I peered out the front windows to make sure there was nothing there, and then went back to hunting.
Vess hadn’t been prone to clutter, so it didn’t take long at all to search the small house and confirm that the missing file wasn’t anywhere else. Not in the office. Not in the dresser or the bedside table. Not in any of the closets. Not in the attic, which was actually empty. Not in the garage, which contained only a bare minimum of lawn and garden tools.
Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean the file was missing—only that it wasn’t here. Perhaps Vess had left it in his car. Or had lent it to another member of the vestry, seeking their support.
I drifted back up to his office and wondered it I should turn on his computer. Not that I would expect to find much there—I’d already noticed that apart from the occasional letter or memo, most of the contents of his complaining files were handwritten.
And I was no computer forensics analyst, so why muddy the waters if the chief eventually did send someone to check the laptop. I left the laptop alone. It was time to go.
Though not before I fed the cat. If there even was a cat.
I went back to the kitchen. There, on the floor of the utility room, was a beige plastic mat with two bowls on it, both empty. You couldn’t even tell which was the food bowl and which was the water—both had been licked clean and dry.
There was dry cat food in a cabinet overhead. I rinsed out both bowls, shook a decent amount of food into one, and filled the other with water.
Just then the doorbell rang. I hurried to peer out a window and spotted Mother’s car. I opened the door to let her in.
“Hello, dear,” she said, giving me a peck on the cheek as she came in. “Did you also come to look after poor Barliman’s cat?”
“I came to look after you,” I said. “Given the fact that we don’t have any idea who killed Mr. Vess, don’t you think it was a little foolhardy to make such a fuss about continuing his quest, once you found out what it was, and then letting the whole world know you were coming out here by yourself to feed his cat?”
“I knew you’d come after me as soon as you heard,” she said. “And didn’t it give you a lovely excuse to come out here and poke around? Did you find anything interesting?”
“Maybe,” I said. “I’ll show you.”
I led her up to the office and pulled out the drawer containing Mr. Vess’s files.
“Good heavens,” she said. “I wish I could say I was surprised, but I’m not. Someone should destroy these files—the way J. Edgar Hoover’s blackmail files were destroyed after his death.”
“I was thinking more about Sherlock Holmes burning Charles Augustus Milverton’s files,” I said. “And I’d be in complete agreement except for the small fact that there might be some clue in these files to help the chief find Vess’s killer.”
“Then why are you taking this file?” she asked, tapping one manicured nail on the hanging folder labeled THORNEFIELD INVESTIGATION.
“I’m not,” I said. “It was already missing when I came. Do you have any idea what it could be about?”
“He usually kept his little investigations close to the vest,” she said. “I have no idea. But if he thought there was anything the least bit suspicious about Mrs. Thornefield, he’s very much mistaken. She was a gracious and generous lady with impeccable taste.”
“If you say so,” I said, thinking of that heavy furniture in the church basement. “Maybe Vess was inspired by her generosity and was investigating how she went about arranging her legacy to the church. Maybe he was thinking of following suit.”
“Maybe.” She glanced around with an appreciative air. “It would be nice, of course, but I’m not holding my breath. Maybe he has—had—some bee in his bonnet about the legacy causing us a tax problem. Or an insurance problem, from storing all that stuff in the undercroft. Though that would be his own fault—he was the one who vetoed short-term storage, even though the Shiffley Moving Company would have given us a bargain rate.”
“Keep your eyes open, then,” I said. “And let’s get out of here before someone catches us trespassing.”
“Did you feed the cat, dear?”
“Yes,” I said. I walked down the hall to the kitchen and poked my head in. I could see, in the utility room beyond, the hindquarters and tail of a small gray cat, and by the sound of it she was bolting down her food. I backed away as quietly as I could.
“Mission accomplished,” I told Mom. “By the way, what will happen to the cat?”