The Cat, The Quilt and The Corpse Page 4

  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 t
he 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 fe-lines 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.

  Four

  After I’d arrived home and released Merlot and Chablis from their crates, they took off as if their tails were on fire. Seemed they’d had enough of traveling around town. Their absence while I ate made me a little sad. I needed to discuss today’s events with them. No, I don’t hear their voices while I jabber on, but they can be attentive. And sometimes they’ve helped me see things I might otherwise have missed. Maybe later on I could advise them to never go near any pink houses.

  I’d picked up a bag of boiled peanuts from a roadside vendor, and now I made a lunch of sweet tea and nuts. Only quasi healthy, but great comfort food. I wondered whether what I’d seen Shawn Cuddahee do—grab that tuxedo cat off the side of the road—was exactly what had happened to Syrah. And would I ever get an answer to that question?

  The tuxedo would fare well in Shawn’s care, and the cat hadn’t been on Wilkerson’s property when Shawn had found him, so maybe that didn’t qualify as catnapping. I still felt guilty about what I’d witnessed, though, and for the next several hours I kept busy picking out quilt patterns and fabrics for recent orders rather than think about it.

  Merlot and Chabli
s finally joined me in the sewing room. Peanuts and tea didn’t interest them, but fabric sure did. I engaged them in my one-sided chat about all that had happened and how much I missed Syrah. Every time I said his name, Merlot meowed and Chablis blinked. They knew I was sad, and I was betting they were, too.

  Tom Stewart, the security expert, arrived in his van about three p.m. When he got to the house, I saw that he was about my age and had dark hair and pale blue eyes. The combination was strikingly handsome. He was holding a large to-go coffee from Belle’s Beans, the Mercy answer to Starbucks—an establishment I’d wanted to visit more than once but never had.

  I welcomed him inside with a smile and said, “Boy, do I need your help.”

  “Had a break-in, I hear,” he said. “That’s pretty rare around here.”

  “Rare?” I said, leading the way into the living room.

  “I say rare because nothing was taken. I mean, we have the usual amount of vandalism and petty theft in this area. Crying shame kids have nothing better to do than sneak into people’s houses when they’re not home.”

  I wasn’t sure how to react to his knowledge that nothing of material value was missing. “H-how . . . I mean, where did you—”

  “You’re fairly new in town,” he said. “You’ll get used to everyone knowing your business soon enough.”

  “Something important was taken, though,” I said.

  “Forgive me, Ms. Hart. Didn’t mean to imply your cat isn’t important. You wouldn’t have called me if you didn’t think so. Now, if you’ll show me around, I can determine what equipment can protect you from this happening again.”

  “You know about my cat, too?” I said.

  “Yes, I know about your cat,” he was saying, “and I know about your husband’s death—my condolences, by the way. I’m also aware you’re making a go of it with a home business. Cat quilts. Luxury items for pets are big business these days. Smart idea, if you ask me—which you haven’t.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I realized then just what a recluse I’d been. Clearly everyone in town knew these things about me, but they didn’t know if I was smart or crazy or just plain ordinary because I’d met almost no one. It was time for that to change. “Even in a small town, I’m impressed you know all this.”