The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Two

Once my flyers were ready, I duct-taped plastic wrap over the broken window to keep insects out of the house. That was about all duct tape could accomplish in this case. I was painfully aware that my home was unprotected from a second break-in. A call to security guy Tom Stewart was definitely on my to-do list. Good thing I’d sold ten quilts at the show yesterday. At a hundred bucks a pop, that meant some extra cash for a security system—one John and I had never thought we’d need in this sleepy lake town.

I thought about his hunting rifle and briefly considered pulling it out of the closet. But I don’t care for guns and have no clue how to shoot a rifle. Maybe I should plan on learning. Surely Mercy had somebody who could provide that service, too. Morris seemed to know everyone’s skills; if he could give me a name or take it upon himself to teach me to shoot, then I could protect myself and my furry friends.

Shoot? What are you thinking? You don’t step on ants or spiders. You couldn’t even shoot Hannibal Lecter if he came calling.

Pushing these thoughts aside, I called my vet, Dr. Jensen.

“This is Jillian Hart,” I said when the cheery lady at the front desk answered. Her name was Agnes if I remembered right.

“Hey, Ms. Hart. How’s those three little darlings of yours? Nothing wrong, I hope.”

“Syrah is missing and I wondered if anyone’s brought in a lost cat. You remember him? The sorrel Abyssinian?”

“I surely do remember that handsome boy. But we haven’t seen Syrah. I don’t recall—did you take us up on having the microchips inserted when you were in last? Because, of course, you know that helps when our darlings get themselves lost.”

No, I didn’t get the chips, I thought. Probably because I am as stupid as the excuse I will not be making. “No microchips.”

“I am so sorry, Ms. Hart. Maybe we can put in the chips for your other two. I can make that appointment right now,” she said.

“I’ll get back to you on that. I’m busy looking for a cat.” Microchips. Add that to the to-do list.

I had to get moving, but I wasn’t about to put Merlot and Chablis at risk by leaving them home. I wrangled them into their carriers again and took them out to my minivan.

Stoic Merlot tolerated my trip around the nearby neighborhoods as I hammered, stapled or taped my lost-cat flyers to telephone poles, street signs and even the FOR SALE signs at a few houses. I might have appreciated the crisp late-afternoon air if not for Chablis. She hated every minute of this exercise. Even Benadryl didn’t keep her from howling her displeasure. I hoped a revenge hairball on my pillow wasn’t in my immediate future.

After covering the areas close to home, I headed for downtown Mercy. It’s a cute town that attracts tourists who’d probably first visited more interesting places like Atlanta or the Biltmore Estate but weren’t ready to give up on Southern charm and go home yet. There’s a restored town center where green, gold and red awning-ed antiques stores, bookshops and little restaurants line the main drag. A brick courthouse and other well-cared-for old buildings mark the horizon. I’d never had much chance to shop in Mercy aside from my frequent trips to the fantastic quilt shop, the Cotton Company.

I decided that posting lost-cat flyers on the live oaks that lined the pristine street would be a giant no-no. Yup, Main Street was as tidy as a kitchen floor you’d see in a TV commercial. No flyers would fly here.

The local Piggly Wiggly might be an excellent option for advertising my problem. When I pulled into the parking lot, it was close to five p.m., and the cool fall day allowed me to leave the cats in the van, something I never could have done in hell-hot Houston during unpredictable October. I’d loved that city, but had not experienced near the level of humidity here—at least not this past summer.

David, one of the sackers, allowed me into the store ahead of his train of grocery carts, saying, “Hey there, Ms. Hart.” He was maybe in his late teens, had this odd lop-sided head and a friendly, guileless expression.

“Hi, David,” I said. “Can I talk to you after you get those carts stowed properly?”

“Stowed?” David grinned. “Now that there’s a new word. You’re always giving me something to think on, Ms. Hart.”

He parked the carts and met me at the store bulletin board.

