The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Sixteen

Chase Cook, it turned out, lived in a house on Mercy Lake, too, though maybe a mile from me. As I parked in his drive, I couldn’t help but wonder if other cats from this area had been targeted by Flake Wilkerson. Apparently the man liked mine so much he came back to steal another one. That could mean he’d been watching me and I’d never had a clue. Goose bumps rose on my arms at the thought.

Mr. Wilkerson made his move while I was out of town, so he probably knew I’d be gone. Rolling a suitcase out to your car is a big clue that you’re taking a trip. Had he been hiding outside that morning, waiting for his chance? The thought of him spying on me creeped me out. I gathered myself with a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

The man who answered looked close to my age. He had short bleached-blond hair volumized with enough product to stock a Walgreens shelf. His smile was brightened by the whitest teeth I’d ever seen—I mean, they might glow in the dark. But he was smiling after I introduced myself and mentioned that both of our cats had ended up in the Pink House.

“I heard all about it from Shawn when I picked up Roscoe. You, my dear,” he said, “are a fellow victim of that awful Flake Wilkerson’s vile obsession. We are comrades.”

Okay, I thought. Vile is a good word. And maybe it was an obsession for Wilkerson—sort of like Lydia had for Tom.

Chase Cook invited me in and led me through the foyer to a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake and elegant modern furniture. The room was decorated in blacks and whites with an occasional splash of red.

“I am so proud that Roscoe made a heroic run for his life,” he said. “And I’m glad I can thank you in person. If you two hadn’t gone to Flake’s door—well, Roscoe might have been sent away before the man was murdered.”

“Sent away?” I asked.

“He was doing something with his cat collection, wasn’t he? Don’t you think that was the reason he was taking other people’s pets? To sell them off?”

“I had the same thought—either that or he was holding the cats for ransom,” I said. “But the chief and I don’t agree on that.”

“Then he needs to get real, because it seems obvious. Have a seat. Can I get you a sparkling water? An orange juice?” Chase said.

I opted for the water and he left the room. Getting money for the cats Wilkerson stole seemed plausible to me and to this man, so why not to Baca? There had to be a plan for those animals. Or was Mr. Wilkerson simply a weirdo intent on causing other people misery?

Roscoe came bounding into the room, and all thoughts of motive and money disappeared. He was shiny and bright-eyed, and I wondered if Chase chose a black-and-white cat to match his black-and-white house. I said, “There you are, handsome,” and bent to greet him.

He meandered up to the leather sofa where I’d taken a seat and rubbed against my legs, then looked up at me with golden eyes. I put my fingers down, and he rubbed his head against them and began to purr.

Chase returned with a tray and put it on the black laminate coffee table in front of me. On the tray sat an expensive-looking etched goblet, a small dish of sliced lemon and a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino. Chase poured my glass half full.

Roscoe began weaving between his owner’s legs, immediately leaving black hairs all over the well-creased, impeccably clean chinos.

“He’s a beautiful cat. So healthy-looking,” I said.

Chase settled across from me on a white leather and chrome chair. Roscoe leaped into his lap. “He does have a luxurious coat, doesn’t he? Toby and I have been lost without him. Toby is my partner—and don’t worry; it’s no secret that we’re gay. Everyone knows. Many men keep their distance like they might catch our affliction, but women like yourself are warm and friendly.”

“Not a problem for me,” I said.

“What brings you here, Jillian? I love your name, by the way. It suits your gorgeous spicy hair, and I’ll bet there’s some freckles hiding under your makeup.”

“There are. As to why I’m here, I have a question about Roscoe—actually about what you did when you discovered you’d lost him.”

“What a day that was. Toby was working a long job—he’s a contractor—built this absolutely stupendous home we share, by the way—and I was frantic. I’d come back from a meeting with one of my clients in Manhattan and found our boy gone. I couldn’t reach Toby because he’s always on the phone calling someone for wood or tile or sinks or whatever.”

Here was someone else who’d left home and returned to find a cat missing. Was this simply a coincidence? “You thought Roscoe was with Toby?” I asked.

