The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Eleven

Hoping to put aside thoughts of my almost surreal day, I settled on my sofa at about eight p.m. to watch You’ve Got Mail, the movie John and I had rented on one of our first dates. Unexpectedly, I wanted to enjoy something we’d shared rather than immerse myself in grief at the end of the day. I even lit ylang-ylang oil and poured myself a glass of white wine. I smiled as I came to my favorite lines from Kathleen, where she ponders leading a “small life” and considers whether she does what she does because she likes it or because she hasn’t “been brave.” I’d been brave today. And gosh, despite the trouble I might be in because I could have messed up evidence, I felt good about making sure those cats upstairs in the Pink House hadn’t been sick or hurt and had ultimately been taken care of.

My phone rang, and I mumbled, “Do I really want to talk to anyone?” as I hit the remote’s PAUSE button. Dove, who had taken up residence in my lap, much to Merlot’s chagrin, jumped off when I reached for my cell.

“Miss Hart, this is Lydia Monk. You remember me?” She sounded so tired.

“Sure.” I didn’t add, “Who could forget an encounter with you?”

“If you’re at home, Candy Carson and I need to pay you a visit. And trust me, this is not my idea. The last thing I want to do is bother you any more today.”

“I’m home, but what’s this about?”

“Very kind of you to accommodate us this late on a Sunday evening. We’ll be by shortly and explain.” She disconnected.

Did they want another recitation of the events from when I arrived at Wilkerson’s house this morning? Maybe. Didn’t cop shows always have scenes with witnesses saying, “How many times do I have to tell you what happened?” This thought reminded me that my whole knowledge of police procedure came from watching television—not the most reliable source of information.

They arrived in less than five minutes, so they must have already been on their way when Lydia called. Lydia still wore her tennis shoes and smelled like her deodorant had failed her several hours ago. Plus, her makeup needed a retouch. One false eyelash was coming unglued and her con cealer wasn’t concealing much of anything. She was older than she’d looked earlier—maybe late thirties rather than early thirties. But her breasts were as perky as the day the surgeon sewed them in, and I had to admit that her posture, unlike her face, revealed no fatigue.

I led the two women through the foyer to my living room, where they both refused my offer of a drink.

I caught a vibe from Candace that I interpreted to mean she wanted to pretend we weren’t friends. Maybe that was something she had to do in front of the deputy coroner.

Lydia sighed heavily as she sank into one of the easy chairs near the picture window. A full moon reflected off the restless lake in the darkening sky.Perfect setting for a repeat interrogation.

Dove reclaimed her spot on my lap, while Merlot decided to play “I can love others, too” by jumping onto Candace’s chair back. He stretched out and Candace reached around to scratch his head. Chablis and Syrah curled up next to me. Chablis closed her eyes, but Syrah seemed alert and ready for conversation.

“I haven’t worked this hard since Frank Donnelly shot his sorry-ass self and his stupid girlfriend took off thinking we’d blame her,” Lydia said.

I don’t know if my confusion showed on my face, but perhaps that was why she went on with this odd opening statement. “Truth is, that woman would have driven anyone to suicide, but you can’t make a case for that in court. Had to follow her trail all the way to Oregon in two frickin’ days because I needed her version of what happened. See, families want answers.”

“And Mr. Wilkerson’s family wants answers, too?” I said.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about him. I tend to ramble after looking at blood all day. Not that I don’t appreciate a nice bloody crime scene that might offer a wealth of information.”

I swallowed. I didn’t need to hear about that. “So how can I help?” I had initially omitted that Shawn and I visited Wilkerson yesterday. Maybe they wanted more details after speaking to Shawn. And then there was that tuxedo cat. I’d forgotten all about Shawn’s roadside rescue. Maybe Shawn told them about the tuxedo and they wondered why I hadn’t mentioned it. Problem was, so much had gone on, I’d pushed it to the back of my mind. But now I was concerned that if they didn’t know, and I told Lydia and Candace about the catnapping, this might lead to the Sanctuary’s being shut down. I sure wouldn’t want that to happen.

Candace cocked her head. “Did you leave something out earlier today?”

My stomach tightened. That was it, all right. How much to say? What if none of this mattered and I’d get Shawn in more hot water? I certainly had to say something, because Candace was apparently learning to read every one of my expressions. “I forgot to mention that a cat escaped while we were talking on Mr. Wilkerson’s front stoop the day before the murder. We left the property when he went to chase after the poor thing.”

Candace looked at me. “You forgot that a cat got loose? You?”

“I-I’m sorry. Finding the body today is all I was thinking about and—”

“Understandable,” Lydia said. “But we’re not here about an escaped cat. We’re here because this one”—she nodded at Candace—“seems to think I need to collect more evidence—not that I don’t already need a frickin’ Mack truck to carry what I’ve already got to the forensic unit.”

