Leann Sweeney (20 page)

I reached for my bag on the chair next to me and removed a mini pet hair roller. “Be my guest.”

Lydia looked at it for a moment. “Isn’t this the cutest thing ever? Purse size.” She began rolling it on her pants.

“Did I hear you mention Flake Wilkerson’s daughter?” I’d already heard about her, but maybe Lydia’s anger at her ex-boyfriend would keep her talking.

“Yup. She’s expected this afternoon. Baca wanted all the tags, the fingerprint dust and the blood gone. Which was a job and a half, thank you very much. You see me wearing a badge that says CLEANUP CREW?
No
would be the answer. Anyhow, he thinks he’s a hero or something, making the world all bright and beautiful for Daphne What’s-Her-Name. Or maybe he’s thinking about hitting on her since she’ll probably be getting plenty of money.”

There it was again.
The money
. Was that the money Baca had been referring to? I sipped my coffee and tried to sound nonchalant when I said, “Was Mr. Wilkerson well-off?”

Lydia tore off a hair-filled sticky sheet and used the pet roller again on her pants. “Not certain about that, but we did find one promising insurance policy the day of the murder, with the daughter as the beneficiary. As for anything more? Well, I’m not in charge, so I don’t know if Mr.Wilkerson even had a will. All I know is the daughter’s coming to town.”

“She does have to make funeral arrangements—or someone does, right?” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Guess I’m being cynical thinking she’s coming to see how much cold hard cash she’ll walk away with.” She balled up the used roller tape. “But if I had a say, which I do not, I’d be finding out where that young woman was two days ago. I’d want her to account for every minute.”

Lydia stood and looked down at her pants. “You are a savior. Good as new.” She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Let me give you a piece of advice. I understand that you’re not just being small-town curious with all your questions. Maybe you and Tom want to play detective together. But getting involved in this hateful business might not be good for your health. Especially if you’re tangled up with Tom. He’s mine.” She pointed a glittery finger at me. “Don’t you forget it, neither.”

She pushed in her stool, smiled and handed me back my roller. Then she walked away, high heels clicking on the tile. She sipped on that milk shake disguised as coffee all the way out the door.

Whoa
, I thought.
Did she just threaten me? Or was she simply talking about chasing after murderers?
Maybe Candace could help me understand, but it would have to wait until she was off her shift. Knowing I had enough quilt orders to keep me busy until later today, I put the roller back in my bag and was preparing to leave, but then the real Belle came in.

Maybe
, I thought,
here is someone who truly knew Mr. Wilkerson and can portray him as more than the one-dimensional man everyone else makes him out to be.

Belle spotted me at once and called, “Sit tight. I’ll be right over to chat, pretty lady.”

After the Belle of the Day prepared her coffee, as well as a repeat of my own latte, she joined me.

She set the coffee in front of me and smiled. “I could say, ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ but I wouldn’t want you to take my joke wrong. Hope a coffee on the house will cheer you up. You’ve had your share of sorry luck lately, haven’t you?”

Not a white hair was out of place, but oh my God, would anyone ever tell her about the lipstick problem? She’d applied the stuff past her bottom lip by a good quarter inch.

“It’s been an unsettling few days,” I said. “But I do have my Syrah back. Not that I wanted anyone to die to make that happen.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I’ll slap silly anyone who dares to say as much.”

I smiled. I was sure she would.

She went on, saying, “We’ve had very few violent deaths in Mercy that I can remember, so tell me all about it. Was it just sickeningly awful?”

“That about sums it up,” I said.

She rested her elbows on the table and her chin on her fists. “I want details.”

This was how the grapevine worked. And if I wanted to be a part of it . . . well, no one told me
not
to say anything about the murder. I related the events of that terrible day, making sure to stick to what I saw and heard firsthand. The only thing I said about Shawn was that he’d picked up the remaining cats. He didn’t need me contributing to his reputation as a hothead, and that might happen if I shared details of the day before the murder.

When I’d finished, I said, “I understand Flake Wilkerson came here often.”

