The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse acitm-1 Read online

  “Do I need to be set up with your service?” I asked.

  “Not necessarily. I can rig your phone to alert the local police if there’s another break-in. And you can check your own wireless cameras for anything suspicious, both inside and outside of your house. I can even set up a feed to your cell phone when you’re out. We’ll call it your cat-cam.”

  I smiled. “I like that. Cat-cam.”

  “Is your computer networked?”

  “I have two computers, a desktop in the office and a laptop that I take with me on business. Do I need a network?”

  “You do—to monitor your cameras. But that’s part of what I do. Set up the computer network for you. I can use your desktop as the hub. And since the town is so small, the police hookup is probably all you need rather than a line directly to my security service.”

  “You’re turning down money?” I said.

  He smiled. “It’s not that much.” He went on to tell me what everything would cost, a figure that was higher than I would have liked. Tom assured me he would mount the cameras to capture everything going on inside, as well as motion detectors with floodlights outdoors that would scare away man and animal alike, and told me that was what I needed. But when he said he’d get started tomorrow, I balked.

  “No. Today. You have to do this today.” I gave him my best tight-lipped determined expression. I couldn’t haul my cats around town all the time, and I had to get busy on the quilt orders I’d taken at the Greenville show—especially since this system would cost more than what I’d made the other day. I would need at least an hour at the Cotton Company tomorrow to purchase fabric, and I didn’t want to cart Merlot and Chablis along with me or leave them here without safeguards in place.

  Tom and I stared at each other in silence for a few uncomfortable seconds. He finally said, “If not for your amazing coffee I wouldn’t agree to a Saturday-night job. Hope you have plenty of java. This could be a long evening.”

  And it was. Tom didn’t complete his work until almost one a.m. He’d finished off two pots of coffee and a delivery pizza while he worked. But I was grateful, and he must have known my thanks were sincere, because he gave me a kind and engaging smile when he finally said good night.

  After he was gone, I sat in John’s recliner with my laptop. The network was working fine, and I practiced all the skills Tom had taught me—how to do split-screen monitoring, how to check the cat-cam feeds from the half dozen wireless cameras and even get the live picture on my cell phone.

  My head was aching from all the new things I’d learned in such a short time. If the house alarm was triggered, it would alert the Mercy police—something Tom would inform them about in the morning. Seemed they needed my information and a code. That worried me a little. I could picture Morris Ebeling rolling his eyes if a call came from my house and then taking his time getting here.

  One thing bothered me—the possibility that Syrah might return but be scared away by the motion lights. Cats like their environment to remain unchanged—but things had certainly changed around here in two days. If he came home, maybe it would be in the morning. That would be a dream come true.

  After I’d brought up the feeds on the laptop over and over, I still wasn’t the least bit tired. Besides the headache that wouldn’t go away, I’d had too much coffee coupled with too much stress. I closed my computer and leaned back.

  Merlot, who’d been asleep at my feet, raised his head, and his amber eyes seemed to ask, “Can we go to bed now where it’s warm?”

  Chablis, tucked beside me, didn’t move a whisker. She was happy right where she was.

  I ran my hands along the leather arms of John’s chair, realizing how good it felt to sit in the same spot where he had spent so much time talking to me or reading or listening to Bach on the stereo. I’d be across from him on the sofa, hand-quilting a special gift or reading a mystery. Such a dull and wonderful life we’d had together.

  Then I noticed with surprise that my eyes didn’t fill with tears as I recalled these simple joys. I felt warm inside. I felt lucky to have known such a special man. I felt wrapped in love in his worn, comfy chair.

  It was the best good-night kiss I could have had.

  Five

  Despite Chablis and Merlot remaining as close to me as possible, I spent another fitful night considering life without Syrah—my playful, agile, brilliant kitty. Even when I went to the kitchen at dawn to feed the other two, I was unable to push away those sad thoughts. As I opened cans of tuna and refilled their food bowl, I hoped I could consider the problem logically rather than with emotion leading the way.

