“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.
A brown Persian? Like the one at my house?
“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
Good 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?”
“Don’t know,” Candace said. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. I take it Wilkerson knew about Java?”
; “Most certainly. You know I never met a stranger and I showed pictures to everyone I knew—even you.”
“You did?” Candace said.
“Young people,” Belle said, shaking her head. “You don’t pay attention to anything but television and tabloids. You might have been the one to bring me here to reunite with Java if you’d been paying attention.” Belle closed her eyes tightly, apparently fighting tears. “Seniors talk and no one listens. It’s a sad thing.”
“I’m sorry, Belle,” Candace said. “You’re absolutely right.”
“And I’m sorry for running my mouth. Free coffee for both of you next time you come in, okay?”
“That’s sweet,” I said, “but I didn’t do much. I was just looking for my cat and found Java, too.”
“Very brave of you, young woman. Very brave. Chase has Roscoe thanks to you, and now I have Java.”
“I have another question. It’s something we’re asking everyone we interview,” Candace said. “Where were you last Sunday morning?”
“I don’t even remember what I had for breakfast, much less what I was doing several days ago.” But when Candace kept staring at her, she got more serious. “I guess I did some baking … always make cakes for the shop on Sundays. Other than that, I’d have to think on this to come up with specific times.”
“Good,” said Candace. “Think on it. Maybe you’ll recall something someone said that might relate to the crime. You talk to plenty of folks, that’s for sure. The more information we have, the better we can handle this investigation.”
“You’ve never had to ask me these sort of questions, have you, Candy?” Belle said. “Must be hard for a sweet girl like you to be tough on the town folks.”
Candace laughed. “Some folks make it darn easy to be tough—but you’re right. I would never want to offend you.”
“I am a sensitive sort, but I know you’re a sweetheart,” Belle said.
“Would you mind if I called Chief Baca to make sure it’s okay if you take Java home? All the cats we found in the house are evidence.”
“That’s what Jillian said, but Java’s a living, breathing animal, not a piece of property.”
“I know. Don’t get me wrong,” Candace said. “Let me call and I’m sure he’ll allow you to take Java home.” She stood, took her cell phone from her police belt and beat a hasty retreat into the foyer and out of earshot.
Belle said, “I am trying my hardest to cooperate, but I want to take Java home right now.”
“I’m sorry, Belle. Candace is doing her job.” All of a sudden I’d been thrust into the role of “good cop.” But it wasn’t a stretch—I couldn’t picture Belle sticking a knife in anything other than a piece of cheesecake.
“I suppose she’s having trouble wearing her police hat and her friend hat at the same time,” Belle said, turning her attention back to Java. “She looks beautiful—none the worse for wear. But how exactly did she end up with you?”
“Remember I told you that Shawn took Java and those other cats from the Pink House? Well, he didn’t have room at the Sanctuary for all of them, so he brought her here.”
Belle thunked her forehead with her palm. “That’s right. Since I’ve just had this wonderful shock, my brains are a little scrambled.”
“You can thank Shawn for how pretty she looks and how nice she smells. I am no cat groomer.”
Belle laughed. “I’ll thank him next time I see him. But this police business is disturbing. I—”
Candace came back into the room and said, “Chief gave the okay, Belle.”
“Wonderful.” Belle looked at me. “Can you take us back to my car?”
“I’d be glad to do that,” Candace said. “I dropped Morris off at Belle’s Beans, since he had a hankering for that red velvet cake you always have in the dessert case.”
Belle smiled. “That’s my granny’s recipe—older than I am, if you can imagine.”
As they left, Candace lagged behind and whispered, “I’ll call you.”
While I waited for her call, I worked hard to keep my mind off the case. I’d never thought after what I’d gone through since John’s death that my emotions would come alive for anything again—but it was happening. I cared about these cats and wanted to find out what had happened to them.
I spent hours piecing quilts and listening to the Beatles on my iPod while waiting anxiously for Candace’s phone call. At least the music drowned out my thoughts about murder and stolen pets, and my work soothed me as it always did.
When Candace finally contacted me, it was well past nine p.m. She explained she’d had to work overtime. I told her about the other developments prior to figuring out that the Persian belonged to Belle—about Chase and his cat, the idea I had about the cat flyers, my chat with Lydia and my thought that the woman might have actually threatened me. But I didn’t get any information from Candace when I asked her what Baca said about Java belonging to Belle. She simply told me to be ready for a trip to the Pink House in the morning.
