Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

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 in 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.

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.

Morris reappeared and whispered, “Your key?”

I gave it to him, thinking that at least that meant the lock wasn’t broken.

Then I stood impatiently in the cold, trembling more from fear than from the weather. Were my cats all right?

After what seemed to be hours, Morris and Candace came out the front door, guns holstered, expressions relaxed.

Morris said, “I don’t see any problem ’cept for a broken lamp. Bet that big old cat knocked it over.”

“You saw my cats?” I said.

“Both of them,” Candace said.

“And the alarm went off, right?” I looked at Candace. “That’s why you said you were on your way when I called you from the quilt shop?”

“What alarm?” Candace said.

“You didn’t get an alert at the station about a break-in at my house?”

“Um, no. I sorta always say we’re on our way when upset folks call me.” She looked embarrassed. “That’s how I calm them down. You said you’d seen evidence on this cell phone doodad that someone was in your house, but you never mentioned an alarm.”

“There’s an alarm?” Morris said. “We didn’t get no notice from Tom that you had a phone hookup to the station,” Morris said. “Did he fiddle with your telephone line when he put in the system?”

“I—I don’t know.” Gosh, did I feel stupid.

“Then you’re not hooked up straight to us yet,” Morris said. “Sometimes Tom calls us right when he finishes the work, but sometimes it takes a day or two.”

“Wish he would have told me that important piece of information, but if my cats are okay, then so am I. Can I go in?”

“Sure. You’re spooked after that broken window the other day, is all,” Morris said. “Bet everything is fine.”

“Um, maybe not,” Candace said. “Like I told you, Morris, the back door wasn’t locked.” She looked at me. “Did you have your new system turned on?”

“Of course. I locked every window and door. If you found the back door open, someone must have broken in after all.” Now I wanted to see my cats more than ever. I retrieved my keys from Morris on the way to my front door.

Then I heard Candace’s footsteps behind me. “Where’s the control box for your alarm?” she asked.

I opened the door and stepped inside, calling for Merlot and Chablis before I answered her. “Inside the pantry by the back door.”

“I only checked to make sure no one was hiding in here. But if you locked your door, something’s not right.” She took off in the direction of the kitchen while I crouched to greet Chablis and Merlot as they came into the foyer. Both of them were wide-eyed, their coats puffed out in fear again. Was that because there’d been another break-in? Or just because Morris and Candace had been inside looking around?I took Chablis in one arm and drew Merlot close with the other. “What has been going on here, you two?”

Merlot was quickly done with cuddling and went off in the direction Candace had gone, watch-cat that he is. I soothed Chablis for a few more seconds, then picked her up and closed the front door with my foot. I wasn’t surprised that Morris had gone back to his squad car.

I found Candace staring at the new control box. Or what used to be a control box—and now was a mangled mess.

Candace looked pretty disgusted.

As for me, I was stunned. The alarm must have gone off and made someone very angry to do this much damage.“I’ll need my fingerprint kit,” Candace said. “I’m guessing someone took a hammer to this after they picked your back door lock.”