The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse acitm-1

by Leann Sweeney

  Morris reappeared and whispered, “Your key?”

  I gave it to him, thinking that at least that meant the lock wasn’t broken.

  Then I stood impatiently in the cold, trembling more from fear than from the weather. Were my cats all right?

  After what seemed to be hours, Morris and Candace came out the front door, guns holstered, expressions relaxed.

  Morris said, “I don’t see any problem ’cept for a broken lamp. Bet that big old cat knocked it over.”

  “You saw my cats?” I said.

  “Both of them,” Candace said.

  “And the alarm went off, right?” I looked at Candace. “That’s why you said you were on your way when I called you from the quilt shop?”

  “What alarm?” Candace said.

  “You didn’t get an alert at the station about a break-in at my house?”

  “Um, no. I sorta always say we’re on our way when upset folks call me.” She looked embarrassed. “That’s how I calm them down. You said you’d seen evidence on this cell phone doodad that someone was in your house, but you never mentioned an alarm.”

  “There’s an alarm?” Morris said. “We didn’t get no notice from Tom that you had a phone hookup to the station,” Morris said. “Did he fiddle with your telephone line when he put in the system?”

  “I—I don’t know.” Gosh, did I feel stupid.

  “Then you’re not hooked up straight to us yet,” Morris said. “Sometimes Tom calls us right when he finishes the work, but sometimes it takes a day or two.”

  “Wish he would have told me that important piece of information, but if my cats are okay, then so am I. Can I go in?”

  “Sure. You’re spooked after that broken window the other day, is all,” Morris said. “Bet everything is fine.”

  “Um, maybe not,” Candace said. “Like I told you, Morris, the back door wasn’t locked.” She looked at me. “Did you have your new system turned on?”

  “Of course. I locked every window and door. If you found the back door open, someone must have broken in after all.” Now I wanted to see my cats more than ever. I retrieved my keys from Morris on the way to my front door.

  Then I heard Candace’s footsteps behind me. “Where’s the control box for your alarm?” she asked.

  I opened the door and stepped inside, calling for Merlot and Chablis before I answered her. “Inside the pantry by the back door.”

  “I only checked to make sure no one was hiding in here. But if you locked your door, something’s not right.” She took off in the direction of the kitchen while I crouched to greet Chablis and Merlot as they came into the foyer. Both of them were wide-eyed, their coats puffed out in fear again. Was that because there’d been another break-in? Or just because Morris and Candace had been inside looking around?I took Chablis in one arm and drew Merlot close with the other. “What has been going on here, you two?”

  Merlot was quickly done with cuddling and went off in the direction Candace had gone, watch-cat that he is. I soothed Chablis for a few more seconds, then picked her up and closed the front door with my foot. I wasn’t surprised that Morris had gone back to his squad car.

  I found Candace staring at the new control box. Or what used to be a control box—and now was a mangled mess.

  Candace looked pretty disgusted.

  As for me, I was stunned. The alarm must have gone off and made someone very angry to do this much damage.“I’ll need my fingerprint kit,” Candace said. “I’m guessing someone took a hammer to this after they picked your back door lock.”

  “How can you pick a lock that has a dead bolt?” I said.

  “All you need is a thin, strong piece of metal and a pin tool for a basic dead bolt like yours. Happens all the time.”

  “I need to start researching criminal behavior rather than cat trivia,” I said. And make sure I was hooked up to both the police and Tom Stewart’s security service. Doubly safe was obviously the way to go.

  Chablis jumped out of my arms, but didn’t run off. She leaped onto the kitchen counter, her blue-eyed gaze switching from me to Candace and back to me as if to say, “What are you two planning to do about this situation?”

  But I had no answer. I was bewildered. “Why would this person break a window one time and then enter through the back door the next?”

  “You’re assuming the same person did this. Never assume.” She might as well have added, “Haven’t I taught you anything?”

  “Oh,” was all I could manage.

