She busied herself at an ancient Mr. Coffee machine sitting on a long table near the only window.
“How’d you know about the fingerprints?” he said.
“You understand better than I do that there are no secrets in Mercy. And I got a new lesson in exactly that when I visited Baca today. They did a background check on me. Can you believe that?”
“At least they didn’t arrest you. Anyway, what’s this you said about a list of other people who lost cats?”
“I was hoping you could look at the flyers Candace and I collected that have pictures on them. See if you recognize any of those cats. Maybe they came through here at some point and Mr. Wilkerson somehow got hold of them.”
“I guess I could do that. By the way, the Tonkinese’s owner called the police when the story broke, and the tuxedo had a chip. He belongs to a rich dude named Chase Cook. What mama would ever name a son Chase is what I want to know. Fits him, though. But he loves that cat and that’s all that matters.”
“That makes me smile,” I said.
“The pretty Tonkinese went this morning, and the Cook guy came last night. He was thrilled to be reunited with his Roscoe.”
“If he loved Roscoe that much, I wonder what he did to find him. We didn’t come across any flyers for missing tuxedos. Maybe I should ask the man about his cat’s disappearance. Can you give me his address?”
Allison set a mug of coffee in front of her husband. “Don’t you be thinking about going along with her.” She looked at me. “No offense, Jillian, but we all know what happened the last time you two went visiting. Now, what do you like in your coffee?”
Chase Cook, it turned out, lived in a house on Mercy Lake, too, though maybe a mile from me. As I parked in his drive, I couldn’t help but wonder if other cats from this area had been targeted by Flake Wilkerson. Apparently the man liked mine so much he came back to steal another one. That could mean he’d been watching me and I’d never had a clue. Goose bumps rose on my arms at the thought.
Mr. Wilkerson made his move while I was out of town, so he probably knew I’d be gone. Rolling a suitcase out to your car is a big clue that you’re taking a trip. Had he been hiding outside that morning, waiting for his chance? The thought of him spying on me creeped me out. I gathered myself with a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.
The man who answered looked close to my age. He had short bleached-blond hair volumized with enough product to stock a Walgreens shelf. His smile was brightened by the whitest teeth I’d ever seen—I mean, they might glow in the dark. But he was smiling after I introduced myself and mentioned that both of our cats had ended up in the Pink House.
“I heard all about it from Shawn when I picked up Roscoe. You, my dear,” he said, “are a fellow victim of that awful Flake Wilkerson’s vile obsession. We are comrades.”
Okay, I thought. Vile is a good word. And maybe it was an obsession for Wilkerson—sort of like Lydia had for Tom.
Chase Cook invited me in and led me through the foyer to a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake and elegant modern furniture. The room was decorated in blacks and whites with an occasional splash of red.
“I am so proud that Roscoe made a heroic run for his life,” he said. “And I’m glad I can thank you in person. If you two hadn’t gone to Flake’s door—well, Roscoe might have been sent away before the man was murdered.”
“Sent away?” I asked.
“He was doing something with his cat collection, wasn’t he? Don’t you think that was the reason he was taking other people’s pets? To sell them off?”
“I had the same thought—either that or he was holding the cats for ransom,” I said. “But the chief and I don’t agree on that.”
“Then he needs to get real, because it seems obvious. Have a seat. Can I get you a sparkling water? An orange juice?” Chase said.
I opted for the water and he left the room. Getting money for the cats Wilkerson stole seemed plausible to me and to this man, so why not to Baca? There had to be a plan for those animals. Or was Mr. Wilkerson simply a weirdo intent on causing other people misery?
Roscoe came bounding into the room, and all thoughts of motive and money disappeared. He was shiny and bright-eyed, and I wondered if Chase chose a black-and-white cat to match his black-and-white house. I said, “There you are, handsome,” and bent to greet him.
He meandered up to the leather sofa where I’d taken a seat and rubbed against my legs, then looked up at me with golden eyes. I put my fingers down, and he rubbed his head against them and began to purr.
Chase returned with a tray and put it on the black laminate coffee table in front of me. On the tray sat an expensive-looking etched goblet, a small dish of sliced lemon and a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino. Chase poured my glass half full.
Roscoe began weaving between his owner’s legs, immediately leaving black hairs all over the well-creased, impeccably clean chinos.
“He’s a beautiful cat. So healthy-looking,” I said.
Chase settled across from me on a white leather and chrome chair. Roscoe leaped into his lap. “He does have a luxurious coat, doesn’t he? Toby and I have been lost without him. Toby is my partner—and don’t worry; it’s no secret that we’re gay. Everyone knows. Many men keep their distance like they might catch our affliction , but women like yourself are warm and friendly.”
“Not a problem for me,” I said.
“What brings you here, Jillian? I love your name, by the way. It suits your gorgeous spicy hair, and I’ll bet there’s some freckles hiding under your makeup.”
“There are. As to why I’m here, I have a question about Roscoe—actually about what you did when you discovered you’d lost him.”
“What a day that was. Toby was working a long job—he’s a contractor—built this absolutely stupendous home we share, by the way—and I was frantic. I’d come back from a meeting with one of my clients in Manhattan and found our boy gone. I couldn’t reach Toby because he’s always on the phone calling someone for wood or tile or sinks or whatever.”
Here was someone else who’d left home and returned to find a cat missing. Was this simply a coincidence? “You thought Roscoe was with Toby?” I asked.
“Oh no. That would have been ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” He stroked a contented Roscoe. “No, I thought our poor baby was sick or, God forbid, had died while I was gone. We used to spoil him with all the wrong food, and he ended up with a kidney stone, so I had reason to worry. Now he’s thriving on a special diet.”
“Did you call the vet to see if Roscoe was there?” I asked.
“Yes, and when he wasn’t I considered calling the police. But Toby brought me to my senses when he came home that evening. He said, ‘Do you think Morris Ebeling would come over to the queer house’—that’s what Morris calls it—‘to investigate a lost cat?’ I had to agree. We do try to limit the humiliation that Mercy sometimes offers up. This is a breathtaking place to live and we aren’t about to leave, so we pick our battles.”
“There was no sign anyone broke in?”
“No. Since we were once a victim of hateful vandalism—very unkind words spray-painted on our home—this place is practically a fortress now.”
“Tom Stewart put in a security system for me after the first break-in, but that didn’t stop Wilkerson from doing it again,” I said.
“Tom installed our system as well.” He flashed his sparkling smile. “Flake must have wanted your other cats in the worst way to come a second time, which means they’re very special. Do you have pictures?”
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