Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“Maybe you wouldn’t go there, but I’m one of those tax-paying citizens who provides his salary. Tell me where he lives. I can find out myself, but—”

“What’s going on? Maybe I can help,” she said.

“Know who lost a long-haired gray cat last year?” I said.

“What is this about? And talk fast before Morris gets back here with our coffee.”

I explained what I’d learned from Tom and about Marian Mae’s lost cat.

Candace said nothing for several seconds. When she finally spoke, she sounded none too happy. “Wait on this, okay? She and Baca are probably going to get married, and if she needs investigating, then—”

“I only want to call him. What’s wrong with that?” I said.

“This may be nothing. Marian Mae lost a gray cat just like Sophie. Can you spell coincidence? How many gray cats do you think passed through Wilkerson’s slimy hands?”

“Yes, but—”

“This is not how to go about this. What if Marian Mae no longer has a cat? What if it’s permanently lost? What if she’s a victim of Wilkerson just like you and Mr. Green and Daphne and who knows how many more? What if she got so upset about losing—Diamond, is that right?”

“That’s right,” I said morosely.

“What if she was so devastated by losing her cat that she decided to never talk about Diamond again. Hurtful chapter closed. We know Sophie’s female, but what do you know about Diamond? If someone like Marian Mae used Wilkerson’s Match-a-Cat service or whatever he called it, she was paying big bucks. She’d want a close match. And you told me there were plenty of differences.”

“Not that many, but I get what you’re saying.” I felt completely deflated. Here I thought I might have found Sophie right here in town.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” she said. But her tone more than implied that I was. “I’m only saying that you can’t bring my boss’s girlfriend into the picture based on theory and coincidence.”

Candace was putting me down and I felt awful. No one likes to be wrong, much less have someone hammer home just how wrong she might be. I couldn’t think of anything to say that might convince her this was important.

After a strained silence she said, “Jillian, I’m sorry, but—”

“I’ll talk to you later.” I closed the phone and tossed it on the seat next to me. Was I really as stupid as she made me sound? Maybe. But here was a lead, and I wanted to get to the bottom of it. I’d spent two nights piecing together what I thought was an important clue, only to be shot down by one of the few friends I had in this town.

I’m overtired , I thought. Not thinking straight. But no matter what Candace said, no matter how many hours of sleep I’d lost, I had to tell Baca about this. He would know about Diamond and if the cat had ever been found. Of course, he might not be happy to have me asking questions about Marian Mae, but a lead is a lead. Now all I had to do was find out where he lived. No phone book to offer an address this time.

I stopped at the grocery store, hoping that David the bagger could help me. I was completely surprised when he blurted out, “Michael Baca, phone number unlisted,” followed by his address. It was as if he’d memorized every name and address in Mercy.

Baca’s house wasn’t far from downtown, in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood. He answered the door so quickly after I knocked that my heart skipped. It was like he was waiting for me to show up or something.

Oh boy. Had Candace called him? If so, he wasn’t giving anything away. He said, “What are you doing here?”

He was wearing blue jeans and a Carolina Panthers T-shirt. Seemed fitting he’d be wearing a shirt bearing a cat—albeit a very big, snarling cat—this morning. His sandy hair wasn’t combed and he hadn’t shaved yet. This casual look made me hope he’d be less uptight—like the Mike Baca who’d talked to me at the Finest Catch.

“Can I come in?” I said. “I have a few things to run by you.”

He glanced back over his shoulder and showed no sign he was ready to invite me in. “Can’t this wait until I’m at the station on Monday?” he said.

“I don’t think so. Candace says police officers are never off duty. Is that true?”

He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Did she send you here? Because if she did, this better be important.”

“She didn’t. I promise,” I said.

“Let’s go into my office.” He led me through a small foyer, past the living room and down a hall.

As he opened his office door, Marian Mae appeared at the end of the hall wearing a terry-cloth robe and with a towel wrapped around her head.

She said, “Honey, who are you talking—Oh. Hello, Jillian.”

“Work, Mae. Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” she said cheerfully.

Baca practically pushed me into an office that revealed a new side of the man. What a mess. Books piled waist high, folders covering a love seat against one wall and a computer desk buried under a mass of papers with Post-it notes stuck everywhere. And here I’d taken him for a neat freak, the way his office at the police station looked.

He removed a stack of files from a padded chair so I could sit and took his desk chair, swiveling to look at me. “What’s so important?”

“Did Candace show you the photos of my cat and the poor deceased cat that belonged to Mr. Green—that man I went to see?”

“She dropped them off here last night. As I said yesterday, I’m willing to concede that the cat business the victim was running is more important than I previously believed and could have played a part in Mr. Wilkerson’s murder. I’ve received confirmation of this through a second independent source.”

He was talking about Tom’s forensic work on that hard drive, but I wasn’t about to let him know I was aware of that. I’d gotten Candace in trouble with this guy, and I didn’t want to add Tom to the list.

“I’m glad to hear that straight from you. I know you’ve been thinking I was a pain in the butt, and now I hope you realize I’ve been trying to help. I also wanted to make sure you got those pictures of my cat and Mr. Green’s. Those two Abyssinians could have been twins.”

“You came here for that? I’m not buying it, Jillian. What’s really going on?”

I felt nervous. And dumb again. He and Candace were right. This could have waited. But I was here and I might as well say what I came to tell him.

I pulled the computer-generated photos of the gray cats from my pocket. “Were you aware your friend lost a cat last year?” I handed over the picture of Marian Mae’s lost-cat flyer.

He looked at it, held it closer, then turned on a light above his computer. “What is this? Some kind of screwed-up attempt with Photoshop?”

I explained about the shredded paper from the Pink House.

He said, “How long did it take you to put this back together?”

“A long time. Do you know anything about her cat?”

He smiled, and I could tell he thought I was being ridiculous. “You think Diamond was stolen by Wilkerson?”

“It’s possible.” I handed him the other picture—of Daphne’s cat. “You recognize this cat?”

“That’s Diamond, too. I still don’t—”

“Look closer. You really think I’m showing you pictures of the same cat?” I said.

He squinted, looking back and forth between the two photos. “There’s hardly any difference. Why don’t we ask the expert?”

Before I could speak, he got up and hollered out the door. “Mae, can you come here for a sec?”

Marian Mae was dressed now, her blue jeans creased, the buttons on her turquoise sweater revealing a hint of cleavage. “What do you need, Mike?” she asked, ignoring me.