Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

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 gourd. 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.