  If Syrah had left through the window and had been roaming outside, he would have come home by now. Cats, like birds, have homing devices that use the earth’s magnetic field and the angle of the sun, so he could easily have found his way back. Yes, I know way too much about cats—a hobby of mine. Anyway, since he wasn’t coming home on his own, that meant someone either took him on purpose or invited him in when he landed on their doorstep. With the kind of weather we’d been having, Syrah would have welcomed such an invite.

  While Chablis and Merlot chowed down—and I hoped they wouldn’t get used to breakfast at dawn—I took the pitcher of sweet tea from the fridge and poured a glass. I’d had enough coffee last night to wake up all of Mercy. The first cold swig sent a shiver from my gut to the top of my head. Who else but me would drink sweet tea at six in the morning when we were probably having the first freeze of the season?

  “You think this will be the day Syrah comes home?” I said.

  Merlot stopped eating and looked up at me, offering a sympathetic meow. Chablis left the dish and rubbed my ankles.

  They didn’t seem as upset as the previous two days, so maybe they knew something I didn’t.

  With Chablis at my heels, I walked into the living area and grabbed a throw quilt from an antique chest alongside the sofa. After I set my glass on the end table by John’s chair, I wrapped myself in the quilt and again sat in his recliner. It felt just as welcoming as it had last night. Chablis was in my lap in an instant, and as I petted her I looked out at the rising sun bleeding scarlet onto the water. What a breathtaking sunrise. Maybe my two remaining friends were right—this would be the day we would find Syrah.

  Revisiting what I had done in my search so far, I felt frustrated. It wasn’t enough. But what else could I do? Friday I’d placed an ad in the Mercy Messenger, the small weekly paper, but that wouldn’t even appear until Wednesday, and with the sign ordinance, how could anything—But wait. What had I learned about this town in the last two days? That everyone knows everything about everyone. The Mercy grapevine was a dynamic force, and that meant someone might know where Syrah was. The Cuddahees said they’d do what they could, but what if I became an active part of the grapevine? I might get a lead.

  I sipped my tea and smiled down at Chablis. “Yes, my friend. I’ll stop at Belle’s Beans before I visit the Cotton Company for my fabric. I might learn a lot listening to the locals, don’t you think?”

  But Chablis was fast asleep.

  The next four hours seemed endless. After a long shower, a litter box clean-fest, and an hour of machine quilting on outstanding orders, I decided that most of Mercy was up and moving by this time on Sunday morning. I set the security alarm as Tom had taught me to do, petted Chablis and Merlot and told them to be careful, then headed into town.

  Once I reached Belle’s Beans—an establishment that had the audacity to use the same green color for its awning that Starbucks liked so much—I checked the computer feed on my cell phone and grinned when I saw Merlot sleeping belly up on the window seat and Chablis curled on the sofa. I hadn’t anticipated how much I would love being able to watch them from afar.

  Thank you, Tom Stewart.

  After last night I was sure I’d feel nauseated when I walked into the little café and smelled the coffee, but I was wrong. I closed my eyes and took in the aroma. What is it about the aroma of coffee that is so soot
hing and wonderful?

  The high round tables were all occupied, but that wasn’t about to stop me. After Belle—there really was a Belle because she wore a name tag pinned to her green canvas apron—made me a low-fat latte, I sat down with a woman reading the Sunday paper.

  “Mind if I join you?” I said.

  She smiled and said, “ Course I don’t mind, honey. What’s your name?” I guessed she was in her sixties, with misapplied coral lipstick and too-white hair that she’d probably had colored and permed at the Finest Cut or Betty’s Salon, the only two hair places in town.

  “I’m Jillian Hart. Kind of new around here,” I said.

  “Oh, you’re that young widow. I am so sincerely sorry for your loss. I’ve been a widow for five years now.” She took my left hand and squeezed. Her fingers may have been cold, but hers was a warm touch in a more important way.

