Leann Sweeney (4 page)

His cheeks colored to almost strawberry. “Ma’am, it’s for the kids.”

“I want two more calendars, then,” I said.“And by the way, I make quilts for charities. Children’s quilts, so I could—”

“I need another calendar, too,” Candace said quickly.

Billy’s eyes met hers for the first time. “Now that’s real nice of you two ladies.”

I caught a lingering gaze between them. Candace was catching on about how to make Billy pay attention.

“What I started to say was that I have some quilts in the other room looking for small bodies to keep warm,” I said.

“You’d give us those?” he said.

“That’s why I make them. Let me get you a few.”

As I left the room, I heard Billy say to Candace, “She’s one sweet lady, isn’t she? Young to lose a husband, though. Dan Meade caught that 911 call last January. Couldn’t do a thing for the man.”

I swallowed hard and picked up my pace. John’s death would always leave a wound, but the constant grieving had to end—and I’d been making progress. He would have wanted me to move on with my life. And I was trying my best.

When I returned, quilts in hand, Candace was busy dusting the rest of the entertainment center for prints.

“I thought you said the intruder wore gloves?” I said.

“I know.” She faced me. “I guess I’m as stubborn as my daddy always says. Bad guys leave things behind, even the smart ones, and I want to find something this one left.”

Just then Billy came back into the house with three calendars. We paid up and he left, again with Candace admiring him every step of the way.

As soon as he was gone, she flipped the calendar open to July and said, “Now here’s what I’m talking about. Can’t have enough of this.”

Billy was shirtless and wearing his volunteer fireman pants, suspenders loose over broad shoulders. The man was oiled, bronzed and had muscles Superman could only wish for.

After we stared for a few seconds, Candace wiped a damp strand of hair off her forehead—she was a bit sweaty even though the evening was beginning to cool the house down considerably. She said, “Let’s get back to work.”

“Obviously you think there might be a clue here, so tell me how that will help find my cat. If I don’t get Syrah home by dark . . .” I’d been distracted for a time, but now my eyes burned. I willed back the tears. Tears wouldn’t help anything.

“You really love these cats, huh?” Candace said.

“They’re all I’ve got.”

She nodded, as if to tell me she understood. “I collected a clump of what looks like cat hair out near the end of your driveway—can’t say that’s what it is ’cause I got no hard evidence, but you want to take a look? If it belongs to your missing cat I can surely find a match here in the house. Plus there were tire tracks. I took a picture, but matching the tire to make and model probably won’t happen. No way the town’s gonna pay a nickel to search for a match since they’d be with Morris—decide nothing was taken. But that missing cat is as good as gold to you.”

“Syrah might have simply run off. That’s what most people would conclude. But he wouldn’t go with a stranger,” I said. “He’s too smart for that. This voice in my head is telling me he was stolen. But why?”

“That’s what we need to find out—why he’s gone and where he is. Doesn’t matter to me if your Syrah ran off or was catnapped; I plan to help you,” Candace said.

“That means so much—you helping me on your own time.”

“I like you, Ms. Hart. Plus I need to practice my evidence-collection skills if I’m ever gonna get out of Mercy and get me a real police job. Sure, this is my home, but they’re not so hot here on using all the new scientific stuff that can help in police work. Just want to keep everything the same old same old.”

“Help me understand how any evidence you find will help you get a lead on Syrah.”

“Don’t rightly know. But you collect stuff, then you hope and pray the evidence leads you down the right road.”

I nodded. “I’ll buy that. Let me see what you’ve found so far.”

She’d brought in a little satchel that held her fingerprint kit and now took out a small brown envelope. “Haven’t sealed it yet. Wanted you to take a look first. But don’t go touching it, okay?”

She squeezed the stiff pouch open so I could look inside.

“Syrah is a sorrel color, so if it’s his hair it should be coppery ticked with chocolate . . . and the base of the hair should be a bright apricot. Together all these colors make him look amber.”

“Sorrel? Ticked? What’s all that mean?” Candace asked.

