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

“Good, because you’ll have plenty of questions to answer once the police arrive.” He jabbed at his keypad, then started tapping his foot and muttering, “Come on, come on.”

  “There’s a house fire. The entire town probably went to help. See, that’s why I was depending on you to arrive—in five minutes.”

  “I tried,” he said. But then the dispatcher apparently answered, and he gave her the unfortunate news about Flake Wilkerson.

  While he talked, I decided I couldn’t wait around with those cats calling for help. With Syrah still in my arms, I started for the hallway where I’d seen the streaker a few minutes ago.

  Tom barked at me to stop.

  But I couldn’t. Once the police arrived, they would clear the house. I might be the only one who cared about those cats, and right now I had a window of opportunity to help them.

  I reached a large foyer and saw a fluffy tail disappear into the hall closet. I calmly called, “Here, kitty. Come on, baby.”

  Syrah wiggled, probably anxious to help out. But I held on and he didn’t resist much, no doubt appreciating the safety of my embrace. I didn’t have to wait more than two seconds before a small Persian peeked out from behind the cracked door beneath the stairs. Not the cat we’d seen yesterday in the window. Then Tom’s “What do you think you’re doing?” sent the poor scared thing retreating into the safety of the closet.

  He entered the foyer, his cell pressed to his ear. “No, not you,” he said into the phone. “It’s the person I told you about, the one I discovered by Wilkerson’s body.”

  The person? Discovered? Like he didn’t know I’d be here?

  “I have a name, you know,” I said, heading for the closet.

  “Quit moving around, Jillian.” This time he held the phone pressed against his thigh.

  “I saw a cat. And there’s more of them. Can’t you hear?”

  Tom cocked his head and finally tuned in to the sounds coming from upstairs.

  “Wilkerson had a bunch of cats,” he said. “Everyone knows that.”

  I crouched in front of the closet and whispered, “Here, baby. It’s okay.”

  Persians are friendly and affectionate, and I figured this one would come out again with a little coaxing. But Syrah might not like sharing me during this stressful time, so before I rescued the little one, I put Syrah in Tom’s free arm. He sputtered, but I gave him no chance to refuse.

  I went back to the closet, knelt and soon gathered up the scared cat. I sat on the floor to better examine the animal’s paws with their long, matted fur. The blood on the floor was probably from Syrah walking around the dead man, but I had to make sure this one wasn’t hurt. Didn’t seem to be. And I couldn’t tell if this was a boy or girl—too much hair. The cat purred through my examination, probably more out of stress than from feeling affectionate.

  Then I rose and went toward the stairs, Persian in arms.

  “Come on, Jillian,” Tom said. “Stop walking around. We’re in the middle of a damn crime scene.”

  I halted on the bottom stair. “But the man is dead and obviously the cats upstairs are not.” I felt much calmer now that he was here. “Someone else might be hurt. And I’m not talking only about animals. What if another person has been stabbed or injured?”

  “Please wait,” he said, sounding more like himself rather than the control freak he’d been acting like since he got here. “The police will arrive any minute. You’re a smart woman, so be smart about this,” he said.

  “The police are busy dealing with an emergency. You have no idea how long it will take for them to get here. Ask Billy Sue or whatever that dispatcher’s name is.” I nodded at the phone still pressed against his leg.He brought it to his ear, and it immediately started blaring a country song I did not recognize. Must be his ringtone.

  “Damn,” he muttered before answering the phone. “Guess I lost you, Barbara. What’s our status?” He listened for a second before saying, “Yeah, I promise to stay on the line.”

  “How long before they get here?” I cast an anxious glance toward the landing, where I could still hear mournful cat music.

  Tom said, “Don’t know. The chief is on his way since everyone else is at the fire. And a county sheriff deputy’s been called, too.”

  Yup, just as I thought. Chaos would soon reign. I was certain no one would let me upstairs then. Nor would anyone care about the cats. So I bolted before Tom could even blink.

