Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

I said, “When was your break-in?”

“Last spring,” Shawn said.“Do you think they were stolen because someone thought they could make a buck?” I asked.

“Snug would have been the one to take, then. He’s worth a lot of money. I have to say that the missing dog was a handful of trouble. Pretty yellow Lab, but way too full of herself.”

As we reentered the office single file, I still had those kittens on my mind. “What’s your adoption fee?”

“The cost of altering,” Allison said.

“That’s all? Then how do you keep this place running?” I asked.

“The kindness of strangers,” Allison said. “Plus Shawn makes furniture. We have a Web site business and word of mouth has drawn customers from plenty of places.” She smiled at her husband. “He is an extraordinary craftsman.”

Shawn’s ears reddened and he focused on the floor, obviously embarrassed by her praise.

“But where do you build?” I said. “I don’t see—”

“A shop at the house. No room here,” Shawn said.

“Duh. I should have figured you had another place,” I said. “But back to your break-in. You ever get any clues as to who the culprit was?”

“I had my suspicions, but old Morris didn’t much care to follow up. I’m guessing you got the same treatment.”

I nodded my agreement.

Allison said, “We think Flake Wilkerson took the cats. See, only the two purebreds were gone. He was always coming around here looking for purebreds. Since the break-in, we don’t let him near our place.”

“ Flake? Is he a local?” I asked.

“Local hermit,” Shawn said with disgust. “Who knows how many poor cats he’s got holed up in that big house of his. You think I could get anyone to check him out? No, ma’am. Know why? He pays a lot more taxes than we do.”

“He’s wealthy?” I said.

Shawn’s jaw tightened. “He—”Allison rested a hand on her husband’s arm. “Calm down, baby. We don’t know anything about Mr. Wilkerson except that he eyed the purebreds with . . . well, lust . Gave me the creeps. We pay close attention to prospective owners, and no matter how many times he came here, we never let him adopt.”

“Pissed him off royal, too,” Shawn said with a smile.

“You’re saying he could have seen Syrah sitting in my window and broke in?”

“Maybe,” Shawn said. “Don’t know if he trolls neighborhoods looking for cats, but I wouldn’t put it past him. He doesn’t have a job in town that I know about. I figured he was living on his pension.”

“Where does this man live?” I asked.

Allison’s sweet face grew tight with concern. “Wait a minute, Jillian. We shouldn’t have said anything. He’s a weird guy, and you shouldn’t go knocking on his door. Besides, we don’t know for sure if he took our cats.”

“This is the only lead I have. I want my cat back. I’ll go anywhere, do anything—”

“Okay, then, I’ll take you there.” Shawn picked up my cat carriers. “Come on.”

“Baby, do you think that’s a good idea?” Allison said.

“Wouldn’t be going if I didn’t.” By the steely look in his eyes, it seemed as if Shawn was on more of a mission than I was.

I handed Allison the half dozen quilts I had in the van and she fingered them lovingly and thanked me several times. After we hugged good-bye, I followed Shawn’s beat-up Ford 150 as we took off toward Wilkerson’s house. If not for a traffic delay on the one-lane bridge that ran over a stream feeding into the lake, we would have made the trip in five minutes.

The Wilkerson house was set back in the trees on a lonely dead-end road. Dry leaves flew in the wake of Shawn’s truck, and pecans were tossed around by our approach. Bet the squirrels had a field day out here.

The house was very odd-looking—a giant Victorian painted a dull pink. It looked old, with graying gingerbread trim and sagging eaves.I parked behind Shawn in the driveway and we walked together toward the front door.

“Does Mr. Wilkerson have a big family?” I said.

“Nope. Lives alone. Has a grown daughter who lives somewhere else.”

A knot of sadness filled my throat. Being alone in a house meant for more than one person was something I was far too familiar with.

Then I saw a cat in an upstairs window. My heart skipped. But I quickly realized this cat was much smaller and darker than Syrah.

Shawn noticed what I was focusing on and said, “Tortoise exotic shorthair.”

“Exotic shorthair?” I said. “They are so cute. My cat breeder friends say they shed as much as a Persian or Hi malayan, though.”

“That’s because they’re just Persians with short hair. Sweet cats,” he said.

We’d reached the front stoop and Shawn said, “Welcome to the famous Pink House, one of the first houses built in Mercy.” Shawn pressed the doorbell.

The dampness and chill of the day seemed to intensify as we waited for Wilkerson to answer, and I pulled my sweater tighter around me. When we got no response, Shawn pushed the bell again and didn’t take his finger off. I was a little surprised by his determination, but it matched my own. Finally we heard footsteps accompanied by masculine curses. The door opened a crack.“What the hell—oh, it’s you, Cuddahee. Shoulda known.” The door opened about six more inches.Flake Wilkerson’s face was lean and roughened by weather, his gray eyes small and narrow with suspicion. Not a pleasant face, that was for sure.

“See you got a cat upstairs, Flake. Where’d you get it?” Shawn said.

“SPCA in Greenville—not that it’s any of your business.” Wilkerson moved one bony blue-jeaned knee into the open door space. Maybe he didn’t want that little exotic shorthair to escape.

For some reason I noticed his foot. He wore a leather slipper and I think he had the smallest man feet I’d ever seen.

“How many more cats you got in there?” Shawn said.

“You still looking for those felines you lost? Still whining about that break-in months ago? Get over it, man,” Wilkerson said.

“I know it was you, Flake,” Shawn said. “Prove me wrong.”

“I don’t have to prove nothing to you.” For the first time his gaze fell on me. “Who’s this? The Pet Patrol?”

“You don’t need to know,” Shawn said. “You need to deal with me once and for all. Invite us in, Flake. Show us those cats of yours, the ones you claimed to love so much when you visited the Sanctuary.”

But Wilkerson didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was looking me up and down. “Like those green eyes of yours, lady. Like a cat’s, only softer.”

I was creeped out by his comment, but he didn’t seem to notice. He turned his gaze on Shawn. “She’s pretty puny muscle if you intend to push your way in here. I say go ahead and try. Then we’ll see who’ll be accusing who of what. Only this time I’ll have you for trespassing. Maybe I already got you—”

But Wilkerson was interrupted by a long, lean tuxedo cat that had slipped around his barrier leg. Before he could bend over to catch the cat, it streaked away from the house and into the trees.Wilkerson’s cheeks infused with color and he got in Shawn’s face. “Now look what you done, you ass.”

Wilkerson stepped outside, closed the door behind him and shoved Shawn aside. Then he took off after the cat. The man had to be sixty if he was a day, so I was sure his pursuit would be futile. That was one fast cat, one that seemed determined to escape.

“Should we help him?” I asked, even though I was certain I didn’t want to return a cat to this man.

“Are you crazy? Let him run himself right into a heart attack.” Shawn was as angry as the man he’d just confronted, and I was beginning to regret coming here. Obviously Wilkerson wasn’t about to cooperate and let us inside. And he surely wasn’t about to admit he’d stolen my cat. Why should he? I had absolutely no proof that he had Syrah. This dispute was between Shawn and a strange man, and it was an old dispute at that. My desperation had put me in the middle.