Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“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.

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 thought 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.