Leann Sweeney

by the Quilt;the Corpse The Cat

  Not wanting them out of my sight, I kept them with me in the living room. I dreaded the arrival of sirens and uniformed strangers. It would only add to their trauma.

  It didn’t take long for the cops to show. Five minutes later I heard the cruiser’s engine in my driveway, and the dispatcher quickly disconnected when I told her they had arrived. But the car had come without a siren—I guessed because this wasn’t an emergency that required one.

  Mercy is a small town—teensy compared to Houston, where I’d lived with John for the six years we’d been married. Seemed like you could get anywhere in Mercy in five minutes. I ran to the foyer and answered before the police officers could even knock. I was sure glad I’d put Merlot and Chablis in their carriers because, as expected, they freaked out and started up with a cat duet best suited for an opera: loud, mournful and tragic.

  Two officers stood on the porch, one male, one female. The man said, “Deputy Morris Ebeling. Are you Jillian Hart?”

  “Yes. Come in.” I stepped back.

  “Deputy Candace Carson,” the other one said as they came inside.

  She looked to be in her twenties and Morris had to be about sixty, his face round and pasty. His stomach hung over his equipment-laden uniform belt, his gut reminding me of a sack of potatoes under his brown shirt.

  I led them into the living room, and Candace immediately went to the carriers, knelt and murmured to Merlot and Chablis in a comforting voice. They quieted at once. She was an animal person, thank goodness.

  “What exactly happened here, ma’am?” Morris’s accent made me think he could have been dispatcher Barbara Lynne’s daddy.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “I was on an overnight business trip and came home to find a broken window. And my other cat is missing. He’s an Abyssinian. Sort of amber with—”

  “Is he an expensive cat?” Morris asked. “I mean, could someone have broken in to steal him because he’s worth buckets of money?”

  “No way,” I said with a laugh. “He was a rescue. After Katrina. So were Merlot and Chablis. They’re all purebreds, but without papers.”

  “What kinda papers?” he said.

  “A pedigree. The papers that show who their parents were and that they are truly purebreds. He doesn’t have those, so no one would consider him worth a lot of money.”

  “Anything else gone missin’?” Morris said.

  “Nothing that I could tell from the quick run-through I made. But who cares?”

  “Um … sure,” Morris said. “Who cares?”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me, but even with his attitude, if he could help get my cat back, I’d be grateful.

  Candace rose after one last “It’ll be okay, sweetheart” to Chablis. “May I search the premises, Ms. Hart?”

  Shiny blond hair was coiled at the nape of Candace’s neck, and her eyes were as blue and intense as Chablis’s, which I found comforting in a way.

  “You might want to start there.” I pointed out the broken glass on the window seat cushion.

  “I’d like to search from the basement up, if you don’t mind. The stairs?”

  “I’ve already looked everywhere,” I said. “If Syrah were here, I would have found him.”

  Candace, even though she was young, reminded me of the principal at my elementary school who’d admonished me for chewing gum when I was about eight years old. Maybe the pine green uniform made her look like an authority figure to me.

  “That means we’ve got a contaminated crime scene,” she said. “But I can work around that.”

  Morris raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Not this crime scene rigmarole again. A damn cat is missing, Candy. Did you hear the lady say anything about missing valuables? Did you notice how her fancy TV and stereo are right here?”

  “My name is Candace,” she answered through clenched teeth. “And—”

  “Bet this event was some kid workin’ on a dare.” Morris took a tin of Skoal from his pocket.

  Candace said, “You ever consider that this lady is so distressed about her missing cat she might not realize valuables are gone? Some folks don’t care about money and diamond rings above everything else.”

  “Oh, for criminy sake. Then puh-leese, go find every piece of lint you can, Candy.” Morris pinched some tobacco and mashed it between his lower teeth and lip.

  Candace’s cheeks colored. She took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and put them on. “That’s exactly what I intend to do. The basement, Ms. Hart?” she said.

  I pointed to the kitchen. “Through there. You’ll see the door to the stairs.”

  Morris was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Seemed to me like he wanted back in his police cruiser as quickly as he could manage it. “I need to start the paperwork, Ms. Hart. Excuse me for a moment.”

  He went out the front door and took his time before coming back with a clipboard. In the interim, I’d filled a dropper with Benadryl, unzipped the top of Chablis’s carrier and given her a dose. Poor baby’s nose was running like a faucet now. I checked out Morris’s shoulders for any dandruff when he returned, wondering if he’d made her allergy attack worse. I mean, it was obvious that this reaction was caused by an intruder with dandruff.

  Morris, whose graying hair seemed dandruff free, sat on the reclining wing chair across from the sofa, a simple, normal action that jolted me. That leather recliner had belonged to John and no one had touched it since his death.

  It’s okay. It’s only a chair.

  But anxiety mixed with grief made my stomach knot. I would have preferred to pace off this unwelcome emotion, but instead I sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in my lap. Merlot and Chablis were already worried about their friend Syrah. They needed me to at least act like I was in a stable emotional state.