  “Course the perp could have seen all your brand-spanking-new cameras and thought they could hide their identity better coming through the back door. Breaking a window is a whole lot quicker than picking a dead bolt, but bad guys adjust to the circumstances.”

  The microphone attached to Candace’s uniformed shoulder spewed static, and then I heard a female voice say, “We got a house fire at 808 Westwood Drive. Children in the home. All units respond. All units respond.”

  “Sorry.” Candace whirled and sped out the back door, yelling, “I checked and there’s no intruder here now, so you’re fine. Just try not to touch anything that might be evidence. I’ll call you.” She disappeared.

  I was alone with my cats again. Alone and worried about human children who needed help in a burning house. Plus I was a little frustrated. I understood why Tom couldn’t get me hooked up to the police station when he finished the job at one a.m., but I sure wished he’d been able to do so this morning. He probably felt entitled to sleep late after working into the wee hours. Just my luck.

  I took a calming breath and then remembered the cameras. They weren’t connected to the alarm box. And unless this malicious person had smashed all my cameras, too, I might find something important on my computer. Yup. My cell phone feed was limited, but the computer kept the recordings of everything.

  I hurried to my office. Merlot loped ahead and beat me there, with Chablis not far behind. Whatever had gone on apparently hadn’t upset them as much as last time, and I was thankful for that.

  Both cats jumped on the double-stacked barrister-style bookcases to get a good view as I sat at my desk. It was set catty-corner to the case—and it needed to be catty-corner so the kitties would have a place to watch me. Otherwise they’d plant themselves on top of the hard-drive tower or the other tall bookshelf. But Merlot wasn’t happy sharing space and swatted poor Chablis on the nose. She jumped from the table onto the keyboard. I’d just started booting up, and her landing did strange things to the start-up screen.

  I was forced to turn off the computer, put Chablis in my lap, start the whole procedure over and still try to stay composed enough to remember all the steps to bring up the camera feeds.

  At first I couldn’t figure out how to get to the stored video rather than the live feed currently recording my empty living room. Chablis was ready to help, and I had to grab her playful paw right before she shut me down again. Then I remembered the file Tom had set up on my computer desktop. I clicked on the icon and chose the last hour’s worth of video, hoping I could discover exactly what went on when my poor control panel met the business side of a hammer.

  And there it was. On feed number two. First the alarm shrieking, then the back door opening. But the stupid camera was positioned too low and too far to the left. I must have moved it inadvertently when I made coffee this morning—it was in a potted plant right by the coffee canister. Then I saw a dark-clad figure taking a mallet to the control panel. The time stamp read 10:37 a.m.

  I’d been chatting with Belle while this—this miserable excuse for a person broke into my kitchen. Trouble was, all I could see was an arm and a gloved hand. Small hand. A woman? Why had I been thinking all along that the perp was a man? Perp? Candace’s influence was creeping into my vocabulary again.

  But I was getting excited. Surely I hadn’t missed every shot of this person—not with all the cameras Tom had installed. I switched to the living room—feed number four. Merlot came into the small video square at full speed,
and behind him raced the intruder complete with ski mask.

  What? This is crazy.

  I watched the lamp crash to the floor when the person knocked it over with an elbow as he or she chased my cat. Then they came back into view running from the other direction, Merlot not even at full speed.

  The scene reminded me of something Charlie Chaplin or Jackie Chan might have choreographed. I glanced over at my hero Merlot and gave him a thumbs-up.He closed his eyes, his expression saying, “I am a ninja warrior. My evasive actions are quite effective.”

  Seeing the stranger in relation to Merlot, I decided the height as well as the stride was definitely male. But those small hands . . .

  Wait a minute.

  I rewound and looked at the intruder’s feet. Small feet, too. Feet very much like I’d seen yesterday.

  I stood so abruptly that poor Chablis ended up hanging on to my thighs for dear life. I hardly felt the pain of her claws digging into my flesh.

