The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Eight

The house fire in town must have finally been contained because the Wilkerson property now became the hub of Mercy’s police and paramedic activity. From my vantage point in the parlor that adjoined the dining room, I even caught a glimpse of Billy Cranor, the handyman and volunteer fireman. Apparently the fire department needed a presence here as well—why, I had no idea.

When Candace arrived she didn’t seem to notice me. She began firing away with her camera before saying a word to anyone, moving around the crime scene with a constant whir of click, click, click. Next she knelt by the body, and I saw her tweeze something off Flake Wilkerson’s pants.

Then Chief Baca spotted her and ordered her to “watch Ms. Hart.”

I needed watching? Did he think I would head upstairs again after he’d practically had to carry me down? I still felt too stunned and sick to my stomach to do much more than sit here.

When Candace turned and saw me in the parlor, her blue eyes widened in disbelief. “What are you doing here?” she said as she took a spot beside me on the very uncomfortable gold satin settee.

The chief had put me here, and I suddenly wondered if maybe he thought I wouldn’t faint again if I sat in the most uncomfortable spot possible. “I already told your boss, but you need to know, too. First, though, I understand I never should have come inside this house. But Syrah was here. I found him outside in the driveway and then he ran back inside. I couldn’t help myself. I had to follow him.” As I spoke, I was again consumed by worry. Tom had let Syrah go, and I could only hope my boy hadn’t slipped out an open door. He surely would have had the opportunity, since this place was crowded enough to remind me of a departure gate at Houston Intercontinental Airport.

Syrah’s disappearance wasn’t a priority to anyone except me, and my emotions had been running wild—I was glad I’d found him, but now I was desperate to find him again. Plus I’d gotten the distinct feeling as I’d related what had happened to the soft-spoken Baca that he actually suspected I might have had something to do with the murder.

I was more at ease explaining the situation to Candace. She seemed receptive and kind as I summarized the morning’s events.

“You’re trembling,” she said when I’d finished. She placed a hand on my forearm and said, “You gotta calm yourself.”

“If I promise on Syrah’s life not to leave this poor, unfortunate seat, will you look for him? I’m going crazy wondering where he’s got to now. He might be in the closet with the Persian. I could show you—”

“No way,” she said. “We’re waitin’ on the coroner’s deputy and her investigator before any of us disturb the crime scene any further. That means we’re stuck here.”

“But I didn’t kill that man,” I said. “So why do you need to practically sit on me?”

“Because I have to follow orders. Besides, you can’t be wandering around this house like you did earlier,” she answered.

“Look at me, Candace.” I twisted in my chair so I could see her face. “I didn’t mean any harm going upstairs.”

She said, “Don’t you see how this looks? Flake Wilkerson had your cat, and I know how much you love that little guy. By the way, how did you recognize Flake Wilkerson on that video? That’s why you came here, right?”

Uh-oh. That visit here yesterday was about to come back and bite me. “I’ve been talking to people, trying to figure out who would want to steal my Syrah. Mr. Wilkerson was known to have an interest in cats—especially purebreds. But you don’t suspect me of anything more than coming into a house uninvited, do you?”

“No, but exactly who have you been talking to? Shawn?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?” I said.

“You’re dodging the question. How did you recognize Wilkerson? No one sees him much, except at Belle’s Beans. Is that where you met him?” she said.

“No. Shawn told me about Wilkerson, and I came here yesterday. Needless to say, the man didn’t admit to stealing my cat.” I wasn’t about to mention that Shawn had come here, too, not before I knew if they’d enlisted Shawn to take care of the imprisoned cats. But I had a renewed uneasy feeling in my stomach. Shawn hated Wilkerson, and I was guessing Candace knew as much.

“You came here yesterday? That’s not good, Jillian.” She was shaking her head. “What happened?”

“Nothing. You have to know I would never kill another human being in a million years,” I said.

She sighed. “I do, but these other folks don’t. Our training as officers of the law makes us think the worst of people.”

“So you don’t believe I killed him?”

“Of course not. But you say anything to Morris about that and my cred is gone. I’m the evidence queen, remember?”

For the first time in the last hour, the knot in my gut loosened. Seemed I had one human friend after all. “That means a lot. Thanks.”

