The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

“The weather. Road construction. Gas prices. All the boring stuff old men bring up when they don’t know what to say. I’m a widow and he knew as much. I had the feeling he wanted to inquire about me, ask me on a date. Do the young people still call them dates? Anyway, I am most certainly glad he didn’t.”

“I understand from Chase Cook that Mr. Wilkerson quit coming in here after Chase’s cat, Roscoe, disappeared. Since we know Wilkerson had Roscoe, maybe that was no accident.”

“Oh my. I had no idea Flake took Roscoe. That’s despicable. Bless his heart, Chase was sick with worry when his cat disappeared.”

“Roscoe’s home now, safe and sound,” I said.

She smiled broadly, making the lipstick mistake all the more prominent. “Wonderful news. But though Flake may have stopped coming in at the same time as Chase did, he still showed up and drank his large black coffees until the day before he died. You know, some folks should not drink coffee. Makes ’em downright spiteful.”

“Coming here was part of Mr. Wilkerson’s daily routine?” I asked.

She nodded. “Same as for lots of folks. Hope to see you here on a regular basis as well.”

“I’m already a regular,” I said with a laugh. “You have that bulletin board over there, and I recall you saying I could put up Syrah’s picture. Did Flake ever take an interest in that board?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my precious Jesus. What did that man do? Get information from my establishment and then steal cats he’d learned about?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, but yes, that’s what I was thinking.” A little lipstick problem didn’t mean Belle wasn’t a bright, perceptive woman.

“Oh my. Very troubling,” she said.

“Please don’t worry about information coming from the worst wannabe detective in the world,” I said.

“You don’t understand. When my cat disappeared, I put her picture up there.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Do you think he took Java?”

“Oh my gosh. You lost a kitten, right?”

“Yes. She was only six months old.” The color seeped from Belle’s skin, leaving behind garish circles of coral blush on her cheekbones. “They didn’t find any cat bodies in that wicked man’s house, did they?”

“No. I promise. Not a one. What kind of cat was she?” I said.

“A brown Persian. Just like coffee. That’s why I called her Java.” A few tears trickled down her cheeks.

A brown Persian? Like the one at my house?

“Let me show you something,” I said.

“Show me what?”

“I have what’s called a cat-cam—a video feed connected to a camera at home. You can see my living room in real time.” Too late I realized that if the cat Shawn gave me to care for wasn’t Belle’s, she would be so disappointed.

Belle got down from her stool and stared over my shoulder. She said, “Why am I looking at your home?”

“I want you to see something, but the one time I need them to be sleeping in the living room, they aren’t there.” I turned and looked at Belle. “Do you have time for a trip to my house?”

Seventeen

Good thing the drive to my house wasn’t long. Belle and I had taken my car, and after I told her I might—and I emphasized the word might —have her kitten, she was absolutely giddy with excitement.

That meant she talked nonstop, saying things like, “He had my Java the whole time?” and “I was nothing but kind to that awful man.” Finally she said, “Do your cats have ‘special powers’?”

I was focused on pulling into the driveway, so it took a second for my brain to catch up. I decided I couldn’t have heard right.

“Huh?” I said.

“Have your cats told you what it was like for Java in that man’s house?”

My eyes widened. Though Belle seemed like a kind Southern grandmother, there was plenty I didn’t know about her. Stress will reveal much about character.

“They rarely talk to me,” I said with a small laugh. But I was thinking that little chocolate Persian better belong to Belle or the next thing I knew we’d be sitting down for a kitty séance.

Once we got inside, the official greeter was Merlot. Belle immediately knelt and extended a hand, but she was looking beyond him, waiting for her own cat to appear.

“Come on into the living room and—”

The Persian made her entrance into the foyer and Belle clutched her chest, her skin the color of Elmer’s Glue. I thought I might have to do CPR on the poor woman right here.

“My baby. Oh, my sweet baby. Where have you been?” she said.

Another cat mystery solved , I thought with a smile.

The fluffy little munchkin walked up to Belle and planted herself sideways against the woman’s bony, aging knees, her back arched, her bushy tail in the air.

Belle carefully picked up the cat and rose. “You found her. How can I ever thank you?” There were tears of happiness streaming down her face.

“You’re sure this is Java?”

“Of course.” She pointed at the cat’s face. “See the dark stripes between her nose and the light hair around her ears? This is my Java.”

“Let’s go into the living room, okay?” I said. “I need to call Candace, see if she can come over.”

“Why?” Belle said, one arthritic hand stroking Java’s cheek.

“Your kitten was found in a murdered man’s house. The police need to know that there’s another happy cat owner in town. All the cats in the house were originally considered to be evidence, and Candace keeps pounding into my head that we have to pay close attention to evidence. That means giving her a heads-up about Java.”

“Oh. I understand. But she won’t take her away from me, right?”

“Why would she? Two other cats—or three if you count mine—are already back with their owners. But the police still might want to talk to you.” From what Lydia said, it sounded like Candace was at least peripherally involved in the investigation again, so I was glad I could phone her and not Baca.

I led Belle, who was clinging to Java for dear life, into my living room and she settled on the sofa—which seemed perfectly fine by Java. She was happy to be reunited with Belle and vice versa. I walked around the counter and into the kitchen, slipped my phone from my jeans pocket and dialed Candace. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi back. What’s up?” she said.

“Do you have time to stop by my house?” I said. “The brown Persian belongs to Belle.”

“ What? How did you figure that out?”

“Talking in this town will get you everywhere,” I said. “Can you come?”

“Maybe. Morris just went into Belle’s Beans to get a slice of cake—cake is his best friend. I could tell him to eat it there, that I have an errand to run for my mom.”

“Great.” I closed the phone and went back to the living room. “Candace won’t be long,” I said. “In the meantime, why don’t we have a glass of sweet tea? Unless you want more coffee, of course.”

“All I want is to take darling Java home. I still have her little pink bed and all her toys. I guess God knew Java would come home and that’s why He wouldn’t let me touch her things.”

Pretty soon my entire crew joined us, curious to meet yet another new person. There’d been plenty of traffic in this house lately—more than in the last ten months combined.

Five minutes later an elated Belle and a purring Java followed me as I went to let Candace in.

When she entered, Candace said, “Hi, Belle. What you got there?”

“Jillian found my kitten,” Belle said. “Do you know if Flake had Java the whole time?”

“Um,” Candace said, “we’re not completely sure. But I’d like to talk to you about her disappearance, if that’s okay?”