That was where I’d spent the better part of the last ten months. That was where nothing bad happened. But my world had changed in the last few days—even in the last few hours.
I said, “Shawn, you have to tell them about yesterday. About what that man was like when we went over there.”
Shawn stared at me, his hard eyes and his clenched fists speaking more than words. “Sure. I’ll do that. Then you can tell them how all those little quilts of yours ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house.”
I blinked. I’d forgotten all about them.
Shawn went on. “I recognized them when I went upstairs to get the cats Wilkerson probably stole from God knows who. They’re like the quilts you gave the Sanctuary. The police should certainly be wondering exactly how that man got hold of them.”
Both sets of police eyes turned on me.
“I—I don’t know. I forgot to mention that I saw them . . . b-because of all the chaos.” I looked at Candace.
“Once I had a chance to remember, I would have told you, though.”
She stared at the floor and shook her head. “You had a connection to the vic that you never told me? Even when I was taking your formal statement?”
“I forgot. It’s that simple.” I was trying not to sound pleading but wasn’t sure I’d succeeded because she still looked disappointed.
I said, “I have no earthly idea how my quilts got inside his house. But the quilts he had were ones that I haven’t made for months. I can check my orders from the last year. I do most of my sales online and—”
“You check those orders, Ms. Hart. As for now, Mr. Cuddahee, Deputy Carson and I will be leaving. Shawn, you follow us.”
“Mike, what the hell?” Shawn said.
“We’re taking this discussion down to the station,” Baca said tersely.
With that, the chief turned, opened the door and walked out. Candace, carrying the crate with the Siamese, followed. So did Shawn, but not before he shot me a cross look.
I fought back unexpected tears—I really liked Shawn, and I certainly didn’t want him to be in trouble. I spent the next hour trying to forget this awful day by coaxing the Persian out of the crate, first with soft words and then with a can of Fancy Feast. Syrah kept his distance, maybe because he thought she might not be the same cat he’d been hanging around with for the last few days. After all, she’d been bathed and smelled like perfume—seemed like a totally different animal from the poor matted and obviously neglected soul Syrah had undoubtedly released from captivity at Wilkerson’s place.
Merlot continued to pout, keeping his nose to the window facing the lake. Syrah closed in and sniffed the little Persian when she finally emerged to eat her roasted chicken entrée. He nudged her away from the saucer, took a few bites himself and then let her eat again. Oh, yes. Pecking order must be established. Chablis slept through the whole episode, but at least the sneezing had stopped.
Once I’d pointed out the litter box in the basement to our new friend—whom I dubbed Dove because she was a dark chocolate color—I grabbed a glass of tea and went to my desktop computer. If I’d sold quilts to Flake Wilkerson, I had no recollection of any order and didn’t remember seeing his name on the hard-copy invoices I keep. But of course he probably didn’t use the name Flake on his credit card.
When I’d seen him the day Shawn and I went to the Pink House, I certainly hadn’t recognized him. But I could have met him at a cat show where I’d had a vendor booth. If customers paid cash at a show, I wrote the name on the receipt, but no other information. According to the Cuddahees, Wilkerson was always on the lookout for purebred cats. What better place to find them than at a cat show? Even if the ones for sale at those shows were darn pricey. Yes. That seemed like a possible explanation for where he’d obtained my quilts.
I set my tea on a coaster by my keyboard, Chablis at my feet, and began searching my files for his name. I came up with nothing.
Wait a minute. What about the business cards on the vet’s bulletin board? I sat back in the swivel chair, and poor Chablis thought this was her cue to jump in my lap. She didn’t quite make it and ended up clinging to my blue- jeaned thighs. I hefted her onto my lap and stroked her silky back. As she started to purr, my mind began to hum with memories.
All three cats had needed their yearly exams and I’d taken them to the vet one by one on three successive days. That was when I’d tacked up a few business cards. Flake Wilkerson might have learned about my business if he ever went to the vet. Maybe he’d driven by my house, spotted Syrah in the window and decided he wanted him for his own. My card did have my phone number and address.
Could a business card have led to all that had happened this week? Would this be something that could solve the mystery of the cats found at the Pink House? Was the vet Wilkerson’s source once he realized the Sanctuary wouldn’t cooperate with him?
I wondered if my theory would be of any interest to the police. I did have another huge question that Baca might not consider important either: Why was Flake Wilkerson obsessed with cats, especially those that belonged to other people? I didn’t know, but I wanted to ask Baca. Maybe my ideas might even help deflect suspicion from Shawn. Perhaps there was another victim of cat theft out there, a victim with a temper. A victim not named Cuddahee.
Eleven
Hoping to put aside thoughts of my almost surreal day, I settled on my sofa at about eight p.m. to watch
My phone rang, and I mumbled, “Do I really want to talk to anyone?” as I hit the remote’s PAUSE button. Dove, who had taken up residence in my lap, much to Merlot’s chagrin, jumped off when I reached for my cell.
“Miss Hart, this is Lydia Monk. You remember me?” She sounded so tired.
“Sure.” I didn’t add, “Who could forget an encounter with you?”
“If you’re at home, Candy Carson and I need to pay you a visit. And trust me, this is not my idea. The last thing I want to do is bother you any more today.”
“I’m home, but what’s this about?”
“Very kind of you to accommodate us this late on a Sunday evening. We’ll be by shortly and explain.” She disconnected.
Did they want another recitation of the events from when I arrived at Wilkerson’s house this morning? Maybe. Didn’t cop shows always have scenes with witnesses saying, “How many times do I have to tell you what happened?” This thought reminded me that my whole knowledge of police procedure came from watching television—not the most reliable source of information.
They arrived in less than five minutes, so they must have already been on their way when Lydia called. Lydia still wore her tennis shoes and smelled like her deodorant had failed her several hours ago. Plus, her makeup needed a retouch. One false eyelash was coming unglued and her con cealer wasn’t concealing much of anything. She was older than she’d looked earlier—maybe late thirties rather than early thirties. But her breasts were as perky as the day the surgeon sewed them in, and I had to admit that her posture, unlike her face, revealed no fatigue.
I led the two women through the foyer to my living room, where they both refused my offer of a drink.
I caught a vibe from Candace that I interpreted to mean she wanted to pretend we weren’t friends. Maybe that was something she had to do in front of the deputy coroner.
Lydia sighed heavily as she sank into one of the easy chairs near the picture window. A full moon reflected off
