She smiled. “I’ll see you again before I leave. Promise.” She got out of the van, and I watched her walk up to the front door before I headed into town.
After I’d parked outside Belle’s Beans, I checked the cat-cam and saw all three cats sleeping, Merlot on the window seat and Chablis and Syrah curled together on the sofa. Since a stuffed mouse lay in tatters on the floor with catnip scattered everywhere, I decided they’d worn themselves out.
The coffee shop, for once, wasn’t busy. But then, the lunch hour had passed. That same woman I’d sat with before, Marian Mae, was here, but this time she had a companion—Mike Baca. And with the way they were leaning so close, they looked pretty darn sweet on each other.
I ordered coffee and a chocolate biscotti to go, hoping I could sneak out before he spotted me, but no such luck. Before I made it out the door, he called my name.
I turned and smiled politely, thinking how odd it was to see him in a social situation after everything that had happened in the last few days. He looked relaxed and, well, the word
Baca waved me over and started to introduce me.
“We’ve met,” Marian Mae said.
“You know how crowded it gets in here—we shared a table once.” She rested her hand over his, a gesture I assumed was designed to explain that he belonged to her.
“Thanks for the tip about the computer,” he said. “I wasn’t all that polite last night and for that I apologize.”
“No problem,” I said. He seemed to be off the job, and his whole demeanor was different. He actually seemed nice.
“Whatever have you two been up to?” Marian Mae said.
“Work,” he said. “Join us, Jillian? Or are you headed back to the Pink House to help out again?”
Guess he wasn’t off the job after all. “Would that be a problem if I did go over there?”
He removed his hand from beneath Marian Mae’s and sipped his coffee before answering. “Of course not. You visit who you want. But I’d appreciate it if you call me rather than Candace if you hear anything interesting concerning the case.”
“Is Candy having one of her evidence obsession seizures?” Marian Mae said with a laugh.
Baca said, “Mae, we’ve talked about this. She’s a good cop. But sometimes—” He glanced at me. “Nothing more needs to be said—just that I’m running this investigation, not her. Got that, Jillian?”
“Got it.” But I didn’t exactly like it. He should be grateful he had such a dedicated and intelligent woman working for him. “Sorry I can’t visit. I need to get home,” I said.
I offered a polite good-bye and then turned to leave. But even with my back to the two of them, I couldn’t help hearing Marian Mae say, “You need to practice being more tactful, Mike.”
Gosh, wasn’t that the truth?
I spent the rest of the afternoon checking Flake Wilkerson’s newspapers—that is, when I wasn’t removing a cat, any cat, and all the cats from the table where’d I spread out the papers. Turned out Wilkerson had subscriptions to papers in surrounding towns as well as in Atlanta. I found only four circled names, including the first one I’d already unearthed. Three ads were people hunting for a lost cat, but those were more than a year old. The one that interested me was someone who was hoping to purchase a full-grown Abyssinian—like Syrah. That ad was only two weeks old.
I sat back in the teak chair, considering this. Why wouldn’t you get on the computer and search for breeders? Or put yourself on a list at the local shelters asking to be notified if any Abyssinians came up for adoption? Or even try Craigslist? There were always ads there for cats and dogs needing homes.
The only way to get answers to these questions was to phone the person who’d purchased the ad. Deep down, I wished the police would be the ones to make the call. But as long as Baca was focused on the money, that wouldn’t happen. As I opened my cell to call a stranger, I felt like this was something I must do, whether it was connected to the case or not.
The man who answered sounded very old. I practically had to yell into the phone for him to understand me. Then a woman came on the line and said, “Can’t you tell he doesn’t get what you’re saying? You selling something?”
I explained I was calling about the ad for the Abyssinian.
“We already have one on order—or so we thought,” the woman said. “It was supposed to be here day before yesterday, but I’m beginning to think poor Mr. Green’s been had.”
“Someone sold you a cat already?” I said.
“Had to make a cash down payment. Mr. Green handed the money over before I knew it. You got a cat to sell? Because we might need a backup.”
“No. But I’d sure like to talk to Mr. Green about who sold him this cat you have yet to see.”
“And why’s that?” She was sounding cautious now.
“There could be an explanation as to why he hasn’t gotten the cat he purchased. Please? Can I come and talk to him?”
“I don’t even know your name. And poor Mr. Green’s so fretful, I don’t think his heart—”
I heard the old man say, “Give me that phone,” heard the woman protest, but seconds later, Mr. Green was on the line again. “You holding my cat for ransom or something? You better bring me a new Banjo before the sun sets. I got that caller ID thingie, and this time your number came up. You’re not—”
“A new Banjo?” I said.
“That was his name. Banjo. And like I said—”
“Mr. Green,” I said gently, “I don’t have your cat. I can’t sell you a cat. But I might be able to share information with you that will help you understand what happened to your money—and you might be able to help me, too.”
“Then come on, ’cause I’ve had enough of this nonsense.” He rattled off an address, and it was a good thing I had the notepad with his number at hand so I could jot it down, because he hung up immediately.
Should I call Candace to go with me? I wondered, as I went for my car keys hanging on the hook by the back door.
But I stopped before I’d gone out the door and about-faced. I hurried to the office, where I keep my personal photos, thinking a four-by-six picture of Syrah might come in handy rather than the photos on my cell phone. I had a feeling Mr. Green might have as much trouble seeing as he did hearing.
Mercy is small enough to share an area code with Taylorville, five miles to the south. That was where Mr. Green lived, in a tiny white house between other houses that looked exactly like his.
The woman I’d spoken with on the phone answered the red-painted door at once. She was a dark-skinned black woman, and if not for her graying temples, I wouldn’t have been able to venture a guess whether she was under or over forty.She wore the sternest expression I think I’ve ever seen, and she didn’t bother introducing herself. “You have agitated Mr. Green so much that he’s refusing to take his medication, refusing to do anything but wait by the window for you.”
“I’m truly sorry if I upset both of you,” I said. “My name is Jillian Hart.”
“I’m Alfreda, Mr. Green’s caregiver. Now get your skinny self in here and calm him down. This cat business is wearing me out.”
There was no question Mr. Green was old. His skin was a shade lighter than Alfreda’s and his hair was a mass of pearl gray frizzy tufts. He wore thick tortoiseshell glasses, and a wool blanket with tassels was draped around his frail-looking shoulders. His feet were elevated on an ottoman, and another blanket lay across his knees. The hearing aid in his right ear explained the difficulty we’d had on the phone.
Alfreda pulled me by the elbow over to where he sat near the window in the living room. “This is that woman who called. You can see she don’t have a cat with her.”
Mr. Green lifted a gnarled index finger and pointed at Alfreda. “She never said she was bringing any cat. You think I can’t remember what we talked about not thirty minutes ago.”
“Oh, I don’t think,” Alfreda said. “I