“He did. Not that I was always present, mind you, but I heard. He was always arguing with the men and I heard tell he and Shawn Cuddahee almost came to blows one time. I woulda kicked the two of them down the street if I’d been here. Anyway, when I
was
here, Flake went out of his way to make conversation. He wasn’t good at conversation, though. Not a Southern gentleman at all, our Flake.”

I said, “But he tried to be nice to you?”

“Tried and failed,” she said. “Your true spirit always comes through. And his spirit was troubled, maybe damaged by some long-ago injury. You never know what people are hiding.”

I stirred my coffee for a second. “What did Mr. Wilkerson talk about?”

“The weather. Road construction. Gas prices. All the boring stuff old men bring up when they don’t know what to say. I’m a widow and he knew as much. I had the feeling he wanted to inquire about me, ask me on a date. Do the young people still call them dates? Anyway, I am most certainly glad he didn’t.”

“I understand from Chase Cook that Mr. Wilkerson quit coming in here after Chase’s cat, Roscoe, disappeared. Since we know Wilkerson had Roscoe, maybe that was no accident.”

“Oh my. I had no idea Flake took Roscoe. That’s despicable. Bless his heart, Chase was sick with worry when his cat disappeared.”

“Roscoe’s home now, safe and sound,” I said.

She smiled broadly, making the lipstick mistake all the more prominent. “Wonderful news. But though Flake may have stopped coming in at the same time as Chase did, he still showed up and drank his large black coffees until the day before he died. You know, some folks should not drink coffee. Makes ’em downright spiteful.”

“Coming here was part of Mr. Wilkerson’s daily routine?” I asked.

She nodded. “Same as for lots of folks. Hope to see you here on a regular basis as well.”

“I’m already a regular,” I said with a laugh. “You have that bulletin board over there, and I recall you saying I could put up Syrah’s picture. Did Flake ever take an interest in that board?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my precious Jesus. What did that man do? Get information from my establishment and then steal cats he’d learned about?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you, but yes, that’s what I was thinking.” A little lipstick problem didn’t mean Belle wasn’t a bright, perceptive woman.

“Oh my. Very troubling,” she said.

“Please don’t worry about information coming from the worst wannabe detective in the world,” I said.

“You don’t understand. When my cat disappeared, I put her picture up there.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Do you think he took Java?”

“Oh my gosh. You lost a kitten, right?”

“Yes. She was only six months old.” The color seeped from Belle’s skin, leaving behind garish circles of coral blush on her cheekbones. “They didn’t find any cat bodies in that wicked man’s house, did they?”

“No. I promise. Not a one. What kind of cat was she?” I said.

“A brown Persian. Just like coffee. That’s why I called her Java.” A few tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Let me show you something,” I said.

“Show me what?”

“I have what’s called a cat-cam—a video feed connected to a camera at home. You can see my living room in real time.” Too late I realized that if the cat Shawn gave me to care for wasn’t Belle’s, she would be so disappointed.

Belle got down from her stool and stared over my shoulder. She said, “Why am I looking at your home?”

“I want you to see something, but the one time I need them to be sleeping in the living room, they aren’t there.” I turned and looked at Belle. “Do you have time for a trip to my house?”

Seventeen

G
ood thing the drive to my house wasn’t long. Belle and I had taken my car, and after I told her I might—and I emphasized the word
might
—have her kitten, she was absolutely giddy with excitement.

That meant she talked nonstop, saying things like, “He had my Java the whole time?” and “I was nothing but kind to that awful man.” Finally she said, “Do your cats have ‘special powers’?”

I was focused on pulling into the driveway, so it took a second for my brain to catch up. I decided I couldn’t have heard right.

“Huh?” I said.

“Have your cats told you what it was like for Java in that man’s house?”

My eyes widened. Though Belle seemed like a kind Southern grandmother, there was plenty I didn’t know about her. Stress
will
reveal much about character.

“They rarely talk to me,” I said with a small laugh. But I was thinking that little chocolate Persian better belong to Belle or the next thing I knew we’d be sitting down for a kitty séance.

