Leann Sweeney (19 page)

“There was no sign anyone broke in?”

“No. Since we were once a victim of hateful vandalism—very unkind words spray-painted on our home—this place is practically a fortress now.”

“Tom Stewart put in a security system for me after the first break-in, but that didn’t stop Wilkerson from doing it again,” I said.

“Tom installed our system as well.” He flashed his sparkling smile. “Flake must have wanted your other cats in the worst way to come a second time, which means they’re very special. Do you have pictures?”

For the next few minutes, Chase oohed and aahed over the photos of my trio, ones I’d taken with my cell phone. And he was so tickled when I showed him the live feed that he vowed to have Tom set up one for him as well. It was nice to talk to someone who loved his cat as much as I loved mine.

But I was getting off track, so I closed my phone and said, “How do you think Roscoe ended up with Mr. Wilkerson if there was no break-in?”

“I’ll tell you what I never would say to Toby,” Chase said. “I think he left the door ajar, maybe when he was taking out the trash. He has so many things going on at once, he tends to get distracted.”

“I see. And what did you do to find Roscoe?”

“I put up flyers, but of course Ed took care of them in short order. Do you know Ed?”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” I said.

“I thought the flyers were worth a try. Ed sometimes lets lost-pet signs stay up for a day—or at least that’s what he tells me. Nice man, very interesting person.”

Interesting
was an understatement. “Did you put a picture of Roscoe on your flyers?” I asked.

“I’m a graphic designer,“ he said. “What do you think?” He reached under the coffee table and picked up a laptop computer. Soon I was looking at the flyer he’d created, and boy, did it put mine to shame. Professional job, that was for sure.

I sipped my water, then said, “This is a beautiful photograph. When did Roscoe disappear?” I asked.

“A month ago.” He glanced at what appeared to be a TAG Heuer watch. “Actually to the day.”

“How many flyers?” I asked.

He offered a puzzled expression. “Just curious, but why is this important?”

“The police don’t seem particularly interested in the fact that five cats were found in that house, cats that didn’t all get lost like yours. The police might not care, but I do. I mean, what if there are other cats that he took, ones already sold?”

“You are passionate about this, aren’t you? Why this cause?” he said.

“Maybe because my husband and I worked in the animal shelters after Katrina. I saw people reunited with their animals, and I realized how important those pets were, as if they were family members, really. And when I lost Syrah, I understood even better.”

“Is your husband helping you with this . . . investigation?” Chase asked.

“No. He died ten months ago.”

“I am so sorry. But you’re doing what you and your husband would have done together—doing what your heart commands.”

I didn’t say anything for a few seconds because not only did he understand me, but he had helped me understand myself. “You speak your mind. I like that about you,” I said.

“I can be quite likable,” Chase said. “As long as you don’t get between me and my cat.”

I smiled. “Same here. Now, we were talking about Ed. I’ve been to the Swap Shop and I know he collected the lost-cat flyers he tore down. But I didn’t see any for Roscoe.”

“Really? Ed keeps such things?”

“He has a little hoarding problem,” I said.

“
Little? Humongous
is a better word for it. But I have found some absolute gems in his place. I collect vinyl records. Jazz, mostly.”

“I’m wondering why flyers like yours, done by a professional, didn’t end up in Ed’s collection. Could they have been destroyed by bad weather?”

“The weather was gorgeous—always is in September. I was so upset about losing my cat, I have to say I forgot about the signs. I accepted Toby’s explanation that since Roscoe’s such a friendly guy, a neighbor probably took him in. But no one came by or called to tell me that they’d found him.”

“What are you thinking, Jillian?”

“I’m wondering if Flake Wilkerson saw your flyers, took them down so no one else would know Roscoe was missing and went looking for him. Cats stay pretty close to home when they get out like Roscoe did. They have something like feline GPS, I’ve read. He was probably near your house, exploring the neighborhood, and Mr. Wilkerson found him before you did.”

“And you’ll take cat trivia for one thousand,” Chase said with a laugh. “Very clever of you to think this through. That could be what happened, I suppose. Flake always struck me as capable of the most devious of behaviors, and cat stalking might be among them.”

