The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

We all walked back into the living room, where Merlot chose to watch over Belle and Java. Maine coons are a lot like dogs in that way—always on the lookout when tension or excitement is in the air. My other two cats decided they needed their beauty rest more than visiting time and went off down the hall.

I offered sweet tea again, and this time Belle took me up on the offer. Candace followed me to the refrigerator. Since there were no walls separating us from Belle, Candace grabbed a magnetic notepad and pencil off the fridge door and scribbled, “You should have phoned me the minute you had a clue about this kitten.”

I mouthed “sorry” and poured the tea.

Once we were all settled with our drinks, Candace quizzed Belle about the specifics of when and how Java had disappeared. She got the same information I did: an open door and the belief that the cat left on her own.

Belle said, “I must say that it is extremely disappointing to learn Java was stolen. I had never been anything but kind to Flake, and then he goes and takes my cat. What did he intend to do with her?”

“Don’t know,” Candace said. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. I take it Wilkerson knew about Java?”

“Most certainly. You know I never met a stranger and I showed pictures to everyone I knew—even you.”

“You did?” Candace said.

“Young people,” Belle said, shaking her head. “You don’t pay attention to anything but television and tabloids. You might have been the one to bring me here to reunite with Java if you’d been paying attention.” Belle closed her eyes tightly, apparently fighting tears. “Seniors talk and no one listens. It’s a sad thing.”

“I’m sorry, Belle,” Candace said. “You’re absolutely right.”

“And I’m sorry for running my mouth. Free coffee for both of you next time you come in, okay?”

“That’s sweet,” I said, “but I didn’t do much. I was just looking for my cat and found Java, too.”

“Very brave of you, young woman. Very brave. Chase has Roscoe thanks to you, and now I have Java.”

“I have another question. It’s something we’re asking everyone we interview,” Candace said. “Where were you last Sunday morning?”

“I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast, much less what I was doing several days ago.” But when Candace kept staring at her, she got more serious. “I guess I did some baking . . . always make cakes for the shop on Sundays. Other than that, I’d have to think on this to come up with specific times.”

“Good,” said Candace. “Think on it. Maybe you’ll recall something someone said that might relate to the crime. You talk to plenty of folks, that’s for sure. The more information we have, the better we can handle this investigation.”

“You’ve never had to ask me these sort of questions, have you, Candy?” Belle said. “Must be hard for a sweet girl like you to be tough on the town folks.”

Candace laughed. “Some folks make it darn easy to be tough—but you’re right. I would never want to offend you.”

“I am a sensitive sort, but I know you’re a sweetheart,” Belle said.

“Would you mind if I called Chief Baca to make sure it’s okay if you take Java home? All the cats we found in the house are evidence.”

“That’s what Jillian said, but Java’s a living, breathing animal, not a piece of property.”

“I know. Don’t get me wrong,” Candace said. “Let me call and I’m sure he’ll allow you to take Java home.” She stood, took her cell phone from her police belt and beat a hasty retreat into the foyer and out of earshot.

Belle said, “I am trying my hardest to cooperate, but I want to take Java home right now.”

“I’m sorry, Belle. Candace is doing her job.” All of a sudden I’d been thrust into the role of “good cop.” But it wasn’t a stretch—I couldn’t picture Belle sticking a knife in anything other than a piece of cheesecake.

“I suppose she’s having trouble wearing her police hat and her friend hat at the same time,” Belle said, turning her attention back to Java. “She looks beautiful—none the worse for wear. But how exactly did she end up with you?”

“Remember I told you that Shawn took Java and those other cats from the Pink House? Well, he didn’t have room at the Sanctuary for all of them, so he brought her here.”

Belle thunked her forehead with her palm. “That’s right. Since I’ve just had this wonderful shock, my brains are a little scrambled.”

“You can thank Shawn for how pretty she looks and how nice she smells. I am no cat groomer.”

Belle laughed. “I’ll thank him next time I see him. But this police business is disturbing. I—”

Candace came back into the room and said, “Chief gave the okay, Belle.”

“Wonderful.” Belle looked at me. “Can you take us back to my car?”

“I’d be glad to do that,” Candace said. “I dropped Morris off at Belle’s Beans, since he had a hankering for that red velvet cake you always have in the dessert case.”

Belle smiled. “That’s my granny’s recipe—older than I am, if you can imagine.”

As they left, Candace lagged behind and whispered, “I’ll call you.”

While I waited for her call, I worked hard to keep my mind off the case. I’d never thought after what I’d gone through since John’s death that my emotions would come alive for anything again—but it was happening. I cared about these cats and wanted to find out what had happened to them.

I spent hours piecing quilts and listening to the Beatles on my iPod while waiting anxiously for Candace’s phone call. At least the music drowned out my thoughts about murder and stolen pets, and my work soothed me as it always did.

When Candace finally contacted me, it was well past nine p.m. She explained she’d had to work overtime. I told her about the other developments prior to figuring out that the Persian belonged to Belle—about Chase and his cat, the idea I had about the cat flyers, my chat with Lydia and my thought that the woman might have actually threatened me. But I didn’t get any information from Candace when I asked her what Baca said about Java belonging to Belle. She simply told me to be ready for a trip to the Pink House in the morning.

What would we be doing there? Looking for cat flyers? Or did Candace have something else in mind?

Eighteen

Candace arrived about ten a.m.—it was her day off—and she looked cranky and tired. Though I didn’t want another adventurous trek in her RAV4, I was afraid that if I suggested I drive it might agitate her even more, so I kept my mouth shut. I noticed she was wearing a Sam Houston State University sweatshirt and thought asking her about that would be safe territory.

After I was sitting beside her, braced for another Indystyle race to our destination, I said, “I like your sweatshirt. That college is north of my old stomping grounds in Texas.”

“Went to a three-day workshop there. They have an awesome criminal justice school. I took a forensics course, but now that you’ve brought that up, I’m pissed off all over again. Why do I have to practically beg to use what I’ve learned?”

Pissed off all over again? My guess was she woke up that way and nothing had changed. “Baca still being stubborn?” I said.

“He’s saying this is a crime about money, not some silly cats,” she said.

“Baca mentioned money when he talked to me too, and then Lydia brought up a life insurance policy. Is that the money he’s talking about?”

“That Lydia. She doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.” This further cause for irritation made Candace press her foot down on the gas even harder, and I closed my eyes, sure that we’d end up wrapped around a telephone pole.