The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Ten

“Shawn, please understand,” I said. “I had to tell them about—”

“I’ll handle this, Jillian,” Candace said. “But not here. As for these cats, they need a temporary home?”

Shawn’s mouth was now white-ringed with anger. “After this kind of greeting, I should walk back to my truck and forget about asking you for help. But I’m strapped for space and these two cats need placement immediately.”

The Siamese began wailing its head off, and my three ventured to the foyer entrance to check out the noise. Merlot took one look at those crates, hissed and hightailed it back to wherever he’d come from. But apparently Syrah wasn’t bothered, and Chablis was too drugged to care about possible unwelcome visitors.

Shawn put the two carriers down, and Candace knelt to talk to the cats. Unlike my attempt at Wilkerson’s place to calm the Siamese, Candace was able to quiet it by slipping her fingers through the door grid and letting it rub its head against her hand.

“I could take this one,” she said. “If my mom comes over I’ll give her some of that Benadryl that works for Chablis’s allergy.”

“Good. Jillian, you willing to deal with the Persian until we know what to do with her?” His tone was brusque.

“Sure. She and Syrah have already bonded.”

Syrah, tail in the air, was inching closer to the crates. Poor Chablis, apparently too tired to take another step, stretched out in the entry to the living room. Oh, to be that mellow.

Candace addressed Shawn. “Now that we have this cat problem settled, we need to talk about you and Mr. Wilkerson. My ride will be here in a few minutes, so the three of us can head to the station.”

“You want me to tell you I’m not sorry the jerk is dead? I’ll say that right here, right now.” Shawn’s temper still controlled him, reminding me of how he’d behaved yesterday.

“Shawn.” I put a hand on his arm. “You don’t mean that.”

“He doesn’t mean what?” Chief Baca said. He’d somehow arrived at my open door without any of us noticing his approach.

I picked up Syrah, who had been sniffing the Persian through the crate’s door. “Please come in, Chief,” I said. “This cold air is a bit much.” I wasn’t talking about merely the weather, and from his expression I think he understood.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “What’s going on, Candy?”

“I got some information from Ms. Hart about Mr. Shawn Cuddahee here and thought it was worth pursuing, Chief.”

“Information you planned to share with me right away, I assume,” Baca said. Then he focused on Shawn. “What might that be, Mr. Cuddahee?”

“Mike,” Shawn said, “don’t act like we’re not friends. That freaks me out.”

I held Syrah close, fighting the urge to take my precious cats—all of them—and retreat to my sewing room. That was where I’d spent the better part of the last ten months. That was where nothing bad happened. But my world had changed in the last few days—even in the last few hours.

I said, “Shawn, you have to tell them about yesterday. About what that man was like when we went over there.”

Shawn stared at me, his hard eyes and his clenched fists speaking more than words. “Sure. I’ll do that. Then you can tell them how all those little quilts of yours ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house.”

I blinked. I’d forgotten all about them.

Shawn went on. “I recognized them when I went upstairs to get the cats Wilkerson probably stole from God knows who. They’re like the quilts you gave the Sanctuary. The police should certainly be wondering exactly how that man got hold of them.”

Both sets of police eyes turned on me.

“I—I don’t know. I forgot to mention that I saw them . . . b-because of all the chaos.” I looked at Candace.

“Once I had a chance to remember, I would have told you, though.”

She stared at the floor and shook her head. “You had a connection to the vic that you never told me? Even when I was taking your formal statement?”

“I forgot. It’s that simple.” I was trying not to sound pleading but wasn’t sure I’d succeeded because she still looked disappointed.

I said, “I have no earthly idea how my quilts got inside his house. But the quilts he had were ones that I haven’t made for months. I can check my orders from the last year. I do most of my sales online and—”

“You check those orders, Ms. Hart. As for now, Mr. Cuddahee, Deputy Carson and I will be leaving. Shawn, you follow us.”

“Mike, what the hell?” Shawn said.

“We’re taking this discussion down to the station,” Baca said tersely.

With that, the chief turned, opened the door and walked out. Candace, carrying the crate with the Siamese, followed. So did Shawn, but not before he shot me a cross look.

I fought back unexpected tears—I really liked Shawn, and I certainly didn’t want him to be in trouble. I spent the next hour trying to forget this awful day by coaxing the Persian out of the crate, first with soft words and then with a can of Fancy Feast. Syrah kept his distance, maybe because he thought she might not be the same cat he’d been hanging around with for the last few days. After all, she’d been bathed and smelled like perfume—seemed like a totally different animal from the poor matted and obviously neglected soul Syrah had undoubtedly released from captivity at Wilkerson’s place.

Merlot continued to pout, keeping his nose to the window facing the lake. Syrah closed in and sniffed the little Persian when she finally emerged to eat her roasted chicken entrée. He nudged her away from the saucer, took a few bites himself and then let her eat again. Oh, yes. Pecking order must be established. Chablis slept through the whole episode, but at least the sneezing had stopped.

Once I’d pointed out the litter box in the basement to our new friend—whom I dubbed Dove because she was a dark chocolate color—I grabbed a glass of tea and went to my desktop computer. If I’d sold quilts to Flake Wilkerson, I had no recollection of any order and didn’t remember seeing his name on the hard-copy invoices I keep. But of course he probably didn’t use the name Flake on his credit card.

When I’d seen him the day Shawn and I went to the Pink House, I certainly hadn’t recognized him. But I could have met him at a cat show where I’d had a vendor booth. If customers paid cash at a show, I wrote the name on the receipt, but no other information. According to the Cuddahees, Wilkerson was always on the lookout for purebred cats. What better place to find them than at a cat show? Even if the ones for sale at those shows were darn pricey. Yes. That seemed like a possible explanation for where he’d obtained my quilts.

I set my tea on a coaster by my keyboard, Chablis at my feet, and began searching my files for his name. I came up with nothing.

Wait a minute. What about the business cards on the vet’s bulletin board? I sat back in the swivel chair, and poor Chablis thought this was her cue to jump in my lap. She didn’t quite make it and ended up clinging to my blue-jeaned thighs. I hefted her onto my lap and stroked her silky back. As she started to purr, my mind began to hum with memories.

All three cats had needed their yearly exams and I’d taken them to the vet one by one on three successive days. That was when I’d tacked up a few business cards. Flake Wilkerson might have learned about my business if he ever went to the vet. Maybe he’d driven by my house, spotted Syrah in the window and decided he wanted him for his own. My card did have my phone number and address.

Could a business card have led to all that had happened this week? Would this be something that could solve the mystery of the cats found at the Pink House? Was the vet Wilkerson’s source once he realized the Sanctuary wouldn’t cooperate with him?

I wondered if my theory would be of any interest to the police. I did have another huge question that Baca might not consider important either: Why was Flake Wilkerson obsessed with cats, especially those that belonged to other people? I didn’t know, but I wanted to ask Baca. Maybe my ideas might even help deflect suspicion from Shawn. Perhaps there was another victim of cat theft out there, a victim with a temper. A victim not named Cuddahee. Oh, gosh, Shawn. Will you ever trust me again?