The Cat, The Quilt and The Corpse Read online

  Candace cocked her head. “Did you leave something out earlier today?”

  My stomach tightened. That was it, all right. How much to say? What if none of this mattered and I’d get Shawn in more hot water? I certainly had to say something, because Candace was apparently learning to read every one of my expressions. “I forgot to mention that a cat escaped while we were talking on Mr. Wilkerson’s front stoop the day before the murder. We left the property when he went to chase after the poor thing.”

  Candace looked at me. “You forgot that a cat got loose? You?”

  “I-I’m sorry. Finding the body today is all I was thinking about and—”

  “Understandable,” Lydia said. “But we’re not here about an escaped cat. We’re here because this one”—she nodded at Candace—“seems to think I need to collect more evidence—not that I don’t already need a frickin’ Mack truck to carry what I’ve already got to the forensic unit.”

  “More evidence? From me? But Candace searched my house and—”

  “Tell her, Candy,” Lydia said. “This is your idea. I’m along for the ride ’cause I’m too damn tired to argue with you anymore.”

  Candace leaned toward me, hands clasped between her knees. “You were victimized by Mr. Wilkerson. From what Shawn says, he was, too.”

  I felt my tense shoulders relax a little. Shawn hadn’t stonewalled them. He’d talked about how he suspected Wilkerson of breaking into the Sanctuary. “Thank God you believe him.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Lydia said, her cynicism evident.

  “Shawn wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I said. “He simply had a history with that man and—”

  “No need to sign up for his defense team, Ms. Hart.” Lydia blinked and finally realized she was losing a cosmetic appliance. She pulled off the dangling eyelash and stared at it. “I am through with these stupid things. Think I’ll ask the cosmetic surgeon about an eyelash transplant next time I go in.”

  I couldn’t hold back a smile, but Candace wasn’t paying attention. She had her own agenda. “I’d like to take hair samples from all your cats,” she said. “Some clear tape will do the trick. And that little one on your lap? I’ll need that one’s, too.”

  “Because the murder had something do with the cats?” I said. Thank God I wasn’t the only one who thought the cats were important to solving the crime.

  “We know Wilkerson took Syrah, and we know he came back here to steal another one. Makes sense he may have angered the wrong person by doing the same thing to them,” Candace said.

  “But there must be a million cat hairs in his house,” I said. “How could you ever sort through them?”

  “That’s what I told her.” Lydia sighed again.

  Candace stiffened. “Just because there’s a lot of evidence doesn’t mean you ignore it.”

  “And we are not ignoring it,” Lydia said. “Do you mind, Ms. Hart?”

  “Not at all. Let me hold them while you do this, though,” I said.

  The process was quick, but not without hissing and scratching involved. This was not the cats’ idea; therefore it was an unacceptable intrusion. Candace put each piece of hair-laden tape in an evidence envelope and identified the sample with a short description of the cat it belonged to as well as the date and time.

  “Wilkerson didn’t take my other two cats, so why do you need samples from them?” I asked.

  “And that reminds me. Why didn’t he take all three the first time he broke in?” Lydia asked.

  “Merlot and Chablis are pretty darn smart, Ms. Monk,” I said. “Once they realized Mr. Wilkerson was up to no good, I’m sure they hid.”

  “Ah,” she said, nodding wearily.

  “Why do you need more samples, Candace?” I asked.

  “See, I collected cat hairs from Wilkerson’s clothing, and since he’d been in your house immediately before he was murdered, he probably had transfer on him,” Candace said.

  “Transfer?” I said.

  “Trace evidence transferred from your animals to his clothing,” Lydia said impatiently. “Do you have everything you need?”

  Candace went on, “See, I need to exclude your cats’ hairs and focus on the ones I might not be able to connect to your three or to any of the other cats we found in the house.”

  “You mean a cat might have been taken from the Pink House before I got there?” I said. “And you could find that out by looking at cat hair? That’s amazing.”

  Candace’s eyes were bright. “See, it’s all about the evidence. Stuff you can examine and learn from and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lydia interrupted. “Can we please get out of here?”

  “What about cat nose prints?” I asked. “Did you find any of those?”

  “What are you talking about?” Candace said.

  “A cat’s nose print is like a human fingerprint. One of a kind. If there’s a nose print that doesn’t belong to any of the cats that were in the house, then—”

  “I imagine that a lot of cats passed through Mr. Wilkerson’s hands,” Candace said. “And just like human prints, we would have no idea when this unique nose print was left. It’s also not like we have a database of cat nose prints to match up with what we find. Cat hair is a different story.”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling deflated. “Just trying to help.”

  Candace said, “But that is really cool—the nose prints, I mean. Where did you learn about that, anyway?”

  “There was a vendor at a cat show once who was selling pendants she made with a cat or a dog’s nose print on them,” I said. “In case the pet got lost or stolen. She told me all about nose prints.”

  “Trouble is, how often would we need to use something like a nose print?” Candace said. “Never had a case on Forensics Files that used cat nose prints. And I swear I’ve seen every episode twice. Cat and dog hair, however, can be very useful in solving some crimes. I read a research article not long ago about the DNA of cat hair and how cat hairs have led to suspects who were eventually convicted. The hair evidence was even presented in court. It had been left on both the corpse and the murderer.”