  Why hadn’t I done this before—put myself out to make new friends? Is that what grief did, froze you up until you were ready to move on? Had Syrah’s disappearance released my emergency brake?

  The woman said, “I hear you make cat quilts—which had me thinking you must be an old woman like myself. But here you are, looking like a freckled teenager.” She reached up and touched a loose strand of my hair. “Is this your natural color? Such a lovely shade, sort of like mulling spices.”

  “It needs a little help from a bottle these days,” I said with a laugh. “That seems to happen once you pass the big four-oh.”

  “Oh, don’t I know, honey. I must say, I have never seen you in this establishment before. I am so glad to meet you.”

  “I didn’t get your name,” I said.

  “I’m Belle Lowry, the owner.” She smiled widely and I couldn’t help but stare at her lips. Guess she didn’t use a mirror when she put on that color.

  I glanced back at the counter. “But—”

  “Oh, they all have the same name tag. Little trick of mine. Didn’t you feel pleased as punch when you thought the owner was taking care of your coffee needs?”

  I laughed again. “I did.”

  “ Course that only works with the tourists and the new customers like you. Everyone in town knows me and my tricks. I do like a joke. I say if you can’t laugh, don’t come around here.”

  “I intend to come around here more often, that’s for sure. I’m on my way to the Cotton Company, but they don’t open until eleven on Sunday. Do you know Martha, the lady who works there?”

  “We play bridge together, as a matter of fact. Are you picking out material for your cat quilts? Good idea, by the way—those quilts for cats.”

  “I love fabric hunting, and Martha is so helpful.” I liked this lady and could only hope she knew something about my situation, but I felt so awkward bringing up my problems. This wasn’t as easy as I’d thought it would be.

  Belle closed her newspaper. “I have never been inclined to sit in front of a sewing machine. I like to talk too much, and machines simply won’t talk back.” She laughed and I so wanted to mention the lipstick problem, but she went on, saying, “I must tell you, I was ready to purchase one of your cat quilts when Martha told me about what you do, but then poor Java disappeared. Broke my heart, too. So you see, we have something in common. I understand you’ve recently lost a cat, too.”

  So she already knew. “Yes. His name is Syrah. Tell me about Java,” I said.

  “Cute thing. How I do miss that cat.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Foolish Belle left the back door open. And you know what amazed me? That cat had never in her young life been outdoors before. Guess her feline nature took control. She had to explore. I was sure she’d come back, but she never did.”

  “When was this?” I said.

  “Few months ago. I’ve been thinking about adopting another kitten from the Sanctuary. Have you been there to see if your cat’s been turned in?”

  “I was there yesterday.”

  “Those are some mighty fine people, the Cuddahees. Shawn made me a dining room table and chairs that will last for centuries. Making a perfect piece of furniture or even a perfect cup of coffee is a lost art. You think Starbucks is good? You taste from that cup you’ve been clinging to for dear life, Miss Jillian. Then tell me what you think.”

  I sipped and discovered she was right. “This is fabulous. No wonder I see everyone carting your cups around town.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” she said with a smile.

  “I know you didn’t get your cat back, but maybe you could give me some hints to help me find mine. Tell me what steps you took.”

  “First off, I went to that silly town council and asked them to change their ridiculous sign ordinance so I could put up flyers. Got nowhere fast. Those folks are so hard-headed you could turn them upside down and use them all for rock crushers.”

  I laughed out loud and gosh, did it feel good.

  Belle smiled, too, and said, “I’m guessing you haven’t let out a belly laugh in a very long time. I am privileged to give you the opportunity. Old Belle is good for something besides coffee.”

  “Thank you, Belle. I’m so glad I chose this table.”

  “I am, too,” she said.

  “What else did you do to find your cat?” I asked.

