The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Twenty-Seven

As I drove away from Baca’s house, I realized that mentioning Daphne hadn’t been the smartest move, since Baca already suspected her. And then I’d gone and asked questions about Marian Mae, the woman he loved. So what if I’d pieced a shredded flyer back together and it had me wondering about Marian Mae? I wasn’t accusing her of anything. But you’d have thought I was. The chief was practically living with a woman who’d lost a cat, and her flyer had ended up in Wilkerson’s shredded pile of paper. Wasn’t that important enough to question? Maybe not. Maybe Candace was right. How many other cat flyers had Wilkerson torn down and shredded? How many other people had the man stolen from? How many other suspects were there in Mercy?

Feeling low, but still not completely beaten into the ground, I decided to visit Shawn, find out what he might know about lost gray cats. If Marian Mae had done the same things I had when I lost Syrah, she might have gone to the Sanctuary hoping to find Diamond. Maybe she did get her cat back right away, but Shawn or Allison might know about the loss, could help me get a better read on Marian Mae Temple. Because despite only a flyer and two gray cats that looked a little alike, I couldn’t help but still suspect her, even if I didn’t know why. It was just instinct, and even Tom had said that instinct shouldn’t necessarily be ignored. Or maybe I was going to visit them because I needed to talk to people who understood how important this mystery was to me.

There was another car in the minuscule parking lot at Mercy Animal Sanctuary. I walked into the office and found a couple and their young son adopting a kitten. This is what’s good for the soul, I thought. This is what I need right now.

Snug the parrot seemed to mirror that idea, because he was bobbing and talking up a storm. Bringing a new pet into your life is one of the most special times ever, and the positive energy in the little room was almost palpable.

Shawn was attempting to coax the kitten away from the little boy, while Allison was taking care of the paperwork. She looked up and said, “Hi, Jillian. Be with you in a minute.”

“You know how you have to wear your seat belt?” Shawn said, kneeling in front of the child.

The kid nodded.

“Well, we have to keep your new kitty safe in the car by letting him ride in the box your mom and dad brought,” he said.

Safe. That reminded me I hadn’t checked on my crew in a while, so I opened my phone and brought up the cat-cam feed. I ended up nearly laughing out loud. I’d tuned in on a game of chase. I swear, those three could be the inspiration for a cartoon series. I was so intent on watching them that Allison had to ask me to move aside so the family could leave with their new baby.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping to my right. I looked at Shawn while Allison walked the family out to their car, motioned for him to have a look at what was happening at my house. He was smiling, too, after watching a few seconds of cat play. Syrah, as usual, was winning the race around the house.

“Fast cat,” Shawn said. “Handsome guy, your Syrah. Bet you’re relieved the Mercy catnapper is dead. I know I am.”

“Maybe relieved,” I said, “but sad, too. His murder was pretty darn brutal.”

“What goes around, as they say,” Shawn said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not completely sure. Mr. Wilkerson’s daughter is in town—but I think you were aware of that. Did you know her father stole her cat, too?”

“Oh yeah. First thing she did was rush to Mercy hoping to get Sophie back. She came here straightaway when her father told her he hadn’t taken the cat. We knew that wasn’t true. Anyway, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a couple days before I’d had to call animal control for a dead gray long-haired. I figured Sophie escaped from Wilkerson—cats know when they need to get out of a situation—and got run over.”

“Wow. That’s not good.” My heart sank. Seemed simple explanations often escaped wannabe detectives. I’d brought in a set of my computer pictures and showed him Sophie first. “Was this the cat that you found, um . . . you know?” I didn’t even want to say the word, much less think about poor Sophie like that.

He glanced at the picture. “Daphne showed me a picture, too. Could be the cat in the road, but it was kinda hard to tell. See, I don’t take close-up looks at animals that have died for whatever reason. Can’t take it. I called that stupid, good-for-nothing animal control officer. It’s his job to take care of that kind of problem. I sat in my truck waiting five damn hours for him to show up.”

“You waited that long?” I said.

“You bet I did. He shoulda gotten his butt to town and picked up that cat right away. As it was, I had to steer cars around the poor thing more times than I want to remember.”

Hoping to distract him from the lazy animal control officer—who might not really be lazy but could have been extra busy that day—I showed him the pieced-together picture of Diamond.

Shawn looked at it for several seconds, appeared to be focused on the “lost cat” plea. He said, “Marian Mae lost her cat? Wait. Better question: Marian Mae had a cat?”

“Obviously you don’t recognize Diamond, and I take it Marian Mae didn’t come here looking for her last year?” I said.

“Nope. But the date on this flyer is right around the time I found that gray cat in the road. Could have been Diamond.” He held up the picture of Sophie. “Or it could have been her.”

Great. That helps complicate matters.

“How can you be sure of the timing?” I said.

“Because of the damn restraining order. I can tell you the when, where and how of the document that dumbass served on me. I don’t care what the judge said. I had every right to go off on that fool when he finally showed up to take care of the poor cat.”

“You went off on him how?” I asked.

