Leann Sweeney (3 page)

“Huh?” Morris said. “Don’t you mean turned
on
your TV?”

“No. I leave it on. I like people to think I’m home when the cats are alone.” For some reason I felt a little embarrassed about this, so I added, “Obviously that tactic didn’t work.”

“Can I offer a piece of advice, Ms. Hart?” Morris said. “Get yourself a dog. A real dog, like a German shepherd. A dog with a big bark and a bigger bite.”

“Sorry. I love dogs, but my cats don’t.”

“Okay, then get yourself a nice state-of-the-art alarm system. We got a guy in town who does that stuff. Name’s Tom. Tom Stewart. Nice fella and—”

“Did you
touch
the television when you came in, Ms. Hart?” Candace interrupted. She was on her knees by the window seat, staring intently at the cushions, her tweezers poised and ready to collect more evidence.

“I used the remote,” I said. “I thought maybe the TV wasn’t working.”

“Gosh darn,” Candace muttered, getting to her feet. “Okay, we might still get prints off the TV if the perp shut off the television without touching the remote.”

“The
perp
?” Both of Morris’s bushy gray eyebrows were working. “We don’t have perps in Mercy. We got dumb drunks and outta-control kids who should eat dinner with their mama and daddy more often. This is about a broken window, Candy.”

“And you have no idea when this break-in occurred?” Candace continued, seemingly unflustered by her partner’s lack of interest in what had gone on in my house.

But I sure appreciated her interest. “I left yesterday afternoon for a quilt show in Spartanburg. I make and sell small quilts for cats.”

“Figures,” Morris said under his breath.

I shot him a look. “I also make quilts that I donate for the children of the men and women in the military who have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan. I had a meeting with a charitable group this morning, gave them pictures of my designs and took their order for a hundred children’s quilts. Anyway, I left here around eight a.m. yesterday and I’ve told you when I returned.”

“You mind if I dust your TV and remote?” Candace asked. “I’d also like to see if I could lift prints off the window latch and the outside molding.”

Morris rose abruptly, his patience spent. “Candy, quit with this
CSI
crap. We’re leaving.” He offered me the best smile a wad of Skoal allowed. “You catch sight of any teenage boys lurkin’ around or peekin’ in your windows, you give us a call. And Billy Cranor can fix that window for you. He works at the hardware store.”

Morris turned and marched toward the foyer, waving a hand for Candace to follow.

But before she left, she took my elbow, leaned close and whispered, “I’ll be back when my shift’s over. I’ve got my fingerprint kit with me at all times and I know how to access AFIS—that’s this big old fingerprint database. This bad guy’s not getting away with this. Try not to disturb the scene too much until I get back here.”

What a pair
, I thought, once I’d closed and locked my front door. But Candace was certainly dedicated, and even crotchety Morris Ebeling’s eyes told me he was a decent guy.

I let Chablis and Merlot out of their carriers and said, “Come on, you two. We have flyers to make about our lost buddy.”

As soon as I said the word
lost
, tears threatened again. I walked to my office, Merlot and a wobbly, sleepy Chablis right with me.

It was only after I’d printed out fifty copies with Syrah’s best picture prominent in the center, only after I’d stopped feeling sorry for myself, that I realized I’d never told Candace about Chablis’s human allergy, how the intruder must have had dandruff. From watching her work, I was certain she might be the one person in Mercy who would consider dandruff important.

Two

O
nce my flyers were ready, I duct-taped plastic wrap over the broken window to keep insects out of the house. That was about all duct tape could accomplish in this case. I was painfully aware that my home was unprotected from a second break-in. A call to security guy Tom Stewart was definitely on my to-do list. Good thing I’d sold ten quilts at the show yesterday. At a hundred bucks a pop, that meant some extra cash for a security system—one John and I had never thought we’d need in this sleepy lake town.

I thought about his hunting rifle and briefly considered pulling it out of the closet. But I don’t care for guns and have no clue how to shoot a rifle. Maybe I should plan on learning. Surely Mercy had somebody who could provide that service, too. Morris seemed to know everyone’s skills; if he could give me a name or take it upon himself to teach me to shoot, then I could protect myself and my furry friends.