“What can I do fer ya?” he said.

I resisted the urge to calm the blond cowlick that had my attention. “One of my cats is lost and—”

“Not the one who only eats salmon? ’Cause that could be a problem out there where you live. No salmon in Mercy Lake that I’ve heard tell.”

Oh my gosh. I hadn’t even thought about Syrah’s food. He was the one who ate only salmon. Whether it was Fancy Feast or Friskies, he didn’t care, but there had to be salmon in his dish or he’d turn up his nose.

“That’s the one,” I said. “Syrah is out there somewhere and he’s never been outdoors since he lost his first family during Hurricane Katrina.” I shook the handful of flyers I held. “Can I put a few of these up in the store?”

“Anything for a pretty lady. You could be a movie star, you know.”

I felt the heat of a blush. “I’m old enough to be your mother, David.”

“No, you ain’t. My mother’s got white hair. She says I gave her every one of them, too.” He smiled again and held out his hand for the flyers.

David stared at Syrah’s picture for a few seconds. “So this is the salmon cat. Mighty nice-lookin’, just like you always say. If he caught one of those bass out of Mercy Lake, he might change his mind about salmon. My mama always says look at the good side. He could come back with a whole new appetite.”

I smiled. David was an angel. “I hope you’re right. Think I’ll pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner and get on home. My other two cats are in the van.”

David’s face lit up. “They are? Can I visit with them when yer done shopping?”

“Um, sure.” I was a little surprised at how excited he seemed.

But as we walked out to my van ten minutes later, with David carrying my dinner, he explained how his mother thought cats were bad luck. “When I get a place of my own, I’m getting me a cat. I love my mama, but she’s gotta let me grow up and move out sometime. And when I do, I’m having a cat—maybe a dog, too.”

I opened the back of the van. When David set down the grocery bag, Merlot turned his head away. Not happy. Chablis started up with her dismal mewing again.

I pulled her carrier closer and unzipped the top just enough so David could fit his hand in to pet her.

“She don’t bite, does she? Grandpa Nagel had a cat that was so mean he could run a dog off a meat wagon.”

“She doesn’t bite. And she’d love a scratch on the head.”

David stuck his hand in and did just that. Chablis closed her eyes and starting purring. “Wow. She likes me, huh?”

“If she could talk, she’d say ‘yes.’ Look how she’s closing her eyes.” If only more people knew what a cat can accomplish with a purr. David was beaming.

A few minutes later I was on my way home when my cell rang. The caller ID read MERCY POLICE.

“Did you find him?” I said when I connected. “Where was he?”

“Sorry, Ms. Hart,” Candace said. “I’m at your place and I haven’t seen your cat anywhere. Think you’ll be home anytime soon?”

“I’m five minutes away.” I wanted to add, “This is Mercy. Everything is five minutes away,” but I was too disappointed even to offer a smile as I made that all too true observation.

“Good. I took the liberty of calling up Billy and he says—”

“Billy?”“Hardware store guy,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Anyway, he’s meeting me here to get your window fixed. Can’t be sleeping in your house with a broken window, can you?”

“Thank you, Candace. See you in five.” That was a kindness and now I managed a smile as I drove on home. Small towns have their advantages—like genuine concern from a relative stranger.

Turned out, Billy looked familiar. Where had I seen him before?

Candace hovered near him as he fixed the window. If I read her smiles and body language right, she was flirting with the guy. He had dark brown hair, muscles that told me he could pry the lid off a nuclear reactor and just enough scruffy facial hair to remind me of that nameless actor on some crime show I watch. But where had I seen him before? I mean, I hardly knew anyone in Mercy.

While Billy measured my window, Candace went to work with her fingerprint kit. As I watched them, I decided she’d planned this all out. What better way to be that close to a hunk like Billy than to be dusting while he was measuring? And it worked. They were ear to ear.