“Syrah is an Abyssinian cat. His color is sorrel. And ‘ticked’ means that chocolate is his second tabby color besides copper. He’s really just a fancy tabby cat.”

“Ah. I get it. But you sound like some kind of expert cat person. Are you?” she said.

“I know a lot about cats, but I wouldn’t call myself an expert. I like to learn things—just like you do, right?”

“You got that. Anyway, here’s what I found. Your cat’s hair look like this?”

I stared down into the envelope, but couldn’t see very well, so we moved closer to the window. Then I knew. “Yes. See the chocolate ticking? Cats can lose clumps of hair when they’re stressed, so that’s proof to me it’s his.”

“Let me tell you about proof. In my line of work, it’s not proof until it’s evidence of a crime. As of right now we can’t prove whether your cat slipped out when the perp came or left, or was in fact stolen. And if he was stolen, why leave the other two cats?” Candace said.

“Maybe the thief couldn’t find the other two? They know how to hide from me, that’s for sure,” I said.

“This Syrah—I remember you said he’s not expensive because he doesn’t have his papers to prove he’s a purebred. But maybe some idiot thought he was worth something even without these papers you’re talkin’ about,” she said.

“He’d be most valuable to me,” I said, realizing exactly how valuable even as I spoke the words. “Do you think the thief will call and say he or she has Syrah? Ask me for money?”

“That’s possible. Or whoever it was simply fancied your cat and decided he wanted him. You can’t tell what a person figures they can steal if they so desire. We had a perp once who stole Christmas lights right off people’s houses. I always thought it was Lewis Rainer ’cause his house is always lit up like New York City during the holidays. No way he could afford all those lights and snowmen and reindeer on the roof.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You couldn’t prove it because you couldn’t get the evidence?”

“You are catchin’ on.” Candace smiled and it made her face even more attractive. “Anyway, you never hear about those animals lost during Katrina so much anymore, but lots of folks did lose their pets, huh?”

“That’s for sure. My husband and I took in foster cats after the storm and we fell in love with the three I’ve got now. No one ever claimed them.”

“You got yourself some beautiful cats. I love animals but my mom’s allergic.”

“Allergic!
That’s
what I forgot to tell you. Chablis was sneezing when I came home and she’s allergic to dandruff—human dandruff. The perp must have left some behind.” She had
me
using TV cop lingo now.

“Gosh. I wonder if there’s human DNA in dandruff.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Dandruff is dead skin, after all. Could be useless. But it could be something.”

“You don’t know?” I said.

A determined look took over. “Nope. But I intend to find out.”

Three

I
slept poorly without Syrah curled near my head like he loved to do. Plus Chablis purred as loud as a fan all night. I think I hushed her about a dozen times, but the Benadryl was still in her system. Outside the bedroom, I kept hearing Merlot’s mournful calls for his friend Syrah.

Yeah, sweetheart
.
I miss him, too
.

Last evening Candace and I had ended up on a first-name basis—but there’d been an almost immediate bond between us from the minute she took the time to comfort my stressed-out cats. After I mentioned the dandruff, she spent an hour to find four flecks on the window seat cushion and carefully placed them in one of her little evidence envelopes. Then we shared deli chicken and a salad.

I drink sweet tea by the gallon and it turned out that Candace did, too. We had another thing in common besides a definite admiration for firemen posing for calendar shots. I was surprised how nice it felt to share something silly with her. My husband had been smart and handsome and funny, but definitely not calendar material. I felt a tad guilty enjoying such careful examinations of every page of that calendar, but maybe a little fun was one of the things I needed to help me move on.

The cat hairs Candace collected from Syrah’s favorite spot on the couch resembled what she’d found outside, but she wasn’t making any promises that they
were
a match until she looked at them under a microscope. She was definitely dedicated when it came to her evidence obsession; maybe Morris didn’t like this, but I sure appreciated it.

She also gave me the number of a small local no-kill shelter. If I didn’t find Syrah hanging around outside looking clueless and pathetic in the morning, maybe he was lost and had been dropped off there. The nearest SPCA was about ninety miles away, in Columbia, and this shelter was the closest thing they had in Mercy.