“Oh no. That would have been ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” He stroked a contented Roscoe. “No, I thought our poor baby was sick or, God forbid, had died while I was gone. We used to spoil him with all the wrong food, and he ended up with a kidney stone, so I had reason to worry. Now he’s thriving on a special diet.”

“Did you call the vet to see if Roscoe was there?” I asked.

“Yes, and when he wasn’t I considered calling the police. But Toby brought me to my senses when he came home that evening. He said, ‘Do you think Morris Ebeling would come over to the queer house’—that’s what Morris calls it—‘to investigate a lost cat?’ I had to agree. We do try to limit the humiliation that Mercy sometimes offers up. This is a breathtaking place to live and we aren’t about to leave, so we pick our battles.”

“There was no sign anyone broke in?”

“No. Since we were once a victim of hateful vandalism—very unkind words spray-painted on our home—this place is practically a fortress now.”

“Tom Stewart put in a security system for me after the first break-in, but that didn’t stop Wilkerson from doing it again,” I said.

“Tom installed our system as well.” He flashed his sparkling smile. “Flake must have wanted your other cats in the worst way to come a second time, which means they’re very special. Do you have pictures?”

For the next few minutes, Chase oohed and aahed over the photos of my trio, ones I’d taken with my cell phone. And he was so tickled when I showed him the live feed that he vowed to have Tom set up one for him as well. It was nice to talk to someone who loved his cat as much as I loved mine.

But I was getting off track, so I closed my phone and said, “How do you think Roscoe ended up with Mr. Wilkerson if there was no break-in?”

“I’ll tell you what I never would say to Toby,” Chase said. “I think he left the door ajar, maybe when he was taking out the trash. He has so many things going on at once, he tends to get distracted.”

“I see. And what did you do to find Roscoe?”

“I put up flyers, but of course Ed took care of them in short order. Do you know Ed?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” I said.

“I thought the flyers were worth a try. Ed sometimes lets lost-pet signs stay up for a day—or at least that’s what he tells me. Nice man, very interesting person.”

Interesting was an understatement. “Did you put a picture of Roscoe on your flyers?” I asked.

“I’m a graphic designer,“ he said. “What do you think?” He reached under the coffee table and picked up a laptop computer. Soon I was looking at the flyer he’d created, and boy, did it put mine to shame. Professional job, that was for sure.

I sipped my water, then said, “This is a beautiful photograph. When did Roscoe disappear?” I asked.

“A month ago.” He glanced at what appeared to be a TAG Heuer watch. “Actually to the day.”

“How many flyers?” I asked.

He offered a puzzled expression. “Just curious, but why is this important?”

“The police don’t seem particularly interested in the fact that five cats were found in that house, cats that didn’t all get lost like yours. The police might not care, but I do. I mean, what if there are other cats that he took, ones already sold?”

“You are passionate about this, aren’t you? Why this cause?” he said.

“Maybe because my husband and I worked in the animal shelters after Katrina. I saw people reunited with their animals, and I realized how important those pets were, as if they were family members, really. And when I lost Syrah, I understood even better.”

“Is your husband helping you with this . . . investigation?” Chase asked.

“No. He died ten months ago.”

“I am so sorry. But you’re doing what you and your husband would have done together—doing what your heart commands.”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds because not only did he understand me, but he had helped me understand myself. “You speak your mind. I like that about you,” I said.

“I can be quite likable,” Chase said. “As long as you don’t get between me and my cat.”

I smiled. “Same here. Now, we were talking about Ed. I’ve been to the Swap Shop and I know he collected the lost-cat flyers he tore down. But I didn’t see any for Roscoe.”

“Really? Ed keeps such things?”

“He has a little hoarding problem,” I said.

“Little? Humongous is a better word for it. But I have found some absolute gems in his place. I collect vinyl records. Jazz, mostly.”

“I’m wondering why flyers like yours, done by a professional, didn’t end up in Ed’s collection. Could they have been destroyed by bad weather?”

