The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Three

I slept poorly without Syrah curled near my head like he loved to do. Plus Chablis purred as loud as a fan all night. I think I hushed her about a dozen times, but the Benadryl was still in her system. Outside the bedroom, I kept hearing Merlot’s mournful calls for his friend Syrah.

Yeah, sweetheart. I miss him, too.

Last evening Candace and I had ended up on a first-name basis—but there’d been an almost immediate bond between us from the minute she took the time to comfort my stressed-out cats. After I mentioned the dandruff, she spent an hour to find four flecks on the window seat cushion and carefully placed them in one of her little evidence envelopes. Then we shared deli chicken and a salad.

I drink sweet tea by the gallon and it turned out that Candace did, too. We had another thing in common besides a definite admiration for firemen posing for calendar shots. I was surprised how nice it felt to share something silly with her. My husband had been smart and handsome and funny, but definitely not calendar material. I felt a tad guilty enjoying such careful examinations of every page of that calendar, but maybe a little fun was one of the things I needed to help me move on.

The cat hairs Candace collected from Syrah’s favorite spot on the couch resembled what she’d found outside, but she wasn’t making any promises that they were a match until she looked at them under a microscope. She was definitely dedicated when it came to her evidence obsession; maybe Morris didn’t like this, but I sure appreciated it.

She also gave me the number of a small local no-kill shelter. If I didn’t find Syrah hanging around outside looking clueless and pathetic in the morning, maybe he was lost and had been dropped off there. The nearest SPCA was about ninety miles away, in Columbia, and this shelter was the closest thing they had in Mercy.

I’d awoken filled with the hope that someone had done exactly that, since I’d had no response to my beautiful flyers—yeah, after less than a day, I know. Before I made a call to that shelter or any other rescue organization I could find within fifty miles, I went out back to look for him again.

In the morning light, Mercy Lake looked more huge and scary than it ever had before. Maybe the strong breeze and gray clouds made the water seem more like an enemy than like the friend it had been since John’s death. I’d spent hours by the water this past summer, listening to the gentle lap of waves against the dock, appreciating the birds and squirrels so busy with their simple pleasures. This lake and my cats had helped my heart heal.

But now Syrah could be in that water.

No. No. Don’t think that way, Jillian.

I walked straight toward the lake, refusing to believe he could be dead. “Syrah,” I called. “Come home, kitty. We miss you.”

No cat.

Then I checked out all the trees, as I had yesterday. Many were shedding their leaves with each gust and showering me with their inevitable passage into winter. If Syrah were anywhere near, he would have answered my call—he loves to talk back—but I heard only the wind and the angry water.

I wrapped my arms around myself—it was a lot chillier than yesterday—and went back inside. After three cups of French roast coffee, the clock finally ticked its way to nine a.m. and I called Tom Stewart, the security guy. He agreed to come over in late afternoon and see what he could do for me.

Next I called the shelter—the Mercy Animal Sanctuary—but the line was busy. And though I pressed REDIAL over and over for ten minutes, I got the same result. Didn’t everyone have call waiting these days? Well, maybe not in Mercy. I’d simply have to go there. My cell number was on the flyers, so I could be reached if someone found Syrah.

Candace had given me her private mobile number, and I called her for the address and directions. As expected, the place was five minutes away. But it took me longer than that to round up Chablis and Merlot, who after yesterday were not eager to get back in their carriers and the car.

I found the place easily, set back in the woods on the opposite side of the two-lane highway that ran along the lakefront properties. The Mercy Animal Sanctuary was housed in a long log cabin with two hurricane-fenced runs on the side farthest from the entrance. Four dogs barked their greeting when I pulled into the small parking area.

I rolled the windows down an inch or two for Chablis and Merlot’s comfort and climbed out of the van. But before I even made it to the shelter door, a young brunette wearing jeans and an oversized sweater met me outside.

“Hey there,” she said. “Allison Cuddahee. How can I help you?”

“Jillian Hart. I’ve lost—” I took a deep breath. “L-lost my cat.” I wasn’t about to cry again. Stupid tears. You’d think I would have used them all up in the last year.

Allison opened her arms and came to me. “You need a hug, Miss Jillian Hart.”

She was a tiny thing, maybe three inches smaller than my five-foot-six and at least ten pounds lighter, but Allison Cuddahee provided one monster hug. It felt wonderful to have a caring human touch, and all the tension seemed to leave my body. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the calm in my center.

She broke away a second later but kept her hands on my upper arms. “I want you to tell me about your kitty, but let’s go inside. Winter has apparently arrived on this fine Saturday morning.”

That hug seemed to have infused me with determination—the kind I’d been famous for before John’s death. I would find Syrah. I was certain I would. And I had a feeling that Candace, and now this young woman, would help me do just that.