I’d awoken filled with the hope that someone had done exactly that, since I’d had no response to my beautiful flyers—yeah, after less than a day, I know. Before I made a call to that shelter or any other rescue organization I could find within fifty miles, I went out back to look for him again.

In the morning light, Mercy Lake looked more huge and scary than it ever had before. Maybe the strong breeze and gray clouds made the water seem more like an enemy than like the friend it had been since John’s death. I’d spent hours by the water this past summer, listening to the gentle lap of waves against the dock, appreciating the birds and squirrels so busy with their simple pleasures. This lake and my cats had helped my heart heal.

But now Syrah could be in that water.

I walked straight toward the lake, refusing to believe he could be dead. “Syrah,” I called. “Come home, kitty. We miss you.”

No cat.

Then I checked out all the trees, as I had yesterday. Many were shedding their leaves with each gust and showering me with their inevitable passage into winter. If Syrah were anywhere near, he would have answered my call—he loves to talk back—but I heard only the wind and the angry water.

I wrapped my arms around myself—it was a lot chillier than yesterday—and went back inside. After three cups of French roast coffee, the clock finally ticked its way to nine a.m. and I called Tom Stewart, the security guy. He agreed to come over in late afternoon and see what he could do for me.

Next I called the shelter—the Mercy Animal Sanctuary—but the line was busy. And though I pressed REDIAL over and over for ten minutes, I got the same result. Didn’t everyone have call waiting these days? Well, maybe not in Mercy. I’d simply have to go there. My cell number was on the flyers, so I could be reached if someone found Syrah.

Candace had given me her private mobile number, and I called her for the address and directions. As expected, the place was five minutes away. But it took me longer than that to round up Chablis and Merlot, who after yesterday were not eager to get back in their carriers and the car.

I found the place easily, set back in the woods on the opposite side of the two-lane highway that ran along the lakefront properties. The Mercy Animal Sanctuary was housed in a long log cabin with two hurricane-fenced runs on the side farthest from the entrance. Four dogs barked their greeting when I pulled into the small parking area.

I rolled the windows down an inch or two for Chablis and Merlot’s comfort and climbed out of the van. But before I even made it to the shelter door, a young brunette wearing jeans and an oversized sweater met me outside.

“Hey there,” she said. “Allison Cuddahee. How can I help you?”

“Jillian Hart. I’ve lost—” I took a deep breath. “L-lost my cat.” I wasn’t about to cry again. Stupid tears. You’d think I would have used them all up in the last year.

Allison opened her arms and came to me. “You need a hug, Miss Jillian Hart.”

She was a tiny thing, maybe three inches smaller than my five-foot-six and at least ten pounds lighter, but Allison Cuddahee provided one monster hug. It felt wonderful to have a caring human touch, and all the tension seemed to leave my body. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the calm in my center.

She broke away a second later but kept her hands on my upper arms. “I want you to tell me about your kitty, but let’s go inside. Winter has apparently arrived on this fine Saturday morning.”

That hug seemed to have infused me with determination—the kind I’d been famous for before John’s death. I would find Syrah. I was certain I would. And I had a feeling that Candace, and now this young woman, would help me do just that.

We entered an office area and were met with a loud “Hey there,” by an African grey parrot. There was also a cage full of chirping canaries, a fish tank bubbling away with plenty of colorful swimmers and a glass case with the biggest tarantula I’d ever seen. A chill ran up my arms. I’m not a fan of spiders.

I focused on the bird, with its gorgeous scarlet tail. “Hey there,” I said.

“What can I do ya?” came its response.

I laughed and said, “This is obviously a Southern African parrot.”

“Snug loves his buttermilk biscuits, so I guess you’re right.” Allison took a seat behind a cluttered and rusted metal desk, gesturing for me to take the folding lawn chair opposite her. “Money goes for the animals, not the decor, so sorry about the chair.”

“A chair’s a chair, and I like your philosophy,” I said.