She kept glancing his way and he kept ignoring her. Guess putting in new windows is a fascinating occupation. When he left for his truck to get the new pane, her gaze never left his butt with its weighted-down tool belt.

Candace said, “What is it about a tool belt that just fills my mouth with spit?”

“That’s not exactly an attractive thought, Candace.” I smiled. “Besides, it’s more what holds up the tool belt that has your mouth watering.”

“You got that right. Now, back to business. I got nothing off that window. Perp musta worn gloves. I’ll dust the TV, but I’m thinking I won’t find anything.”

And she didn’t. By the time she was finished, Billy had cut the glass to size under Candace’s adoring eyes, and I soon had a brand-new window.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked when he was done.

“Five bucks oughta cover it,” he said. “The pane itself only cost a buck fifty.”

“Is that all?” My purse was sitting on top of Merlot’s carrier. He was sound asleep and Chablis had worn herself out, too. I took out my wallet.

“There might be one thing you could help me with,” he said. “I’m a volunteer fireman and we put together this calendar. I know it’s late in the year, but if you’d be so kind as to buy one, that would sure help our charity. We donate the money to kids all over South Carolina who’ve been burned in house fires or accidents.”

That was where’d I’d seen him. “I bought one of those calendars way back when we first moved here. And aren’t you, um . . . featured?”

His cheeks colored to almost strawberry. “Ma’am, it’s for the kids.”

“I want two more calendars, then,” I said. “And by the way, I make quilts for charities. Children’s quilts, so I could—”

“I need another calendar, too,” Candace said quickly.

Billy’s eyes met hers for the first time. “Now that’s real nice of you two ladies.”

I caught a lingering gaze between them. Candace was catching on about how to make Billy pay attention.

“What I started to say was that I have some quilts in the other room looking for small bodies to keep warm,” I said.

“You’d give us those?” he said.

“That’s why I make them. Let me get you a few.”

As I left the room, I heard Billy say to Candace, “She’s one sweet lady, isn’t she? Young to lose a husband, though. Dan Meade caught that 911 call last January. Couldn’t do a thing for the man.”

I swallowed hard and picked up my pace. John’s death would always leave a wound, but the constant grieving had to end—and I’d been making progress. He would have wanted me to move on with my life. And I was trying my best.

When I returned, quilts in hand, Candace was busy dusting the rest of the entertainment center for prints.

“I thought you said the intruder wore gloves?” I said.

“I know.” She faced me. “I guess I’m as stubborn as my daddy always says. Bad guys leave things behind, even the smart ones, and I want to find something this one left.”

Just then Billy came back into the house with three calendars. We paid up and he left, again with Candace admiring him every step of the way.

As soon as he was gone, she flipped the calendar open to July and said, “Now here’s what I’m talking about. Can’t have enough of this.”

Billy was shirtless and wearing his volunteer fireman pants, suspenders loose over broad shoulders. The man was oiled, bronzed and had muscles Superman could only wish for.

After we stared for a few seconds, Candace wiped a damp strand of hair off her forehead—she was a bit sweaty even though the evening was beginning to cool the house down considerably. She said, “Let’s get back to work.”

“Obviously you think there might be a clue here, so tell me how that will help find my cat. If I don’t get Syrah home by dark . . .” I’d been distracted for a time, but now my eyes burned. I willed back the tears. Tears wouldn’t help anything.

“You really love these cats, huh?” Candace said.

“They’re all I’ve got.”

She nodded, as if to tell me she understood. “I collected a clump of what looks like cat hair out near the end of your driveway—can’t say that’s what it is ’cause I got no hard evidence, but you want to take a look? If it belongs to your missing cat I can surely find a match here in the house. Plus there were tire tracks. I took a picture, but matching the tire to make and model probably won’t happen. No way the town’s gonna pay a nickel to search for a match since they’d be with Morris—decide nothing was taken. But that missing cat is as good as gold to you.”

