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

  She smiled. “Darn right he would have. I’ll help the chief understand your reasoning—which he won’t consider reasonable, by the way.” She took out her phone and called Baca. Turned out he was already on his way to pick her up.

  After she hung up, she said, “I know Baca upset you today. But he’s a nice guy. He just needs to loosen up. Always so uptight. Even more so since he’s been seeing that divorced woman from the rich side of town. My guess is she has him on a short leash.”

  “I wouldn’t think a police officer, especially the chief police officer in town, would like to be on any leash, short or long.”

  Candace pointed at me. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  We walked into the foyer to wait, and Syrah decided to say good-bye by rubbing against Candace’s calves and leaving plenty of his own brand of evidence on her green uniform trousers.

  “I told you he’d forgive and forget,” I said. “If he could talk, he’d be saying thank you right now.”

  I heard approaching footsteps on the walkway and opened the door before Chief Baca could knock.

  But it wasn’t Baca.

  Shawn stood there with two cat carriers, and neither was empty. One held the Persian and the other the noisy Siamese.

  “Um, Jillian, I hate to surprise you like this, but we’re at capacity at the Sanctuary. These two have been bathed and vaccinated, so could you—”

  “Tell me something, Shawn,” Candace said. She sounded calm, but her tone was cold. “When you were over there at Wilkerson’s with all those fine officers present, did you happen to mention your relationship to the vic?”

  “The vic? Did I just walk in on a filming of CSI: Mercy?” Shawn grinned.

  During the ensuing silence, the foyer seemed to grow as frigid as a winter night.

  Shawn’s smile faded, and his expression went from smart-ass silly to stunned. Then he turned a harsh stare my way. “Just what have you been saying about me, Jillian Hart?”

  Ten

  “Shawn, please understand,” I said. “I had to tell them about—”

  “I’ll handle this, Jillian,” Candace said. “But not here. As for these cats, they need a temporary home?”

  Shawn’s mouth was now white-ringed with anger. “After this kind of greeting, I should walk back to my truck and forget about asking you for help. But I’m strapped for space and these two cats need placement immediately.”

  The Siamese began wailing its head off, and my three ventured to the foyer entrance to check out the noise. Merlot took one look at those crates, hissed and hightailed it back to wherever he’d come from. But apparently Syrah wasn’t bothered, and Chablis was too drugged to care about possible unwelcome visitors.

  Shawn put the two carriers down, and Candace knelt to talk to the cats. Unlike my attempt at Wilkerson’s place to calm the Siamese, Candace was able to quiet it by slipping her fingers through the door grid and letting it rub its head against her hand.

  “I could take this one,” she said. “If my mom comes over I’ll give her some of that Benadryl that works for Chablis’s allergy.”

  “Good. Jillian, you willing to deal with the Persian until we know what to do with her?” His tone was brusque.

  “Sure. She and Syrah have already bonded.”

  Syrah, tail in the air, was inching closer to the crates. Poor Chablis, apparently too tired to take another step, stretched out in the entry to the living room. Oh, to be that mellow.

  Candace addressed Shawn. “Now that we have this cat problem settled, we need to talk about you and Mr. Wilkerson. My ride will be here in a few minutes, so the three of us can head to the station.”

  “You want me to tell you I’m not sorry the jerk is dead? I’ll say that right here, right now.” Shawn’s temper still controlled him, reminding me of how he’d behaved yesterday.

  “Shawn.” I put a hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that.”

  “He doesn’t mean what?” Chief Baca said. He’d somehow arrived at my open door without any of us noticing his approach.

  I picked up Syrah, who had been sniffing the Persian through the crate’s door. “Please come in, Chief,” I said. “This cold air is a bit much.” I wasn’t talking about merely the weather, and from his expression I think he understood.

  He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “What’s going on, Candy?”

  “I got some information from Ms. Hart about Mr. Shawn Cuddahee here and thought it was worth pursuing, Chief.”

  “Information you planned to share with me right away, I assume,” Baca said. Then he focused on Shawn. “What might that be, Mr. Cuddahee?”