Pushing these thoughts aside, I called my vet, Dr. Jensen.

“This is Jillian Hart,” I said when the cheery lady at the front desk answered. Her name was Agnes if I remembered right.

“Hey, Ms. Hart. How’s those three little darlings of yours? Nothing wrong, I hope.”

“Syrah is missing and I wondered if anyone’s brought in a lost cat. You remember him? The sorrel Abyssinian?”

“I surely do remember that handsome boy. But we haven’t seen Syrah. I don’t recall—did you take us up on having the microchips inserted when you were in last? Because, of course, you know that helps when our darlings get themselves lost.”

No, I didn’t get the chips
, I thought
. Probably because I am as stupid as the excuse I will not be making.
“No microchips.”

“I am so sorry, Ms. Hart. Maybe we can put in the chips for your other two. I can make that appointment right now,” she said.

“I’ll get back to you on that. I’m busy looking for a cat.”
Microchips. Add that to the to-do list.

I had to get moving, but I wasn’t about to put Merlot and Chablis at risk by leaving them home. I wrangled them into their carriers again and took them out to my minivan.

Stoic Merlot tolerated my trip around the nearby neighborhoods as I hammered, stapled or taped my lost-cat flyers to telephone poles, street signs and even the FOR SALE signs at a few houses. I might have appreciated the crisp late-afternoon air if not for Chablis. She hated every minute of this exercise. Even Benadryl didn’t keep her from howling her displeasure. I hoped a revenge hairball on my pillow wasn’t in my immediate future.

After covering the areas close to home, I headed for downtown Mercy. It’s a cute town that attracts tourists who’d probably first visited more interesting places like Atlanta or the Biltmore Estate but weren’t ready to give up on Southern charm and go home yet. There’s a restored town center where green, gold and red awning-ed antiques stores, bookshops and little restaurants line the main drag. A brick courthouse and other well-cared-for old buildings mark the horizon. I’d never had much chance to shop in Mercy aside from my frequent trips to the fantastic quilt shop, the Cotton Company.

I decided that posting lost-cat flyers on the live oaks that lined the pristine street would be a giant no-no. Yup, Main Street was as tidy as a kitchen floor you’d see in a TV commercial. No flyers would fly here.

The local Piggly Wiggly might be an excellent option for advertising my problem. When I pulled into the parking lot, it was close to five p.m., and the cool fall day allowed me to leave the cats in the van, something I never could have done in hell-hot Houston during unpredictable October. I’d loved that city, but had not experienced near the level of humidity here—at least not this past summer.

David, one of the sackers, allowed me into the store ahead of his train of grocery carts, saying, “Hey there, Ms. Hart.” He was maybe in his late teens, had this odd lop-sided head and a friendly, guileless expression.

“Hi, David,” I said. “Can I talk to you after you get those carts stowed properly?”

“Stowed?” David grinned. “Now that there’s a new word. You’re always giving me something to think on, Ms. Hart.”

He parked the carts and met me at the store bulletin board.

“What can I do fer ya?” he said.

I resisted the urge to calm the blond cowlick that had my attention. “One of my cats is lost and—”

“Not the one who only eats salmon? ’Cause that could be a problem out there where you live. No salmon in Mercy Lake that I’ve heard tell.”

Oh my gosh
. I hadn’t even thought about Syrah’s food. He
was
the one who ate only salmon. Whether it was Fancy Feast or Friskies, he didn’t care, but there had to be salmon in his dish or he’d turn up his nose.

“That’s the one,” I said. “Syrah is out there somewhere and he’s never been outdoors since he lost his first family during Hurricane Katrina.” I shook the handful of flyers I held. “Can I put a few of these up in the store?”

“Anything for a pretty lady. You could be a movie star, you know.”

I felt the heat of a blush. “I’m old enough to be your mother, David.”

“No, you ain’t. My mother’s got white hair. She says I gave her every one of them, too.” He smiled again and held out his hand for the flyers.

