The next day I decided to tell Baca about the tuxedo cat right away. So I headed over to the police station bright and early. The visit to the chief started out pretty well. I didn’t see Candace answering phones, thank God, and I waited less than a minute for Baca to wave me into his office.
I took a seat in the same chair as yesterday, his big, shiny desk between us. To my chagrin, my hands trembled. I clutched them in my lap to hide my nerves. I hadn’t left here the last time in a very pleasant manner, and for some reason that made me nervous.
Before he could even ask me why I was here, I blurted, “I forgot to tell you something yesterday. I’m sorry.”
His expression didn’t change. He just calmly said, “And what would that be, Ms. Hart?”
“Could you call me Jillian? I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you did.”
“Sure, Jillian. Now, what exactly is bothering you this morning?”
I explained about the tuxedo cat, and Baca simply smiled politely. For some reason I found this maddening.
“Say something,” I said, my frustration fairly obvious.
He laughed. “How’s this? I appreciate you returning after how things went down yesterday, but we already know about the black-and-white cat and have found the owner.”
“Oh, did—”
Baca went on, “Shawn Cuddahee gave us all the details of your visit to Mr. Wilkerson the day before the murder. That black-and-white cat had an implanted microchip. When Shawn figured that out, he felt obliged to tell us so we could ask the local vet for help. The doc scanned the chip, and the cat is already back home.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s great. Did he check all the cats Mr. Wilkerson had for those microchips?”
Baca said, “Yup. That was the only one. Candy provided us with the list you two compiled from those flyers. Nice work, I’ll admit. Lydia wanted Candy off the case, but I see that’s not stopping her. As for you, what you’ve been doing is a little far afield from making quilts—that is what you do?”
His Southern charm was really cloying to me now. “Yes. For charity and for cats.”
“Like the ones we found in Flake Wilkerson’s house? Come up with any leads on how he got ahold of those?” he asked.
He was keeping up the “I’m so sweet I’d rot your teeth” act, but I got the distinct feeling the man still suspected me of something nefarious. Aside from Candace, the whole police force probably did.
“I didn’t find anything in my files,” I said. “But I put a business card on the vet’s bulletin board months ago, and Mr. Wilkerson could have gotten my address on a visit there. Maybe he drove by and saw my cats in the window, then chose my house for a break-in.”
“And stole the quilts along with the cat?” he said.
“No. He must have had them for some time. I’m certain of this because of the fabric and the patterns. I sold out of those particular quilts months ago.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“When I buy fabric, I tend to use it in several quilts until all the yardage is gone. And I also choose a certain pattern—say a rail fence or an Irish chain—for a batch of cat quilts. I recognized the quilts I saw at the house as some that I made maybe seven or eight months ago.”
“You didn’t decide to go to the Pink House because you remembered selling those quilts to Mr. Wilkerson and for some reason wanted them back?”
“Of course not. I didn’t even know he had them until the day of the murder—when I went upstairs and saw them. I went there the morning of the murder to get Syrah, not to recover quilts I didn’t know Mr. Wilkerson had.”
“Had to ask,” he said. “Moving on, your coming here and your working with Candy on that list tells me this investigation has grabbed your interest. It would grab mine, too, if I walked into a house—even if uninvited—and found a corpse.”
“I’m interested solely because of the cats. There has to be a connection to them and Mr. Wilkerson’s death, right?”
“Only if his activities concerning the animals angered Shawn Cuddahee enough to make him murder the man.”
“Shawn wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. It must have been someone else,” I said. “Maybe someone whose cat Mr. Wilkerson took.”
“Big maybe. Doesn’t feel right to me—killing someone over a cat. I’m considering other motives,” he said. “And now I’m hoping you’ve thought about the danger you put yourself in as much as you’ve thought about the rest of this case.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t believe the cats had anything to do with the murder?”
“There could be a connection, but it’s not exactly a motive I’d put at the top of my list,” he said.
“Aren’t you even going to question the person who owns the tuxedo cat, just to see how angry he was that Flake took his baby? And what about the business card idea and the list of people who put up flyers about lost cats? Why not ask them if they used the same vet? That veterinary hospital might be where Flake went to hunt for his prey.”
“Prey?” he said.
“Cats to steal. The man was a mean cat thief.” I felt warmth on my cheeks. Now I’d spoken ill of the dead. I hadn’t meant to do that.
“Okay, I’ll give you this much. If cat theft was the motive, we’ll find out. But right now, it seems far-fetched. I’m not inclined to believe someone stuck a knife in Mr. Wilkerson’s abdomen because he nabbed a pet. I’m not ruling it out, but I believe there’s more to it than that. I’m betting on the money.”