  “Mike,” Shawn said, “don’t act like we’re not friends. That freaks me out.”

  I held Syrah close, fighting the urge to take my precious cats—all of them—and retreat to my sewing room. That was where I’d spent the better part of the last ten months. That was where nothing bad happened. But my world had changed in the last few days—even in the last few hours.

  I said, “Shawn, you have to tell them about yesterday. About what that man was like when we went over there.”

  Shawn stared at me, his hard eyes and his clenched fists speaking more than words. “Sure. I’ll do that. Then you can tell them how all those little quilts of yours ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house.”

  I blinked. I’d forgotten all about them.

  Shawn went on. “I recognized them when I went upstairs to get the cats Wilkerson probably stole from God knows who. They’re like the quilts you gave the Sanctuary. The police should certainly be wondering exactly how that man got hold of them.”

  Both sets of police eyes turned on me.

  “I—I don’t know. I forgot to mention that I saw them . . . b-because of all the chaos.” I looked at Candace.

  “Once I had a chance to remember, I would have told you, though.”

  She stared at the floor and shook her head. “You had a connection to the vic that you never told me? Even when I was taking your formal statement?”

  “I forgot. It’s that simple.” I was trying not to sound pleading but wasn’t sure I’d succeeded because she still looked disappointed.

  I said, “I have no earthly idea how my quilts got inside his house. But the quilts he had were ones that I haven’t made for months. I can check my orders from the last year. I do most of my sales online and—”

  “You check those orders, Ms. Hart. As for now, Mr. Cuddahee, Deputy Carson and I will be leaving. Shawn, you follow us.”

  “Mike, what the hell?” Shawn said.

  “We’re taking this discussion down to the station,” Baca said tersely.

  With that, the chief turned, opened the door and walked out. Candace, carrying the crate with the Siamese, followed. So did Shawn, but not before he shot me a cross look.

  I fought back unexpected tears—I really liked Shawn, and I certainly didn’t want him to be in trouble. I spent the next hour trying to forget this awful day by coaxing the Persian out of the crate, first with soft words and then with a can of Fancy Feast. Syrah kept his distance, maybe because he thought she might not be the same cat he’d been hanging around with for the last few days. After all, she’d been bathed and smelled like perfume—seemed like a totally different animal from the poor matted and obviously neglected soul Syrah had undoubtedly released from captivity at Wilkerson’s place.

  Merlot continued to pout, keeping his nose to the window facing the lake. Syrah closed in and sniffed the little Persian when she finally emerged to eat her roasted chicken entrée. He nudged her away from the saucer, took a few bites himself and then let her eat again. Oh, yes. Pecking order must be established. Chablis slept through the whole episode, but at least the sneezing had stopped.

  Once I’d pointed out the litter box in the basement to our new friend—whom I dubbed Dove because she was a dark chocolate color—I grabbed a glass of tea and went to my desktop computer. If I’d sold quilts to Flake Wilkerson, I had no recollection of any order an
d didn’t remember seeing his name on the hard-copy invoices I keep. But of course he probably didn’t use the name Flake on his credit card.

  When I’d seen him the day Shawn and I went to the Pink House, I certainly hadn’t recognized him. But I could have met him at a cat show where I’d had a vendor booth. If customers paid cash at a show, I wrote the name on the receipt, but no other information. According to the Cuddahees, Wilkerson was always on the lookout for purebred cats. What better place to find them than at a cat show? Even if the ones for sale at those shows were darn pricey. Yes. That seemed like a possible explanation for where he’d obtained my quilts.

  I set my tea on a coaster by my keyboard, Chablis at my feet, and began searching my files for his name. I came up with nothing.

  Wait a minute. What about the business cards on the vet’s bulletin board? I sat back in the swivel chair, and poor Chablis thought this was her cue to jump in my lap. She didn’t quite make it and ended up clinging to my blue-jeaned thighs. I hefted her onto my lap and stroked her silky back. As she started to purr, my mind began to hum with memories.