“The weather was gorgeous—always is in September. I was so upset about losing my cat, I have to say I forgot about the signs. I accepted Toby’s explanation that since Roscoe’s such a friendly guy, a neighbor probably took him in. But no one came by or called to tell me that they’d found him.”

Why were there no Roscoe flyers in my pile?

“What are you thinking, Jillian?”

“I’m wondering if Flake Wilkerson saw your flyers, took them down so no one else would know Roscoe was missing and went looking for him. Cats stay pretty close to home when they get out like Roscoe did. They have something like feline GPS, I’ve read. He was probably near your house, exploring the neighborhood, and Mr. Wilkerson found him before you did.”

“And you’ll take cat trivia for one thousand,” Chase said with a laugh. “Very clever of you to think this through. That could be what happened, I suppose. Flake always struck me as capable of the most devious of behaviors, and cat stalking might be among them.”

“You knew him?”

“Oh yes. Ran into him all the time at Belle’s. But you know, I haven’t seen him there in some time.” He stroked Roscoe lovingly. “And I won’t be seeing him anymore, will I?”

He didn’t smile, but I had the feeling he wanted to. I left Chase’s house shortly afterward, even though he offered to prepare me a “lunch to die for.” Not exactly the greatest choice of phrase, considering the murder.

I wanted to get to Belle’s Beans in the worst way. If Chase had met Mr. Wilkerson there, other people must have, too. Learning about a dead man might help me figure out how the stolen cats might have led to his murder.

Plus, I thought as I drove into town, this new piece of information Chase provided is interesting. I mean, I had a stack of flyers—but how many didn’t I have? Did Wilkerson take down flyers so he could stalk his prey in the Mercy neighborhoods? Improbable, but possible.

If I could get inside the Pink House again, maybe I could prove that Wilkerson was collecting lost flyers before Ed ever got to them. When I thought more about this, I decided holding cats for ransom would have been risky. I mean, if this had been going on for a long time, someone surely would have reported Mr. Wilkerson to the police. Trying to organize my thoughts was giving me a headache. Once I talked to Candace, perhaps I would be able to think more clearly, because gosh, I was confused. I needed schooling, a class in Detecting 101, not just a strong belief in my own theory.

I parked in a spot near the café and went inside. Since Belle’s Beans offered wrapped deli sandwiches, I grabbed a ham and cheese from the cooler to go with my large latte. With the limited table space, I had to take a spot with someone else who’d stopped in for lunch.

All the customers except one were twosomes or threesomes, so I chose a woman reading a paperback and sipping on a large coffee. I asked if she’d mind if I joined her.

“Please do. I’m Marian Mae Temple, by the way.” She smiled politely, and maybe I was paranoid, but I had the feeling she knew about my infamous recent past.

“I’m Jillian Hart and I’m guessing you’ve heard about me.” I unwrapped the sandwich and lifted the bread for a peek. Wilted lettuce and way too much mayo. But I hadn’t really come here to eat. I’d come here to find out what people thought of the murder victim.

Marian Mae blushed. “A little hard not to hear things.” She was fortyish, with highlighted ash blond hair, perfect makeup and a French manicure. The word classy came to mind.

“Guess that will be my Mercy claim to fame for as long as I live here—I found a dead man.” I tried to sound light and friendly. But inside I felt anxious, even before I’d had a sip of my high-octane coffee. Why did I ever think I could cozy up and get answers just like that? I felt like a weasel.

“This murder news will all pass sooner than you think,” she said. “I understand you’re a widow. Such a sad thing. I’d guess you’re not much older than me.”

I said, “I’m doing fine. I like it here and I’m trying to make a new, independent life for myself, but I won’t say it’s been easy.”

“I parted ways with my husband through divorce, not death, but you do grieve even after an unpleasant split,” she said.

“I suppose you do. And I am so concerned for Mr. Wilkerson’s family and their tragedy. What an awful way to lose someone,” I said.

“I’m sure,” she replied.

I sensed her discomfort at once. Fearing that she would close down on me, I said, “Did you know him?”