“More evidence? From me? But Candace searched my house and—”

“Tell her, Candy,” Lydia said. “This is your idea. I’m along for the ride ’cause I’m too damn tired to argue with you anymore.”

Candace leaned toward me, hands clasped between her knees. “You were victimized by Mr. Wilkerson. From what Shawn says, he was, too.”

I felt my tense shoulders relax a little. Shawn hadn’t stonewalled them. He’d talked about how he suspected Wilkerson of breaking into the Sanctuary. “Thank God you believe him.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Lydia said, her cynicism evident.

“Shawn wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I said. “He simply had a history with that man and—”

“No need to sign up for his defense team, Ms. Hart.” Lydia blinked and finally realized she was losing a cosmetic appliance. She pulled off the dangling eyelash and stared at it. “I am through with these stupid things. Think I’ll ask the cosmetic surgeon about an eyelash transplant next time I go in.”

I couldn’t hold back a smile, but Candace wasn’t paying attention. She had her own agenda. “I’d like to take hair samples from all your cats,” she said. “Some clear tape will do the trick. And that little one on your lap? I’ll need that one’s, too.”

“Because the murder had something do with the cats?” I said. Thank God I wasn’t the only one who thought the cats were important to solving the crime.

“We know Wilkerson took Syrah, and we know he came back here to steal another one. Makes sense he may have angered the wrong person by doing the same thing to them,” Candace said.

“But there must be a million cat hairs in his house,” I said. “How could you ever sort through them?”

“That’s what I told her.” Lydia sighed again.

Candace stiffened. “Just because there’s a lot of evidence doesn’t mean you ignore it.”

“And we are not ignoring it,” Lydia said. “Do you mind, Ms. Hart?”

“Not at all. Let me hold them while you do this, though,” I said.

The process was quick, but not without hissing and scratching involved. This was not the cats’ idea; therefore it was an unacceptable intrusion. Candace put each piece of hair-laden tape in an evidence envelope and identified the sample with a short description of the cat it belonged to as well as the date and time.

“Wilkerson didn’t take my other two cats, so why do you need samples from them?” I asked.

“And that reminds me. Why didn’t he take all three the first time he broke in?” Lydia asked.

“Merlot and Chablis are pretty darn smart, Ms. Monk,” I said. “Once they realized Mr. Wilkerson was up to no good, I’m sure they hid.”

“Ah,” she said, nodding wearily.

“Why do you need more samples, Candace?” I asked.

“See, I collected cat hairs from Wilkerson’s clothing, and since he’d been in your house immediately before he was murdered, he probably had transfer on him,” Candace said.

“Transfer?” I said.

“Trace evidence transferred from your animals to his clothing,” Lydia said impatiently. “Do you have everything you need?”

Candace went on, “See, I need to exclude your cats’ hairs and focus on the ones I might not be able to connect to your three or to any of the other cats we found in the house.”

“You mean a cat might have been taken from the Pink House before I got there?” I said. “And you could find that out by looking at cat hair? That’s amazing.”

Candace’s eyes were bright. “See, it’s all about the evidence. Stuff you can examine and learn from and—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lydia interrupted. “Can we please get out of here?”

“What about cat nose prints?” I asked. “Did you find any of those?”

“What are you talking about?” Candace said.

“A cat’s nose print is like a human fingerprint. One of a kind. If there’s a nose print that doesn’t belong to any of the cats that were in the house, then—”

“I imagine that a lot of cats passed through Mr. Wilkerson’s hands,” Candace said. “And just like human prints, we would have no idea when this unique nose print was left. It’s also not like we have a database of cat nose prints to match up with what we find. Cat hair is a different story.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling deflated. “Just trying to help.”

Candace said, “But that is really cool—the nose prints, I mean. Where did you learn about that, anyway?”

“There was a vendor at a cat show once who was selling pendants she made with a cat or a dog’s nose print on them,” I said. “In case the pet got lost or stolen. She told me all about nose prints.”

“Trouble is, how often would we need to use something like a nose print?” Candace said. “Never had a case on Forensics Files that used cat nose prints. And I swear I’ve seen every episode twice. Cat and dog hair, however, can be very useful in solving some crimes. I read a research article not long ago about the DNA of cat hair and how cat hairs have led to suspects who were eventually convicted. The hair evidence was even presented in court. It had been left on both the corpse and the murderer.”

Lydia sighed heavily. “Listen, I’ll check with the FBI— that being the Feline Bureau of Information—about all this cat hair and nose print stuff—maybe in my next life. But right now I have got to get home and get my beauty rest.”

That got a laugh from all of us, and they left not long after. I returned to the living room and closed the blinds to shut out the night.

That eerie moon still hung low in the sky. It went well with that word corpse. Too well.