The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“Come on, Jillian,” Tom said. “Stop walking around. We’re in the middle of a damn crime scene.”

I halted on the bottom stair. “But the man is dead and obviously the cats upstairs are not.” I felt much calmer now that he was here. “Someone else might be hurt. And I’m not talking only about animals. What if another person has been stabbed or injured?”

“Please wait,” he said, sounding more like himself rather than the control freak he’d been acting like since he got here. “The police will arrive any minute. You’re a smart woman, so be smart about this,” he said.

“The police are busy dealing with an emergency. You have no idea how long it will take for them to get here. Ask Billy Sue or whatever that dispatcher’s name is.” I nodded at the phone still pressed against his leg.He brought it to his ear, and it immediately started blaring a country song I did not recognize. Must be his ringtone.

“Damn,” he muttered before answering the phone. “Guess I lost you, Barbara. What’s our status?” He listened for a second before saying, “Yeah, I promise to stay on the line.”

“How long before they get here?” I cast an anxious glance toward the landing, where I could still hear mournful cat music.

Tom said, “Don’t know. The chief is on his way since everyone else is at the fire. And a county sheriff deputy’s been called, too.”

Yup, just as I thought. Chaos would soon reign. I was certain no one would let me upstairs then. Nor would anyone care about the cats. So I bolted before Tom could even blink.

The Persian did not appreciate being held by a running woman and told me so by digging its claws into my shoulder and leaping from my arms. It took off back down the stairs. Since I would probably find it in that closet in a few minutes, I wasn’t too worried.

I made my way toward the cat meows coming from a room at the end of a long, dark hallway. One cat was surely a Siamese; one of their sounds mimics the cry of a human infant, and that was what I was hearing.

The door was ajar, and inside what was once a bedroom I found three anxious cats in individual cages on a large table. There seemed to be more cages disassembled and propped against a wall papered with what looked like a 1930s design.

Each of the cats offered its own distinct and loud voice when I walked in. I murmured, “It’s gonna be okay” over and over, and they seemed to calm a little. As I approached, I noticed two black canvas carriers—the kind that zip at the top. They were both partially open. Could have been how Syrah and the Persian escaped.

At that point I noticed something that had somehow escaped my first glance into the room. I stared in disbelief, not at the cats but at what was with them. Each had a quilt to lie on—one of my quilts.

Where had Wilkerson gotten them? Had he stolen them from my sewing room when he snatched Syrah?

But when I took a closer look I saw that the quilts were made from fabrics I’d purchased months ago. I fingered one quilt corner through the wire cage—a log cabin design. I hadn’t made that pattern since right after John’s death. I’d been doing nine patch and crow’s nest designs lately.

The exotic shorthair in that cage rubbed against my fingers, and I scratched its small head. “You’ll be okay, smoosh-face,” I whispered. “I’m here to help you.”

I bent and peered into one canvas carrier. I could see a quilt in there, too, one that appeared to be covered with Syrah’s amber fur. The other carrier was coated with long dark hairs. Syrah must have figured out the zipper and helped the Persian escape.

Persians are one of the sweetest breeds, but some of them aren’t exactly the brightest matches in the box.

“Jillian, get back down here,” shouted Tom.

“You come up,” I called back. “I need to check the other rooms.”

“Please don’t do that,” he answered. “Every step you take up there might compromise evidence.”

I’ve already compromised plenty, then, I thought. Might as well make sure no other person or animal was hurt, or worse, dead. I ran from one room to another—big house, lots of musty bedrooms—all of them filled with ancient furniture. I found no people and no more cats—unless they’d found excellent hiding places.

I returned to the caged kitties. Besides the exotic there was a Tonkinese—could have been a show cat with its platinum mink points—and of course the louder-than-loud lilac-point Siamese. I was about to reach my fingers inside the Tonkinese’s cage and offer some much-needed reassurance, but a man’s voice stopped me.

“Mercy Police. Don’t touch anything, ma’am.”

I turned and briefly took in the dark green uniform before the gun he held in his right hand grabbed the better part of my attention. I pressed my back against the cages and gripped the scarred table the cat prisons sat on.

“I told you not to touch anything.” He sounded calm despite my mistake, and I looked up into a face that seemed far kinder than that huge gun. He was about Tom’s age, with sandy hair and warm brown eyes.

“Then put the AK-47 away,” I said. “You might accidentally shoot a cat.” Though I sounded flip, I was scared out of my gourd. I mean, I’d never had a gun pointed at me in my life.

“This is no AK-47, and if I were to shoot anything, it wouldn’t be an accident. Put your hands where I can see them,” he said. “It’s Jillian Hart, right?”

I intertwined my fingers in front of me. “It is. But do you honestly believe you have to defend yourself against me?”

“Let’s go downstairs, Ms. Hart,” he said evenly.

I heard several voices in the other rooms shouting “clear” over and over. Meanwhile, I seemed stuck to the spot like someone had superglued the soles of my shoes.

“I’m Chief Baca of the Mercy Police. You’re looking chalky, Ms. Hart. We need to go downstairs, okay? Then you can sit down and tell me exactly what went on here.”

Now that I was sure the cats were all right, I decided this was a reasonable request—and his delivery was a lot gentler than Tom Stewart’s had been initially. But I hated leaving these terrified cats.

“What about the animals?” I said.

“They’ll be taken care of,” he said.

“By whom?”

“SPCA or—”

I shook my head vehemently. “No. The SPCA is too far away. Call Shawn or Allison at the Mercy Animal Sanctuary. Please?”

Through the open bedroom door I saw several more green-uniformed people disappearing down the stairs.

“Come with me and then we’ll make arrangements for the cats,” he said.

“C-could you put the gun away?” I had begun to tremble, the pick-me-up power of adrenaline suddenly abandoning me.

He holstered the weapon. “There. Now come on.”

I put one hesitant foot in front of the other and made it across the room. Good thing, too, because then my knees buckled.

Chief Baca caught me before I hit the floor.

Eight

The house fire in town must have finally been contained because the Wilkerson property now became the hub of Mercy’s police and paramedic activity. From my vantage point in the parlor that adjoined the dining room, I even caught a glimpse of Billy Cranor, the handyman and volunteer fireman. Apparently the fire department needed a presence here as well—why, I had no idea.

When Candace arrived she didn’t seem to notice me. She began firing away with her camera before saying a word to anyone, moving around the crime scene with a constant whir of click, click, click. Next she knelt by the body, and I saw her tweeze something off Flake Wilkerson’s pants.