The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

“You don’t really need that for establishing a timeline.” I reminded her that I’d looked at the video on my phone in the coffee shop and checked again when I got to the quilt store. That was a pretty tight window—no more than ten minutes—and Martha at the Cotton Company could verify the time I left the store.

But of course Candace wanted to see the video anyway, and so I took her to the office and she burned a DVD of Wilkerson chasing my cats.

When she stood up from my computer desk, disk in hand, she said, “Perfect. Time-stamped and everything.”

How’d she do that? I certainly needed to start figuring out all my computer’s features now that I had this video security system.

“Guess I’m done here,” Candace said. “I’ll phone the chief and find out when I can hitch a ride back to my car.”

“I’d be glad to take you anywhere you need to go,” I said.

“Nah. You look like you could use a day at one of them spas to relax. Someone will come and get me.”

“You’re looking pretty frazzled yourself.” I tucked a wayward strand of blond hair behind her ear. We had become friends, and I now felt guilty for my self-absorption. She was stressed out, too. “Thanks for being so patient with me. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier about Shawn. I wanted him to get those cats out of that place, and the chief might have stopped that process to question him.”

She smiled. “Darn right he would have. I’ll help the chief understand your reasoning—which he won’t consider reasonable, by the way.” She took out her phone and called Baca. Turned out he was already on his way to pick her up.

After she hung up, she said, “I know Baca upset you today. But he’s a nice guy. He just needs to loosen up. Always so uptight. Even more so since he’s been seeing that divorced woman from the rich side of town. My guess is she has him on a short leash.”

“I wouldn’t think a police officer, especially the chief police officer in town, would like to be on any leash, short or long.”

Candace pointed at me. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

We walked into the foyer to wait, and Syrah decided to say good-bye by rubbing against Candace’s calves and leaving plenty of his own brand of evidence on her green uniform trousers.

“I told you he’d forgive and forget,” I said. “If he could talk, he’d be saying thank you right now.”

I heard approaching footsteps on the walkway and opened the door before Chief Baca could knock.

But it wasn’t Baca.

Shawn stood there with two cat carriers, and neither was empty. One held the Persian and the other the noisy Siamese.

“Um, Jillian, I hate to surprise you like this, but we’re at capacity at the Sanctuary. These two have been bathed and vaccinated, so could you—”

“Tell me something, Shawn,” Candace said. She sounded calm, but her tone was cold. “When you were over there at Wilkerson’s with all those fine officers present, did you happen to mention your relationship to the vic?”

“The vic ? Did I just walk in on a filming of CSI: Mercy ?” Shawn grinned.

During the ensuing silence, the foyer seemed to grow as frigid as a winter night.

Shawn’s smile faded, and his expression went from smart-ass silly to stunned. Then he turned a harsh stare my way. “Just what have you been saying about me, Jillian Hart?”

Ten

“ Shawn, please understand,” I said. “I had to tell them about—”

“I’ll handle this, Jillian,” Candace said. “But not here. As for these cats, they need a temporary home?”

Shawn’s mouth was now white-ringed with anger. “After this kind of greeting, I should walk back to my truck and forget about asking you for help. But I’m strapped for space and these two cats need placement immediately.”

The Siamese began wailing its head off, and my three ventured to the foyer entrance to check out the noise. Merlot took one look at those crates, hissed and hightailed it back to wherever he’d come from. But apparently Syrah wasn’t bothered, and Chablis was too drugged to care about possible unwelcome visitors.

Shawn put the two carriers down, and Candace knelt to talk to the cats. Unlike my attempt at Wilkerson’s place to calm the Siamese, Candace was able to quiet it by slipping her fingers through the door grid and letting it rub its head against her hand.

“I could take this one,” she said. “If my mom comes over I’ll give her some of that Benadryl that works for Chablis’s allergy.”

“Good. Jillian, you willing to deal with the Persian until we know what to do with her?” His tone was brusque.

“Sure. She and Syrah have already bonded.”

Syrah, tail in the air, was inching closer to the crates. Poor Chablis, apparently too tired to take another step, stretched out in the entry to the living room. Oh, to be that mellow.

Candace addressed Shawn. “Now that we have this cat problem settled, we need to talk about you and Mr. Wilkerson. My ride will be here in a few minutes, so the three of us can head to the station.”

“You want me to tell you I’m not sorry the jerk is dead? I’ll say that right here, right now.” Shawn’s temper still controlled him, reminding me of how he’d behaved yesterday.

“Shawn.” I put a hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that.”

“He doesn’t mean what?” Chief Baca said. He’d somehow arrived at my open door without any of us noticing his approach.

I picked up Syrah, who had been sniffing the Persian through the crate’s door. “Please come in, Chief,” I said. “This cold air is a bit much.” I wasn’t talking about merely the weather, and from his expression I think he understood.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “What’s going on, Candy?”

“I got some information from Ms. Hart about Mr. Shawn Cuddahee here and thought it was worth pursuing, Chief.”

“Information you planned to share with me right away, I assume,” Baca said. Then he focused on Shawn. “What might that be, Mr. Cuddahee?”

“Mike,” Shawn said, “don’t act like we’re not friends. That freaks me out.”

I held Syrah close, fighting the urge to take my precious cats—all of them—and retreat to my sewing room. That was where I’d spent the better part of the last ten months. That was where nothing bad happened. But my world had changed in the last few days—even in the last few hours.

I said, “Shawn, you have to tell them about yesterday. About what that man was like when we went over there.”

Shawn stared at me, his hard eyes and his clenched fists speaking more than words. “Sure. I’ll do that. Then you can tell them how all those little quilts of yours ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house.”

I blinked. I’d forgotten all about them.

Shawn went on. “I recognized them when I went upstairs to get the cats Wilkerson probably stole from God knows who. They’re like the quilts you gave the Sanctuary. The police should certainly be wondering exactly how that man got hold of them.”

Both sets of police eyes turned on me.

“I—I don’t know. I forgot to mention that I saw them . . . b-because of all the chaos.” I looked at Candace.“Once I had a chance to remember, I would have told you, though.”

She stared at the floor and shook her head. “You had a connection to the vic that you never told me? Even when I was taking your formal statement?”

“I forgot. It’s that simple.” I was trying not to sound pleading but wasn’t sure I’d succeeded because she still looked disappointed.

I said, “I have no earthly idea how my quilts got inside his house. But the quilts he had were ones that I haven’t made for months. I can check my orders from the last year. I do most of my sales online and—”