Once we got inside, the official greeter was Merlot. Belle immediately knelt and extended a hand, but she was looking beyond him, waiting for her own cat to appear.

“Come on into the living room and—”

The Persian made her entrance into the foyer and Belle clutched her chest, her skin the color of Elmer’s Glue. I thought I might have to do CPR on the poor woman right here.

“My baby. Oh, my sweet baby. Where have you been?” she said.

Another cat mystery solved
, I thought with a smile.

The fluffy little munchkin walked up to Belle and planted herself sideways against the woman’s bony, aging knees, her back arched, her bushy tail in the air.

Belle carefully picked up the cat and rose. “You found her. How can I ever thank you?” There were tears of happiness streaming down her face.

“You’re sure this is Java?”

“Of course.” She pointed at the cat’s face. “See the dark stripes between her nose and the light hair around her ears? This is my Java.”

“Let’s go into the living room, okay?” I said. “I need to call Candace, see if she can come over.”

“Why?” Belle said, one arthritic hand stroking Java’s cheek.

“Your kitten was found in a murdered man’s house. The police need to know that there’s another happy cat owner in town. All the cats in the house were originally considered to be evidence, and Candace keeps pounding into my head that we have to pay close attention to evidence. That means giving her a heads-up about Java.”

“Oh. I understand. But she won’t take her away from me, right?”

“Why would she? Two other cats—or three if you count mine—are already back with their owners. But the police still might want to talk to you.” From what Lydia said, it sounded like Candace was at least peripherally involved in the investigation again, so I was glad I could phone her and not Baca.

I led Belle, who was clinging to Java for dear life, into my living room and she settled on the sofa—which seemed perfectly fine by Java. She was happy to be reunited with Belle and vice versa. I walked around the counter and into the kitchen, slipped my phone from my jeans pocket and dialed Candace. “Hi,” I said.

“Hi back. What’s up?” she said.

“Do you have time to stop by my house?” I said. “The brown Persian belongs to Belle.”

“
What?
How did you figure that out?”

“Talking in this town will get you everywhere,” I said. “Can you come?”

“Maybe. Morris just went into Belle’s Beans to get a slice of cake—cake is his best friend. I could tell him to eat it there, that I have an errand to run for my mom.”

“Great.” I closed the phone and went back to the living room. “Candace won’t be long,” I said. “In the meantime, why don’t we have a glass of sweet tea? Unless you want more coffee, of course.”

“All I want is to take darling Java home. I still have her little pink bed and all her toys. I guess God knew Java would come home and that’s why He wouldn’t let me touch her things.”

Pretty soon my entire crew joined us, curious to meet yet another new person. There’d been plenty of traffic in this house lately—more than in the last ten months combined.

Five minutes later an elated Belle and a purring Java followed me as I went to let Candace in.

When she entered, Candace said, “Hi, Belle. What you got there?”

“Jillian found my kitten,” Belle said. “Do you know if Flake had Java the whole time?”

“Um,” Candace said, “we’re not completely sure. But I’d like to talk to you about her disappearance, if that’s okay?”

We all walked back into the living room, where Merlot chose to watch over Belle and Java. Maine coons are a lot like dogs in that way—always on the lookout when tension or excitement is in the air. My other two cats decided they needed their beauty rest more than visiting time and went off down the hall.

I offered sweet tea again, and this time Belle took me up on the offer. Candace followed me to the refrigerator. Since there were no walls separating us from Belle, Candace grabbed a magnetic notepad and pencil off the fridge door and scribbled, “You should have phoned me the minute you had a clue about this kitten.”

I mouthed “sorry” and poured the tea.

Once we were all settled with our drinks, Candace quizzed Belle about the specifics of when and how Java had disappeared. She got the same information I did: an open door and the belief that the cat left on her own.

Belle said, “I must say that it is extremely disappointing to learn Java was stolen. I had never been anything but kind to Flake, and then he goes and takes my cat. What did he intend to do with her?”