“Everyone knew him,” she answered.

“He came in here quite a bit, I hear,” I said.

“That’s true. Most of the town does.” She took an interest in her lightened coffee by using the wooden stir stick to mix in more thoroughly what looked like cinnamon.

“He wasn’t a friend or anything, though? I only ask because, well, I found him dead and I feel this odd connection to him. I’m interested to know what he was like, besides unpleasant—which is about all I’ve heard, to tell the truth.”

“We were . . . acquaintances. He would come and sit with me on occasion. He could be nice, and not to sound like I’m flattering myself, but I got the feeling he wanted to be more than friends. That, of course, was out of the question.”

“Did he ever talk about his cats? Having been inside the house, I know he had quite a few,” I said.

“Like the one he stole from you?” she asked, one artfully penciled brow raised.

“Yes. His name is Syrah. He’s an Abyssinian and I’m so happy to have him home.”

She smiled and this time I saw genuine warmth in her features. “You’ve had a difficult time. The comfort of a beloved pet is truly remarkable, isn’t it? I’m a cat person myself, so I understand.”

Emotion swelled into my throat. Why did this happen after a mere hint of kindness from a stranger? “Cats are special in so many ways. But as for Mr. Wilkerson—what else can you tell me about him?”

“Do you truly want to explore that man’s character? In my opinion, he was a dark, brooding, unhappy man.”

“And you say this because . . . ?”

“We talked occasionally—like I’m doing with you right now. He had a daughter, I think. But never once did he bring up those cats. I was so surprised to read about them in the newspaper.”

“Because he didn’t seem the type to have pets or—”

She rested a hand on my forearm. “Listen, I understand your curiosity, but I’d prefer we talk about you. Aside from this awful murder, do you like living in Mercy?”

“Yes. I never realized how soothing it would be to live by the water. Sometimes I hear lapping against the dock or rain splatting on the lake and it calms me almost at once.”

We continued to make small talk for a few minutes, and then Marian Mae said she had an appointment and left.

I lifted the bread and took another glance at the sandwich innards. The soggy ham and cheese looked no better than the first time, but I took a bite because I was hungry enough to try it. Not as bad as it looked. I ate slowly, hoping Belle would come in. She seemed the person most likely to offer up something about Flake Wilkerson, anything to help me understand what made the man tick.

Thanks to Chase, I realized I needed to keep my focus on learning why Mr. Wilkerson was obsessed with felines, especially since I couldn’t picture him as a true cat lover. And yet he stole cats. Maybe the chief and I were on the same path after all—this was about cats and money. But there had to be more.

The familiar tinkle that sounded every time the door opened made me glance that way, and this time someone I recognized came in and walked up to the Belle of the Day taking orders.

Lydia wore tight black jeans and a cherry red tunic-style sweater. I couldn’t see her shoes from where I sat, but she seemed especially tall today. Could the stilettos get any higher than what I’d seen her in before? Or was it the teased hair piled and wrapped like a turban? Had to be the hair.

She caught me staring and actually smiled. That was a surprise after the way she’d behaved yesterday. Once the Belle of the Day handed her a whipped-cream concoction, Lydia came over and sat down.

“Nice to see you under more acceptable circumstances, Jillian,” she said.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Tom’s not with you—and that’s excellent. If you keep reminding yourself that he belongs to me, we can be best buddies. All you have to do is keep your distance from him.”

“He’s just a friend,” I said.

“I saw the way he looked at you. You’re ruining my game and we can’t have that, can we?” She played with the straw in her drink.

“No. Certainly not.” From what I’d witnessed yesterday, I preferred not to get on her bad side and therefore wasn’t about to argue with anything she said. This lady was a little wacko. I felt sorry for Tom. How long had he been dealing with this situation?

“Know what my important duties are for this case?” she said sarcastically. “I get to do things like supervise Candace.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

“Candace wanted to take samples of all the cat hairs she could find at the Pink House and Baca allowed it. He’s backpedaling after he agreed to take her off the case, if you ask me. He does seem to like her, and you know what that leads to.”