  I pried her loose, held her to my face and kissed her nose. “I have to see a man about a cat. Right now. A man who must have gotten greedy after he’d had time to think about two more beautiful cats living here.”

  Minutes later, I was in the minivan on my way to Flake Wilkerson’s house. But after only a few seconds on the road, I thought twice about confronting him alone. He’d had the audacity to break into my house not once, but probably twice, and as was evidenced yesterday, he was a hateful man. Plus the police were definitely tied up and might be for a while.

  But I wanted my cat back in the worst way, and I was sure I knew where to find Syrah.

  I reached over and grabbed my phone. Tom Stewart answered on the second ring.

  “Guess what,” I said.

  “I know,” he answered. “You called the police and figured out you’re not connected yet. I’m sorry I didn’t get the hookup done. I planned to call you as soon as—”

  “We can sort through that later. Meet me at Flake Wilkerson’s house right now. I’m certain he has my cat, and I need you to help me deal with this situation. I’d already thought about hiring you to find Syrah anyway and now it’s settled. We can talk about money later. Do you need directions to the Pink House?”

  “I don’t, but—”

  “This is important. Five minutes.”

  “Can you give me a little more time than—”

  “Five minutes.” I snapped the phone closed.

  I took a deep breath and smiled, certain I was about to be reunited with Syrah. But the time it took to get to Wilkerson’s house seemed like forever. I was hoping Tom would beat me there, but his van wasn’t in the driveway when I arrived. I parked on the street close to the ditch, not willing to walk up to that front door alone.

  Be smart, Jillian. You can wait. But something changed my mind.

  Syrah.

  My gorgeous Syrah came walking down the driveway away from the house, his distinctive meow—the one I hear when he gets himself stuck behind something or locked in a closet—loud and clear. He was calling for me.

  Worried that I might spook him, I left my van as quietly and carefully as possible, crouched at the end of the driveway and whispered his name. He stopped and looked at me, all thirty-two muscles in his ears working. He cocked his head, meowed again. I know every single one of his special sounds, but I didn’t recognize this one. He sounded . . . well, demanding.

  Then he turned and scurried back toward the house.

  What? No!

  “Syrah. Come here, baby,” I called, running after him.

  At the open back door, Syrah had stopped, back arched, his body pressed against the doorframe and his wonderful big ears twitching. I reached out with both arms, thinking he would jump into them like he always does, but instead he slipped inside the house.

  I stood there, surprised. What the heck was going on?

  Better question, Jillian: Why is the door open?

  The shiver of fear that ran up both arms almost stopped me, but rescuing my cat overrode common sense. I went up two concrete steps leading to the door, halted on the stoop and used one finger to open it wider.

  “Mr. Wilkerson, your door is open,” I called.

  Always the well-mannered Texas girl. Even though this man stole your cat.

  I knelt and called Syrah’s name, hoping he’d come back. Then I could grab him and race to my van. But instead of seeing Syrah coming back to me, I saw a few tiny, rusty-colored pawprints on the kitchen tile in front of me.

  Blood? Oh my God. Was Syrah injured?

  Those sticky-looking pawprints drew me into the kitchen when Syrah did not come bounding back. Where the heck had he gone? He knew I’d help him if he was hurt.

  The kitchen was gloomy gray, and the fear that had taken hold in my gut felt like a hand twisting my insides. Announcing my presence wasn’t exactly the most brilliant thing I’d done today. I looked back at the open back door. Where the heck was Tom? I needed him this instant.

  Leaving might have been a wise choice, but I couldn’t. Not before I found Syrah. I wished I could call Candace, but she was definitely tied up. Besides, why would the police be interested in an injured cat whose feet bled a little on an eccentric old man’s kitchen floor?

  I kept whispering Syrah’s name as I scanned the room. The kitchen, though tidy, smelled sour—like an old sponge—and then I heard the plaintive call of what was surely a trapped or injured cat. Not Syrah’s voice, but some other cat in trouble.

