Leann Sweeney (18 page)

“I promise you’ll be the first to know if I recover from my Alzheimer’s anytime soon,” I said.

He smiled at my lame joke. “Don’t believe I’m dismissing them. It’s just that those quilts could be one mystery we never solve, and it’s probably not important, just an odd connection between you and Mr. Wilkerson. You’ll be relieved to know we do not consider you a suspect in this murder.” He stood. “Thanks for coming in, Ms.—sorry—Jillian.”

I rose and took the flyer from my pocket, the one of the Tonkinese. “This is one of the cats Shawn has. You may want to call the owner so he can get his cat back. He’s someone who might have been angry with Mr. Wilkerson.”

He glanced at the paper. “Is this one of the people you were so anxious to have me call? As soon as the story broke, this man called us. Seems his cat had just disappeared and he wondered if it was in the Pink House. He’s already picked up his cat from the Sanctuary. And before you ask, this man has a solid alibi.”

“Another reason to believe this isn’t about the cats?” I said.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll try to be clear: I’m not crossing stolen cats off the list of possible motives. There could be very angry owners out there, but right now we have what, the five cats found in the house? I know you have more names from the flyers you went through, but we don’t have any connection between all those cats and the victim. If more evidence accumulates, I’ll—”

“I get it,” I said. “But perhaps this is about a cat not found in the house—maybe it’s about one that
was
there and was taken away when the killer left.”

Baca squinted at me, considering this. “I’ll keep that idea in mind.”

“You think that’s implausible, I know, but if that’s the case, you won’t mind if I try to reunite a few owners with the pets that Wilkerson might have stolen. After all, I have the same list of possibilities that Candace gave you this morning.”

His eyes darkened. Made him look all brooding in a Gothic novel sort of way. “Please don’t get in my way. A brutal crime was committed, Jillian. That should scare you. I know it scares me.”

“After what I’ve been through this past year, I’m done being scared about what life throws at me. I’ll try hard not to get in your way, but I won’t be sitting around, either. Cat people may have lost their friends because of this man.”

He sighed. “I can’t stop you—unless you interfere in my investigation. Then we call it obstruction of justice.”

“I call it
finding
justice—for those cats and their owners. They were victims, too.”
And
, I thought,
if I follow the cats while you’re following the money, one of us might find a killer.

He looked down and shook his head. “You and Shawn. What a pair.”

Minutes later, I left the court building and headed straight for Shawn and Allison’s Sanctuary. While I drove, I thought about a police officer’s job and the need to priori tize. I got that. But I’d prioritized, too, and those cats were at the top of
my
list. I knew that Shawn’s fingerprints were found somewhere at the scene—somewhere they shouldn’t have been. Baca would never tell me about that, nor would Candace, but if I could make amends with Shawn—which I so wanted to do no matter what—maybe he’d tell me.

I made my way up the dirt driveway to the Sanctuary, the strangling kudzu vines on either side of me a healthy green and gripping onto trees and shrubs as if we hadn’t had a cold snap at all. No, that stuff would seize and control every plant until a hard freeze. I could only hope Shawn wouldn’t hang on to his anger that tightly.

This time Shawn rather than Allison came out to meet me. His stiff posture and unsmiling face indicated he was still very unhappy with me. I drew a deep breath and left the van.

“I sure hope you’ll talk to me, Shawn. I know you didn’t kill anyone. I know you could never do that.”

“You threw me under the bus.” His freckled fists were on his hips, his legs spread as if to stop me from going any farther.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “Should I have omitted that you had an argument with Mr. Wilkerson when they questioned me?”

“You told them that to save your own ass.”

“Shawn. Look at me.” I made the back-and-forth two-finger gesture for “look me straight in the eye.”

He did so, though grudgingly.

I said, “They would have found out anyway. I wasn’t the only person who knew you had a history with the man.”

He hesitated, then said, “You did what you had to do. I get that.”

“No, you don’t. You’re still angry, and that hurts. Please try to understand? I value your friendship—and Allison’s, too. And the work you do here is so important. I respect you.”

“They locked me up like a criminal on some frickin’ material witness excuse. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

“It must have been awful,” I said.