“What does that lead to?” I said.

“With him and me, it led to plenty. And now I’m shoved off the biggest case ever because I dumped him. Ego. It’s all about ego with him.”

“But that’s not what he told me. He said—”

“You are so naive,” Lydia cut in. “I should be running this show, but I’ve been kicked down to go-between.”

“You’re a go-between? Because you’re working with Candace? I’m still not sure I understand.”

“Besides watching Candace pull hair-laden pieces of tape off rugs and furniture—which is the forensic equivalent of watching paint dry, let me tell you—I was also instructed to arrange for the county forensics unit to return for a last run-through to make sure they didn’t miss anything before the daughter gets into town. Between the unit folks and Candace, I did a lot of sitting around.” She stuck out one leg. “Look at my pants. You ever seen so much cat hair in your life?”

I reached for my bag on the chair next to me and removed a mini pet hair roller. “Be my guest.”

Lydia looked at it for a moment. “Isn’t this the cutest thing ever? Purse size.” She began rolling it on her pants.

“Did I hear you mention Flake Wilkerson’s daughter?” I’d already heard about her, but maybe Lydia’s anger at her ex-boyfriend would keep her talking.

“Yup. She’s expected this afternoon. Baca wanted all the tags, the fingerprint dust and the blood gone. Which was a job and a half, thank you very much. You see me wearing a badge that says CLEANUP CREW? No would be the answer. Anyhow, he thinks he’s a hero or something, making the world all bright and beautiful for Daphne What’s-Her-Name. Or maybe he’s thinking about hitting on her since she’ll probably be getting plenty of money.”

There it was again. The money. Was that the money Baca had been referring to? I sipped my coffee and tried to sound nonchalant when I said, “Was Mr. Wilkerson well-off?”

Lydia tore off a hair-filled sticky sheet and used the pet roller again on her pants. “Not certain about that, but we did find one promising insurance policy the day of the murder, with the daughter as the beneficiary. As for anything more? Well, I’m not in charge, so I don’t know if Mr.Wilkerson even had a will. All I know is the daughter’s coming to town.”

“She does have to make funeral arrangements—or someone does, right?” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Guess I’m being cynical thinking she’s coming to see how much cold hard cash she’ll walk away with.” She balled up the used roller tape. “But if I had a say, which I do not, I’d be finding out where that young woman was two days ago. I’d want her to account for every minute.”

Lydia stood and looked down at her pants. “You are a savior. Good as new.” She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Let me give you a piece of advice. I understand that you’re not just being small-town curious with all your questions. Maybe you and Tom want to play detective together. But getting involved in this hateful business might not be good for your health. Especially if you’re tangled up with Tom. He’s mine.” She pointed a glittery finger at me. “Don’t you forget it, neither.”

She pushed in her stool, smiled and handed me back my roller. Then she walked away, high heels clicking on the tile. She sipped on that milk shake disguised as coffee all the way out the door.

Whoa, I thought. Did she just threaten me? Or was she simply talking about chasing after murderers? Maybe Candace could help me understand, but it would have to wait until she was off her shift. Knowing I had enough quilt orders to keep me busy until later today, I put the roller back in my bag and was preparing to leave, but then the real Belle came in.

Maybe, I thought, here is someone who truly knew Mr. Wilkerson and can portray him as more than the one-dimensional man everyone else makes him out to be.

Belle spotted me at once and called, “Sit tight. I’ll be right over to chat, pretty lady.”

After the Belle of the Day prepared her coffee, as well as a repeat of my own latte, she joined me.

She set the coffee in front of me and smiled. “I could say, ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ but I wouldn’t want you to take my joke wrong. Hope a coffee on the house will cheer you up. You’ve had your share of sorry luck lately, haven’t you?”

Not a white hair was out of place, but oh my God, would anyone ever tell her about the lipstick problem? She’d applied the stuff past her bottom lip by a good quarter inch.

“It’s been an unsettling few days,” I said. “But I do have my Syrah back. Not that I wanted anyone to die to make that happen.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I’ll slap silly anyone who dares to say as much.”

