Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

Shawn looked at it for several seconds, appeared to be focused on the “lost cat” plea. He said, “Marian Mae lost her cat? Wait. Better question: Marian Mae had a cat?”

“Obviously you don’t recognize Diamond, and I take it Marian Mae didn’t come here looking for her last year?” I said.

“Nope. But the date on this flyer is right around the time I found that gray cat in the road. Could have been Diamond.” He held up the picture of Sophie. “Or it could have been her.”

Great. That helps complicate matters .

“How can you be sure of the timing?” I said.

“Because of the damn restraining order. I can tell you the when, where and how of the document that dumbass served on me. I don’t care what the judge said. I had every right to go off on that fool when he finally showed up to take care of the poor cat.”

“You went off on him how?” I asked.

Shawn hung his head. “There was some pushing. But I never hit him, even though he claimed I did.”

“And you’re sure that Daphne came looking for her cat around the same time that Marian Mae apparently lost hers?” I said.

He took a deep breath and gave me back the pictures. “That’s about all I’m sure of. Wish I could help, but Allison will tell you, I’m a wimp when it comes to animal deaths. If we have one that’s so sick it has to be put down, she’s the one who takes it to the vet.”

His eyes had filled, and he blinked hard to fight the tears.

I squeezed his arm with what I hoped he knew was sympathy. “I’m sorry I even brought this up. I’m heading over to see Daphne. I was thinking that the little domestic shorthair taken from the Pink House might find a good home with her.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t make any promises. That lady is plain weird, you ask me. She could be an apple that didn’t fall far, much as I hate to say it.”

Once I’d climbed back in my minivan, I sat for a minute. Two men in the last hour had warned me about Daphne. Should I keep my promise and pick her up for a day away from that stuffy, cluttered old house?

Gripping the steering wheel, I put my head down and fought against logic, tried to drown out the warning voices. My gut told me Daphne wasn’t a killer. She might be depressed and troubled, but I understood how that felt. Understood too well.

I opened my phone, called her and then was on my way to her place. When I got to the Pink House, Daphne tried to convince me to stay there rather than spend the day at my place. But I won out. I showed her the cat-cam and my three babies, now stretched out in the living room, completely worn-out. She couldn’t resist my invitation to meet them in person.

On the drive I talked nonstop about them—their unique personalities, how Chablis had the human allergy, how smart Syrah was and how Merlot was more watchdog than cat.

I was starving, and since Daphne was so thin she could have been the inspiration for the hangman game, I put a frozen pizza in the oven as soon as we got to my place.

While we waited for the pizza to bake, Daphne sat in the middle of the living room floor and let the cats come to her. And come they did. There is no doubt pets can heal, no doubt my three knew she needed them, but the transformation I saw in Daphne was remarkable. Her face lit up; her shoulders straightened. She looked like a different person. I wondered why she hadn’t gotten another cat or even a dog since she’d lost Sophie.

But people must grieve at their own pace. I only hoped that this playtime with my three might make her realize she was ready for a new cat. If she didn’t end up in jail, that was. Baca wasn’t done with Daphne. In fact, he might only be getting started where she was concerned.

Daphne shared strings of mozzarella with Merlot, the only cheese-taker today. The other two curled up together near her since she’d stayed on the floor.

I didn’t want to bring up the investigation, not today, so we were sharing stories about our pasts when the doorbell rang. I sure hope this isn’t some policeperson looking for Daphne , I thought as I went to answer.

Not a policeperson at all. When I opened the door, I saw that Marian Mae Temple had come calling. What was this all about? Whatever it was, I had a bad feeling the minute I saw her.I invited her in, and she stepped into the foyer, at first glance seeming as collected as usual. She held a handbag over her arm and her makeup had been applied to perfection. But her cold blue eyes belied calm. This was an unhappy woman. But why was she so upset? Had my coming to Baca’s house created tension between her and her boyfriend?

Syrah came into the foyer, probably curious about yet another visitor. And then he did something I’d never seen him do before. He arched his back and hissed loudly through his open mouth at Marian Mae.

“Syrah,” I said, “it’s okay.”

He turned his gaze on me before he bounded down the hall.

If Syrah’s behavior wasn’t unsettling enough, Marian Mae confirmed my earlier thoughts by saying, “You, Jillian, have created problems for me. I came here to tell you to keep your nose—” Her gaze was drawn over my shoulder and she said, “What are you doing here, Daphne?”

Whoa. Another surprise. How exactly did these two know each other?

“Who are you ?” Daphne said, as only the well-guarded and paranoid could.

And the flustered look on Marian Mae’s face told me more than words.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You know Daphne, but she doesn’t know you. How do you explain that, Marian Mae?”

The answer didn’t come fast enough. She was thinking too hard. Finally she said, “Mike showed me her picture. He thinks—well—” she said, seeming to regain her composure, “Perhaps I shouldn’t say what he thinks.”

“You know what?” I said. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of officer to discuss a case with his girlfriend, much less show her photos of someone he’s interviewed. I mean, what did he do, show you the whole murder file?”

“Of course not,” Marian Mae said, switching to indignation. She was good at sounding indignant.

I looked at Daphne. “Chief Baca take any pictures of you?”

“Not that I know about,” Daphne said.

I returned my attention to Marian Mae. “Better answer would have been to say that Flake Wilkerson showed you his daughter’s picture when you two shared a table at Belle’s Beans,” I said. “I might have bought that explanation, since you’ve already told me you and Mr. Wilkerson were acquainted.”

Marian Mae ran her tongue over her upper lip, those baby blues dancing left and right. “I’m not a liar, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Then finish telling me why you’re here. Something about me keeping my nose out of your business? Problem is, I’d about convinced myself this had nothing to do with your business—until you showed up here. How do you know Daphne? From seeing her picture at Flake Wilkerson’s house?”

When I saw Marian Mae’s hand dart into her bag, fear struck me like a small electrical shock, shooting up my arms and nearly making me jump.

And when the gun appeared and she pointed it at the two of us, I felt as if my legs would give out. Now I understood what Syrah was trying to tell me. He knew this woman—he’d met her at the Pink House. And he didn’t much care for her.

I took a deep breath, held my palms up and facing toward her. “Please. You’re scaring me,” I said.

Marian Mae looked past Daphne again and into my living room. “Go in there.”

I didn’t like the way she waved the gun in that direction, as if she couldn’t care less if the thing went off. And that unflinching stare. Obviously she hated me. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you say, Marian Mae.” But I walked backward, not wanting to give her a target as inviting as my spine if she went completely loony.