“The money? I get it,” I said, excited now. “Mr. Wilkerson was selling those cats, wasn’t he? I knew it.”
“Not what I was thinking,” he said quickly. He seemed flustered by letting this money angle slip. I kinda liked him better flustered, rather than all uptight and oh-so-professional.
Baca pulled a sheet of paper toward him. “Let me confirm a few things.”
“But I’ve given a statement and—”
“This isn’t about the other day.” He glanced down at the paper. “According to what I’ve learned, you and your husband moved here less than a year ago, he died unexpectedly—a retired financial adviser, I see—and you started up this cat quilt business.”
“You’ve got that wrong,” I said. Why did he have to bring up John? He had nothing to do with this.
“What have I got wrong?” Baca said.
“I started the business before John’s death. We both loved cats, and since I’d been quilting for years and was stuck in a boring job, John encouraged me to combine the two. And I’m so glad I did.”
“I got the sequence of events incorrect. Sorry.”
“But what does my husband or our past have to do with anything?” I said.
“You’re new in town, so I had to do a background check. You’ve got no secrets that I could find. And I would think that the community is glad someone like you—who seems to be a kind and caring person, by the way—chose to move here.”
Maybe he did like me, but having the police nose around in my business was unsettling, to say the least. That was what I got for walking into a house uninvited and finding a dead man. But still, I felt even more heat on my cheeks. It was like someone had broken into my house all over again—this time my metaphorical house.
“I can tell you’re upset,” he said. “Please understand I’m only doing the police work the citizens of Mercy pay me to do.”
“I know. It’s just not much fun to be, well, investigated.”
“There’s more, but it’s good news again. I found no evidence on your cell phone bill that you spoke with Mr. Wilkerson at any time. Plus, no money seemed to have changed hands between the two of you—aside from him buying those quilts, of course. And we don’t have any evidence of that. My guess is he stole them when he stole your cat and you just don’t remember you had them lying around.”
“That’s not something I would forget, Chief. He got them some other way.”
“If you remember who you sold the quilts to, let me know.” He sounded like he was done with me.
“I promise you’ll be the first to know if I recover from my Alzheimer’s anytime soon,” I said.
He smiled at my lame joke. “Don’t believe I’m dismissing them. It’s just that those quilts could be one mystery we never solve, and it’s probably not important, just an odd connection between you and Mr. Wilkerson. You’ll be relieved to know we do not consider you a suspect in this murder.” He stood. “Thanks for coming in, Ms.—sorry—Jillian.”
I rose and took the flyer from my pocket, the one of the Tonkinese. “This is one of the cats Shawn has. You may want to call the owner so he can get his cat back. He’s someone who might have been angry with Mr. Wilkerson.”
He glanced at the paper. “Is this one of the people you were so anxious to have me call? As soon as the story broke, this man called us. Seems his cat had just disappeared and he wondered if it was in the Pink House. He’s already picked up his cat from the Sanctuary. And before you ask, this man has a solid alibi.”
“Another reason to believe this isn’t about the cats?” I said.
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll try to be clear: I’m not crossing stolen cats off the list of possible motives. There could be very angry owners out there, but right now we have what, the five cats found in the house? I know you have more names from the flyers you went through, but we don’t have any connection between all those cats and the victim. If more evidence accumulates, I’ll—”
“I get it,” I said. “But perhaps this is about a cat not found in the house—maybe it’s about one that was there and was taken away when the killer left.”
Baca squinted at me, considering this. “I’ll keep that idea in mind.”
“You think that’s implausible, I know, but if that’s the case, you won’t mind if I try to reunite a few owners with the pets that Wilkerson might have stolen. After all, I have the same list of possibilities that Candace gave you this morning.”
His eyes darkened. Made him look all brooding in a Gothic novel sort of way. “Please don’t get in my way. A brutal crime was committed, Jillian. That should scare you. I know it scares me.”
“After what I’ve been through this past year, I’m done being scared about what life throws at me. I’ll try hard not to get in your way, but I won’t be sitting around, either. Cat people may have lost their friends because of this man.”
He sighed. “I can’t stop you—unless you interfere in my investigation. Then we call it obstruction of justice.”
“I call it finding justice—for those cats and their owners. They were victims, too.” And, I thought, if I follow the cats while you’re following the money, one of us might find a killer.
He looked down and shook his head. “You and Shawn. What a pair.”
Minutes later, I left the court building and headed straight for Shawn and Allison’s Sanctuary. While I drove, I thought about a police officer’s job and the need to prioritize. I got that. But I’d prioritized, too, and those cats were at the top of my list. I knew that Shawn’s fingerprints were found somewhere at the scene—somewhere they shouldn’t have been. Baca would never tell me about that, nor would Candace, but if I could make amends with Shawn—which I so wanted to do no matter what—maybe he’d tell me.