  Lydia sighed heavily. “Listen, I’ll check with the FBI— that being the Feline Bureau of Information—about all this cat hair and nose print stuff—maybe in my next life. But right now I have got to get home and get my beauty rest.”

  That got a laugh from all of us, and they left not long after. I returned to the living room and closed the blinds to shut out the night.

  That eerie moon still hung low in the sky. It went well with that word corpse. Too well.

  Twelve

  Since Merlot seemed upset about the Persian invasion, I gave him a plum spot close to me when I went to bed. He was gone when I awoke the next morning—probably busy cornering my little invader and making sure she didn’t get her fair share of food or a chance at the litter box. While I showered, I thought about how Shawn and I had gone on that mission to find my cat just days ago. He’d helped me, and now I felt like I’d betrayed him. We had to talk.

  An hour later, I drove to the Sanctuary, but it was Allison, not Shawn, who came outside to greet me. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail and she gripped a coffee mug with both hands. She looked as tired as I felt.

  “Long night?” I asked as we stood in the packed dirt driveway.

  “Shawn didn’t sleep and neither did I,” she said. “He’s so upset, Jillian.”

  “I had to tell the police what I knew, but that doesn’t mean I believe he had anything to do with that man’s death.”

  “He doesn’t quite see it that way,” she said. “He thinks you pointed the finger at him to take the spotlight off yourself.”

  “But that’s wrong. Can I talk to him?”

  Allison glanced back at the Sanctuary. “He saw you drive up and he doesn’t want to talk to you. Did you know they took his fingerprints? And that the police have been all over the Sanctuary and our house? This whole thing is humiliating to both of us.”


  “If it means anything, they searched my house, too.”

  “Can’t say that helps. Give him time to get his head straight. As for me, I think you’re a sweet person and maybe one day we can be friends.”

  Her words stung. “One day? But not now?”

  “I have to support Shawn, and he’s not feeling friendly right now.”

  “We’re on the same side, Allison. Please ask him to listen to me for a few minutes. Mr. Wilkerson stole cats and Shawn was certain he broke into your shelter. He could shed light on the thefts as a possible motive. The cat thefts are important, at least to me. I need to understand why Mr. Wilkerson was doing what he was doing.”

  She smiled down into her coffee—which had to be as cold as the fall air. “Don’t you think coming up with motives and suspects is the police’s responsibility?” But then she looked past me. “Someone’s coming.”

  I turned in time to see a Mercy Police squad car pull in and halt behind my van.

  “Great,” Allison said under her breath.

  Chief Baca and Morris Ebeling got out of the car.

  “Well, if it isn’t the cat lady herself,” Morris said. “Fancy finding you here.”

  Wearing a grave expression, Baca said, “Ms. Hart, Ms. Cuddahee.”

  Oh, this is not good.

  “Your husband here, Ms. Cuddahee?” Morris said.

  Shawn emerged from the shelter. “I’m here. You forget something last time you messed up the place?”

  Morris looked at Baca and the chief nodded a silent affirmation.

  “You’re coming with us for a more formal interview.” Morris walked toward Shawn.

  “Is that cop lingo for you’re arresting me?” Shawn’s fair skin reddened.

  Baca said,“Not arresting you yet.We had to borrow video equipment from the county to record your statement—and discuss a few other matters.”

  “What does all this mean, Mike?” Allison said. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “We need his statement again, that’s all,” Baca said.

  Morris tried to take Shawn by the elbow, but he pulled away. “I know how to walk without help.” He marched to the squad car with Morris on his heels.

  I hoped I was wrong, but this sure looked like an arrest.

  Baca turned to Allison. “We’ll get this straightened out and he’ll be home in no time.” He started toward the car, but then stopped and looked at me. “Hope you’re here simply as a friend, Ms. Hart.”

  What the heck did that mean? But he was apparently delivering a warning, not looking for an answer, because he walked away.

  Allison didn’t take her eyes off the car until it was out of sight. Then, tears in her eyes, she said, “See what you’ve done?” and hurried back toward the Sanctuary.

  I stared at her as she retreated. Nothing I could have said would have made a difference. Not now.

  I wouldn’t find answers to what had just transpired by going home and hiding—which would have been the comfortable and cowardly thing to do. Instead, I drove into town and went straight to Belle’s Beans. One thing I’d learned about Mercy in the last few days was that people spread the word about anything and everything. Someone surely knew why Shawn had been taken in for questioning again, and the only way I could find answers was by planting myself in the center of town and hoping someone would share the latest gossip.

  I walked inside, but even the wonderful smells—coffee and butter-rich pastries—couldn’t obliterate the guilt I felt about what had happened at the Sanctuary. How could someone like me, who at one time had every detail of her life carefully planned out, have a year like this? Everything seemed so . . . so out of control.

  “You’re lookin’ a might ragged,” the Belle of the Day behind the counter said. Her cornrowed hair sections were tipped with vibrant colored beads that clicked together with every movement.

