Leann Sweeney (32 page)

As he opened his office door, Marian Mae appeared at the end of the hall wearing a terry-cloth robe and with a towel wrapped around her head.

She said, “Honey, who are you talking—Oh. Hello, Jillian.”

“Work, Mae. Sorry,” he said.

“No problem,” she said cheerfully.

Baca practically pushed me into an office that revealed a new side of the man. What a mess. Books piled waist high, folders covering a love seat against one wall and a computer desk buried under a mass of papers with Post-it notes stuck everywhere. And here I’d taken him for a neat freak, the way his office at the police station looked.

He removed a stack of files from a padded chair so I could sit and took his desk chair, swiveling to look at me. “What’s so important?”

“Did Candace show you the photos of my cat and the poor deceased cat that belonged to Mr. Green—that man I went to see?”

“She dropped them off here last night. As I said yesterday, I’m willing to concede that the cat business the victim was running is more important than I previously believed and could have played a part in Mr. Wilkerson’s murder. I’ve received confirmation of this through a second independent source.”

He was talking about Tom’s forensic work on that hard drive, but I wasn’t about to let him know I was aware of that. I’d gotten Candace in trouble with this guy, and I didn’t want to add Tom to the list.

“I’m glad to hear that straight from you. I know you’ve been thinking I was a pain in the butt, and now I hope you realize I’ve been trying to help. I also wanted to make sure you got those pictures of my cat and Mr. Green’s. Those two Abyssinians could have been twins.”

“You came here for that? I’m not buying it, Jillian. What’s really going on?”

I felt nervous. And dumb again. He and Candace were right. This could have waited. But I was here and I might as well say what I came to tell him.

I pulled the computer-generated photos of the gray cats from my pocket. “Were you aware your
friend
lost a cat last year?” I handed over the picture of Marian Mae’s lost-cat flyer.

He looked at it, held it closer, then turned on a light above his computer. “What is this? Some kind of screwed-up attempt with Photoshop?”

I explained about the shredded paper from the Pink House.

He said, “How long did it take you to put this back together?”

“A long time. Do you know anything about her cat?”

He smiled, and I could tell he thought I was being ridiculous. “You think Diamond was stolen by Wilkerson?”

“It’s possible.” I handed him the other picture—of Daphne’s cat. “You recognize this cat?”

“That’s Diamond, too. I still don’t—”

“Look closer. You really think I’m showing you pictures of the same cat?” I said.

He squinted, looking back and forth between the two photos. “There’s hardly any difference. Why don’t we ask the expert?”

Before I could speak, he got up and hollered out the door. “Mae, can you come here for a sec?”

Marian Mae was dressed now, her blue jeans creased, the buttons on her turquoise sweater revealing a hint of cleavage. “What do you need, Mike?” she asked, ignoring me.

“Look what our concerned citizen Ms. Hart brought to show me.” He handed her the pictures.

She glanced back and forth between them. Her eyes rested on the flyer. “Where did you get this, and why does it look all fuzzy and wavy?”

“Doesn’t matter where she got it,” Baca said. “Tell her about Diamond, because I think she’ll listen better to you than to me.”

Marian Mae cocked her head at Baca as if to say, “What does this have to do with anything?” but then she looked at me. “I lost Diamond last year, put up a few flyers. That’s what people do when something they love disappears.”

It sure seemed like plenty of cats had disappeared around here—and Shawn was probably the only one who’d cared. “And what happened? Did you get Diamond—is it a him or a her?—back?”

“Diamond is a beautiful little girl. But she did get herself lost for a day. She came home right away, though,” she said.

“Good news,” I said. “So this is her, too?” I held out the picture of Sophie.

Marian Mae looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “No. That’s not Diamond. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“I can,” I said. “But Chief Baca didn’t seem to have the same keen eye as the two of us. Of course, I have the advantage of knowing these two are
not
the same cat.”

“Is this some kind of game?” Marian Mae said, her sky blue eyes darkening. “Mike tells me you keep sticking your nose in police business, but that’s for him to handle. Just don’t bring me and my cat into this.”

