Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“I think we should leave,” I said. “He could charge us with trespassing—especially now that he’s pissed off that one of his cats escaped.”

“He won’t charge us with nothing. Don’t you see he’s hiding something—like maybe more than the four pets the town allows? I could lie. I could say we saw five cats in the windows. That would get someone’s attention.”

“Come on. Let’s go.” I took Shawn’s elbow. “You don’t want to lie and get yourself in trouble. I am so grateful to you for helping me, but I’ve learned a thing or two from Candace in the short time I’ve known her. We’ve got nothing but suspicion. We need evidence.”

Shawn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Guess you’re right. It’s just that I know there’s something wrong with this guy. He’s not a cat person. He’s too mean-spirited.”

“Maybe Candace will help us get evidence. She seems to know a lot about the folks in town. Wilkerson would be hard-pressed to turn the cops away if I could convince her to question him.”

I glanced toward the woods to the left of the house and caught glimpses of Wilkerson’s red plaid shirt weaving between the trees. At least he wasn’t yelling. Nothing like screaming profanities to send a cat in the opposite direction. “He wants that cat back in a bad way. But you’re sure right about him. It’s not about love.”

We started toward the driveway, Shawn’s head hanging in defeat. “I’ll get that bastard another day.”

I thanked Shawn and then we both climbed into our vehicles. But we hadn’t gone a hundred yards when Shawn’s brake lights came on up ahead of me. I had to stop quickly to keep from slamming into him.

But then I saw why. He was out of his truck in a flash and soon kneeling by the side of the road. The tuxedo cat, its tail in the air, was rubbing against a slim maple. Shawn held his hand out, and soon the cat came to him. Wearing a satisfied expression, he swept up the kitty, turned and smiled at me. He gave me a thumbs-up before he put the cat in his truck and we took off again.

Uh-oh . I believe I’m a witness to a catnapping .

After I’d arrived home and released Merlot and Chablis from their crates, they took off as if their tails were on fire. Seemed they’d had enough of traveling around town. Their absence while I ate made me a little sad. I needed to discuss today’s events with them. No, I don’t hear their voices while I jabber on, but they can be attentive. And sometimes they’ve helped me see things I might otherwise have missed. Maybe later on I could advise them to never go near any pink houses.

I’d picked up a bag of boiled peanuts from a roadside vendor, and now I made a lunch of sweet tea and nuts. Only quasi healthy, but great comfort food. I wondered whether what I’d seen Shawn Cuddahee do—grab that tuxedo cat off the side of the road—was exactly what had happened to Syrah. And would I ever get an answer to that question?

The tuxedo would fare well in Shawn’s care, and the cat hadn’t been on Wilkerson’s property when Shawn had found him, so maybe that didn’t qualify as catnapping. I still felt guilty about what I’d witnessed, though, and for the next several hours I kept busy picking out quilt patterns and fabrics for recent orders rather than think about it.

Merlot and Chablis finally joined me in the sewing room. Peanuts and tea didn’t interest them, but fabric sure did. I engaged them in my one-sided chat about all that had happened and how much I missed Syrah. Every time I said his name, Merlot meowed and Chablis blinked. They knew I was sad, and I was betting they were, too.

Tom Stewart, the security expert, arrived in his van about three p.m. When he got to the house, I saw that he was about my age and had dark hair and pale blue eyes. The combination was strikingly handsome. He was holding a large to-go coffee from Belle’s Beans, the Mercy answer to Starbucks—an establishment I’d wanted to visit more than once but never had.

I welcomed him inside with a smile and said, “Boy, do I need your help.”

“Had a break-in, I hear,” he said. “That’s pretty rare around here.”

“Rare?” I said, leading the way into the living room.

“I say rare because nothing was taken. I mean, we have the usual amount of vandalism and petty theft in this area. Crying shame kids have nothing better to do than sneak into people’s houses when they’re not home.”

I wasn’t sure how to react to his knowledge that nothing of material value was missing. “H-how . . . I mean, where did you—”

“You’re fairly new in town,” he said. “You’ll get used to everyone knowing your business soon enough.”

“Something important was taken, though,” I said.

“Forgive me, Ms. Hart. Didn’t mean to imply your cat isn’t important. You wouldn’t have called me if you didn’t think so. Now, if you’ll show me around, I can determine what equipment can protect you from this happening again.”

“You know about my cat, too?” I said.

“Yes, I know about your cat,” he was saying, “and I know about your husband’s death—my condolences, by the way. I’m also aware you’re making a go of it with a home business. Cat quilts. Luxury items for pets are big business these days. Smart idea, if you ask me—which you haven’t.”

“Thanks,” I said. I realized then just what a recluse I’d been. Clearly everyone in town knew these things about me, but they didn’t know if I was smart or crazy or just plain ordinary because I’d met almost no one. It was time for that to change. “Even in a small town, I’m impressed you know all this.”

He said, “Well, it’s my habit to pay attention to things. I do some private eye work, so I have to keep my ear tuned to the town buzz. Good thing you’ve decided to protect your investment with what I have to offer. I install alarms, cameras and—”

I held up a hand. “I’m not a fan of sales pitches, especially since you already have my business. But tell me this. Who would need a private detective in Mercy?”

“You’d be surprised how many rich people like you live in this part of South Carolina. The town of Mercy may be small, but the area around the lake is getting more and more populated. They require my services for all sorts of things—most of them involving the tawdry, the nasty and the downright stupid.”

“I am not rich by any stretch, but I do have a missing cat and a house that needs protecting. Let’s get busy.” The house was paid for and I had inherited John’s retirement account, but it was untouchable if I wanted a secure future. For now, I lived on my savings and what I could make off my quilt business. But if I told him all this, I feared the entire town would know everything by tomorrow. And I didn’t really want that to happen.

We started with a tour of the house, and if the two hours that followed didn’t confuse the heck out of me, nothing could. “Security speak” is a foreign language, and I understood little of what Tom was telling me aside from the words “wireless cameras” and “motion sensors.”

After his careful scrutiny of every room, we went outside into the dreary, cold dusk and he examined the gutters, the roof and all the windows. As we stopped at a corner of the house that faced the lake, I wondered if I could put a wireless camera there or if it would be damaged outdoors. But lots of places had outdoor cameras—like convenience stores and other businesses. Though I had questions, I kept quiet since Tom was consumed by studying angles and possible mounting points. I just shivered alongside him.

Finally he said, “I have what I need.” He held up the cardboard coffee cup he’d been sipping from throughout his appraisal of the property. “Except for this. I’m empty. Would you happen to have any coffee?”