What would we be doing there? Looking for cat flyers? Or did Candace have something else in mind?
Eighteen
Candace arrived about ten a.m.—it was her day off—and she looked cranky and tired. Though I didn’t want another adventurous trek in her RAV4, I was afraid that if I suggested I drive it might agitate her even more, so I kept my mouth shut. I noticed she was wearing a Sam Houston State University sweatshirt and thought asking her about that would be safe territory.
After I was sitting beside her, braced for another Indystyle race to our destination, I said, “I like your sweatshirt. That college is north of my old stomping grounds in Texas.”
“Went to a three-day workshop there. They have an awesome criminal justice school. I took a forensics course, but now that you’ve brought that up, I’m pissed off all over again. Why do I have to practically beg to use what I’ve learned?”
Pissed off all over again? My guess was she woke up that way and nothing had changed. “Baca still being stubborn?” I said.
“He’s saying this is a crime about money, not some silly cats,” she said.
“Baca mentioned money when he talked to me too, and then Lydia brought up a life insurance policy. Is that the money he’s talking about?”
“That Lydia. She doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.” This further cause for irritation made Candace press her foot down on the gas even harder, and I closed my eyes, sure that we’d end up wrapped around a telephone pole.
Hoping to calm her, I said, “You can be sure I won’t be saying anything to anyone about the money. But Mr. Wilkerson could have been getting money from cat sales, right?”
“It’s possible. But Baca wouldn’t listen to me when I said this looked like a crime of passion, not a premeditated murder by someone cold and calculating. Wilkerson made Shawn angry enough to spit nails, and who’s to say he didn’t make someone else that mad?”
“He upset me, that’s for sure,” I said. “Not angry enough to kill him, but everyone has their own breaking point. What if someone went to the Pink House to get their cat back, just as I did?” And then I had another idea. “And what if that person became incensed when he or she realized their pet was already gone?”
“I had the same thought. The killer used a knife from the kitchen, for Pete’s sake. Knives come out of the drawer when someone’s in a rage. I’ve been out on enough domestic calls to know that much. That has to be it. Flake Wilkerson stole the wrong person’s cat—someone who had a major temper failure.”
Candace was really getting worked up.
“You’re tired, aren’t you?” I said.
“Tired of being treated like I don’t know squat,” she said.
“By the chief?” I asked.
“By Lydia mostly. The chief and I are cool, but he’s not handing me any assignments directly related to the case aside from those evidence samples I took at the Pink House.”
“Is that why we’re heading there this morning? To take more
samples?”
“Not exactly. We’re simply paying a friendly visit to Wilkerson’s daughter, like you and I discussed. She got in last night.”
“She knows we’re coming?” I said.
“Not really.”
Candace made a sharp right onto the dirt road leading to the Pink House, and I nearly cracked my head on the passenger window on the rebound. “The chief interviewed Daphne last night, so we’re not interfering with the investigation. Let’s start out by saying you just want to talk to her, extend your condolences, and I’m along for the ride. She’s the life insurance beneficiary, so the chief probably suspects her, but you and I don’t suspect her of anything. We have no reason to, right?”
“I’ll be able to respond after I recover from my broken neck,” I said.
She looked confused. “What?”
“Never mind,” I said.
But then she slammed to a stop behind an ancient Cadillac Seville sitting in the driveway, and this time the seat belt nearly snapped my collarbone as it tightened in response to the sudden braking.
That does it. She never drives me anywhere again.
Candace slid from behind the wheel, totally oblivious.
Rubbing my surely bruised shoulder, I got out of the car, too. Candace stopped behind the Cadillac, took a small notebook from her jeans pocket and scribbled down the tag number.
When she was done, she said, “Come on, let’s go meet Daphne so you can tell her how sorry you are you walked into this house and found her father dead.”
“Me? I have to start the conversation?” I said.
“Yes.” She’d gone into full cop mode. And here I thought this was supposed to be a friendly visit.
“But you know how to do this stuff,” I said, realizing I sounded like I was whining. I hate whining.
“You are a lot nicer than I am. She’ll like you.” She was walking toward the front door.
Why did I have to be the front woman? Maybe because Daphne—I didn’t even know her last name; was it Wilkerson?—would learn soon enough that Candace was a police officer? If Candace wasn’t forthright, she could get in hot water again. Whereas I could say anything I wanted. Oh brother. I was beginning to think like Candace.
Leann Sweeney Page 16