“You knew him?”

“Oh yes. Ran into him all the time at Belle’s. But you know, I haven’t seen him there in some time.” He stroked Roscoe lovingly. “And I won’t be seeing him anymore, will I?”

He didn’t smile, but I had the feeling he wanted to. I left Chase’s house shortly afterward, even though he offered to prepare me a “lunch to die for.” Not exactly the greatest choice of phrase, considering the murder.

I wanted to get to Belle’s Beans in the worst way. If Chase had met Mr. Wilkerson there, other people must have, too. Learning about a dead man might help me figure out how the stolen cats might have led to his murder.

Plus
, I thought as I drove into town,
this new piece of information Chase provided is interesting.
I mean, I had a stack of flyers—but how many
didn’t
I have? Did Wilkerson take down flyers so he could stalk his prey in the Mercy neighborhoods? Improbable, but possible.

If I could get inside the Pink House again, maybe I could prove that Wilkerson was collecting lost flyers before Ed ever got to them. When I thought more about this, I decided holding cats for ransom would have been risky. I mean, if this had been going on for a long time, someone surely would have reported Mr. Wilkerson to the police. Trying to organize my thoughts was giving me a headache. Once I talked to Candace, perhaps I would be able to think more clearly, because gosh, I was confused. I needed schooling, a class in Detecting 101, not just a strong belief in my own theory.

I parked in a spot near the café and went inside. Since Belle’s Beans offered wrapped deli sandwiches, I grabbed a ham and cheese from the cooler to go with my large latte. With the limited table space, I had to take a spot with someone else who’d stopped in for lunch.

All the customers except one were twosomes or three- somes, so I chose a woman reading a paperback and sipping on a large coffee. I asked if she’d mind if I joined her.

“Please do. I’m Marian Mae Temple, by the way.” She smiled politely, and maybe I was paranoid, but I had the feeling she knew about my infamous recent past.

“I’m Jillian Hart and I’m guessing you’ve heard about me.” I unwrapped the sandwich and lifted the bread for a peek. Wilted lettuce and way too much mayo. But I hadn’t really come here to eat. I’d come here to find out what people thought of the murder victim.

Marian Mae blushed. “A little hard not to hear things.” She was fortyish, with highlighted ash blond hair, perfect makeup and a French manicure. The word
classy
came to mind.

“Guess that will be my Mercy claim to fame for as long as I live here—I found a dead man.” I tried to sound light and friendly. But inside I felt anxious, even before I’d had a sip of my high-octane coffee. Why did I ever think I could cozy up and get answers just like that? I felt like a weasel.

“This murder news will all pass sooner than you think,” she said. “I understand you’re a widow. Such a sad thing. I’d guess you’re not much older than me.”

I said, “I’m doing fine. I like it here and I’m trying to make a new, independent life for myself, but I won’t say it’s been easy.”

“I parted ways with my husband through divorce, not death, but you do grieve even after an unpleasant split,” she said.

“I suppose you do. And I am so concerned for Mr. Wilkerson’s family and their tragedy. What an awful way to lose someone,” I said.

“I’m sure,” she replied.

I sensed her discomfort at once. Fearing that she would close down on me, I said, “Did you know him?”

“Everyone knew him,” she answered.

“He came in here quite a bit, I hear,” I said.

“That’s true. Most of the town does.” She took an interest in her lightened coffee by using the wooden stir stick to mix in more thoroughly what looked like cinnamon.

“He wasn’t a friend or anything, though? I only ask because, well, I found him dead and I feel this odd connection to him. I’m interested to know what he was like, besides unpleasant—which is about all I’ve heard, to tell the truth.”

“We were . . . acquaintances. He would come and sit with me on occasion. He could be nice, and not to sound like I’m flattering myself, but I got the feeling he wanted to be more than friends. That, of course, was out of the question.”

“Did he ever talk about his cats? Having been inside the house, I know he had quite a few,” I said.

“Like the one he stole from you?” she asked, one artfully penciled brow raised.