I plucked the pictures away from her, not sure if I was irritated with her because of her attitude or upset with myself.

Baca put a hand on her shoulder and massaged the muscles. “It’s okay, hon.” He turned to me. “When Diamond disappeared, Mae was beside herself. I guess I should have been more sympathetic to your own situation with your cat, should have recalled how Mae reacted last year. So, please, take this as an apology.”

“Apology accepted,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

Baca walked me to the door, but before he opened it, I said, “Know who that unidentified cat belongs to?” I said.

“As Mae pointed out, this isn’t a game. Just tell me,” he said. I’d bothered him on a weekend and upset his girlfriend. He was probably past exasperation by now.

I handed him the pictures. “These are for you to keep. See, that other cat, the one that looks so much like Diamond? She belonged to Daphne—before her father stole her. This has something to do with her cat, Sophie. I’m sure of it.”

I opened the door and walked out, but as I headed to my car I heard Baca call, “Stay away from the Pink House, Jillian. That woman could be dangerous.”

Twenty-seven

A
s I drove away from Baca’s house, I realized that mentioning Daphne hadn’t been the smartest move, since Baca already suspected her. And then I’d gone and asked questions about Marian Mae, the woman he loved. So what if I’d pieced a shredded flyer back together and it had me wondering about Marian Mae? I wasn’t accusing her of anything. But you’d have thought I was. The chief was practically living with a woman who’d lost a cat, and her flyer had ended up in Wilkerson’s shredded pile of paper. Wasn’t that important enough to question? Maybe not. Maybe Candace was right. How many other cat flyers had Wilkerson torn down and shredded? How many other people had the man stolen from? How many other suspects were there in Mercy?

Feeling low, but still not completely beaten into the ground, I decided to visit Shawn, find out what he might know about lost gray cats. If Marian Mae had done the same things I had when I lost Syrah, she might have gone to the Sanctuary hoping to find Diamond. Maybe she did get her cat back right away, but Shawn or Allison might know about the loss, could help me get a better read on Marian Mae Temple. Because despite only a flyer and two gray cats that looked a little alike, I couldn’t help but still suspect her, even if I didn’t know why. It was just instinct, and even Tom had said that instinct shouldn’t necessarily be ignored. Or maybe I was going to visit them because I needed to talk to people who understood how important this mystery was to me.

There was another car in the minuscule parking lot at Mercy Animal Sanctuary. I walked into the office and found a couple and their young son adopting a kitten.
This is what’s good for the soul
, I thought.
This is what I need right now.

Snug the parrot seemed to mirror that idea, because he was bobbing and talking up a storm. Bringing a new pet into your life is one of the most special times ever, and the positive energy in the little room was almost palpable.

Shawn was attempting to coax the kitten away from the little boy, while Allison was taking care of the paperwork. She looked up and said, “Hi, Jillian. Be with you in a minute.”

“You know how you have to wear your seat belt?” Shawn said, kneeling in front of the child.

The kid nodded.

“Well, we have to keep your new kitty safe in the car by letting him ride in the box your mom and dad brought,” he said.

Safe
. That reminded me I hadn’t checked on my crew in a while, so I opened my phone and brought up the cat-cam feed. I ended up nearly laughing out loud. I’d tuned in on a game of chase. I swear, those three could be the inspiration for a cartoon series. I was so intent on watching them that Allison had to ask me to move aside so the family could leave with their new baby.

“Sorry,” I said, stepping to my right. I looked at Shawn while Allison walked the family out to their car, motioned for him to have a look at what was happening at my house. He was smiling, too, after watching a few seconds of cat play. Syrah, as usual, was winning the race around the house.

“Fast cat,” Shawn said. “Handsome guy, your Syrah. Bet you’re relieved the Mercy catnapper is dead. I know I am.”

“Maybe relieved,” I said, “but sad, too. His murder was pretty darn brutal.”

“What goes around, as they say,” Shawn said. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m not completely sure. Mr. Wilkerson’s daughter is in town—but I think you were aware of that. Did you know her father stole her cat, too?”