  “Talked a lot—real hard for me, don’t ya know? I have the opportunity to see most everyone in town on one day of the week or another,” she said. “And no one could keep me from putting up a flyer in my own establishment. I’d be glad to tack up a picture of your cat in here. Just fax it to me. Sandy up at the counter will give you one of my business cards. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  A few minutes later I left for the Cotton Company feeling as if I’d perhaps taken an important first step in joining the Mercy community. Time would tell. The fabric store was down the block, and I wrapped my peacoat tighter around me as I walked in that direction. The wind was up today, and the temperature must have been hovering close to forty.

  Martha was cutting fabric for a customer when I walked in. Bolts arranged by color filled the store, and bright finished quilts hung on the walls of the high-ceilinged old building. She also sold folk art, candles, pottery and other things that a quilter might enjoy, and this month she was ready for Halloween and Thanksgiving with an orange and brown color scheme. There were also racks of patterns, old-fashioned wooden mailbox cubbyholes filled with folded fabric fat quarters and stands with every color of thread imaginable. Quilt stores and libraries rank as my top two places to spend time, and I could already feel the tension melting away from my neck muscles.

  “Hey there, Jillian,” Martha said. “You find your cat yet?”

  “No, I’m sad to say I haven’t,” I answered, heading for the prints for children’s quilts. I was no longer surprised to find that everyone knew about Syrah. Indeed, now I was counting on it.

  “Which one was it?” She was intent on her work, a large rotary cutter slicing through several layers of the fabrics her customer had picked out.

  “Syrah.” I saw a fabric with bunnies and frogs in pastel colors. The Halloween designs seemed a little intense for sick children, but I did snatch up a Laurel Burch cat print.

  “Syrah is the one who only eats salmon,” Martha told her customer, an older woman resting heavily on a three-pronged cane.

  “I know. David at the Piggly Wiggly told me,” the woman said. She didn’t even bother to look at me, even though she was talking about my cat. “Poor David. You know his story, don’t you?”

  Martha started to speak, but the woman went on. “Heard tell his mama dropped him on his head when he was a baby, but neither me nor my friends can confirm or deny. See, every time someone asks her why his head is shaped so funny, she starts up cryin’. And we don’t want to be upset-tin’ her, so we just leave it be.”

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” Martha asked.

  “No, my dear. One quilt at a time, I always say.”

  Martha walked with the woman to the register i
n the middle of the store while I continued to pull bolts for the patterns I had in mind.

  Martha helped the lady out of the store after the purchase and then came over to where I was appraising the flannels. “What does Syrah look like again? Because I can describe him to my customers. Who knows? Someone might have found him already.”

  I reached into my bag for my phone. “I can show you. I took several new pictures of him before . . . before . . . Anyway, I have this fancy new security system so I can even show you the other two.”

  I’d brought up the live feed and saw neither Chablis nor Merlot. But what I did see was my overturned lamp, its ceramic base shattered on the floor.

  I stared, wide-eyed. No way could this be happening again.

  Six

  Five minutes later, I swerved into my drive, sped up to the garage and slammed on the brakes. Everything seemed so quiet, so normal—normal meaning the front door wasn’t broken down. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe Merlot had knocked the lamp over and the noise had sent him and Chablis running for cover. Merlot—who could pass for a jungle animal—had certainly knocked over things before.

  Just as I got out of the car, a Mercy patrol car pulled up behind me. Candace and Morris. I’d called Candace’s cell on my way home, hoping she was the one who would respond to the alarm. When she’d told me she was on her way, I felt a small bit of relief. Not bothering to close my car door, I started for the house. “There’s a lamp knocked over. Something’s happened again.”

  Morris’s hoarse whisper stopped me from taking another step. “You stay right here while we investigate.”

  Why wasn’t I hearing the alarm? I couldn’t remember if Tom told me the noise cut off on its own after the system called the police station. And how did this new thing send the alert anyway? A phone call? A buzzer? What? Why couldn’t I remember?

  Candace motioned she wanted to go around to the back of the house, so I walked ahead and pointed out the gate. As she ran by me, I saw no one racing away down the slope toward the lake and heard no sounds coming from the house.