Shawn hung his head. “There was some pushing. But I never hit him, even though he claimed I did.”

“And you’re sure that Daphne came looking for her cat around the same time that Marian Mae apparently lost hers?” I said.

He took a deep breath and gave me back the pictures. “That’s about all I’m sure of. Wish I could help, but Allison will tell you, I’m a wimp when it comes to animal deaths. If we have one that’s so sick it has to be put down, she’s the one who takes it to the vet.”

His eyes had filled, and he blinked hard to fight the tears.

I squeezed his arm with what I hoped he knew was sympathy. “I’m sorry I even brought this up. I’m heading over to see Daphne. I was thinking that the little domestic shorthair taken from the Pink House might find a good home with her.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t make any promises. That lady is plain weird, you ask me. She could be an apple that didn’t fall far, much as I hate to say it.”

Once I’d climbed back in my minivan, I sat for a minute. Two men in the last hour had warned me about Daphne. Should I keep my promise and pick her up for a day away from that stuffy, cluttered old house?

Gripping the steering wheel, I put my head down and fought against logic, tried to drown out the warning voices. My gut told me Daphne wasn’t a killer. She might be depressed and troubled, but I understood how that felt. Understood too well.

I opened my phone, called her and then was on my way to her place. When I got to the Pink House, Daphne tried to convince me to stay there rather than spend the day at my place. But I won out. I showed her the cat-cam and my three babies, now stretched out in the living room, completely worn-out. She couldn’t resist my invitation to meet them in person.

On the drive I talked nonstop about them—their unique personalities, how Chablis had the human allergy, how smart Syrah was and how Merlot was more watchdog than cat.

I was starving, and since Daphne was so thin she could have been the inspiration for the hangman game, I put a frozen pizza in the oven as soon as we got to my place.

While we waited for the pizza to bake, Daphne sat in the middle of the living room floor and let the cats come to her. And come they did. There is no doubt pets can heal, no doubt my three knew she needed them, but the transformation I saw in Daphne was remarkable. Her face lit up; her shoulders straightened. She looked like a different person. I wondered why she hadn’t gotten another cat or even a dog since she’d lost Sophie.

But people must grieve at their own pace. I only hoped that this playtime with my three might make her realize she was ready for a new cat. If she didn’t end up in jail, that was. Baca wasn’t done with Daphne. In fact, he might only be getting started where she was concerned.

Daphne shared strings of mozzarella with Merlot, the only cheese-taker today. The other two curled up together near her since she’d stayed on the floor.

I didn’t want to bring up the investigation, not today, so we were sharing stories about our pasts when the doorbell rang. I sure hope this isn’t some policeperson looking for Daphne, I thought as I went to answer.

Not a policeperson at all. When I opened the door, I saw that Marian Mae Temple had come calling. What was this all about? Whatever it was, I had a bad feeling the minute I saw her.I invited her in, and she stepped into the foyer, at first glance seeming as collected as usual. She held a handbag over her arm and her makeup had been applied to perfection. But her cold blue eyes belied calm. This was an unhappy woman. But why was she so upset? Had my coming to Baca’s house created tension between her and her boyfriend?

Syrah came into the foyer, probably curious about yet another visitor. And then he did something I’d never seen him do before. He arched his back and hissed loudly through his open mouth at Marian Mae.

“Syrah,” I said, “it’s okay.”

He turned his gaze on me before he bounded down the hall.

If Syrah’s behavior wasn’t unsettling enough, Marian Mae confirmed my earlier thoughts by saying, “You, Jillian, have created problems for me. I came here to tell you to keep your nose—” Her gaze was drawn over my shoulder and she said, “What are you doing here, Daphne?”

Whoa. Another surprise. How exactly did these two know each other?

“Who are you?” Daphne said, as only the well-guarded and paranoid could.

And the flustered look on Marian Mae’s face told me more than words.

“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You know Daphne, but she doesn’t know you. How do you explain that, Marian Mae?”

The answer didn’t come fast enough. She was thinking too hard. Finally she said, “Mike showed me her picture. He thinks—well—” she said, seeming to regain her composure, “Perhaps I shouldn’t say what he thinks.”

“You know what?” I said. “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of officer to discuss a case with his girlfriend, much less show her photos of someone he’s interviewed. I mean, what did he do, show you the whole murder file?”

“Of course not,” Marian Mae said, switching to indignation. She was good at sounding indignant.

I looked at Daphne. “Chief Baca take any pictures of you?”

“Not that I know about,” Daphne said.

I returned my attention to Marian Mae. “Better answer would have been to say that Flake Wilkerson showed you his daughter’s picture when you two shared a table at Belle’s Beans,” I said. “I might have bought that explanation, since you’ve already told me you and Mr. Wilkerson were acquainted.”

Marian Mae ran her tongue over her upper lip, those baby blues dancing left and right. “I’m not a liar, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Then finish telling me why you’re here. Something about me keeping my nose out of your business? Problem is, I’d about convinced myself this had nothing to do with your business—until you showed up here. How do you know Daphne? From seeing her picture at Flake Wilkerson’s house?”