We entered an office area and were met with a loud “Hey there,” by an African grey parrot. There was also a cage full of chirping canaries, a fish tank bubbling away with plenty of colorful swimmers and a glass case with the biggest tarantula I’d ever seen. A chill ran up my arms. I’m not a fan of spiders.

I focused on the bird, with its gorgeous scarlet tail. “Hey there,” I said.

“What can I do ya?” came its response.

I laughed and said, “This is obviously a Southern African parrot.”

“Snug loves his buttermilk biscuits, so I guess you’re right.” Allison took a seat behind a cluttered and rusted metal desk, gesturing for me to take the folding lawn chair opposite her. “Money goes for the animals, not the decor, so sorry about the chair.”

“A chair’s a chair, and I like your philosophy,” I said.

“I’m sorry to say we haven’t had any cats turned in recently, but let me get every bit of your information. We have a strong network in Mercy—we use old-fashioned word of mouth. We’ll help any way we can.”

Allison and I spent the next few minutes talking about Syrah, the break-in, the police coming out, but when I mentioned the flyers, she shook her head sadly. “Those won’t do you any good.”

“But why? I thought—”

“Sign ordinance. They’re probably all snatched up already. I’m surprised the cops didn’t tell you. Who came out to take your report? Morris?”

I nodded. “Morris and Candace.”

“Morris needs to retire—and that’s me being nice. Candace is a whole other story. She was probably too busy looking for cigarette butts or picking up pebbles to tell you about the sign thing. But you’re saying no jewelry or computers or electronics were taken?”

“Taken from where?” The door that I assumed led to the shelter area had opened, and a tall redheaded man who looked to be in his early thirties joined us with this question. He put a freckled hand on the back of Allison’s neck and rubbed gently.

“Jillian, this is my husband, Shawn. He does the heavy lifting around here.” She smiled up at him. “Someone broke into Jillian’s house, and one of her cats is gone.”

Shawn focused his hazel eyes on me. “I heard about a break-in. Lake house on Cove Lane?”

Seemed the network was alive and pumping out information. “That’s the one.”

“And nothing was taken except your cat?” he said.

“I didn’t say he was taken,” I said.

“But that’s what you think, right?” Shawn said.

“I guess I do,” I said.

“Candace found a clump of his hair out by the road and tire tracks nearby. Am I stupid for thinking someone would steal my cat?”

“Course you’re not. Don’t go beating yourself up, girl,” Allison said. “I can tell you’ve had enough stress in the last twenty-four hours.”

I smiled. “That’s for sure.”

“Maybe we can help get your cat back,” Shawn said. “What’s he look like?”

“He’s a sorrel Abyssinian. But why would someone steal a cat?” I said.

Shawn nodded toward the parrot. “I asked myself the same question after we had a break-in here. Lost two cats and a dog. Snug told us all about it. But think about it. Pretty cat sitting in your window? Person decides they want him? Wouldn’t put it past some jerk.”

That was when I noticed the camera in the ceiling corner facing the entrance. “You have security cameras?” I said.

“Yup,” Shawn answered. “That’s why you’re sitting in a folding chair. You skimp in some areas so you can have the best equipment in others. Listen, you need security, so call up—”

“Tom Stewart?” I said.

Shawn smiled for the first time. “Tom does fine work. We haven’t had any trouble since he did his thing here. Ask Snug. He’ll tell you. No trouble, huh, Snug?”

The parrot walked back and forth on his dowel, bobbing his head. “No trouble. No trouble, Snug.”

I shook my head and smiled. He sounded so human. Then I looked at Allison. “I have my two other cats in the van. I’m not leaving them home alone until I see Mr. Stewart about a plan to protect my house.”

Allison said, “Two more? Why didn’t you say so? Let’s bring them in. Then maybe you’d like to see some of our clan. They need good homes. You could become a part of our very important network and help find them places to live.”

I stood. “I’d be happy to do that. All three of my cats were rescues.”

Shawn helped me bring in Chablis and Merlot and after a good fifteen minutes of visiting—with Merlot far more interested in Snug than any of the people—the Cuddahees were ready to show me the shelter.

As we started for the door that led to the rest of the building, I said, “If I can’t put up flyers, what can I do?”

“You came here. That’s what will help the most,” Shawn said.

“Come visit our friends. It’s good for the spirit,” Allison added.

They led me to the lost or abused animals that had found sanctuary with these kind people. I counted ten cats and the four dogs I’d seen earlier. Every cage was clean, every dish full of food and every water bowl brimming. The dogs—two Labs and two mixed breeds—seemed happy. But I did notice that the cats had clean but tattered blankets to curl up on. I needed to fix that. Each cat should have a quilt of its own. I had some in my van and would give them to Allison before I left.