  “You live alone, ma’am?” Morris said.

  “No, sir. I live with my three cats—Chablis, Syrah and Merlot.” Maybe I could make him understand through some sarcasm of my own that cats are as important as people.

  But he didn’t bother to write their names down. He just stared at me with tired brown eyes. “No gentleman residing here with you? Because I heard tell you was married.”

  “You heard tell?” I said.

  “No secrets in Mercy, Ms. Hart.”

  “Apparently there are,” I said softly. “My husband died unexpectedly not long after we moved here. Heart attack.”

  His forehead wrinkled in confusion, as if to say, “Why didn’t I know this?” Then he said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Sorry indeed,” and at least he sounded like he actually meant it.

  Candace returned to the living room and, without saying a word, focused first on the window and then on the glass still lying undisturbed on the cushions. At least I’d done something right by leaving it there.

  She took out her phone and snapped off a few pictures before removing a folded brown paper bag from her uniform pocket.

  “Candy, what the hell do you think you’re doing now?” Morris said.

  “Candace is collecting evidence,” she said, carefully picking up the pieces of glass and putting them in her bag.

  “’Cause a cat ran off? I know you take your job real serious, and I try my best to respect that, but I’m thinking the county crime lab won’t be happy about this particular evidence.”

  Candace said, “Someone invaded this kind lady’s private property, so I disagree. And can we assume the cat ran off? Maybe the bad guy took him.”

  Morris sighed heavily. “Took the cat? Why in heck would someone break in to steal a cat? You can go the SPCA or—Forget it.” He refocused on me. “For my report, exactly when did this happen, Ms. Hart?”

  “I got in at one o’clock. Did I mention that this … this person turned off my TV?”

  “Huh?” Morris said. “Don’t you mean turned on your TV?”

  “No. I leave it on. I like people to think I’m home when the cats are alone.” For some reason I felt a little embarrassed about this, so I added,
“Obviously that tactic didn’t work.”

  “Can I offer a piece of advice, Ms. Hart?” Morris said. “Get yourself a dog. A real dog, like a German shepherd. A dog with a big bark and a bigger bite.”

  “Sorry. I love dogs, but my cats don’t.”

  “Okay, then get yourself a nice state-of-the-art alarm system. We got a guy in town who does that stuff. Name’s Tom. Tom Stewart. Nice fella and—”

  “Did you touch the television when you came in, Ms. Hart?” Candace interrupted. She was on her knees by the window seat, staring intently at the cushions, her tweezers poised and ready to collect more evidence.

  “I used the remote,” I said. “I thought maybe the TV wasn’t working.”

  “Gosh darn,” Candace muttered, getting to her feet. “Okay, we might still get prints off the TV if the perp shut off the television without touching the remote.”

  “The perp?” Both of Morris’s bushy gray eyebrows were working. “We don’t have perps in Mercy. We got dumb drunks and outta-control kids who should eat dinner with their mama and daddy more often. This is about a broken window, Candy.”

  “And you have no idea when this break-in occurred?” Candace continued, seemingly unflustered by her partner’s lack of interest in what had gone on in my house.

  But I sure appreciated her interest. “I left yesterday afternoon for a quilt show in Spartanburg. I make and sell small quilts for cats.”

  “Figures,” Morris said under his breath.

  I shot him a look. “I also make quilts that I donate for the children of the men and women in the military who have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. I had a meeting with a charitable group this morning, gave them pictures of my designs and took their order for a hundred children’s quilts. Anyway, I left here around eight a.m. yesterday and I’ve told you when I returned.”

  “You mind if I dust your TV and remote?” Candace asked. “I’d also like to see if I could lift prints off the window latch and the outside molding.”

  Morris rose abruptly, his patience spent. “Candy, quit with this CSI crap. We’re leaving.” He offered me the best smile a wad of Skoal allowed. “You catch sight of any teenage boys lurkin’ around or peekin’ in your windows, you give us a call. And Billy Cranor can fix that window for you. He works at the hardware store.”

  Morris turned and marched toward the foyer, waving a hand for Candace to follow.

  But before she left, she took my elbow, leaned close and whispered, “I’ll be back when my shift’s over. I’ve got my fingerprint kit with me at all times and I know how to access AFIS—that’s this big old fingerprint database. This bad guy’s not getting away with this. Try not to disturb the scene too much until I get back here.”

  What a pair, I thought, once I’d closed and locked my front door. But Candace was certainly dedicated, and even crotchety Morris Ebeling’s eyes told me he was a decent guy.

  I let Chablis and Merlot out of their carriers and said, “Come on, you two. We have flyers to make about our lost buddy.”

  As soon as I said the word lost, tears threatened again. I walked to my office, Merlot and a wobbly, sleepy Chablis right with me.

  It was only after I’d printed out fifty copies with Syrah’s best picture prominent in the center, only after I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself, that I realized I’d never told Candace about Chablis’s human allergy, how the intruder must have had dandruff. From watching her work, I was certain she might be the one person in Mercy who would consider dandruff important.

  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.”