  The Persian did not appreciate being held by a running woman and told me so by digging its claws into my shoulder and leaping from my arms. It took off back down the stairs. Since I would probably find it in that closet in a few minutes, I wasn’t too worried.

  I made my way toward the cat meows coming from a room at the end of a long, dark hallway. One cat was surely a Siamese; one of their sounds mimics the cry of a human infant, and that was what I was hearing.

  The door was ajar, and inside what was once a bedroom I found three anxious cats in individual cages on a large table. There seemed to be more cages disassembled and propped against a wall papered with what looked like a 1930s design.

  Each of the cats offered its own distinct and loud voice when I walked in. I murmured, “It’s gonna be okay” over and over, and they seemed to calm a little. As I approached, I noticed two black canvas carriers—the kind that zip at the top. They were both partially open. Could have been how Syrah and the Persian escaped.

  At that point I noticed something that had somehow escaped my first glance into the room. I stared in disbelief, not at the cats but at what was with them. Each had a quilt to lie on—one of my quilts.

  Where had Wilkerson gotten them? Had he stolen them from my sewing room when he snatched Syrah?

  But when I took a closer look I saw that the quilts were made from fabrics I’d purchased months ago. I fingered one quilt corner through the wire cage—a log cabin design. I hadn’t made that pattern since right after John’s death. I’d been doing nine patch and crow’s nest designs lately.

  The exotic shorthair in that cage rubbed against my fingers, and I scratched its small head. “You’ll be okay, smoosh-face,” I whispered. “I’m here to help you.”

  I bent and peered into one canvas carrier. I could see a quilt in there, too, one that appeared to be covered with Syrah’s amber fur. The other carrier was coated with long dark hairs. Syrah must have figured out the zipper and helped the Persian escape.

  Persians are one of the sweetest breeds, but some of them aren’t exactly the brightest matches in the box.

  “Jillian, get back down here,” shouted Tom.

  “You come up,” I called back. “I need to check the other rooms.”

  “Please don’t do that,” he answered. “Every step you take up there might compromise evidence.”

  I’ve already compromised plenty, then, I thought. Might as well make sure no other person or animal was hurt, or worse, dead. I ran from one room to another—big house, lots of musty bedrooms—all of them filled with ancient furniture. I found no people and no more cats—unless they’d found excellent hiding places.

  I returned to the caged kitties. Besides the exotic there was a Tonkinese—could have been a show cat with its platinum mink points—and of course the louder-than-loud lilac-point Siamese. I was about to reach my fingers inside the Tonkinese’s cage and offer some much-needed reassurance, but a man’s voice stopped me.

  “Mercy Police. Don’t touch anything, ma’am.”

  I turned and briefly took in the dark green uniform before the gun he held in his right hand grabbed the better part of my attention. I pressed my back against the cages and gripped the scarred table the cat prisons sat on.

  “I told you not to touch anything.” He sounded calm despite my mistake, and I looked up into a face that seemed far kinder than that huge gun. He was about Tom’s age, with sandy hair and warm brown eyes.

  “Then put the AK-47 away,” I said. “You might accidentally shoot a cat.” Though I sounded flip, I was scared out of my go
urd. I mean, I’d never had a gun pointed at me in my life.

  “This is no AK-47, and if I were to shoot anything, it wouldn’t be an accident. Put your hands where I can see them,” he said. “It’s Jillian Hart, right?”

  I intertwined my fingers in front of me. “It is. But do you honestly believe you have to defend yourself against me?”

  “Let’s go downstairs, Ms. Hart,” he said evenly.

  I heard several voices in the other rooms shouting “clear” over and over. Meanwhile, I seemed stuck to the spot like someone had superglued the soles of my shoes.

  “I’m Chief Baca of the Mercy Police. You’re looking chalky, Ms. Hart. We need to go downstairs, okay? Then you can sit down and tell me exactly what went on here.”

  Now that I was sure the cats were all right, I decided this was a reasonable request—and his delivery was a lot gentler than Tom Stewart’s had been initially. But I hated leaving these terrified cats.