“Two hours might as well have been two months. I do have a temper, but I’m an honest, God-fearing man, not a killer.”

I said, “I know that. Can we talk? My interest is the cats, as I’m sure yours is, too. We’re on the same page, Shawn.”

He still seemed uncertain, but when his shoulders slumped and his hands fell to his sides, I knew this silly standoff was over.

He waved and said, “Come on, then.”

Snug, the African grey parrot, greeted me with a “Hey there” when I entered the office, and Allison must have heard us arrive because she came in from the cat area. She looked back and forth between Shawn and me as if to ask, “Is everything okay?”

“We’re good,” Shawn replied to her silent question.

“I am so glad.” She reached out her hands and came over to me. Her hug felt as friendly and warm as the first time we’d met.

We sat around the scarred desk—so unlike Mike Baca’s—the canaries singing and the spider hiding somewhere in his tank, thank goodness. I summarized my two visits with the chief, told Shawn about the flyers and the list of lost or possibly stolen cats and finished up by saying, “He claims they don’t consider Mr. Wilkerson’s cat thievery a solid motive. But you and I know different, don’t we?”

“Damn straight we do,” Shawn said. “He’s never seen the desperation that I’ve witnessed when folks come in here looking for their lost friends. Does the man not realize someone would do murder to get their best buddy back? If not, he doesn’t know squat.”

“He didn’t say it was impossible. He’s just focusing on other things.”

“Like me. Only because I looked in Wilkerson’s windows. That’s why they arrested me. Said there was evidence of trespassing.”

“I heard they found your fingerprints. You’re saying they were on the windows outside?” I said.

“Yeah. After I picked up the tuxedo, I went back to see what other cats Wilkerson might have been hiding away. Didn’t see any, though. I left before Wilkerson spotted me.”

Allison stood abruptly. “I think we could all use some coffee. How’s about it, Shawn?”

“Yeah. Coffee.” But he was looking at me, not her.

She busied herself at an ancient Mr. Coffee machine sitting on a long table near the only window.

“How’d you know about the fingerprints?” he said.

“You understand better than I do that there are no secrets in Mercy. And I got a new lesson in exactly that when I visited Baca today. They did a background check on me. Can you believe that?”

“At least they didn’t arrest you. Anyway, what’s this you said about a list of other people who lost cats?”

“I was hoping you could look at the flyers Candace and I collected that have pictures on them. See if you recognize any of those cats. Maybe they came through here at some point and Mr. Wilkerson somehow got hold of them.”

“I guess I could do that. By the way, the Tonkinese’s owner called the police when the story broke, and the tuxedo had a chip. He belongs to a rich dude named Chase Cook. What mama would ever name a son Chase is what I want to know. Fits him, though. But he loves that cat and that’s all that matters.”

“That makes me smile,” I said.

“The pretty Tonkinese went this morning, and the Cook guy came last night. He was thrilled to be reunited with his Roscoe.”

“If he loved Roscoe that much, I wonder what he did to find him. We didn’t come across any flyers for missing tuxedos. Maybe I should ask the man about his cat’s disappearance. Can you give me his address?”

Allison set a mug of coffee in front of her husband. “Don’t you be thinking about going along with her.” She looked at me. “No offense, Jillian, but we all know what happened the last time you two went visiting. Now, what do you like in your coffee?”

Sixteen

Chase Cook, it turned out, lived in a house on Mercy Lake, too, though maybe a mile from me. As I parked in his drive, I couldn’t help but wonder if other cats from this area had been targeted by Flake Wilkerson. Apparently the man liked mine so much he came back to steal another one. That could mean he’d been watching me and I’d never had a clue. Goose bumps rose on my arms at the thought.

Mr. Wilkerson made his move while I was out of town, so he probably knew I’d be gone. Rolling a suitcase out to your car is a big clue that you’re taking a trip. Had he been hiding outside that morning, waiting for his chance? The thought of him spying on me creeped me out. I gathered myself with a deep breath and pressed the doorbell.