  I ordered the biggest latte they offered, and as I handed over the money she added, “ Course you been through the wringer and back.” This stranger probably knew more than I did about the current events in my life.

  “What’s your real name?” I said, managing a smile.

  She grinned. “You’ve become a real Mercyite. You know the secret. My name is Shondra. Now let me fix your coffee. We’re usin’ Sumatra beans today. Sumatra is in Africa. Didn’t know until I started working here how good African beans are. These are nice and smoky.”

  I waited for my coffee, wishing the original, very talkative Belle was here, but she wasn’t sitting and reading like she had been the other day. Maybe I’d have to head for the tea shop down the street and have chicken salad for lunch, or buy flowers at the little florist place in the other direction. I could maybe strike up a conversation in one of those places.

  Shondra handed over my coffee and I thought about chatting her up, but Tom Stewart arrived and boomed, “Hey, Shondra, I thought this was your day off.” Then he spied me. “That is one big coffee. You planning an all-nighter?”

  Boy, was I glad to see him. “Maybe. You want to join me?”

  I took my drink to a corner table. Tom might know why Shawn had been taken in for another interview. While I waited for him, I checked my home video feed, and what I saw on my cell phone screen made me grin. Little Dove had wormed her way into Merlot’s heart, at least while he thought I wasn’t looking. They were curled up together on the couch. Gosh, she was a sweetheart, and Merlot was such a big softie.

  “Everything working okay?” He took the stool across from me.

  I closed my phone.“Yes, the security cameras work great. And I guess the threat to my cats is gone now anyway—though not in a way I would ever have wished for.”

  “Wilkerson died a pretty ugly death; that’s for sure. He pissed someone off royal,” Tom said.

  I sipped my coffee. Shondra was right. Delicious stuff.

  “Back in my law enforcement days—”

  “You were a cop?” I said, surprised. But then, it made sense—and actually explained a lot of what I had considered odd behavior before. For instance, how he had reacted to me when he’d discovered me at Wilkerson’s house.

  “Police officer. For ten years. And back then I would have honed in on you as a suspect. That cat means the world to you and Flake stole him. The knife holder was right by that apple he’d just cut up and—”

  “I never even noticed the knife holder, and you surely know the man was dead when I got there. And the police do, too, right?”

  He held up both hands. “I am not privy to their thoughts on you as a suspect. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t suspect you, even though my acting like a jackass yesterday may have left you uncertain about that.”

  “You did kind of scare me a bit. But that’s behind us.”

  He smiled at me. “I like a forgiving woman. I’m glad you decided to try Belle’s Beans.”

  “Why?” I said.

  “Because I found you here today. I was thinking last night how rough you’ve had it in the past year and how it’s not getting much better. But you seem to have handled what life’s thrown at you with mettle.”

  “You must have me confused with Miss Upstate John Deere or Candace. I am not the least bit brave.”

  He laughed. “Winnebago. Miss Upstate Winnebago. She’s something, huh?”

  “I kinda like Lydia,” I said.

  “Because she let you off the hook yesterday?” he said. “Don’t be fooled by that.”

  “She considers me a suspect?”

  “Can we not go there? I don’t know much of anything except not to trust Lydia. She’s a nutcase. So let’s talk about something else. I heard you took in one of Wilkerson’s cats.”

  “No secrets in Mercy,” I said. “But what’s this about Lydia?”

  “You do not want to know. Just let me say she’ll show her true colors soon enough. I also heard Shawn’s got himself in trouble.”

  “What exactly have you heard?” I said.

  “He’s down the street at the polic
e station this minute trying to dig himself out of a hole.”

  “I know that much. I was at the Sanctuary when they took him in.”

  “Whoa. Really?”

  “You think they’ll arrest him?” I said.

  “You’re worried, huh?” he said. “Because you two are friends, I take it?”

  “He’s a good guy,” I answered. “Why is he being interrogated again?”

  “It’s about his fingerprints, I hear. Fingerprints found in the wrong place.”

  “No way,” I said, horrified. “Shawn’s fingerprints were on the knife?”

  Tom’s ears reddened. “I didn’t say that. I heard his fingerprints were found somewhere other than the places you’d expect—not just upstairs where the cats had been kept.”

  “Then they might not have been in all the wrong places.” A morsel of relief eased the knot in my gut. “That makes me feel better, because I helped get Shawn into this mess.”

  “Hey, Jillian, you didn’t make him do anything. You told the police the truth. That’s what you’re supposed to do. And maybe this is news to you, but most people in town know he can get into trouble all by himself.”

  “What does that mean?” I said.

  “He has strong opinions about his animals,” Tom said. “Mostly the way the county quickly carts off dogs and cats to county or state facilities rather than checking with Shawn to see if he has room to take them at the Sanctuary.”

  “That sounds like a passionate man who wants to take care of a problem,” I said. “Gosh, I wish we hadn’t gone to the Pink House the day before.”

  “The day before?” His blue eyes were wide with surprise.

  I took a hefty swig of much-needed coffee before I explained about the visit Shawn and I made to Wilkerson’s house and that I felt I’d gotten him in trouble by telling the police about it.