  “What about the animals?” I said.

  “They’ll be taken care of,” he said.

  “By whom?”

  “SPCA or—”

  I shook my head vehemently. “No. The SPCA is too far away. Call Shawn or Allison at the Mercy Animal Sanctuary. Please?”

  Through the open bedroom door I saw several more green-uniformed people disappearing down the stairs.

  “Come with me and then we’ll make arrangements for the cats,” he said.

  “C-could you put the gun away?” I had begun to tremble, the pick-me-up power of adrenaline suddenly abandoning me.

  He holstered the weapon. “There. Now come on.”

  I put one hesitant foot in front of the other and made it across the room. Good thing, too, because then my knees buckled.

  Chief Baca caught me before I hit the floor.

  Eight

  The house fire in town must have finally been contained because the Wilkerson property now became the hub of Mercy’s police and paramedic activity. From my vantage point in the parlor that adjoined the dining room, I even caught a glimpse of Billy Cranor, the handyman and volunteer fireman. Apparently the fire department needed a presence here as well—why, I had no idea.

  When Candace arrived she didn’t seem to notice me. She began firing away with her camera before saying a word to anyone, moving around the crime scene with a constant whir of click, click, click. Next she knelt by the body, and I saw her tweeze something off Flake Wilkerson’s pants.

  Then Chief Baca spotted her and ordered her to “watch Ms. Hart.”

  I needed watching? Did he think I would head upstairs again after he’d practically had to carry me down? I still felt too stunned and sick to my stomach to do much more than sit here.

  When Candace turned and saw me in the parlor, her blue eyes widened in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” she said as she took a spot beside me on the very uncomfortable gold satin settee.

  The chief had put me here, and I suddenly wondered if maybe he thought I wouldn’t faint again if I sat in the most uncomfortable spot possible. “I already told your boss, but you need to know, too. First, though, I understand I never should have come inside this house. But Syrah was here. I found him outside in the driveway and then he ran back inside. I couldn’t help myself. I had to follow him.” As I spoke, I was again consumed by worry. Tom had let Syrah go, and I could only hope my boy hadn’t slipped out an open door. He surely would have had the opportunity, since this place was crowded enough to remind me of a departure gate at Houston Intercontinental Airport.

  Syrah’s disappearance wasn’t a priority to anyone except me, and my emotions had been running wild—I was glad I’d found him, but now I was desperate to find him again. Plus I’d gotten the distinct feeling as I’d related what had happened to the soft-spoken Baca that he actually suspected I might have had something to do with the murder.

  I was more at ease explaining the situation to Candace. She seemed receptive and kind as I summarized the morning’s events.

  “You’re trembling,” she said when I’d finished. She placed a hand on my forearm and said, “You gotta calm yourself.”

  “If I promise on Syrah’s life not to leave this poor, unfortunate seat, will you look for him? I’m going crazy wondering where he’s got to now. He might be in the closet with the Persian. I could show you—”

  “No way,” she said. “We’re waitin’ on the coroner’s deputy and her investigator before any of us disturb the crime scene any further. That means we’re stuck here.”

  “But I didn’t kill that man,” I said. “So why do you need to practically sit on me?”

  “Because I have to follow orders. Besides, you can’t be wandering around this house like you did earlier,” she answered.

  “Look at me, Candace.” I twisted in my chair so I could see her face. “I didn’t mean any harm going upstairs.”

  She said, “Don’t you see how this looks? Flake Wilkerson had your cat, and I know how much you love that little guy. By the way, how did you recognize Flake Wilkerson on that video? That’s why you came here, right?”

  Uh-oh. That visit here yesterday was about to come back and bite me. “I’ve been talking to people, trying to figure out who would want to steal my Syrah. Mr. Wilkerson was known to have an interest in cats—especially purebreds. But you don’t suspect me of anything more than coming into a house uninvited, do you?”

  “No, but exactly who have you been talking to? Shawn?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?” I said.

