The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

And she didn’t. By the time she was finished, Billy had cut the glass to size under Candace’s adoring eyes, and I soon had a brand-new window.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked when he was done.

“Five bucks oughta cover it,” he said. “The pane itself only cost a buck fifty.”

“Is that all?” My purse was sitting on top of Merlot’s carrier. He was sound asleep and Chablis had worn herself out, too. I took out my wallet.

“There might be one thing you could help me with,” he said. “I’m a volunteer fireman and we put together this calendar. I know it’s late in the year, but if you’d be so kind as to buy one, that would sure help our charity. We donate the money to kids all over South Carolina who’ve been burned in house fires or accidents.”

That was where’d I’d seen him. “I bought one of those calendars way back when we first moved here. And aren’t you, um . . . featured ?”

His cheeks colored to almost strawberry. “Ma’am, it’s for the kids.”

“I want two more calendars, then,” I said.“And by the way, I make quilts for charities. Children’s quilts, so I could—”

“I need another calendar, too,” Candace said quickly.

Billy’s eyes met hers for the first time. “Now that’s real nice of you two ladies.”

I caught a lingering gaze between them. Candace was catching on about how to make Billy pay attention.

“What I started to say was that I have some quilts in the other room looking for small bodies to keep warm,” I said.

“You’d give us those?” he said.

“That’s why I make them. Let me get you a few.”

As I left the room, I heard Billy say to Candace, “She’s one sweet lady, isn’t she? Young to lose a husband, though. Dan Meade caught that 911 call last January. Couldn’t do a thing for the man.”

I swallowed hard and picked up my pace. John’s death would always leave a wound, but the constant grieving had to end—and I’d been making progress. He would have wanted me to move on with my life. And I was trying my best.

When I returned, quilts in hand, Candace was busy dusting the rest of the entertainment center for prints.

“I thought you said the intruder wore gloves?” I said.

“I know.” She faced me. “I guess I’m as stubborn as my daddy always says. Bad guys leave things behind, even the smart ones, and I want to find something this one left.”

Just then Billy came back into the house with three calendars. We paid up and he left, again with Candace admiring him every step of the way.

As soon as he was gone, she flipped the calendar open to July and said, “Now here’s what I’m talking about. Can’t have enough of this.”

Billy was shirtless and wearing his volunteer fireman pants, suspenders loose over broad shoulders. The man was oiled, bronzed and had muscles Superman could only wish for.

After we stared for a few seconds, Candace wiped a damp strand of hair off her forehead—she was a bit sweaty even though the evening was beginning to cool the house down considerably. She said, “Let’s get back to work.”

“Obviously you think there might be a clue here, so tell me how that will help find my cat. If I don’t get Syrah home by dark . . .” I’d been distracted for a time, but now my eyes burned. I willed back the tears. Tears wouldn’t help anything.

“You really love these cats, huh?” Candace said.

“They’re all I’ve got.”

She nodded, as if to tell me she understood. “I collected a clump of what looks like cat hair out near the end of your driveway—can’t say that’s what it is ’cause I got no hard evidence, but you want to take a look? If it belongs to your missing cat I can surely find a match here in the house. Plus there were tire tracks. I took a picture, but matching the tire to make and model probably won’t happen. No way the town’s gonna pay a nickel to search for a match since they’d be with Morris—decide nothing was taken. But that missing cat is as good as gold to you.”

“Syrah might have simply run off. That’s what most people would conclude. But he wouldn’t go with a stranger,” I said. “He’s too smart for that. This voice in my head is telling me he was stolen. But why?”

“That’s what we need to find out—why he’s gone and where he is. Doesn’t matter to me if your Syrah ran off or was catnapped; I plan to help you,” Candace said.

“That means so much—you helping me on your own time.”

“I like you, Ms. Hart. Plus I need to practice my evidence-collection skills if I’m ever gonna get out of Mercy and get me a real police job. Sure, this is my home, but they’re not so hot here on using all the new scientific stuff that can help in police work. Just want to keep everything the same old same old.”

“Help me understand how any evidence you find will help you get a lead on Syrah.”

“Don’t rightly know. But you collect stuff, then you hope and pray the evidence leads you down the right road.”

I nodded. “I’ll buy that. Let me see what you’ve found so far.”

She’d brought in a little satchel that held her fingerprint kit and now took out a small brown envelope. “Haven’t sealed it yet. Wanted you to take a look first. But don’t go touching it, okay?”

She squeezed the stiff pouch open so I could look inside.

“Syrah is a sorrel color, so if it’s his hair it should be coppery ticked with chocolate . . . and the base of the hair should be a bright apricot. Together all these colors make him look amber.”

“Sorrel? Ticked? What’s all that mean?” Candace asked.

“Syrah is an Abyssinian cat. His color is sorrel. And ‘ticked’ means that chocolate is his second tabby color besides copper. He’s really just a fancy tabby cat.”

“Ah. I get it. But you sound like some kind of expert cat person. Are you?” she said.

“I know a lot about cats, but I wouldn’t call myself an expert. I like to learn things—just like you do, right?”

“You got that. Anyway, here’s what I found. Your cat’s hair look like this?”

I stared down into the envelope, but couldn’t see very well, so we moved closer to the window. Then I knew. “Yes. See the chocolate ticking? Cats can lose clumps of hair when they’re stressed, so that’s proof to me it’s his.”

“Let me tell you about proof. In my line of work, it’s not proof until it’s evidence of a crime. As of right now we can’t prove whether your cat slipped out when the perp came or left, or was in fact stolen. And if he was stolen, why leave the other two cats?” Candace said.

“Maybe the thief couldn’t find the other two? They know how to hide from me, that’s for sure,” I said.

“This Syrah—I remember you said he’s not expensive because he doesn’t have his papers to prove he’s a purebred. But maybe some idiot thought he was worth something even without these papers you’re talkin’ about,” she said.

“He’d be most valuable to me,” I said, realizing exactly how valuable even as I spoke the words. “Do you think the thief will call and say he or she has Syrah? Ask me for money?”

“That’s possible. Or whoever it was simply fancied your cat and decided he wanted him. You can’t tell what a person figures they can steal if they so desire. We had a perp once who stole Christmas lights right off people’s houses. I always thought it was Lewis Rainer ’cause his house is always lit up like New York City during the holidays. No way he could afford all those lights and snowmen and reindeer on the roof.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You couldn’t prove it because you couldn’t get the evidence?”

“You are catchin’ on.” Candace smiled and it made her face even more attractive. “Anyway, you never hear about those animals lost during Katrina so much anymore, but lots of folks did lose their pets, huh?”