I cuddled with a few kitties, their soft fur soothing beneath my touch. When one after the other closed its eyes and purred, I wanted to take all of them home. But that wouldn’t work. I couldn’t seem to hang on to the three I had. After I petted the four exuberant dogs, we started back to the office.

I said, “When was your break-in?”

“Last spring,” Shawn said.“Do you think they were stolen because someone thought they could make a buck?” I asked.

“Snug would have been the one to take, then. He’s worth a lot of money. I have to say that the missing dog was a handful of trouble. Pretty yellow Lab, but way too full of herself.”

As we reentered the office single file, I still had those kittens on my mind. “What’s your adoption fee?”

“The cost of altering,” Allison said.

“That’s all? Then how do you keep this place running?” I asked.

“The kindness of strangers,” Allison said. “Plus Shawn makes furniture. We have a Web site business and word of mouth has drawn customers from plenty of places.” She smiled at her husband. “He is an extraordinary craftsman.”

Shawn’s ears reddened and he focused on the floor, obviously embarrassed by her praise.

“But where do you build?” I said. “I don’t see—”

“A shop at the house. No room here,” Shawn said.

“Duh. I should have figured you had another place,” I said. “But back to your break-in. You ever get any clues as to who the culprit was?”

“I had my suspicions, but old Morris didn’t much care to follow up. I’m guessing you got the same treatment.”

I nodded my agreement.

Allison said, “We think Flake Wilkerson took the cats. See, only the two purebreds were gone. He was always coming around here looking for purebreds. Since the break-in, we don’t let him near our place.”

“Flake? Is he a local?” I asked.

“Local hermit,” Shawn said with disgust. “Who knows how many poor cats he’s got holed up in that big house of his. You think I could get anyone to check him out? No, ma’am. Know why? He pays a lot more taxes than we do.”

“He’s wealthy?” I said.

Shawn’s jaw tightened. “He—”Allison rested a hand on her husband’s arm. “Calm down, baby. We don’t know anything about Mr. Wilkerson except that he eyed the purebreds with . . . well, lust. Gave me the creeps. We pay close attention to prospective owners, and no matter how many times he came here, we never let him adopt.”

“Pissed him off royal, too,” Shawn said with a smile.

“You’re saying he could have seen Syrah sitting in my window and broke in?”

“Maybe,” Shawn said. “Don’t know if he trolls neighborhoods looking for cats, but I wouldn’t put it past him. He doesn’t have a job in town that I know about. I figured he was living on his pension.”

“Where does this man live?” I asked.

Allison’s sweet face grew tight with concern. “Wait a minute, Jillian. We shouldn’t have said anything. He’s a weird guy, and you shouldn’t go knocking on his door. Besides, we don’t know for sure if he took our cats.”

“This is the only lead I have. I want my cat back. I’ll go anywhere, do anything—”

“Okay, then, I’ll take you there.” Shawn picked up my cat carriers. “Come on.”

“Baby, do you think that’s a good idea?” Allison said.

“Wouldn’t be going if I didn’t.” By the steely look in his eyes, it seemed as if Shawn was on more of a mission than I was.

I handed Allison the half dozen quilts I had in the van and she fingered them lovingly and thanked me several times. After we hugged good-bye, I followed Shawn’s beat-up Ford 150 as we took off toward Wilkerson’s house. If not for a traffic delay on the one-lane bridge that ran over a stream feeding into the lake, we would have made the trip in five minutes.

The Wilkerson house was set back in the trees on a lonely dead-end road. Dry leaves flew in the wake of Shawn’s truck, and pecans were tossed around by our approach. Bet the squirrels had a field day out here.

The house was very odd-looking—a giant Victorian painted a dull pink. It looked old, with graying gingerbread trim and sagging eaves.I parked behind Shawn in the driveway and we walked together toward the front door.

“Does Mr. Wilkerson have a big family?” I said.

“Nope. Lives alone. Has a grown daughter who lives somewhere else.”

A knot of sadness filled my throat. Being alone in a house meant for more than one person was something I was far too familiar with.

Then I saw a cat in an upstairs window. My heart skipped. But I quickly realized this cat was much smaller and darker than Syrah.

Shawn noticed what I was focusing on and said, “Tortoise exotic shorthair.”

“Exotic shorthair?” I said. “They are so cute. My cat breeder friends say they shed as much as a Persian or Hi malayan, though.”

“That’s because they’re just Persians with short hair. Sweet cats,” he said.

We’d reached the front stoop and Shawn said, “Welcome to the famous Pink House, one of the first houses built in Mercy.” Shawn pressed the doorbell.