  All three cats had needed their yearly exams and I’d taken them to the vet one by one on three successive days. That was when I’d tacked up a few business cards. Flake Wilkerson might have learned about my business if he ever went to the vet. Maybe he’d driven by my house, spotted Syrah in the window and decided he wanted him for his own. My card did have my phone number and address.

  Could a business card have led to all that had happened this week? Would this be something that could solve the mystery of the cats found at the Pink House? Was the vet Wilkerson’s source once he realized the Sanctuary wouldn’t cooperate with him?

  I wondered if my theory would be of any interest to the police. I did have another huge question that Baca might not consider important either: Why was Flake Wilkerson obsessed with cats, especially those that belonged to other people? I didn’t know, but I wanted to ask Baca. Maybe my ideas might even help deflect suspicion from Shawn. Perhaps there was another victim of cat theft out there, a victim with a temper. A victim not named Cuddahee. Oh, gosh, Shawn. Will you ever trust me again?

  Eleven

  Hoping to put aside thoughts of my almost surreal day, I settled on my sofa at about eight p.m. to watch You’ve Got Mail, the movie John and I had rented on one of our first dates. Unexpectedly, I wanted to enjoy something we’d shared rather than immerse myself in grief at the end of the day. I even lit ylang-ylang oil and poured myself a glass of white wine. I smiled as I came to my favorite lines from Kathleen, where she ponders leading a “small life” and considers whether she does what she does because she likes it or because she hasn’t “been brave.” I’d been brave today. And gosh, despite the trouble I might be in because I could have messed up evidence, I felt good about making sure those cats upstairs in the Pink House hadn’t been sick or hurt and had ultimately been taken care of.

  My phone rang, and I mumbled, “Do I really want to talk to anyone?” as I hit the remote’s PAUSE button. Dove, who had taken up residence in my lap, much to Merlot’s chagrin, jumped off when I reached for my cell.

  “Miss Hart, this is Lydia Monk. You remember me?” She sounded so tired.

  “Sure.” I didn’t add, “Who could forget an encounter with you?”

  “If you’re at home, Candy Carson and I need to pay you a visit. And trust me, this is not my idea. The last thing I want to do is bother you any more today.”

  “I’m home, but what’s this about?”

  “Very kind of you to accommodate us this late on a Sunday evening. We’ll be by shortly and explain.” She disconnected.

  Did they want another recitation of the events from when I arrived at Wilkerson’s house this morning? Maybe. Didn’t cop shows always have scenes with witnesses saying, “How many times do I have to tell you what happened?” This thought reminded me that my whole knowledge of police procedure came from watching television—not the most reliable source of information.

  They arrived in less than five minutes, so they must have already been on their way when Lydia called. Lydia still wore her tennis shoes and smelled like her deodorant had failed her several hours ago. Plus, her makeup needed a retouch. One false eyelash was coming unglued and her con cealer wasn’t concealing much of anything. She was older than she’d looked earlier—maybe late thirties rather than early thirties. But her breasts were as perky as the day the surgeon sewed them in, and I had to admit that her posture, unlike her face, revealed no fatigue.

  I led the two women through the foyer to my living room, where they both refused my offer of a drink.

  I caught a vibe from Candace that I interpreted to mean she wanted to pretend we weren’t friends. Maybe that was something she had to do in front of the deputy coroner.

  Lydia sighed heavily as she sank into one of the easy chairs near the picture window. A full moon reflected off the restless lake in the darkening sky.Perfect setting for a repeat interrogation.

  Dove reclaimed her spot on my lap, while Merlot decided to play “I can love others, too” by jumping onto Candace’s chair back. He stretched out and Candace reached around to scratch his head. Chablis and Syrah curled up next to me. Chablis closed her eyes, but Syrah seemed alert and ready for conversation.

  “I haven’t worked this hard since Frank Donnelly shot his sorry-ass self and his stupid girlfriend took off thinking we’d blame her,” Lydia said.