The man who answered looked close to my age. He had short bleached-blond hair volumized with enough product to stock a Walgreens shelf. His smile was brightened by the whitest teeth I’d ever seen—I mean, they might glow in the dark. But he
was
smiling after I introduced myself and mentioned that both of our cats had ended up in the Pink House.

“I heard all about it from Shawn when I picked up Roscoe. You, my dear,” he said, “are a fellow victim of that awful Flake Wilkerson’s vile obsession. We are comrades.”

Okay, I thought.
Vile
is a good word. And maybe it
was
an obsession for Wilkerson—sort of like Lydia had for Tom.

Chase Cook invited me in and led me through the foyer to a living room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the lake and elegant modern furniture. The room was decorated in blacks and whites with an occasional splash of red.

“I am so proud that Roscoe made a heroic run for his life,” he said. “And I’m glad I can thank you in person. If you two hadn’t gone to Flake’s door—well, Roscoe might have been sent away before the man was murdered.”

“Sent away?” I asked.

“He was doing
something
with his cat collection, wasn’t he? Don’t you think that was the reason he was taking other people’s pets? To sell them off?”

“I had the same thought—either that or he was holding the cats for ransom,” I said. “But the chief and I don’t agree on that.”

“Then he needs to get real, because it seems obvious. Have a seat. Can I get you a sparkling water? An orange juice?” Chase said.

I opted for the water and he left the room. Getting money for the cats Wilkerson stole seemed plausible to me and to this man, so why not to Baca? There had to be a plan for those animals. Or was Mr. Wilkerson simply a weirdo intent on causing other people misery?

Roscoe came bounding into the room, and all thoughts of motive and money disappeared. He was shiny and bright-eyed, and I wondered if Chase chose a black-and-white cat to match his black-and-white house. I said, “There you are, handsome,” and bent to greet him.

He meandered up to the leather sofa where I’d taken a seat and rubbed against my legs, then looked up at me with golden eyes. I put my fingers down, and he rubbed his head against them and began to purr.

Chase returned with a tray and put it on the black laminate coffee table in front of me. On the tray sat an expensive-looking etched goblet, a small dish of sliced lemon and a chilled bottle of San Pellegrino. Chase poured my glass half full.

Roscoe began weaving between his owner’s legs, immediately leaving black hairs all over the well-creased, impeccably clean chinos.

“He’s a beautiful cat. So healthy-looking,” I said.

Chase settled across from me on a white leather and chrome chair. Roscoe leaped into his lap. “He does have a luxurious coat, doesn’t he? Toby and I have been lost without him. Toby is my partner—and don’t worry; it’s no secret that we’re gay. Everyone knows. Many men keep their distance like they might catch our
affliction
, but women like yourself are warm and friendly.”

“Not a problem for me,” I said.

“What brings you here, Jillian? I love your name, by the way. It suits your gorgeous spicy hair, and I’ll bet there’s some freckles hiding under your makeup.”

“There are. As to why I’m here, I have a question about Roscoe—actually about what you did when you discovered you’d lost him.”

“What a day that was. Toby was working a long job—he’s a contractor—built this absolutely stupendous home we share, by the way—and I was frantic. I’d come back from a meeting with one of my clients in Manhattan and found our boy gone. I couldn’t reach Toby because he’s always on the phone calling someone for wood or tile or sinks or whatever.”

Here was someone else who’d left home and returned to find a cat missing. Was this simply a coincidence? “You thought Roscoe was with Toby?” I asked.

“Oh no. That would have been ridiculous, wouldn’t it?” He stroked a contented Roscoe. “No, I thought our poor baby was sick or, God forbid, had died while I was gone. We used to spoil him with all the wrong food, and he ended up with a kidney stone, so I had reason to worry. Now he’s thriving on a special diet.”

“Did you call the vet to see if Roscoe was there?” I asked.

“Yes, and when he wasn’t I considered calling the police. But Toby brought me to my senses when he came home that evening. He said, ‘Do you think Morris Ebeling would come over to the queer house’—that’s what Morris calls it—‘to investigate a lost cat?’ I had to agree. We do try to limit the humiliation that Mercy sometimes offers up. This is a breathtaking place to live and we aren’t about to leave, so we pick our battles.”