When I saw Marian Mae’s hand dart into her bag, fear struck me like a small electrical shock, shooting up my arms and nearly making me jump.

And when the gun appeared and she pointed it at the two of us, I felt as if my legs would give out. Now I understood what Syrah was trying to tell me. He knew this woman—he’d met her at the Pink House. And he didn’t much care for her.

I took a deep breath, held my palms up and facing toward her. “Please. You’re scaring me,” I said.

Marian Mae looked past Daphne again and into my living room. “Go in there.”

I didn’t like the way she waved the gun in that direction, as if she couldn’t care less if the thing went off. And that unflinching stare. Obviously she hated me. “Sure,” I said. “Whatever you say, Marian Mae.” But I walked backward, not wanting to give her a target as inviting as my spine if she went completely loony.

The way I was walking, with my hands half raised, must have blocked Marian Mae’s view of Daphne, because when we got into the living room, my friend had already pulled her cell phone from her pocket.

But Marian aimed the gun at her and said, “Put that on the coffee table, you idiot.”

Daphne complied, but I noticed she didn’t look the least bit afraid. Her eyes were a little chilling, too.

A shiver climbed my spine as I focused again on that gun. I’d never been so terrified in my life, but I had to hold it together. I took a deep breath and tried to make sense of this.

Marian Mae comes to my house carrying a gun. Why? Obviously my visit to Baca this morning changed her world. But was Daphne’s surprise presence in my home so unsettling that Marian Mae might be vulnerable? It was two against one. Well, two against two, if you counted the gun.

What are you thinking, Jillian? You can hardly pull Chablis out from behind the armoire. Your cats are stronger than you are. And with this thought Merlot decided to show his face. He sauntered into the living room, completely unbothered by an additional stranger. And I spotted Chablis curled in front of the entertainment center a few feet from Marian Mae. Chablis’s eyes were intent on that gun, though. Cats smell danger—and that was why Merlot’s nonchalance was so confusing.

Marian Mae ignored the cats, turning her attention to me again. “Get rid of your phone, too.”

It would have been easy to speed-dial Candace if I didn’t have a flip phone, but I had to open mine to use it. With a trembling hand, I set the useless phone on the table alongside Daphne’s.

Her tone even, Marian Mae said, “Daphne’s going to do to you what she did to her father—stab you with a kitchen knife. But you’ll try to fight her off. And after this little spat, you’ll both be dead. Case solved, but with a tragic end.”

Okay, the woman was certifiable. How was she going to orchestrate this? But my pointing out the implausibility of her plan wouldn’t help Daphne or me right now.

“What are you talking about?” Daphne said, her voice cold. “I never killed my father. Seems obvious you’re the one who killed him.”

How I longed to tell Daphne to hush up. Instead I said, “This is pretty complicated, what with two of us to deal with. Maybe we can call Mike, you can explain and—”

“No,” she said sharply. “Get me two big, sharp kitchen knives. Now.” But her eyes were unfocused, and I was betting she was racking her brain for a better way to deal with this situation.

I had a feeling Daphne wouldn’t cooperate in any way, shape or form, and she confirmed this by saying, “Why should she do that? We’re not going to make this easy for you.”

I closed my eyes. Why wasn’t she scared of that gun?

Without warning, Marian Mae sidestepped and as fast as light, reached down and grabbed an unsuspecting Chablis by the scruff of the neck and pointed the gun at her. “If you don’t get me those knives right now . . . well, you get the picture.”

Poor Chablis was struggling in the air, trying to turn this way and that to free herself. My mouth was dry, my stomach tight with fear. Chablis was unable even to cry out because Marian Mae was holding her so tightly.

Merlot’s “I couldn’t care less” act—and it had been an act—was over with this new development. He leaped from what had to be five feet away. Being the big strong cat he is, and with surprise on his side, he knocked Marian Mae off balance.

This is your only chance.

I was across the room in a second and rammed Marian Mae against the wall. She let go of Chablis, but not the gun.

I gripped her right wrist, and when she tried to twist free, we both ended up on the floor. But I had the advantage. She was on the bottom, and I was able to press my knee into her gut.

“Daphne, call 911,” I shouted.

“Already did,” Daphne said calmly.

Marian Mae released her grip on the gun, but as I shoved it away, I must have let up on her. That allowed her enough freedom to grab my hair. She pulled my head back until I feared my neck might break.

But suddenly Marian Mae was screeching and she released her hold. At first I thought she’d finally lost it because Daphne, thank God, was holding the gun on her. But that wasn’t the entire problem.

Syrah had clamped down on her ankle with his very sharp teeth, and he wasn’t letting go. I could almost hear him whisper, “Revenge is so sweet.”

To add to the confusion, not to mention the noise coming out of this lunatic woman, someone knocked on the door. They must have heard Marian Mae’s continuing wails, because that someone invited themselves to the party by bursting in.

Candace had her gun drawn when she rushed into the living room.

The very agitated Marian Mae was pretty well pinned, but I thought it only right to say to Candace, “A little help from a friend would be appreciated.”