This tender bonding was interrupted by the arrival of a woman who hollered, “What we got here?” so robustly that her words lifted me an inch off my seat. I resisted the urge to cover my ears. She gave shrill a whole new meaning. Southern shrill at that.

“That’s Lydia Monk,” Candace whispered from the side of her mouth. “Deputy coroner.”

“Why are you whispering?” But I’d toned it down, too. Maybe we were both compensating for her.

“ ’ Cause she’s in charge and I don’t want her hearing me talk to you. That might not look good for either of us.”

“A deputy coroner’s in charge? Where’s the coroner?” I asked.

Candace quickly explained that the county had an elected coroner. He was an administrator and pretty much stayed in his office. This woman was the county’s investigating officer when there was a suspicious death.

“But she’s a doctor, right?”

“No way. She went to the community college, I think. Now hush, okay?” Candace squared her shoulders and looked straight ahead.

This was so different from big-city life. Houston had a pathologist as a medical examiner and a highly trained forensic unit.

Unlike Candace, who was intent on looking like my official watchdog, I had no problem checking out this flashy woman now in charge. If I thought the low-cut shirts women wore on shows like CSI were Hollywood tweaking reality, Lydia proved me wrong. She had quite the twin girls and wanted everyone to have a good look. But even on CSI they never went to crime scenes wearing sequins on their scoop-neck turquoise T-shirts.

Candace glanced at me and whispered, “In case you’re wondering, she’s the product of one too many pageants.”

“Beauty pageants?”

“Yup. You are lookin’ at Miss Upstate Winnebago 1999,” Candace said.

“You’re kidding, right?” Lydia Monk may have had the fading glory of a beauty queen—a tall, bleached blonde with chin-up posture—but that voice? My cousin was a pageant junkie, and she practiced not only her walk but a sweet voice, too.

“Nope, I am not kidding. Word around town is that the judges might have been drunk when they crowned her.”

Lydia had been conferring with Baca but now started talking to the crowd again, and it was impossible to ignore her.

She said, “Now that I have been briefed, ladies and gentlemen, we can officially classify this as a homicidal death. Any suspects?”

“We’re still investigating.” Baca glanced my way.I stared right back, feeling defensive. But I did have a connection to the victim. I’d shown up here yesterday and again today. And I’d walked into the house on my own when I should have known better. Oh, I’d invited this trouble. That was for sure.

Lydia’s hands were on her hips, one bright blue spike-heel tapping the oak floor. “Glad you left me the body, seeing as how it’s my job to coordinate this investigation and purserve the evidence.”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t they leave the body?” I whispered to Candace.

“Quiet,” Candace answered from the side of her mouth.

I caught Baca rolling his eyes. “We know what your job is, Lydia. Where’s Bob?”

“He went over to that house fire. You folks got more stuff happening here in Mercy than we’ve had in the entire county all year,” she said.

“No one died in that fire, so what is your assistant doing over there?” Baca wasn’t bothering to mask his irritation anymore.

“Are you telling me how to allocate my resources?” She’d moved close enough to him that her breasts were an inch from his chest.

“Your resources happen to be one assistant—that is, unless the county’s added staff that I don’t know about. We need him here.” He made a sweeping gesture. “Look at all this blood. You’ve got to collect specimens, cart stuff to the forensics unit and get this body out of here for autopsy so we can get going on this investigation.”

“I see you are intent on telling me how to do my job, Mike Baca. Guess that means you’ve been to coroner school since we last crossed paths.” She smirked at him and in her heels was tall enough not to have to look up. “Course we all know that isn’t true, is it, Mike?”

Baca handed Lydia a pair of shoe protectors. “I believe you’ll be more comfortable in these.”

Indeed, those heels aren’t exactly crime-scene-friendly, I thought.

She snatched the protectors. “I got my tennies in the truck. Now be a good boy and fetch them. And while you’re at it, can you get me the crime scene kit, too?”

Billy Cranor piped up. “I’ll go, Mike.”

Lydia removed her shoes and handed them to Billy before he eagerly took off through the entry to the kitchen. A minute later she was wearing the tennis shoes, the protectors and latex gloves. She stepped toward the body, but then spotted me. “Who is she?”

“The woman I told you about. She found the body,” Baca said.

Lydia’s red lips spread in a smile. “Is that so?”

She slowly walked into the parlor, her eyes intent on me. “I’m Lydia Monk and you’re . . .”