“Yes. His name is Syrah. He’s an Abyssinian and I’m so happy to have him home.”

She smiled and this time I saw genuine warmth in her features. “You’ve had a difficult time. The comfort of a beloved pet is truly remarkable, isn’t it? I’m a cat person myself, so I understand.”

Emotion swelled into my throat. Why did this happen after a mere hint of kindness from a stranger? “Cats are special in so many ways. But as for Mr. Wilkerson—what else can you tell me about him?”

“Do you truly want to explore that man’s character? In my opinion, he was a dark, brooding, unhappy man.”

“And you say this because . . . ?”

“We talked occasionally—like I’m doing with you right now. He had a daughter, I think. But never once did he bring up those cats. I was so surprised to read about them in the newspaper.”

“Because he didn’t seem the type to have pets or—”

She rested a hand on my forearm. “Listen, I understand your curiosity, but I’d prefer we talk about you. Aside from this awful murder, do you like living in Mercy?”

“Yes. I never realized how soothing it would be to live by the water. Sometimes I hear lapping against the dock or rain splatting on the lake and it calms me almost at once.”

We continued to make small talk for a few minutes, and then Marian Mae said she had an appointment and left.

I lifted the bread and took another glance at the sandwich innards. The soggy ham and cheese looked no better than the first time, but I took a bite because I was hungry enough to try it. Not as bad as it looked. I ate slowly, hoping Belle would come in. She seemed the person most likely to offer up something about Flake Wilkerson, anything to help me understand what made the man tick.

Thanks to Chase, I realized I needed to keep my focus on learning why Mr. Wilkerson was obsessed with felines, especially since I couldn’t picture him as a true cat lover. And yet he stole cats. Maybe the chief and I were on the same path after all—this was about cats and money. But there had to be more.

The familiar tinkle that sounded every time the door opened made me glance that way, and this time someone I recognized came in and walked up to the Belle of the Day taking orders.

Lydia wore tight black jeans and a cherry red tunic-style sweater. I couldn’t see her shoes from where I sat, but she seemed especially tall today. Could the stilettos get any higher than what I’d seen her in before? Or was it the teased hair piled and wrapped like a turban? Had to be the hair.

She caught me staring and actually smiled. That was a surprise after the way she’d behaved yesterday. Once the Belle of the Day handed her a whipped-cream concoction, Lydia came over and sat down.

“Nice to see you under more acceptable circumstances, Jillian,” she said.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Tom’s not with you—and that’s excellent. If you keep reminding yourself that he belongs to me, we can be best buddies. All you have to do is keep your distance from him.”

“He’s just a friend,” I said.

“I saw the way he looked at you. You’re ruining my game and we can’t have that, can we?” She played with the straw in her drink.

“No. Certainly not.” From what I’d witnessed yesterday, I preferred not to get on her bad side and therefore wasn’t about to argue with anything she said. This lady was a little wacko. I felt sorry for Tom. How long had he been dealing with this situation?

“Know what my important duties are for this case?” she said sarcastically. “I get to do things like supervise Candace.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

“Candace wanted to take samples of all the cat hairs she could find at the Pink House and Baca allowed it. He’s backpedaling after he agreed to take her off the case, if you ask me. He does seem to like her, and you know what that leads to.”

“What
does
that lead to?” I said.

“With him and me, it led to plenty. And now I’m shoved off the biggest case ever because I dumped him. Ego. It’s all about ego with him.”

“But that’s not what he told me. He said—”

“You are so naive,” Lydia cut in. “I should be running this show, but I’ve been kicked down to go-between.”

“You’re a go-between? Because you’re working with Candace? I’m still not sure I understand.”

“Besides watching Candace pull hair-laden pieces of tape off rugs and furniture—which is the forensic equivalent of watching paint dry, let me tell you—I was also instructed to arrange for the county forensics unit to return for a last run-through to make sure they didn’t miss anything before the daughter gets into town. Between the unit folks and Candace, I did a lot of sitting around.” She stuck out one leg. “Look at my pants. You ever seen so much cat hair in your life?”