David stared at Syrah’s picture for a few seconds. “So this is the salmon cat. Mighty nice-lookin’, just like you always say. If he caught one of those bass out of Mercy Lake, he might change his mind about salmon. My mama always says look at the good side. He could come back with a whole new appetite.”

I smiled. David
was
an angel. “I hope you’re right. Think I’ll pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner and get on home. My other two cats are in the van.”

David’s face lit up. “They are? Can I visit with them when yer done shopping?”

“Um, sure.” I was a little surprised at how excited he seemed.

But as we walked out to my van ten minutes later, with David carrying my dinner, he explained how his mother thought cats were bad luck. “When I get a place of my own, I’m getting me a cat. I love my mama, but she’s gotta let me grow up and move out sometime. And when I do, I’m having a cat—maybe a dog, too.”

I opened the back of the van. When David set down the grocery bag, Merlot turned his head away. Not happy. Chablis started up with her dismal mewing again.

I pulled her carrier closer and unzipped the top just enough so David could fit his hand in to pet her.

“She don’t bite, does she? Grandpa Nagel had a cat that was so mean he could run a dog off a meat wagon.”

“She doesn’t bite. And she’d love a scratch on the head.”

David stuck his hand in and did just that. Chablis closed her eyes and starting purring. “Wow. She likes me, huh?”

“If she could talk, she’d say ‘yes.’ Look how she’s closing her eyes.” If only more people knew what a cat can accomplish with a purr. David was beaming.

A few minutes later I was on my way home when my cell rang. The caller ID read MERCY POLICE.

“Did you find him?” I said when I connected. “Where was he?”

“Sorry, Ms. Hart,” Candace said. “I’m at your place and I haven’t seen your cat anywhere. Think you’ll be home anytime soon?”

“I’m five minutes away.” I wanted to add, “This is Mercy. Everything is five minutes away,” but I was too disappointed even to offer a smile as I made that all too true observation.

“Good. I took the liberty of calling up Billy and he says—”

“Billy?”

“Hardware store guy,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“Anyway, he’s meeting me here to get your window fixed. Can’t be sleeping in your house with a broken window, can you?”

“Thank you, Candace. See you in five.” That was a kindness and now I managed a smile as I drove on home. Small towns have their advantages—like genuine concern from a relative stranger.

Turned out, Billy looked familiar. Where had I seen him before?

Candace hovered near him as he fixed the window. If I read her smiles and body language right, she was flirting with the guy. He had dark brown hair, muscles that told me he could pry the lid off a nuclear reactor and just enough scruffy facial hair to remind me of that nameless actor on some crime show I watch. But where had I seen him before? I mean, I hardly knew anyone in Mercy.

While Billy measured my window, Candace went to work with her fingerprint kit. As I watched them, I decided she’d planned this all out. What better way to be that close to a hunk like Billy than to be dusting while he was measuring? And it worked. They were ear to ear.

She kept glancing his way and he kept ignoring her. Guess putting in new windows is a fascinating occupation. When he left for his truck to get the new pane, her gaze never left his butt with its weighted-down tool belt.

Candace said, “What is it about a tool belt that just fills my mouth with spit?”

“That’s not exactly an attractive thought, Candace.” I smiled. “Besides, it’s more what holds up the tool belt that has your mouth watering.”

“You got that right. Now, back to business. I got nothing off that window. Perp musta worn gloves. I’ll dust the TV, but I’m thinking I won’t find anything.”

And she didn’t. By the time she was finished, Billy had cut the glass to size under Candace’s adoring eyes, and I soon had a brand-new window.

“How much do I owe you?” I asked when he was done.

“Five bucks oughta cover it,” he said. “The pane itself only cost a buck fifty.”

“Is that all?” My purse was sitting on top of Merlot’s carrier. He was sound asleep and Chablis had worn herself out, too. I took out my wallet.

“There might be one thing you could help me with,” he said. “I’m a volunteer fireman and we put together this calendar. I know it’s late in the year, but if you’d be so kind as to buy one, that would sure help our charity. We donate the money to kids all over South Carolina who’ve been burned in house fires or accidents.”

That
was where’d I’d seen him. “I bought one of those calendars way back when we first moved here. And aren’t you, um . . .
featured
?”