“Jillian Hart,” I said.

“And you found this man dead? Must have been very traumatic for you, Ms. Hart.” Her tone dripped with concern that I found bewildering.

Why is she being so nice? Is this some kind of trick?

“Yes . . . my cat . . . Well . . . it’s kind of a long story and—”

“I’m sure it is. Did you know this man?”

“Not really. I came by because I believe he stole my Abyssinian and I—”

“That some kind of Egyptian artifact?” she said.

“Um, no. It’s a cat and he’s—”

“Whatever. You don’t need to be staying here, Ms. Hart. You need to get away from this awful place. Candy will take you on home and get your statement there.” She beamed at Candace, pageant style. “I’m sure she’s spoken with you or the chief, but we need her statement in writing. You can do that, can’t you?”

Baca walked over to join us. “But Ms. Hart is—”

Lydia jerked her head in Baca’s direction. “I can read your mind, Mike Baca. You think this poor woman had something to do with that man’s death. But unless she went home and changed her clothes, that’s not what happened.”

Mike tried again. “But—”

“Did you notice the interrupted arterial spray on that dining room wall?” she said.

“Yes, I did. But we were waiting on you to—”

“And I’m here now. You let me do my job or I might have to discuss this with my boss. See, I am a trained investigator—but then, you already know that. You know everything.”

Oh, I was beginning to get it. She must have a history with Mike Baca. A history that probably had ended unpleasantly.

She went on. “Look at this woman. You see any blood all over her? No, you don’t. You gotta find a messy suspect somewhere or discarded bloody clothes. See, that dead man took it in the abdominal aorta. And my, my, my, aortas do like to spread their wealth when you poke ’em with a knife.”

Baca said, “I planned on taking Ms. Hart’s formal statement myself after you arrived and—”

“Nope. You need to let her go home so she can gather herself. She’s probably not your murderer, but she’s your best witness. Candy can take the statement, and if you insist, she can look for any bloody clothes at Ms. Hart’s home once we get a warrant.” She smiled at me again. “And I apologize, but that’s what we gotta do. Check your house for any bloody clothes or other evidence. Doesn’t mean I believe you did anything wrong. I can tell by those sad green eyes that this is just your worst nightmare.”

Maybe it was, but I wasn’t leaving without Syrah. “My cat might be in this house somewhere. Is there any way—”

Tom Stewart appeared as if on cue. “I got your cat. He was hiding in the closet with that other little ball of fur.”

He’d just made up for his three crimes of not hooking my alarm up to the police, not getting here quickly enough and acting like he suspected me. I stood and took Syrah in my arms, nestled my face in his neck. “Thank you, Tom.”

He’d smiled as he handed him to me, so I guessed he was glad to have made up for something. But before he could speak, Lydia was between us.

“And what are you doing here?” she asked Tom. Then she held up her hand. “Never mind. Mike can tell me after you leave. Now, Candy, please take Ms. Hart and her cat home immediately.”

I snuggled Syrah close and he began to purr. It felt wonderful to have him in my arms.

Baca spoke again, addressing Candace and me rather than trying to get in an entire sentence with Lydia. “A warrant won’t be required if you give permission for Candace to search your house, Ms. Hart.”

“She can search all she wants. I do have video of—of—” I glanced toward the body. “Of Mr. Wilkerson chasing my other two cats all over my house this morning.”

This news elicited a radiant smile from Lydia. “The chief mentioned that you came here about cats or something. I am sure delighted to hear about that bit of video. That could help me narrow the time of death. Now go on, you two.”

But Baca wasn’t done. “And your car? Can we search that, too?”

Lydia looked at him like he’d grown another set of ears. “You think she stashed bloody clothes in her car? Doesn’t make sense. You said you found her upstairs with the cats. Everything you’ve told me about the timing—when Candace and Morris left her house and her arrival here—makes it pretty clear she didn’t have time to kill a man, change her clothes and then take herself to a bedroom to visit with the animals.”

Baca said, “Maybe you’re right. But I’m sure you’ll agree Mr. Wilkerson’s orphaned computer monitor needs to be investigated. If it’s in Ms. Hart’s van, then—”

“What do you mean—orphaned?” Lydia seemed flustered now.

He said, “What’s a monitor for without the rest of the computer? I don’t think the missing parts and pieces walked off on little cat feet.”