The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

“Sent away?” I asked.

“He was doing something with his cat collection, wasn’t he? Don’t you think that was the reason he was taking other people’s pets? To sell them off?”

“I had the same thought—either that or he was holding the cats for ransom,” I said. “But the chief and I don’t agree on that.”

“Then he needs to get real, because it seems obvious. Have a seat. Can I get you a sparkling water? An orange juice?” Chase said.

I opted for the water and he left the room. Getting money for the cats Wilkerson stole seemed plausible to me and to this man, so why not to Baca? There had to be a plan for those animals. Or was Mr. Wilkerson simply a weirdo intent on causing other people misery?

Roscoe came bounding into the room, and all thoughts of motive and money disappeared. He was shiny and bright-eyed, and I wondered if Chase chose a black-and-white cat to match his black-and-white house. I said, “There you are, handsome,” and bent to greet him.

He meandered up to the leather sofa where I’d taken a seat and rubbed against my legs, then looked up at me with golden eyes. I put my fingers down, and he rubbed his head against them and began to purr.

Chase returned with a tray and put it on the black laminate coffee table in front of me. On the tray sat an expensive-looking etched goblet, a small dish of sliced lemon and a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino. Chase poured my glass half full.

Roscoe began weaving between his owner’s legs, immediately leaving black hairs all over the well-creased, impeccably clean chinos.

“He’s a beautiful cat. So healthy-looking,” I said.

Chase settled across from me on a white leather and chrome chair. Roscoe leaped into his lap. “He does have a luxurious coat, doesn’t he? Toby and I have been lost without him. Toby is my partner—and don’t worry; it’s no secret that we’re gay. Everyone knows. Many men keep their distance like they might catch our affliction , but women like yourself are warm and friendly.”

“Not a problem for me,” I said.

“What brings you here, Jillian? I love your name, by the way. It suits your gorgeous spicy hair, and I’ll bet there’s some freckles hiding under your makeup.”

“There are. As to why I’m here, I have a question about Roscoe—actually about what you did when you discovered you’d lost him.”

“What a day that was. Toby was working a long job—he’s a contractor—built this absolutely stupendous home we share, by the way—and I was frantic. I’d come back from a meeting with one of my clients in Manhattan and found our boy gone. I couldn’t reach Toby because he’s always on the phone calling someone for wood or tile or sinks or whatever.”

Here was someone else who’d left home and returned to find a cat missing. Was this simply a coincidence? “You thought Roscoe was with Toby?” I asked.

“Oh no. That would have been ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” He stroked a contented Roscoe. “No, I thought our poor baby was sick or, God forbid, had died while I was gone. We used to spoil him with all the wrong food, and he ended up with a kidney stone, so I had reason to worry. Now he’s thriving on a special diet.”

“Did you call the vet to see if Roscoe was there?” I asked.

“Yes, and when he wasn’t I considered calling the police. But Toby brought me to my senses when he came home that evening. He said, ‘Do you think Morris Ebeling would come over to the queer house’—that’s what Morris calls it—‘to investigate a lost cat?’ I had to agree. We do try to limit the humiliation that Mercy sometimes offers up. This is a breathtaking place to live and we aren’t about to leave, so we pick our battles.”

“There was no sign anyone broke in?”

“No. Since we were once a victim of hateful vandalism—very unkind words spray-painted on our home—this place is practically a fortress now.”

“Tom Stewart put in a security system for me after the first break-in, but that didn’t stop Wilkerson from doing it again,” I said.

“Tom installed our system as well.” He flashed his sparkling smile. “Flake must have wanted your other cats in the worst way to come a second time, which means they’re very special. Do you have pictures?”

For the next few minutes, Chase oohed and aahed over the photos of my trio, ones I’d taken with my cell phone. And he was so tickled when I showed him the live feed that he vowed to have Tom set up one for him as well. It was nice to talk to someone who loved his cat as much as I loved mine.

But I was getting off track, so I closed my phone and said, “How do you think Roscoe ended up with Mr. Wilkerson if there was no break-in?”

“I’ll tell you what I never would say to Toby,” Chase said. “I think he left the door ajar, maybe when he was taking out the trash. He has so many things going on at once, he tends to get distracted.”

“I see. And what did you do to find Roscoe?”

“I put up flyers, but of course Ed took care of them in short order. Do you know Ed?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” I said.

“I thought the flyers were worth a try. Ed sometimes lets lost-pet signs stay up for a day—or at least that’s what he tells me. Nice man, very interesting person.”

Interesting was an understatement. “Did you put a picture of Roscoe on your flyers?” I asked.

“I’m a graphic designer,“ he said. “What do you think?” He reached under the coffee table and picked up a laptop computer. Soon I was looking at the flyer he’d created, and boy, did it put mine to shame. Professional job, that was for sure.

I sipped my water, then said, “This is a beautiful photograph. When did Roscoe disappear?” I asked.

“A month ago.” He glanced at what appeared to be a TAG Heuer watch. “Actually to the day.”

“How many flyers?” I asked.

He offered a puzzled expression. “Just curious, but why is this important?”

“The police don’t seem particularly interested in the fact that five cats were found in that house, cats that didn’t all get lost like yours. The police might not care, but I do. I mean, what if there are other cats that he took, ones already sold?”

“You are passionate about this, aren’t you? Why this cause?” he said.

“Maybe because my husband and I worked in the animal shelters after Katrina. I saw people reunited with their animals, and I realized how important those pets were, as if they were family members, really. And when I lost Syrah, I understood even better.”

“Is your husband helping you with this . . . investigation?” Chase asked.

“No. He died ten months ago.”

“I am so sorry. But you’re doing what you and your husband would have done together—doing what your heart commands.”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds because not only did he understand me, but he had helped me understand myself. “You speak your mind. I like that about you,” I said.

“I can be quite likable,” Chase said. “As long as you don’t get between me and my cat.”

I smiled. “Same here. Now, we were talking about Ed. I’ve been to the Swap Shop and I know he collected the lost-cat flyers he tore down. But I didn’t see any for Roscoe.”

“Really? Ed keeps such things?”

“He has a little hoarding problem,” I said.

“ Little? Humongous is a better word for it. But I have found some absolute gems in his place. I collect vinyl records. Jazz, mostly.”

“I’m wondering why flyers like yours, done by a professional, didn’t end up in Ed’s collection. Could they have been destroyed by bad weather?”

“The weather was gorgeous—always is in September. I was so upset about losing my cat, I have to say I forgot about the signs. I accepted Toby’s explanation that since Roscoe’s such a friendly guy, a neighbor probably took him in. But no one came by or called to tell me that they’d found him.”