The dampness and chill of the day seemed to intensify as we waited for Wilkerson to answer, and I pulled my sweater tighter around me. When we got no response, Shawn pushed the bell again and didn’t take his finger off. I was a little surprised by his determination, but it matched my own. Finally we heard footsteps accompanied by masculine curses. The door opened a crack.“What the hell—oh, it’s you, Cuddahee. Shoulda known.” The door opened about six more inches.Flake Wilkerson’s face was lean and roughened by weather, his gray eyes small and narrow with suspicion. Not a pleasant face, that was for sure.

“See you got a cat upstairs, Flake. Where’d you get it?” Shawn said.

“SPCA in Greenville—not that it’s any of your business.” Wilkerson moved one bony blue-jeaned knee into the open door space. Maybe he didn’t want that little exotic shorthair to escape.

For some reason I noticed his foot. He wore a leather slipper and I think he had the smallest man feet I’d ever seen.

“How many more cats you got in there?” Shawn said.

“You still looking for those felines you lost? Still whining about that break-in months ago? Get over it, man,” Wilkerson said.

“I know it was you, Flake,” Shawn said. “Prove me wrong.”

“I don’t have to prove nothing to you.” For the first time his gaze fell on me. “Who’s this? The Pet Patrol?”

“You don’t need to know,” Shawn said. “You need to deal with me once and for all. Invite us in, Flake. Show us those cats of yours, the ones you claimed to love so much when you visited the Sanctuary.”

But Wilkerson didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was looking me up and down. “Like those green eyes of yours, lady. Like a cat’s, only softer.”

I was creeped out by his comment, but he didn’t seem to notice. He turned his gaze on Shawn. “She’s pretty puny muscle if you intend to push your way in here. I say go ahead and try. Then we’ll see who’ll be accusing who of what. Only this time I’ll have you for trespassing. Maybe I already got you—”

But Wilkerson was interrupted by a long, lean tuxedo cat that had slipped around his barrier leg. Before he could bend over to catch the cat, it streaked away from the house and into the trees.Wilkerson’s cheeks infused with color and he got in Shawn’s face. “Now look what you done, you ass.”

Wilkerson stepped outside, closed the door behind him and shoved Shawn aside. Then he took off after the cat. The man had to be sixty if he was a day, so I was sure his pursuit would be futile. That was one fast cat, one that seemed determined to escape.

“Should we help him?” I asked, even though I was certain I didn’t want to return a cat to this man.

“Are you crazy? Let him run himself right into a heart attack.” Shawn was as angry as the man he’d just confronted, and I was beginning to regret coming here. Obviously Wilkerson wasn’t about to cooperate and let us inside. And he surely wasn’t about to admit he’d stolen my cat. Why should he? I had absolutely no proof that he had Syrah. This dispute was between Shawn and a strange man, and it was an old dispute at that. My desperation had put me in the middle.

“I think we should leave,” I said. “He could charge us with trespassing—especially now that he’s pissed off that one of his cats escaped.”

“He won’t charge us with nothing. Don’t you see he’s hiding something—like maybe more than the four pets the town allows? I could lie. I could say we saw five cats in the windows. That would get someone’s attention.”

“Come on. Let’s go.” I took Shawn’s elbow. “You don’t want to lie and get yourself in trouble. I am so grateful to you for helping me, but I’ve learned a thing or two from Candace in the short time I’ve known her. We’ve got nothing but suspicion. We need evidence.”

Shawn closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Guess you’re right. It’s just that I know there’s something wrong with this guy. He’s not a cat person. He’s too mean-spirited.”

“Maybe Candace will help us get evidence. She seems to know a lot about the folks in town. Wilkerson would be hard-pressed to turn the cops away if I could convince her to question him.”

I glanced toward the woods to the left of the house and caught glimpses of Wilkerson’s red plaid shirt weaving between the trees. At least he wasn’t yelling. Nothing like screaming profanities to send a cat in the opposite direction. “He wants that cat back in a bad way. But you’re sure right about him. It’s not about love.”

We started toward the driveway, Shawn’s head hanging in defeat. “I’ll get that bastard another day.”

I thanked Shawn and then we both climbed into our vehicles. But we hadn’t gone a hundred yards when Shawn’s brake lights came on up ahead of me. I had to stop quickly to keep from slamming into him.

But then I saw why. He was out of his truck in a flash and soon kneeling by the side of the road. The tuxedo cat, its tail in the air, was rubbing against a slim maple. Shawn held his hand out, and soon the cat came to him. Wearing a satisfied expression, he swept up the kitty, turned and smiled at me. He gave me a thumbs-up before he put the cat in his truck and we took off again.

Uh-oh. I believe I’m a witness to a catnapping.