  “You’re dodging the question. How did you recognize Wilkerson? No one sees him much, except at Belle’s Beans. Is that where you met him?” she said.

  “No. Shawn told me about Wilkerson, and I came here yesterday. Needless to say, the man didn’t admit to stealing my cat.” I wasn’t about to mention that Shawn had come here, too, not before I knew if they’d enlisted Shawn to take care of the imprisoned cats. But I had a renewed uneasy feeling in my stomach. Shawn hated Wilkerson, and I was guessing Candace knew as much.

  “You came here yesterday? That’s not good, Jillian.” She was shaking her head. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. You have to know I would never kill another human being in a million years,” I said.

  She sighed. “I do, but these other folks don’t. Our training as officers of the law makes us think the worst of people.”

  “So you don’t believe I killed him?”

  “Of course not. But you say anything to Morris about that and my cred is gone. I’m the evidence queen, remember?”

  For the first time in the last hour, the knot in my gut loosened. Seemed I had one human friend after all. “That means a lot. Thanks.”

  This tender bonding was interrupted by the arrival of a woman who hollered, “What we got here?” so robustly that her words lifted me an inch off my seat. I resisted the urge to cover my ears. She gave shrill a whole new meaning. Southern shrill at that.

  “That’s Lydia Monk,” Candace whispered from the side of her mouth. “Deputy coroner.”

  “Why are you whispering?” But I’d toned it down, too. Maybe we were both compensating for her.

  “ ’ Cause she’s in charge and I don’t want her hearing me talk to you. That might not look good for either of us.”

  “A deputy coroner’s in charge? Where’s the coroner?” I asked.

  Candace quickly explained that the county had an elected coroner. He was an administrator and pretty much stayed in his office. This woman was the county’s investigating officer when there was a suspicious death.

  “But she’s a doctor, right?”

  “No way. She went to the community college, I think. Now hush, okay?” Candace squared her shoulders and looked straight ahead.

  This was so different from big-city life. Houston had a pathologist as a medical examiner and a highly trained forensic unit.

  Unlike Candace, who was intent on looking like my official watchdog, I had no problem checking out this flashy woman now in charge. If I t
hought the low-cut shirts women wore on shows like CSI were Hollywood tweaking reality, Lydia proved me wrong. She had quite the twin girls and wanted everyone to have a good look. But even on CSI they never went to crime scenes wearing sequins on their scoop-neck turquoise T-shirts.

  Candace glanced at me and whispered, “In case you’re wondering, she’s the product of one too many pageants.”

  “Beauty pageants?”

  “Yup. You are lookin’ at Miss Upstate Winnebago 1999,” Candace said.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Lydia Monk may have had the fading glory of a beauty queen—a tall, bleached blonde with chin-up posture—but that voice? My cousin was a pageant junkie, and she practiced not only her walk but a sweet voice, too.

  “Nope, I am not kidding. Word around town is that the judges might have been drunk when they crowned her.”

  Lydia had been conferring with Baca but now started talking to the crowd again, and it was impossible to ignore her.

  She said, “Now that I have been briefed, ladies and gentlemen, we can officially classify this as a homicidal death. Any suspects?”

  “We’re still investigating.” Baca glanced my way.I stared right back, feeling defensive. But I did have a connection to the victim. I’d shown up here yesterday and again today. And I’d walked into the house on my own when I should have known better. Oh, I’d invited this trouble. That was for sure.

  Lydia’s hands were on her hips, one bright blue spike-heel tapping the oak floor. “Glad you left me the body, seeing as how it’s my job to coordinate this investigation and purserve the evidence.”

  “Huh? Why wouldn’t they leave the body?” I whispered to Candace.

  “Quiet,” Candace answered from the side of her mouth.

  I caught Baca rolling his eyes. “We know what your job is, Lydia. Where’s Bob?”

  “He went over to that house fire. You folks got more stuff happening here in Mercy than we’ve had in the entire county all year,” she said.

  “No one died in that fire, so what is your assistant doing over there?” Baca wasn’t bothering to mask his irritation anymore.