I made my way up the dirt driveway to the Sanctuary, the strangling kudzu vines on either side of me a healthy green and gripping onto trees and shrubs as if we hadn’t had a cold snap at all. No, that stuff would seize and control every plant until a hard freeze. I could only hope Shawn wouldn’t hang on to his anger that tightly.
This time Shawn rather than Allison came out to meet me. His stiff posture and unsmiling face indicated he was still very unhappy with me. I drew a deep breath and left the van.
“I sure hope you’ll talk to me, Shawn. I know you didn’t kill anyone. I know you could never do that.”
“You threw me under the bus.” His freckled fists were on his hips, his legs spread as if to stop me from going any farther.
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “Should I have omitted that you had an argument with Mr. Wilkerson when they questioned me?”
“You told them that to save your own ass.”
“Shawn. Look at me.” I made the back-and-forth two-finger gesture for “look me straight in the eye.”
He did so, though grudgingly.
I said, “They would have found out anyway. I wasn’t the only person who knew you had a history with the man.”
He hesitated, then said, “You did what you had to do. I get that.”
“No, you don’t. You’re still angry, and that hurts. Please try to understand? I value your friendship—and Allison’s, too. And the work you do here is so important. I respect you.”
“They locked me up like a criminal on some frickin’ material witness excuse. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
“It must have been awful,” I said.
“Two hours might as well have been two months. I do have a temper, but I’m an honest, God-fearing man, not a killer.”
I said, “I know that. Can we talk? My interest is the cats, as I’m sure yours is, too. We’re on the same page, Shawn.”
He still seemed uncertain, but when his shoulders slumped and his hands fell to his sides, I knew this silly standoff was over.
He waved and said, “Come on, then.”
Snug, the African grey parrot, greeted me with a “Hey there” when I entered the office, and Allison must have heard us arrive because she came in from the cat area. She looked back and forth between Shawn and me as if to ask, “Is everything okay?”
“We’re good,” Shawn replied to her silent question.
“I am so glad.” She reached out her hands and came over to me. Her hug felt as friendly and warm as the first time we’d met.We sat around the scarred desk—so unlike Mike Baca’s—the canaries singing and the spider hiding somewhere in his tank, thank goodness. I summarized my two visits with the chief, told Shawn about the flyers and the list of lost or possibly stolen cats and finished up by saying, “He claims they don’t consider Mr. Wilkerson’s cat thievery a solid motive. But you and I know different, don’t we?”
“Damn straight we do,” Shawn said. “He’s never seen the desperation that I’ve witnessed when folks come in here looking for their lost friends. Does the man not realize someone would do murder to get their best buddy back? If not, he doesn’t know squat.”
“He didn’t say it was impossible. He’s just focusing on other things.”
“Like me. Only because I looked in Wilkerson’s windows. That’s why they arrested me. Said there was evidence of trespassing.”
“I heard they found your fingerprints. You’re saying they were on the windows outside?” I said.
“Yeah. After I picked up the tuxedo, I went back to see what other cats Wilkerson might have been hiding away. Didn’t see any, though. I left before Wilkerson spotted me.”
Allison stood abruptly. “I think we could all use some coffee. How’s about it, Shawn?”
“Yeah. Coffee.” But he was looking at me, not her.
She busied herself at an ancient Mr. Coffee machine sitting on a long table near the only window.
“How’d you know about the fingerprints?” he said.
“You understand better than I do that there are no secrets in Mercy. And I got a new lesson in exactly that when I visited Baca today. They did a background check on me. Can you believe that?”
“At least they didn’t arrest you. Anyway, what’s this you said about a list of other people who lost cats?”
“I was hoping you could look at the flyers Candace and I collected that have pictures on them. See if you recognize any of those cats. Maybe they came through here at some point and Mr. Wilkerson somehow got hold of them.”
“I guess I could do that. By the way, the Tonkinese’s owner called the police when the story broke, and the tuxedo had a chip. He belongs to a rich dude named Chase Cook. What mama would ever name a son Chase is what I want to know. Fits him, though. But he loves that cat and that’s all that matters.”
“That makes me smile,” I said.
“The pretty Tonkinese went this morning, and the Cook guy came last night. He was thrilled to be reunited with his Roscoe.”
“If he loved Roscoe that much, I wonder what he did to find him. We didn’t come across any flyers for missing tuxedos. Maybe I should ask the man about his cat’s disappearance. Can you give me his address?”
Allison set a mug of coffee in front of her husband. “Don’t you be thinking about going along with her.” She looked at me. “No offense, Jillian, but we all know what happened the last time you two went visiting. Now, what do you like in your coffee?”