Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“No. Tell him what we’ve done. Honesty is on our side. Let’s keep it that way.”

She offered a small smile. “That’s exactly what my mom would say. And my mom is always right.”

The next day I decided to tell Baca about the tuxedo cat right away. So I headed over to the police station bright and early. The visit to the chief started out pretty well. I didn’t see Candace answering phones, thank God, and I waited less than a minute for Baca to wave me into his office.

I took a seat in the same chair as yesterday, his big, shiny desk between us. To my chagrin, my hands trembled. I clutched them in my lap to hide my nerves. I hadn’t left here the last time in a very pleasant manner, and for some reason that made me nervous.

Before he could even ask me why I was here, I blurted, “I forgot to tell you something yesterday. I’m sorry.”

His expression didn’t change. He just calmly said, “And what would that be, Ms. Hart?”

“Could you call me Jillian? I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you did.”

“Sure, Jillian. Now, what exactly is bothering you this morning?”

I explained about the tuxedo cat, and Baca simply smiled politely. For some reason I found this maddening.

“Say something,” I said, my frustration fairly obvious.

He laughed. “How’s this? I appreciate you returning after how things went down yesterday, but we already know about the black-and-white cat and have found the owner.”

“Oh, did—”

Baca went on, “Shawn Cuddahee gave us all the details of your visit to Mr. Wilkerson the day before the murder. That black-and-white cat had an implanted microchip. When Shawn figured that out, he felt obliged to tell us so we could ask the local vet for help. The doc scanned the chip, and the cat is already back home.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s great. Did he check all the cats Mr. Wilkerson had for those microchips?”

Baca said, “Yup. That was the only one. Candy provided us with the list you two compiled from those flyers. Nice work, I’ll admit. Lydia wanted Candy off the case, but I see that’s not stopping her. As for you, what you’ve been doing is a little far afield from making quilts—that is what you do?”

His Southern charm was really cloying to me now. “Yes. For charity and for cats.”

“Like the ones we found in Flake Wilkerson’s house? Come up with any leads on how he got ahold of those?” he asked.

He was keeping up the “I’m so sweet I’d rot your teeth” act, but I got the distinct feeling the man still suspected me of something nefarious. Aside from Candace, the whole police force probably did.

“I didn’t find anything in my files,” I said. “But I put a business card on the vet’s bulletin board months ago, and Mr. Wilkerson could have gotten my address on a visit there. Maybe he drove by and saw my cats in the window, then chose my house for a break-in.”

“And stole the quilts along with the cat?” he said.

“No. He must have had them for some time. I’m certain of this because of the fabric and the patterns. I sold out of those particular quilts months ago.”

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“When I buy fabric, I tend to use it in several quilts until all the yardage is gone. And I also choose a certain pattern—say a rail fence or an Irish chain—for a batch of cat quilts. I recognized the quilts I saw at the house as some that I made maybe seven or eight months ago.”

“You didn’t decide to go to the Pink House because you remembered selling those quilts to Mr. Wilkerson and for some reason wanted them back?”

“Of course not. I didn’t even know he had them until the day of the murder—when I went upstairs and saw them. I went there the morning of the murder to get Syrah, not to recover quilts I didn’t know Mr. Wilkerson had.”

“Had to ask,” he said. “Moving on, your coming here and your working with Candy on that list tells me this investigation has grabbed your interest. It would grab mine, too, if I walked into a house—even if uninvited—and found a corpse.”

“I’m interested solely because of the cats. There has to be a connection to them and Mr. Wilkerson’s death, right?”

“Only if his activities concerning the animals angered Shawn Cuddahee enough to make him murder the man.”

“Shawn wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. It must have been someone else,” I said. “Maybe someone whose cat Mr. Wilkerson took.”

“Big maybe. Doesn’t feel right to me—killing someone over a cat. I’m considering other motives,” he said. “And now I’m hoping you’ve thought about the danger you put yourself in as much as you’ve thought about the rest of this case.”

“Wait a minute. You don’t believe the cats had anything to do with the murder?”

“There could be a connection, but it’s not exactly a motive I’d put at the top of my list,” he said.

“Aren’t you even going to question the person who owns the tuxedo cat, just to see how angry he was that Flake took his baby? And what about the business card idea and the list of people who put up flyers about lost cats? Why not ask them if they used the same vet? That veterinary hospital might be where Flake went to hunt for his prey.”

“Prey?” he said.

“Cats to steal. The man was a mean cat thief.” I felt warmth on my cheeks. Now I’d spoken ill of the dead. I hadn’t meant to do that.

“Okay, I’ll give you this much. If cat theft was the motive, we’ll find out. But right now, it seems far-fetched. I’m not inclined to believe someone stuck a knife in Mr. Wilkerson’s abdomen because he nabbed a pet. I’m not ruling it out, but I believe there’s more to it than that. I’m betting on the money.”

“The money ? I get it,” I said, excited now. “Mr. Wilkerson was selling those cats, wasn’t he? I knew it.”

“Not what I was thinking,” he said quickly. He seemed flustered by letting this money angle slip. I kinda liked him better flustered, rather than all uptight and oh-so-professional.

Baca pulled a sheet of paper toward him. “Let me confirm a few things.”

“But I’ve given a statement and—”

“This isn’t about the other day.” He glanced down at the paper. “According to what I’ve learned, you and your husband moved here less than a year ago, he died unexpectedly—a retired financial adviser, I see—and you started up this cat quilt business.”

“You’ve got that wrong,” I said. Why did he have to bring up John? He had nothing to do with this.

“What have I got wrong?” Baca said.

“I started the business before John’s death. We both loved cats, and since I’d been quilting for years and was stuck in a boring job, John encouraged me to combine the two. And I’m so glad I did.”

“I got the sequence of events incorrect. Sorry.”

“But what does my husband or our past have to do with anything?” I said.

“You’re new in town, so I had to do a background check. You’ve got no secrets that I could find. And I would think that the community is glad someone like you—who seems to be a kind and caring person, by the way—chose to move here.”

Maybe he did like me, but having the police nose around in my business was unsettling, to say the least. That was what I got for walking into a house uninvited and finding a dead man. But still, I felt even more heat on my cheeks. It was like someone had broken into my house all over again—this time my metaphorical house.

“I can tell you’re upset,” he said. “Please understand I’m only doing the police work the citizens of Mercy pay me to do.”

“I know. It’s just not much fun to be, well, investigated .”