Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

For the next few minutes, Chase oohed and aahed over the photos of my trio, ones I’d taken with my cell phone. And he was so tickled when I showed him the live feed that he vowed to have Tom set up one for him as well. It was nice to talk to someone who loved his cat as much as I loved mine.

But I was getting off track, so I closed my phone and said, “How do you think Roscoe ended up with Mr. Wilkerson if there was no break-in?”

“I’ll tell you what I never would say to Toby,” Chase said. “I think he left the door ajar, maybe when he was taking out the trash. He has so many things going on at once, he tends to get distracted.”

“I see. And what did you do to find Roscoe?”

“I put up flyers, but of course Ed took care of them in short order. Do you know Ed?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” I said.

“I thought the flyers were worth a try. Ed sometimes lets lost-pet signs stay up for a day—or at least that’s what he tells me. Nice man, very interesting person.”

Interesting was an understatement. “Did you put a picture of Roscoe on your flyers?” I asked.

“I’m a graphic designer,“ he said. “What do you think?” He reached under the coffee table and picked up a laptop computer. Soon I was looking at the flyer he’d created, and boy, did it put mine to shame. Professional job, that was for sure.

I sipped my water, then said, “This is a beautiful photograph. When did Roscoe disappear?” I asked.

“A month ago.” He glanced at what appeared to be a TAG Heuer watch. “Actually to the day.”

“How many flyers?” I asked.

He offered a puzzled expression. “Just curious, but why is this important?”

“The police don’t seem particularly interested in the fact that five cats were found in that house, cats that didn’t all get lost like yours. The police might not care, but I do. I mean, what if there are other cats that he took, ones already sold?”

“You are passionate about this, aren’t you? Why this cause?” he said.

“Maybe because my husband and I worked in the animal shelters after Katrina. I saw people reunited with their animals, and I realized how important those pets were, as if they were family members, really. And when I lost Syrah, I understood even better.”

“Is your husband helping you with this . . . investigation?” Chase asked.

“No. He died ten months ago.”

“I am so sorry. But you’re doing what you and your husband would have done together—doing what your heart commands.”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds because not only did he understand me, but he had helped me understand myself. “You speak your mind. I like that about you,” I said.

“I can be quite likable,” Chase said. “As long as you don’t get between me and my cat.”

I smiled. “Same here. Now, we were talking about Ed. I’ve been to the Swap Shop and I know he collected the lost-cat flyers he tore down. But I didn’t see any for Roscoe.”

“Really? Ed keeps such things?”

“He has a little hoarding problem,” I said.

“ Little? Humongous is a better word for it. But I have found some absolute gems in his place. I collect vinyl records. Jazz, mostly.”

“I’m wondering why flyers like yours, done by a professional, didn’t end up in Ed’s collection. Could they have been destroyed by bad weather?”

“The weather was gorgeous—always is in September. I was so upset about losing my cat, I have to say I forgot about the signs. I accepted Toby’s explanation that since Roscoe’s such a friendly guy, a neighbor probably took him in. But no one came by or called to tell me that they’d found him.”

Why were there no Roscoe flyers in my pile?

“What are you thinking, Jillian?”

“I’m wondering if Flake Wilkerson saw your flyers, took them down so no one else would know Roscoe was missing and went looking for him. Cats stay pretty close to home when they get out like Roscoe did. They have something like feline GPS, I’ve read. He was probably near your house, exploring the neighborhood, and Mr. Wilkerson found him before you did.”

“And you’ll take cat trivia for one thousand,” Chase said with a laugh. “Very clever of you to think this through. That could be what happened, I suppose. Flake always struck me as capable of the most devious of behaviors, and cat stalking might be among them.”

“You knew him?”

“Oh yes. Ran into him all the time at Belle’s. But you know, I haven’t seen him there in some time.” He stroked Roscoe lovingly. “And I won’t be seeing him anymore, will I?”

He didn’t smile, but I had the feeling he wanted to. I left Chase’s house shortly afterward, even though he offered to prepare me a “lunch to die for.” Not exactly the greatest choice of phrase, considering the murder.

I wanted to get to Belle’s Beans in the worst way. If Chase had met Mr. Wilkerson there, other people must have, too. Learning about a dead man might help me figure out how the stolen cats might have led to his murder.

Plus , I thought as I drove into town, this new piece of information Chase provided is interesting. I mean, I had a stack of flyers—but how many didn’t I have? Did Wilkerson take down flyers so he could stalk his prey in the Mercy neighborhoods? Improbable, but possible.

If I could get inside the Pink House again, maybe I could prove that Wilkerson was collecting lost flyers before Ed ever got to them. When I thought more about this, I decided holding cats for ransom would have been risky. I mean, if this had been going on for a long time, someone surely would have reported Mr. Wilkerson to the police. Trying to organize my thoughts was giving me a headache. Once I talked to Candace, perhaps I would be able to think more clearly, because gosh, I was confused. I needed schooling, a class in Detecting 101, not just a strong belief in my own theory.

I parked in a spot near the café and went inside. Since Belle’s Beans offered wrapped deli sandwiches, I grabbed a ham and cheese from the cooler to go with my large latte. With the limited table space, I had to take a spot with someone else who’d stopped in for lunch.

All the customers except one were twosomes or threesomes, so I chose a woman reading a paperback and sipping on a large coffee. I asked if she’d mind if I joined her.

“Please do. I’m Marian Mae Temple, by the way.” She smiled politely, and maybe I was paranoid, but I had the feeling she knew about my infamous recent past.

“I’m Jillian Hart and I’m guessing you’ve heard about me.” I unwrapped the sandwich and lifted the bread for a peek. Wilted lettuce and way too much mayo. But I hadn’t really come here to eat. I’d come here to find out what people thought of the murder victim.

Marian Mae blushed. “A little hard not to hear things.” She was fortyish, with highlighted ash blond hair, perfect makeup and a French manicure. The word classy came to mind.

“Guess that will be my Mercy claim to fame for as long as I live here—I found a dead man.” I tried to sound light and friendly. But inside I felt anxious, even before I’d had a sip of my high-octane coffee. Why did I ever think I could cozy up and get answers just like that? I felt like a weasel.

“This murder news will all pass sooner than you think,” she said. “I understand you’re a widow. Such a sad thing. I’d guess you’re not much older than me.”

I said, “I’m doing fine. I like it here and I’m trying to make a new, independent life for myself, but I won’t say it’s been easy.”

“I parted ways with my husband through divorce, not death, but you do grieve even after an unpleasant split,” she said.