“Oh, for criminy sake. Then puh-leese, go find every piece of lint you can, Candy.” Morris pinched some tobacco and mashed it between his lower teeth and lip.
Candace’s cheeks colored. She took a pair of latex gloves from her pocket and put them on. “That’s exactly what I intend to do. The basement, Ms. Hart?” she said.
I pointed to the kitchen. “Through there. You’ll see the door to the stairs.”
Morris was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Seemed to me like he wanted back in his police cruiser as quickly as he could manage it. “I need to start the paperwork, Ms. Hart. Excuse me for a moment.”
He went out the front door and took his time before coming back with a clipboard. In the interim, I’d filled a dropper with Benadryl, unzipped the top of Chablis’s carrier and given her a dose. Poor baby’s nose was running like a faucet now. I checked out Morris’s shoulders for any dandruff when he returned, wondering if he’d made her allergy attack worse. I mean, it was obvious that this reaction was caused by an intruder with dandruff.
Morris, whose graying hair seemed dandruff-free, sat on the reclining wing chair across from the sofa, a simple, normal action that jolted me. That leather recliner had belonged to John and no one had touched it since his death.
It’s okay. It’s only a chair.
But anxiety mixed with grief made my stomach knot. I would have preferred to pace off this unwelcome emotion, but instead I sat on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in my lap. Merlot and Chablis were already worried about their friend Syrah. They needed me to at least act like I was in a stable emotional state.
“You live alone, ma’am?” Morris said.
“No, sir. I live with my three cats—Chablis, Syrah and Merlot.” Maybe I could make him understand through some sarcasm of my own that cats are as important as people.
But he didn’t bother to write their names down. He just stared at me with tired brown eyes. “No gentleman residing here with you? Because I heard tell you was married.”
“You heard tell?” I said.
“No secrets in Mercy, Ms. Hart.”
“Apparently there are,” I said softly. “My husband died unexpectedly not long after we moved here. Heart attack.”
His forehead wrinkled in confusion, as if to say, “Why didn’t I know this?” Then he said, “I’m sorry for your loss. Sorry indeed,” and at least he sounded like he actually meant it.
Candace returned to the living room and, without saying a word, focused first on the window and then on the glass still lying undisturbed on the cushions. At least I’d done something right by leaving it there.
She took out her phone and snapped off a few pictures before removing a folded brown paper bag from her uniform pocket.
“Candy, what the hell do you think you’re doing now?” Morris said.
“Candace is collecting evidence,” she said, carefully picking up the pieces of glass and putting them in her bag.
“’Cause a cat ran off? I know you take your job real serious, and I try my best to respect that, but I’m thinking the county crime lab won’t be happy about this particular evidence.”
Candace said, “Someone invaded this kind lady’s private property, so I disagree. And can we assume the cat ran off? Maybe the bad guy took him.”
Morris sighed heavily. “Took the cat? Why in heck would someone break in to steal a cat? You can go the SPCA or—Forget it.” He refocused on me. “For my report, exactly when did this happen, Ms. Hart?”
“I got in at one o’clock. Did I mention that this . . . this person turned off my TV?”
“Huh?” Morris said. “Don’t you mean turned on your TV?”
“No. I leave it on. I like people to think I’m home when the cats are alone.” For some reason I felt a little embarrassed about this, so I added, “Obviously that tactic didn’t work.”
“Can I offer a piece of advice, Ms. Hart?” Morris said. “Get yourself a dog. A real dog, like a German shepherd. A dog with a big bark and a bigger bite.”
“Sorry. I love dogs, but my cats don’t.”
“Okay, then get yourself a nice state-of-the-art alarm system. We got a guy in town who does that stuff. Name’s Tom. Tom Stewart. Nice fella and—”
“Did you touch the television when you came in, Ms. Hart?” Candace interrupted. She was on her knees by the window seat, staring intently at the cushions, her tweezers poised and ready to collect more evidence.
“I used the remote,” I said. “I thought maybe the TV wasn’t working.”
“Gosh darn,” Candace muttered, getting to her feet. “Okay, we might still get prints off the TV if the perp shut off the television without touching the remote.”
“The perp?” Both of Morris’s bushy gray eyebrows were working. “We don’t have perps in Mercy. We got dumb drunks and outta-control kids who should eat dinner with their mama and daddy more often. This is about a broken window, Candy.”
“And you have no idea when this break-in occurred?” Candace continued, seemingly unflustered by her partner’s lack of interest in what had gone on in my house.
But I sure appreciated her interest. “I left yesterday afternoon for a quilt show in Spartanburg. I make and sell small quilts for cats.”
“Figures,” Morris said under his breath.
I shot him a look. “I also make quilts that I donate for the children of the men and women in the military who have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. I had a meeting with a charitable group this morning, gave them pictures of my designs and took their order for a hundred children’s quilts. Anyway, I left here around eight a.m. yesterday and I’ve told you when I returned.”
“You mind if I dust your TV and remote?” Candace asked. “I’d also like to see if I could lift prints off the window latch and the outside molding.”
Morris rose abruptly, his patience spent. “Candy, quit with this CSI crap. We’re leaving.” He offered me the best smile a wad of Skoal allowed. “You catch sight of any teenage boys lurkin’ around or peekin’ in your windows, you give us a call. And Billy Cranor can fix that window for you. He works at the hardware store.”
Morris turned and marched toward the foyer, waving a hand for Candace to follow.
But before she left, she took my elbow, leaned close and whispered, “I’ll be back when my shift’s over. I’ve got my fingerprint kit with me at all times and I know how to access AFIS—that’s this big old fingerprint database. This bad guy’s not getting away with this. Try not to disturb the scene too much until I get back here.”
What a pair, I thought, once I’d closed and locked my front door. But Candace was certainly dedicated, and even crotchety Morris Ebeling’s eyes told me he was a decent guy.
I let Chablis and Merlot out of their carriers and said, “Come on, you two. We have flyers to make about our lost buddy.”
As soon as I said the word lost, tears threatened again. I walked to my office, Merlot and a wobbly, sleepy Chablis right with me.
It was only after I’d printed out fifty copies with Syrah’s best picture prominent in the center, only after I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself, that I realized I’d never told Candace about Chablis’s human allergy, how the intruder must have had dandruff. From watching her work, I was certain she might be the one person in Mercy who would consider dandruff important.
Other Novels by Leann Sweeney
The Cats in Trouble Mysteries
The Cat, the Professor and the Poison
The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse
The Yellow Rose Mysteries
Pushing Up Bluebonnets
Shoot from the Lip
Dead Giveaway
A Wedding to Die For
Pick Your Poison
with friends
The Cat, the Lady and the Liar Page 29
