Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

Then he turned and scurried back toward the house.

What? No!

“Syrah. Come here, baby,” I called, running after him.

At the open back door, Syrah had stopped, back arched, his body pressed against the doorframe and his wonderful big ears twitching. I reached out with both arms, thinking he would jump into them like he always does, but instead he slipped inside the house.

I stood there, surprised. What the heck was going on?

Better question, Jillian: Why is the door open?

The shiver of fear that ran up both arms almost stopped me, but rescuing my cat overrode common sense. I went up two concrete steps leading to the door, halted on the stoop and used one finger to open it wider.

“Mr. Wilkerson, your door is open,” I called.

Always the well-mannered Texas girl . Even though this man stole your cat.

I knelt and called Syrah’s name, hoping he’d come back. Then I could grab him and race to my van. But instead of seeing Syrah coming back to me, I saw a few tiny, rusty-colored pawprints on the kitchen tile in front of me.

Blood? Oh my God. Was Syrah injured?

Those sticky-looking pawprints drew me into the kitchen when Syrah did not come bounding back. Where the heck had he gone? He knew I’d help him if he was hurt.

The kitchen was gloomy gray, and the fear that had taken hold in my gut felt like a hand twisting my insides. Announcing my presence wasn’t exactly the most brilliant thing I’d done today. I looked back at the open back door. Where the heck was Tom? I needed him this instant.

Leaving might have been a wise choice, but I couldn’t. Not before I found Syrah. I wished I could call Candace, but she was definitely tied up. Besides, why would the police be interested in an injured cat whose feet bled a little on an eccentric old man’s kitchen floor?

I kept whispering Syrah’s name as I scanned the room. The kitchen, though tidy, smelled sour—like an old sponge—and then I heard the plaintive call of what was surely a trapped or injured cat. Not Syrah’s voice, but some other cat in trouble.

How serious was this problem I’d stumbled upon? An animal was bleeding, and I was certain that through either neglect or intention Flake Wilkerson had something to do with it. I listened hard and decided that the cat noises were coming from the second floor.

Find Syrah first and then worry about the other cat .

Sidestepping the pawprints, I made my way around a rolling butcher block island with a cracked top covered with knife marks. Slices of apple just turning brown and half a glass of fizzing Coke sat abandoned on its surface.

I kept my eyes on the floor, still whispering for Syrah, and reached an arched entry. I heard a clock somewhere farther inside the house chiming the half hour. I stopped, hoping I would come upon my cat so I could grab him and run. Then I’d call animal control. Yes. That was what I’d do. They would want to know if cats were being abused here.

Wishful thinking.

My jaw dropped and my stomach roiled simultaneously at what I saw in the dining room beyond.

It wasn’t an injured cat.

Flake Wilkerson lay sprawled on the floor, a butcher knife sticking out of his flat belly like a gruesome flag.

Though I didn’t take my eyes off Wilkerson’s still body, I detected movement to my right. My heart skipped a beat before I realized it wasn’t a killer but rather a small dark cat running across the front hallway. Not Syrah. Maybe the one I’d seen in the window yesterday?

I closed my eyes, trying to gather myself. Then I stared at the man lying on the floor. So much blood had been spilled that it drenched his shirt and pooled around his center. His cloudy, fixed eyes told me he was most certainly dead.

And whoever had done this could still be in the house and come after me next. I should run. Get out. But I couldn’t seem to move. Aside from the sounds of wailing cats—yes, more than one now—coming from upstairs and my own heart beating wildly in my ears, I heard nothing.

I was afraid, yes, but running didn’t seem like the right thing to do, perhaps because John’s death was so fresh in my mind. I had tasted my husband’s still warm, lifeless lips not so long ago. I understood that being in the presence of the dead could make you scared and brave all at once.

That brave part pushed me forward toward this strange old man’s body, propelled by the thought that no matter how he had lived his life, he needed someone to care for him now, someone to do right by him.

The blood was a problem. I circled his body to avoid stepping in the glistening puddle near his left side, its symmetry marred by little cat feet. Probably Syrah’s. That was why there’d been pawprints in the kitchen.

I ended up at Wilkerson’s head, knelt and searched for his carotid artery. He skin was still warm. I bent my head to feel for any hint of breath against my cheek. No pulse. No breath. No life. He wasn’t cold yet, but he was very dead.

Sadness filled me then. A life cut short, this one by man-made violence. Why did I feel so sorry for him? Especially after our encounter yesterday? Didn’t matter now.

I sat back on my heels and reached into my pocket with a shaky hand for my cell phone, surprised that a sheen of tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t even seem to find the number nine, but finally I managed to make the call. I blinked hard, fighting back tears. But the dispatcher wasn’t answering, and while I was waiting I heard a tiny meow. A softness brushed my wrist; a whiskered face nuzzled my hand.

I looked down and saw Syrah.

When I touched him, he raised his head to meet my fingers. Seemed both of us were looking for comfort.

That tender moment was cut short when I heard, “What the hell happened?” in a deep baritone—a sound that made my stomach jump because it wasn’t coming from the phone.

I started and dropped my cell phone. It closed and disconnected. Tom Stewart stood in the arched entry.

“He—he’s dead,” I managed, picking up my phone and gathering Syrah into my arms. I stood, clutching my cat close.

“No kidding.”

I held out my phone. “I—I was trying to call 911, but—”“I’ll do that. You take a seat.” He nodded at the furniture in an adjoining parlor that seemed about a mile away. “And stay where I can keep an eye on you.”

I had trouble processing what he’d said, but then made my way to a settee in the parlor. Once I sat down, it dawned on me that he’d told me to stay put. Why? My God, did he think I’d had something to do with Mr. Wilkerson’s death?

“Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. This man is dead and his house is full of cats that need help.”

“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.”