The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

He looked down and shook his head. “You and Shawn. What a pair.”

Minutes later, I left the court building and headed straight for Shawn and Allison’s Sanctuary. While I drove, I thought about a police officer’s job and the need to priori tize. I got that. But I’d prioritized, too, and those cats were at the top of my list. I knew that Shawn’s fingerprints were found somewhere at the scene—somewhere they shouldn’t have been. Baca would never tell me about that, nor would Candace, but if I could make amends with Shawn—which I so wanted to do no matter what—maybe he’d tell me.

I made my way up the dirt driveway to the Sanctuary, the strangling kudzu vines on either side of me a healthy green and gripping onto trees and shrubs as if we hadn’t had a cold snap at all. No, that stuff would seize and control every plant until a hard freeze. I could only hope Shawn wouldn’t hang on to his anger that tightly.

This time Shawn rather than Allison came out to meet me. His stiff posture and unsmiling face indicated he was still very unhappy with me. I drew a deep breath and left the van.

“I sure hope you’ll talk to me, Shawn. I know you didn’t kill anyone. I know you could never do that.”

“You threw me under the bus.” His freckled fists were on his hips, his legs spread as if to stop me from going any farther.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “Should I have omitted that you had an argument with Mr. Wilkerson when they questioned me?”

“You told them that to save your own ass.”

“Shawn. Look at me.” I made the back-and-forth two-finger gesture for “look me straight in the eye.”

He did so, though grudgingly.

I said, “They would have found out anyway. I wasn’t the only person who knew you had a history with the man.”

He hesitated, then said, “You did what you had to do. I get that.”

“No, you don’t. You’re still angry, and that hurts. Please try to understand? I value your friendship—and Allison’s, too. And the work you do here is so important. I respect you.”

“They locked me up like a criminal on some frickin’ material witness excuse. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“It must have been awful,” I said.

“Two hours might as well have been two months. I do have a temper, but I’m an honest, God-fearing man, not a killer.”

I said, “I know that. Can we talk? My interest is the cats, as I’m sure yours is, too. We’re on the same page, Shawn.”

He still seemed uncertain, but when his shoulders slumped and his hands fell to his sides, I knew this silly standoff was over.

He waved and said, “Come on, then.”

Snug, the African grey parrot, greeted me with a “Hey there” when I entered the office, and Allison must have heard us arrive because she came in from the cat area. She looked back and forth between Shawn and me as if to ask, “Is everything okay?”

“We’re good,” Shawn replied to her silent question.

“I am so glad.” She reached out her hands and came over to me. Her hug felt as friendly and warm as the first time we’d met.

We sat around the scarred desk—so unlike Mike Baca’s—the canaries singing and the spider hiding somewhere in his tank, thank goodness. I summarized my two visits with the chief, told Shawn about the flyers and the list of lost or possibly stolen cats and finished up by saying, “He claims they don’t consider Mr. Wilkerson’s cat thievery a solid motive. But you and I know different, don’t we?”

“Damn straight we do,” Shawn said. “He’s never seen the desperation that I’ve witnessed when folks come in here looking for their lost friends. Does the man not realize someone would do murder to get their best buddy back? If not, he doesn’t know squat.”

“He didn’t say it was impossible. He’s just focusing on other things.”

“Like me. Only because I looked in Wilkerson’s windows. That’s why they arrested me. Said there was evidence of trespassing.”

“I heard they found your fingerprints. You’re saying they were on the windows outside?” I said.

“Yeah. After I picked up the tuxedo, I went back to see what other cats Wilkerson might have been hiding away. Didn’t see any, though. I left before Wilkerson spotted me.”

Allison stood abruptly. “I think we could all use some coffee. How’s about it, Shawn?”

“Yeah. Coffee.” But he was looking at me, not her.

She busied herself at an ancient Mr. Coffee machine sitting on a long table near the only window.

“How’d you know about the fingerprints?” he said.

“You understand better than I do that there are no secrets in Mercy. And I got a new lesson in exactly that when I visited Baca today. They did a background check on me. Can you believe that?”

“At least they didn’t arrest you. Anyway, what’s this you said about a list of other people who lost cats?”

“I was hoping you could look at the flyers Candace and I collected that have pictures on them. See if you recognize any of those cats. Maybe they came through here at some point and Mr. Wilkerson somehow got hold of them.”

“I guess I could do that. By the way, the Tonkinese’s owner called the police when the story broke, and the tuxedo had a chip. He belongs to a rich dude named Chase Cook. What mama would ever name a son Chase is what I want to know. Fits him, though. But he loves that cat and that’s all that matters.”

“That makes me smile,” I said.

“The pretty Tonkinese went this morning, and the Cook guy came last night. He was thrilled to be reunited with his Roscoe.”

“If he loved Roscoe that much, I wonder what he did to find him. We didn’t come across any flyers for missing tuxedos. Maybe I should ask the man about his cat’s disappearance. Can you give me his address?”

Allison set a mug of coffee in front of her husband. “Don’t you be thinking about going along with her.” She looked at me. “No offense, Jillian, but we all know what happened the last time you two went visiting. Now, what do you like in your coffee?”

Sixteen

Chase Cook, it turned out, lived in a house on Mercy Lake, too, though maybe a mile from me. As I parked in his drive, I couldn’t help but wonder if other cats from this area had been targeted by Flake Wilkerson. Apparently the man liked mine so much he came back to steal another one. That could mean he’d been watching me and I’d never had a clue. Goose bumps rose on my arms at the thought.

Mr. Wilkerson made his move while I was out of town, so he probably knew I’d be gone. Rolling a suitcase out to your car is a big clue that you’re taking a trip. Had he been hiding outside that morning, waiting for his chance? The thought of him spying on me creeped me out. I gathered myself with a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

The man who answered looked close to my age. He had short bleached-blond hair volumized with enough product to stock a Walgreens shelf. His smile was brightened by the whitest teeth I’d ever seen—I mean, they might glow in the dark. But he was smiling after I introduced myself and mentioned that both of our cats had ended up in the Pink House.

“I heard all about it from Shawn when I picked up Roscoe. You, my dear,” he said, “are a fellow victim of that awful Flake Wilkerson’s vile obsession. We are comrades.”

Okay, I thought. Vile is a good word. And maybe it was an obsession for Wilkerson—sort of like Lydia had for Tom.

Chase Cook invited me in and led me through the foyer to a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake and elegant modern furniture. The room was decorated in blacks and whites with an occasional splash of red.

“I am so proud that Roscoe made a heroic run for his life,” he said. “And I’m glad I can thank you in person. If you two hadn’t gone to Flake’s door—well, Roscoe might have been sent away before the man was murdered.”