“Syrah might have simply run off. That’s what most people would conclude. But he wouldn’t go with a stranger,” I said. “He’s too smart for that. This voice in my head is telling me he was stolen. But why?”

“That’s what we need to find out—why he’s gone and where he is. Doesn’t matter to me if your Syrah ran off or was catnapped; I plan to help you,” Candace said.

“That means so much—you helping me on your own time.”

“I like you, Ms. Hart. Plus I need to practice my evidence-collection skills if I’m ever gonna get out of Mercy and get me a real police job. Sure, this is my home, but they’re not so hot here on using all the new scientific stuff that can help in police work. Just want to keep everything the same old same old.”

“Help me understand how any evidence you find will help you get a lead on Syrah.”

“Don’t rightly know. But you collect stuff, then you hope and pray the evidence leads you down the right road.”

I nodded. “I’ll buy that. Let me see what you’ve found so far.”

She’d brought in a little satchel that held her fingerprint kit and now took out a small brown envelope. “Haven’t sealed it yet. Wanted you to take a look first. But don’t go touching it, okay?”

She squeezed the stiff pouch open so I could look inside.

“Syrah is a sorrel color, so if it’s his hair it should be coppery ticked with chocolate . . . and the base of the hair should be a bright apricot. Together all these colors make him look amber.”

“Sorrel? Ticked? What’s all that mean?” Candace asked.

“Syrah is an Abyssinian cat. His color is sorrel. And ‘ticked’ means that chocolate is his second tabby color besides copper. He’s really just a fancy tabby cat.”

“Ah. I get it. But you sound like some kind of expert cat person. Are you?” she said.

“I know a lot about cats, but I wouldn’t call myself an expert. I like to learn things—just like you do, right?”

“You got that. Anyway, here’s what I found. Your cat’s hair look like this?”

I stared down into the envelope, but couldn’t see very well, so we moved closer to the window. Then I knew. “Yes. See the chocolate ticking? Cats can lose clumps of hair when they’re stressed, so that’s proof to me it’s his.”

“Let me tell you about proof. In my line of work, it’s not proof until it’s evidence of a crime. As of right now we can’t prove whether your cat slipped out when the perp came or left, or was in fact stolen. And if he was stolen, why leave the other two cats?” Candace said.

“Maybe the thief couldn’t find the other two? They know how to hide from me, that’s for sure,” I said.

“This Syrah—I remember you said he’s not expensive because he doesn’t have his papers to prove he’s a purebred. But maybe some idiot thought he was worth something even without these papers you’re talkin’ about,” she said.

“He’d be most valuable to me,” I said, realizing exactly how valuable even as I spoke the words. “Do you think the thief will call and say he or she has Syrah? Ask me for money?”

“That’s possible. Or whoever it was simply fancied your cat and decided he wanted him. You can’t tell what a person figures they can steal if they so desire. We had a perp once who stole Christmas lights right off people’s houses. I always thought it was Lewis Rainer ’cause his house is always lit up like New York City during the holidays. No way he could afford all those lights and snowmen and reindeer on the roof.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You couldn’t prove it because you couldn’t get the evidence?”

“You are catchin’ on.” Candace smiled and it made her face even more attractive. “Anyway, you never hear about those animals lost during Katrina so much anymore, but lots of folks did lose their pets, huh?”“That’s for sure. My husband and I took in foster cats after the storm and we fell in love with the three I’ve got now. No one ever claimed them.”

“You got yourself some beautiful cats. I love animals but my mom’s allergic.”

“Allergic! That’s what I forgot to tell you. Chablis was sneezing when I came home and she’s allergic to dandruff—human dandruff. The perp must have left some behind.” She had me using TV cop lingo now.

“Gosh. I wonder if there’s human DNA in dandruff.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Dandruff is dead skin, after all. Could be useless. But it could be something.”

“You don’t know?” I said.

A determined look took over. “Nope. But I intend to find out.”