Claws For Concern

We turned off the road onto a paved driveway that led to the Gillon farm. We drove through a stand of trees about a hundred yards from the road, and when we emerged on the other side, I could see that we were at the foot of a gentle slope. A large frame house, painted a pale green, with a porch on the front and one side, stood atop the rise.

I brought the car to a stop on a circular driveway in front of the house. We got out of the car and approached the front door. Jack rang the bell while Diesel and I stood slightly to one side.

After a few seconds the door swung open and a small girl, probably no more than four or five, stood there. Diesel warbled loudly because he likes children. The girl looked at the cat. Her eyes widened in terror. She screamed and slammed the door.

THIRTY-ONE

“This doesn’t bode well,” I said to Jack. Diesel had shrunk back against me when the little girl screamed. She was obviously afraid of cats, and she had probably never seen one as large as Diesel.

“I’m sure everything will be okay.” Jack rang the bell again.

This time an elderly woman, small, plump, with gray hair in a neat bob, opened the door. She looked at us and said, “That’s not a cougar. Come back here, Britney. It’s just a big ol’ kitty cat. No need to be afraid.”

The woman, whom I presumed to be Mrs. Gillon, looked at Jack. “You’re Mr. Pemberton. You taught my grandson, Larry, last year.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gillon, I did.” Jack smiled. “We’re sorry we frightened your granddaughter like that.”

“Great-granddaughter,” Mrs. Gillon said. “Larry’s older sister’s baby. And who are you?” She looked straight at me.

“My name is Charlie Harris, and this is my cat. His name is Diesel. I’m really sorry we frightened Britney. He’s very gentle and loves children.”

Britney peered around her great-grandmother’s skirts and gazed fearfully at Diesel. “Just a kitty cat?” she asked, her voice tremulous.

“Yes, he’s a kitty,” I said. “He lives with me. He even sleeps on my bed with me. Would you like to say hello to him?”

The girl hesitated. Mrs. Gillon said, her tone patient, “Go ahead, honey. He’s a nice kitty. He’s just big.”

Britney moved from behind Mrs. Gillon and slowly approached Diesel. He eyed her warily, afraid she might scream again. She reached out a hand. Diesel extended his neck so that he could sniff at her fingers. Britney giggled. “He tickles,” she said as she drew her hand back.

Diesel chirped, and Britney giggled again. “What a funny sound.”

“He makes a number of different ones,” I said. “That’s a happy sound. He’s telling you he’s very pleased to meet you.”

“Can I pet him?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” I said. “He likes having his head rubbed.”

Britney extended her hand again and gave Diesel a tentative pat on the head. He chirped again, and she stroked more confidently. After a moment Diesel warbled for her.

“Funny.” Britney giggled.

“All right, honey, now that you see this big kitty is sweet and friendly, let’s ask these gentlemen into the house. It’s hot out there on the porch, and it’s not polite to keep company waiting,” Mrs. Gillon said.

“Yes’m,” Britney replied. “Please come in.” She moved behind her great-grandmother to let us inside.

“Thank you,” Jack said.

Along with Jack, Diesel and I followed Mrs. Gillon and Britney into the living room. I could see that Mrs. Gillon wasn’t obsessive about having everything appear immaculate like Mrs. Cooper, but this room had a more comfortable air to it. Clean, but not everything precisely in place.

We took the seats indicated, and Diesel stretched out beside my chair. Mrs. Gillon sent Britney to play in another room. When the child was out of earshot, she said, “Gentlemen, I’m an old woman, and I don’t think this is an ordinary social call. So I’m asking you up front what it is you’re here about.”

“I appreciate your directness, Mrs. Gillon,” Jack said. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but in addition to teaching at the high school, I also write books.”

“Books about murder,” Mrs. Gillon said. “I’ve read all of ’em. You’re good. You make it all seem real, like I know the people in the book.”

Jack’s face reddened slightly. “Thank you, it’s very kind of you to say so.”

Before he could continue, Mrs. Gillon looked at me. “What about you? Do you write about murder too?”

“No, ma’am. I’m helping Jack research a cold case,” I said.

“You want to talk about the Barbers, don’t you?” Mrs. Gillon asked.

“Yes, we do,” I said. “If you don’t mind talking to us about it, that is.”

“Why should I mind?” Mrs. Gillon asked. “Happened twenty years ago. It was a terrible, terrible thing, but nothing I could do about it.” She shrugged. “I’ve wondered ever since who was to blame, and I’d like to know. If you can figure it out, I’d sure like to hear about it.”

“We are doing our best to solve the case,” Jack said. “You may be able to help us by telling us what you know about the Barber family. The more we know about them, the more likely we’ll be able to find clues that could solve the case.”