get out?”

“Blasted cat must have taken off when I left last night,” Rick said.

I ran to the door and flung it open.  As Tom scooted inside, something caught my eye.  I knelt down, scrutinizing the wooden porch floor.

The sheriff stepped up beside me.  “Whatcha studying on, Susie?”

I pointed to several round brown marks. “Prints.  Catpaw prints.”

“Stupid cat,” Rick said, “out in the rain last night, tracking mud inside.”

The sheriff wheeled on Rick.  “You say Tom ran out when you left?”

Rick shrugged.  “Must have.  Later he must've wanted back in—“

“That night prowler?” I scoffed.  “No way.”

Ignoring me, he went on, “And when Em tried to open the door she fell--“ He threw out his hands in a hopeless gesture.

The sheriff hunkered down, touched a finger to his tongue then rubbed one faint brown stain.  He sniffed his finger, touched his tongue again.  Flint-eyed, he stood up, glaring at Rick.

“This here on my finger ain't mud.  It's blood.”

Rick shrugged.  “Maybe the old cat killed a mouse.”

Everyone looked at the cat, licking his right front foot.  I grabbed Tom and cradling him in my lap, took hold of his right front paw.  The white fur between his soft round pads bore a sticky, reddish-brown stain.  Remorselessly, I shook my head.  “Your story won't wash, Rick.  Tom's paw prints tell a different tale.”

Rick's lips curled in a superior smile.  “So the cat cut its foot.”

It was my turn to smile.  Softly, I said, “Tom's prints point away from the door.  He had blood on his paws when he skinned outside.”  I paused, waiting for the truth to sink in.  But Rick stared at me as if I'd made no sense at all.

The sheriff said, “Get it, counselor?  Em couldn't have opened the door after she fell, because she died instantly.  So who let the cat out?”

Rick continued to stand dumbstruck, as if unable to believe the evidence of his own ears.

My hair-trigger temper exploded.  I shouted, “Emma was dead when you left the house.”

Furiously Rick turned on the sheriff, yelling, “I didn't kill her.  I haven't seen her in months.  You can't even prove I was here.”  He jabbed a finger at me.  “It's her word against mine.”

I smiled.  “Emma's school bell will tell a different story, Rick.”

The sheriff's eyebrows lifted as he looked at me.

I said, “Fingerprints.”

Like a chicken hawk shot from the sky, Rick dropped onto a chair and crossed one foot over his knee. He stared up at the sheriff with an insolent smile.  “Those prints prove nothing.  I could have left them on that bell months ago.” 

The sheriff shook his head.  “Why'd you kill her, Rick?  You said yourself, all you had to do was wait.”

Rick's head jerked up.  “I didn't—“

Quickly, I broke in.  “Hold on, Sheriff, maybe I can shed some light on the subject.”

I delved in my purse, brought out my copy of Em's will and handed it to the sheriff.  Quickly, he read it and gave a snort of laughter. Em had left everything to her thirteen cats—all in trust to me—to make certain her cats were cared for, and to provide a shelter for strays.  The sheriff didn't need me to figure out what happened.  He was staring at Rick's booted foot, his gaze riveted on the dark red stain on the stitching along the sole. 

Em had given Rick her will right enough, and he'd read it spot on.  Then, unaware she'd given me a copy, destroyed it.  As Emma's sole survivor, he'd have inherited the whole nine yards.  The sheriff took him in for probable cause.

As things turned out after the trial, Rick got all he deserved:  free room and board for ten years  in the state penitentiary.  Old Tom will never tell who had let him out just before the sheriff showed up.  And I will always love cats.