I smiled. I was sure she would.

She went on, saying, “We’ve had very few violent deaths in Mercy that I can remember, so tell me all about it. Was it just sickeningly awful?”

“That about sums it up,” I said.

She rested her elbows on the table and her chin on her fists. “I want details.”

This was how the grapevine worked. And if I wanted to be a part of it . . . well, no one told me not to say anything about the murder. I related the events of that terrible day, making sure to stick to what I saw and heard firsthand. The only thing I said about Shawn was that he’d picked up the remaining cats. He didn’t need me contributing to his reputation as a hothead, and that might happen if I shared details of the day before the murder.

When I’d finished, I said, “I understand Flake Wilkerson came here often.”

“He did. Not that I was always present, mind you, but I heard. He was always arguing with the men and I heard tell he and Shawn Cuddahee almost came to blows one time. I woulda kicked the two of them down the street if I’d been here. Anyway, when I was here, Flake went out of his way to make conversation. He wasn’t good at conversation, though. Not a Southern gentleman at all, our Flake.”

I said, “But he tried to be nice to you?”

“Tried and failed,” she said. “Your true spirit always comes through. And his spirit was troubled, maybe damaged by some long-ago injury. You never know what people are hiding.”

I stirred my coffee for a second. “What did Mr. Wilkerson talk about?”

“The weather. Road construction. Gas prices. All the boring stuff old men bring up when they don’t know what to say. I’m a widow and he knew as much. I had the feeling he wanted to inquire about me, ask me on a date. Do the young people still call them dates? Anyway, I am most certainly glad he didn’t.”

“I understand from Chase Cook that Mr. Wilkerson quit coming in here after Chase’s cat, Roscoe, disappeared. Since we know Wilkerson had Roscoe, maybe that was no accident.”

“Oh my. I had no idea Flake took Roscoe. That’s despicable. Bless his heart, Chase was sick with worry when his cat disappeared.”

“Roscoe’s home now, safe and sound,” I said.

She smiled broadly, making the lipstick mistake all the more prominent. “Wonderful news. But though Flake may have stopped coming in at the same time as Chase did, he still showed up and drank his large black coffees until the day before he died. You know, some folks should not drink coffee. Makes ’em downright spiteful.”

“Coming here was part of Mr. Wilkerson’s daily routine?” I asked.

She nodded. “Same as for lots of folks. Hope to see you here on a regular basis as well.”

“I’m already a regular,” I said with a laugh. “You have that bulletin board over there, and I recall you saying I could put up Syrah’s picture. Did Flake ever take an interest in that board?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my precious Jesus. What did that man do? Get information from my establishment and then steal cats he’d learned about?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, but yes, that’s what I was thinking.” A little lipstick problem didn’t mean Belle wasn’t a bright, perceptive woman.

“Oh my. Very troubling,” she said.

“Please don’t worry about information coming from the worst wannabe detective in the world,” I said.

“You don’t understand. When my cat disappeared, I put her picture up there.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Do you think he took Java?”

“Oh my gosh. You lost a kitten, right?”

“Yes. She was only six months old.” The color seeped from Belle’s skin, leaving behind garish circles of coral blush on her cheekbones. “They didn’t find any cat bodies in that wicked man’s house, did they?”

“No. I promise. Not a one. What kind of cat was she?” I said.

“A brown Persian. Just like coffee. That’s why I called her Java.” A few tears trickled down her cheeks.

A brown Persian? Like the one at my house? “Let me show you something,” I said.

“Show me what?”

“I have what’s called a cat-cam—a video feed connected to a camera at home. You can see my living room in real time.” Too late I realized that if the cat Shawn gave me to care for wasn’t Belle’s, she would be so disappointed.

Belle got down from her stool and stared over my shoulder. She said, “Why am I looking at your home?”

“I want you to see something, but the one time I need them to be sleeping in the living room, they aren’t there.” I turned and looked at Belle. “Do you have time for a trip to my house?”