  I don’t know if my confusion showed on my face, but perhaps that was why she went on with this odd opening statement. “Truth is, that woman would have driven anyone to suicide, but you can’t make a case for that in court. Had to follow her trail all the way to Oregon in two frickin’ days because I needed her version of what happened. See, families want answers.”

  “And Mr. Wilkerson’s family wants answers, too?” I said.

  “Oh, I wasn’t talking about him. I tend to ramble after looking at blood all day. Not that I don’t appreciate a nice bloody crime scene that might offer a wealth of information.”

  I swallowed. I didn’t need to hear about that. “So how can I help?” I had initially omitted that Shawn and I visited Wilkerson yesterday. Maybe they wanted more details after speaking to Shawn. And then there was that tuxedo cat. I’d forgotten all about Shawn’s roadside rescue. Maybe Shawn told them about the tuxedo and they wondered why I hadn’t mentioned it. Problem was, so much had gone on, I’d pushed it to the back of my mind. But now I was concerned that if they didn’t know, and I told Lydia and Candace about the catnapping, this might lead to the Sanctuary’s being shut down. I sure wouldn’t want that to happen.

  Candace cocked her head. “Did you leave something out earlier today?”

  My stomach tightened. That was it, all right. How much to say? What if none of this mattered and I’d get Shawn in more hot water? I certainly had to say something, because Candace was apparently learning to read every one of my expressions. “I forgot to mention that a cat escaped while we were talking on Mr. Wilkerson’s front stoop the day before the murder. We left the property when he went to chase after the poor thing.”

  Candace looked at me. “You forgot that a cat got loose? You?”

  “I-I’m sorry. Finding the body today is all I was thinking about and—”

  “Understandable,” Lydia said. “But we’re not here about an escaped cat. We’re here because this one”—she nodded at Candace—“seems to think I need to collect more evidence—not that I don’t already need a frickin’ Mack truck to carry what I’ve already got to the forensic unit.”

  “More evidence? From me? But Candace searched my house and—”

  “Tell her, Candy,” Lydia said. “This is your idea. I’m along for the ride ’cause I’m too damn tired to argue with you anymore.”

  Candace leaned toward me, hands clasped between her knees. “You were victimized by Mr. Wilkerson. From what Shawn says, he was, too.”

  I felt my tense shoulders relax a little. Shawn hadn’t ston
ewalled them. He’d talked about how he suspected Wilkerson of breaking into the Sanctuary. “Thank God you believe him.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Lydia said, her cynicism evident.

  “Shawn wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I said. “He simply had a history with that man and—”

  “No need to sign up for his defense team, Ms. Hart.” Lydia blinked and finally realized she was losing a cosmetic appliance. She pulled off the dangling eyelash and stared at it. “I am through with these stupid things. Think I’ll ask the cosmetic surgeon about an eyelash transplant next time I go in.”

  I couldn’t hold back a smile, but Candace wasn’t paying attention. She had her own agenda. “I’d like to take hair samples from all your cats,” she said. “Some clear tape will do the trick. And that little one on your lap? I’ll need that one’s, too.”

  “Because the murder had something do with the cats?” I said. Thank God I wasn’t the only one who thought the cats were important to solving the crime.

  “We know Wilkerson took Syrah, and we know he came back here to steal another one. Makes sense he may have angered the wrong person by doing the same thing to them,” Candace said.

  “But there must be a million cat hairs in his house,” I said. “How could you ever sort through them?”

  “That’s what I told her.” Lydia sighed again.

  Candace stiffened. “Just because there’s a lot of evidence doesn’t mean you ignore it.”

  “And we are not ignoring it,” Lydia said. “Do you mind, Ms. Hart?”

  “Not at all. Let me hold them while you do this, though,” I said.

  The process was quick, but not without hissing and scratching involved. This was not the cats’ idea; therefore it was an unacceptable intrusion. Candace put each piece of hair-laden tape in an evidence envelope and identified the sample with a short description of the cat it belonged to as well as the date and time.