  How serious was this problem I’d stumbled upon? An animal was bleeding, and I was certain that through either neglect or intention Flake Wilkerson had something to do with it. I listened hard and decided that the cat noises were coming from the second floor.

  Find Syrah first and then worry about the other cat.

  Sidestepping the pawprints, I made my way around a rolling butcher block island with a cracked top covered with knife marks. Slices of apple just turning brown and half a glass of fizzing Coke sat abandoned on its surface.

  I kept my eyes on the floor, still whispering for Syrah, and reached an arched entry. I heard a clock somewhere farther inside the house chiming the half hour. I stopped, hoping I would come upon my cat so I could grab him and run. Then I’d call animal control. Yes. That was what I’d do. They would want to know if cats were being abused here.

  Wishful thinking.

  My jaw dropped and my stomach roiled simultaneously at what I saw in the dining room beyond.

  It wasn’t an injured cat.

  Flake Wilkerson lay sprawled on the floor, a butcher knife sticking out of his flat belly like a gruesome flag.

  Seven

  Though I didn’t take my eyes off Wilkerson’s still body, I detected movement to my right. My heart skipped a beat before I realized it wasn’t a killer but rather a small dark cat running across the front hallway. Not Syrah. Maybe the one I’d seen in the window yesterday?

  I closed my eyes, trying to gather myself. Then I stared at the man lying on the floor. So much blood had been spilled that it drenched his shirt and pooled around his center. His cloudy, fixed eyes told me he was most certainly dead.

  And whoever had done this could still be in the house and come after me next. I should run. Get out. But I couldn’t seem to move. Aside from the sounds of wailing cats—yes, more than one now—coming from upstairs and my own heart beating wildly in my ears, I heard nothing.

  I was afraid, yes, but running didn’t seem like the right thing to do, perhaps because John’s death was so fresh in my mind. I had tasted my husband’s still warm, lifeless lips not so long ago. I understood that being in the presence of the dead could make you scared and brave all at once.

  That brave part pushed me forward toward this strange old man’s body, propelled by the thought that no matter how he had lived his life, he needed someone to care for him now, someone to do right by him.

  The blood was a problem. I circled his body to avoid stepping in the glistening puddle near his left side, its symmetry marred by little c
at feet. Probably Syrah’s. That was why there’d been pawprints in the kitchen.

  I ended up at Wilkerson’s head, knelt and searched for his carotid artery. He skin was still warm. I bent my head to feel for any hint of breath against my cheek. No pulse. No breath. No life. He wasn’t cold yet, but he was very dead.

  Sadness filled me then. A life cut short, this one by man-made violence. Why did I feel so sorry for him? Especially after our encounter yesterday? Didn’t matter now.

  I sat back on my heels and reached into my pocket with a shaky hand for my cell phone, surprised that a sheen of tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t even seem to find the number nine, but finally I managed to make the call. I blinked hard, fighting back tears. But the dispatcher wasn’t answering, and while I was waiting I heard a tiny meow. A softness brushed my wrist; a whiskered face nuzzled my hand.

  I looked down and saw Syrah.

  When I touched him, he raised his head to meet my fingers. Seemed both of us were looking for comfort.

  That tender moment was cut short when I heard, “What the hell happened?” in a deep baritone—a sound that made my stomach jump because it wasn’t coming from the phone.

  I started and dropped my cell phone. It closed and disconnected. Tom Stewart stood in the arched entry.

  “He—he’s dead,” I managed, picking up my phone and gathering Syrah into my arms. I stood, clutching my cat close.

  “No kidding.”

  I held out my phone. “I—I was trying to call 911, but—”“I’ll do that. You take a seat.” He nodded at the furniture in an adjoining parlor that seemed about a mile away. “And stay where I can keep an eye on you.”

  I had trouble processing what he’d said, but then made my way to a settee in the parlor. Once I sat down, it dawned on me that he’d told me to stay put. Why? My God, did he think I’d had something to do with Mr. Wilkerson’s death?

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere. This man is dead and his house is full of cats that need help.”