“Oh yeah. First thing she did was rush to Mercy hoping to get Sophie back. She came here straightaway when her father told her he hadn’t taken the cat. We knew that wasn’t true. Anyway, I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a couple days before I’d had to call animal control for a dead gray long-haired. I figured Sophie escaped from Wilkerson—cats know when they need to get out of a situation—and got run over.”

“Wow. That’s not good.” My heart sank. Seemed simple explanations often escaped wannabe detectives. I’d brought in a set of my computer pictures and showed him Sophie first. “Was this the cat that you found, um . . . you know?” I didn’t even want to say the word, much less think about poor Sophie like that.

He glanced at the picture. “Daphne showed me a picture, too. Could be the cat in the road, but it was kinda hard to tell. See, I don’t take close-up looks at animals that have died for whatever reason. Can’t take it. I called that stupid, good-for-nothing animal control officer. It’s his job to take care of that kind of problem. I sat in my truck waiting five damn hours for him to show up.”

“You waited that long?” I said.

“You bet I did. He shoulda gotten his butt to town and picked up that cat right away. As it was, I had to steer cars around the poor thing more times than I want to remember.”

Hoping to distract him from the lazy animal control officer—who might not really be lazy but could have been extra busy that day—I showed him the pieced-together picture of Diamond.

Shawn looked at it for several seconds, appeared to be focused on the “lost cat” plea. He said, “Marian Mae lost her cat? Wait. Better question: Marian Mae
had
a cat?”

“Obviously you don’t recognize Diamond, and I take it Marian Mae didn’t come here looking for her last year?” I said.

“Nope. But the date on this flyer is right around the time I found that gray cat in the road. Could have been Diamond.” He held up the picture of Sophie. “Or it could have been her.”

Great. That helps complicate matters
.

“How can you be sure of the timing?” I said.

“Because of the damn restraining order. I can tell you the when, where and how of the document that dumbass served on me. I don’t care what the judge said. I had every right to go off on that fool when he finally showed up to take care of the poor cat.”

“You went off on him how?” I asked.

Shawn hung his head. “There was some pushing. But I never hit him, even though he claimed I did.”

“And you’re sure that Daphne came looking for her cat around the same time that Marian Mae apparently lost hers?” I said.

He took a deep breath and gave me back the pictures. “That’s about all I’m sure of. Wish I could help, but Allison will tell you, I’m a wimp when it comes to animal deaths. If we have one that’s so sick it has to be put down, she’s the one who takes it to the vet.”

His eyes had filled, and he blinked hard to fight the tears.

I squeezed his arm with what I hoped he knew was sympathy. “I’m sorry I even brought this up. I’m heading over to see Daphne. I was thinking that the little domestic shorthair taken from the Pink House might find a good home with her.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t make any promises. That lady is plain weird, you ask me. She could be an apple that didn’t fall far, much as I hate to say it.”

Once I’d climbed back in my minivan, I sat for a minute. Two men in the last hour had warned me about Daphne. Should I keep my promise and pick her up for a day away from that stuffy, cluttered old house?

Gripping the steering wheel, I put my head down and fought against logic, tried to drown out the warning voices. My gut told me Daphne wasn’t a killer. She might be depressed and troubled, but I understood how that felt. Understood too well.

I opened my phone, called her and then was on my way to her place. When I got to the Pink House, Daphne tried to convince me to stay there rather than spend the day at my place. But I won out. I showed her the cat-cam and my three babies, now stretched out in the living room, completely worn-out. She couldn’t resist my invitation to meet them in person.

On the drive I talked nonstop about them—their unique personalities, how Chablis had the human allergy, how smart Syrah was and how Merlot was more watchdog than cat.

I was starving, and since Daphne was so thin she could have been the inspiration for the hangman game, I put a frozen pizza in the oven as soon as we got to my place.

While we waited for the pizza to bake, Daphne sat in the middle of the living room floor and let the cats come to her. And come they did. There is no doubt pets can heal, no doubt my three knew she needed them, but the transformation I saw in Daphne was remarkable. Her face lit up; her shoulders straightened. She looked like a different person. I wondered why she hadn’t gotten another cat or even a dog since she’d lost Sophie.