The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

Why were there no Roscoe flyers in my pile?

“What are you thinking, Jillian?”

“I’m wondering if Flake Wilkerson saw your flyers, took them down so no one else would know Roscoe was missing and went looking for him. Cats stay pretty close to home when they get out like Roscoe did. They have something like feline GPS, I’ve read. He was probably near your house, exploring the neighborhood, and Mr. Wilkerson found him before you did.”

“And you’ll take cat trivia for one thousand,” Chase said with a laugh. “Very clever of you to think this through. That could be what happened, I suppose. Flake always struck me as capable of the most devious of behaviors, and cat stalking might be among them.”

“You knew him?”

“Oh yes. Ran into him all the time at Belle’s. But you know, I haven’t seen him there in some time.” He stroked Roscoe lovingly. “And I won’t be seeing him anymore, will I?”

He didn’t smile, but I had the feeling he wanted to. I left Chase’s house shortly afterward, even though he offered to prepare me a “lunch to die for.” Not exactly the greatest choice of phrase, considering the murder.

I wanted to get to Belle’s Beans in the worst way. If Chase had met Mr. Wilkerson there, other people must have, too. Learning about a dead man might help me figure out how the stolen cats might have led to his murder.

Plus , I thought as I drove into town, this new piece of information Chase provided is interesting. I mean, I had a stack of flyers—but how many didn’t I have? Did Wilkerson take down flyers so he could stalk his prey in the Mercy neighborhoods? Improbable, but possible.

If I could get inside the Pink House again, maybe I could prove that Wilkerson was collecting lost flyers before Ed ever got to them. When I thought more about this, I decided holding cats for ransom would have been risky. I mean, if this had been going on for a long time, someone surely would have reported Mr. Wilkerson to the police. Trying to organize my thoughts was giving me a headache. Once I talked to Candace, perhaps I would be able to think more clearly, because gosh, I was confused. I needed schooling, a class in Detecting 101, not just a strong belief in my own theory.

I parked in a spot near the café and went inside. Since Belle’s Beans offered wrapped deli sandwiches, I grabbed a ham and cheese from the cooler to go with my large latte. With the limited table space, I had to take a spot with someone else who’d stopped in for lunch.

All the customers except one were twosomes or three- somes, so I chose a woman reading a paperback and sipping on a large coffee. I asked if she’d mind if I joined her.

“Please do. I’m Marian Mae Temple, by the way.” She smiled politely, and maybe I was paranoid, but I had the feeling she knew about my infamous recent past.

“I’m Jillian Hart and I’m guessing you’ve heard about me.” I unwrapped the sandwich and lifted the bread for a peek. Wilted lettuce and way too much mayo. But I hadn’t really come here to eat. I’d come here to find out what people thought of the murder victim.

Marian Mae blushed. “A little hard not to hear things.” She was fortyish, with highlighted ash blond hair, perfect makeup and a French manicure. The word classy came to mind.

“Guess that will be my Mercy claim to fame for as long as I live here—I found a dead man.” I tried to sound light and friendly. But inside I felt anxious, even before I’d had a sip of my high-octane coffee. Why did I ever think I could cozy up and get answers just like that? I felt like a weasel.

“This murder news will all pass sooner than you think,” she said. “I understand you’re a widow. Such a sad thing. I’d guess you’re not much older than me.”

I said, “I’m doing fine. I like it here and I’m trying to make a new, independent life for myself, but I won’t say it’s been easy.”

“I parted ways with my husband through divorce, not death, but you do grieve even after an unpleasant split,” she said.

“I suppose you do. And I am so concerned for Mr. Wilkerson’s family and their tragedy. What an awful way to lose someone,” I said.

“I’m sure,” she replied.

I sensed her discomfort at once. Fearing that she would close down on me, I said, “Did you know him?”

“Everyone knew him,” she answered.

“He came in here quite a bit, I hear,” I said.

“That’s true. Most of the town does.” She took an interest in her lightened coffee by using the wooden stir stick to mix in more thoroughly what looked like cinnamon.

“He wasn’t a friend or anything, though? I only ask because, well, I found him dead and I feel this odd connection to him. I’m interested to know what he was like, besides unpleasant—which is about all I’ve heard, to tell the truth.”

“We were . . . acquaintances. He would come and sit with me on occasion. He could be nice, and not to sound like I’m flattering myself, but I got the feeling he wanted to be more than friends. That, of course, was out of the question.”

“Did he ever talk about his cats? Having been inside the house, I know he had quite a few,” I said.

“Like the one he stole from you?” she asked, one artfully penciled brow raised.

“Yes. His name is Syrah. He’s an Abyssinian and I’m so happy to have him home.”

She smiled and this time I saw genuine warmth in her features. “You’ve had a difficult time. The comfort of a beloved pet is truly remarkable, isn’t it? I’m a cat person myself, so I understand.”

Emotion swelled into my throat. Why did this happen after a mere hint of kindness from a stranger? “Cats are special in so many ways. But as for Mr. Wilkerson—what else can you tell me about him?”

“Do you truly want to explore that man’s character? In my opinion, he was a dark, brooding, unhappy man.”

“And you say this because . . . ?”

“We talked occasionally—like I’m doing with you right now. He had a daughter, I think. But never once did he bring up those cats. I was so surprised to read about them in the newspaper.”

“Because he didn’t seem the type to have pets or—”

She rested a hand on my forearm. “Listen, I understand your curiosity, but I’d prefer we talk about you. Aside from this awful murder, do you like living in Mercy?”

“Yes. I never realized how soothing it would be to live by the water. Sometimes I hear lapping against the dock or rain splatting on the lake and it calms me almost at once.”

We continued to make small talk for a few minutes, and then Marian Mae said she had an appointment and left.

I lifted the bread and took another glance at the sandwich innards. The soggy ham and cheese looked no better than the first time, but I took a bite because I was hungry enough to try it. Not as bad as it looked. I ate slowly, hoping Belle would come in. She seemed the person most likely to offer up something about Flake Wilkerson, anything to help me understand what made the man tick.

Thanks to Chase, I realized I needed to keep my focus on learning why Mr. Wilkerson was obsessed with felines, especially since I couldn’t picture him as a true cat lover. And yet he stole cats. Maybe the chief and I were on the same path after all—this was about cats and money. But there had to be more.

The familiar tinkle that sounded every time the door opened made me glance that way, and this time someone I recognized came in and walked up to the Belle of the Day taking orders.

Lydia wore tight black jeans and a cherry red tunic-style sweater. I couldn’t see her shoes from where I sat, but she seemed especially tall today. Could the stilettos get any higher than what I’d seen her in before? Or was it the teased hair piled and wrapped like a turban? Had to be the hair.