Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“I couldn’t wait. Not when I saw Syrah in the driveway,” I said.

“I understand, but I don’t think the chief does. He doesn’t trust you, Lydia’s pissed off, and he and Tom aren’t on good terms. I mean, what a mess. I have a mind to solve this case myself and show those boys how to get answers without antagonizing the entire town at the same time.”

“Lydia was like a different person from the minute she saw me with Tom,” I said.

Candace laughed. “She was bouncing mad when she stormed outta Baca’s office. And we both know what was bouncing the most.”

“I’d like to clear my name and Shawn’s, too. Can you and I work on that?” I said.

“As long as they don’t make me the paperwork princess, I would love to. But only as your friend—not while I’m on the clock. Got to do what I can to keep from getting fired—at least until I can save enough to go back to school and get a job in forensics. This small-town stuff is wearing me out.”

She had to leave then but told me her shift was over at three and she’d be back to brainstorm on how we should proceed. At the back door she gave me a big hug and said, “I do so like you, girlfriend. You and me are gonna get to the bottom of this.”

I busied myself with my quilt orders for the next several hours and then went to the computer to send e-mails to a few customers. Several of the Syrah flyers that hadn’t printed well were in the wastebasket near my desk, and I thought about how I’d put them around town before knowing they’d be gone within hours thanks to the sign ordinance.

That got me wondering who removed signs for the city. I recalled Belle mentioning that she’d wanted to put up signs when her cat had disappeared, too. How many other people had done the same when their pet went missing? Could this “sign remover” know about any missing cats? Like the three cats Shawn took from Wilkerson’s place after the murder? This might not lead anywhere, but I would run it by Candace when she came back later today. Maybe it would help us find other people who had reason to be upset with Wilkerson for stealing their cats.

My cell phone rang and I hurried to the kitchen, where I’d left it. Syrah found this entertaining and chased me. When I reached the phone, he leaped onto the counter and sat down, ready to listen.

“You okay?” Tom said when I answered.

“Fine. I take it this isn’t your one phone call from jail,” I said.

“Nope,” he said. “Looks like both of us lucked out today. I can’t tell you what Mike was referring to in that odd interview because I don’t know. Maybe he thinks you and I conspired to commit murder together.”

“Yeah, right. Having never been interviewed by even one police officer before all this, I couldn’t tell you if it was odd or not.”

“You want to get a bite tonight?” Tom blurted out.

The ensuing silence was deafening. I was completely taken aback. Was Tom asking me out? If he was, I had no idea what to say. He was attractive and smart, and I liked him, but the only man I could really think about, even now, was John.

After the silence had become awkwardly long, Tom said, “I get it. It’s okay.”

“I-I’m not sure,” I stammered. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“I guess I am,” he said.

Before I could think through my response, I said, “I don’t know, Tom. The coffee was great this morning, but I don’t think I’m ready for dinner.”

“Sure. I didn’t mean to push you or anything. Take care.” He disconnected abruptly and I found myself holding the dead receiver.

And then, suddenly, my feelings surprised me, and I realized I was sorry I hadn’t taken him up on his offer.

Candace arrived at four p.m., dressed in blue jeans and an Atlanta Braves T-shirt. Her blond hair rested on her shoulders, the first time she’d worn it like that since we’d met. Without the police uniform she was one hot chick, and if fireman extraordinaire Billy Cranor didn’t notice, he was an idiot.

I mentioned my idea about the guy who removed the signs. Candace knew who that was and thought talking to him was a good idea. We agreed to do so right away.

After I engaged the security system, we left through the back door and she said, “Ed Duffy is the guy’s name. He’s hired by the city for odd jobs—removing graffiti, cleaning up after the Little League and Fourth of July parades, stuff like that. Taking down the signs for garage sales and lost pets keeps him pretty busy.”

We sped through town in her small SUV, a beat-up RAV4, and she blasted “Sweet Home Alabama” on the stereo all the way to our destination. Classic rock is great but not played loud enough that Martians can hear the music. My ears and brain were immensely grateful when we arrived at Ed’s Swap Shop. The temperature had risen probably twenty degrees over the course of the day, and I shed my sweater before I got out of the Toyota.

The “shop” was actually a small one-story house desperately in need of fresh paint. The gutters sagged, and a broken window had been repaired with duct tape. Reminded me of the problem that had led me here today. That stupid broken window.

Once we passed through a rusty front gate, I realized the house was in better shape than anything else on the property. The yard overflowed with tires, lawn mowers, cement birdbaths, old bed springs and so much other decrepit stuff that we had to zigzag as if we were walking through a minefield to get to the weather-beaten front door.

Candace was far more adept at zigzagging than I was; I nearly fell twice. I decided she must do obstacle courses in her spare time. Either that or she’d made this trip many times before. She didn’t bother to knock but called out, “Ed Duffy, where you at?” as we went inside.

“That you, Candy?” A man with shaggy gray hair and a full beard that reached his shirt collar stood squinting at us from behind a long glass display case. He wore overalls and a welcoming smile.

Witness Protection Program? I thought .

Candace said, “How you doing?”

“Fine, now that you’re here. But who’s the pretty lady with you?”

We had to meander through Ed’s “merchandise” to reach him—magazines and newspapers piled as high as the ceiling, baskets filled with crocheted or embroidered linens, toys and ancient end tables and so much more.

“This here is a newcomer to Mercy,” Candace said. “Jillian Hart.”

“Oh,” he said, still smiling, “you’re that lady who killed off Flake. ’Bout time someone did what needed doing.”

I felt my eyes widen. Thank goodness for Candace, who quickly said, “She did no such thing. And don’t you be spreading that around town, neither.”

I’d noticed her lapse into what I now understood as the “native language.” If I wanted to learn how to converse in the “upstate” voice and perhaps set people at ease, I needed to pay attention to the dialect.

He lowered his gaze. “I meant no harm. Some things need doin’ is all.” He looked at Candace. “You understand, don’t you?”

“I sure enough do,” she said. “No harm, right, Jillian?”

I smiled at Ed. “No offense taken.”

Ed’s features relaxed, and I realized that with all the sun damage to what little of his face I could see, he could have been fifty years old or a hundred.

“What can I do you two ladies?” he said. “I’m hoping you came to shop.”

“In a way,” Candace said. “Jillian, you want to explain about the signs?”

“Sure.” I was surprised she handed this over to me. But then, I was the one who put up the signs in the first place. “I understand you take down signs people put up—for instance, in my case, I lost my cat and I stuck up flyers around town.”