Leann Sweeney

“Syrah is an Abyssinian cat. His color is sorrel. And ‘ticked’ means that chocolate is his second tabby color besides copper. He’s really just a fancy tabby cat.”

“Ah. I get it. But you sound like some kind of expert cat person. Are you?” she said.

“I know a lot about cats, but I wouldn’t call myself an expert. I like to learn things—just like you do, right?”

“You got that. Anyway, here’s what I found. Your cat’s hair look like this?”

I stared down into the envelope, but couldn’t see very well, so we moved closer to the window. Then I knew. “Yes. See the chocolate ticking? Cats can lose clumps of hair when they’re stressed, so that’s proof to me it’s his.”

“Let me tell you about proof. In my line of work, it’s not proof until it’s evidence of a crime. As of right now we can’t prove whether your cat slipped out when the perp came or left, or was in fact stolen. And if he was stolen, why leave the other two cats?” Candace said.

“Maybe the thief couldn’t find the other two? They know how to hide from me, that’s for sure,” I said.

“This Syrah—I remember you said he’s not expensive because he doesn’t have his papers to prove he’s a purebred. But maybe some idiot thought he was worth something even without these papers you’re talkin’ about,” she said.

“He’d be most valuable to me,” I said, realizing exactly how valuable even as I spoke the words. “Do you think the thief will call and say he or she has Syrah? Ask me for money?”

“That’s possible. Or whoever it was simply fancied your cat and decided he wanted him. You can’t tell what a person figures they can steal if they so desire. We had a perp once who stole Christmas lights right off people’s houses. I always thought it was Lewis Rainer ’cause his house is always lit up like New York City during the holidays. No way he could afford all those lights and snowmen and reindeer on the roof.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You couldn’t prove it because you couldn’t get the evidence?”

“You are catchin’ on.” Candace smiled and it made her face even more attractive. “Anyway, you never hear about those animals lost during Katrina so much anymore, but lots of folks did lose their pets, huh?”

“That’s for sure. My husband and I took in foster cats after the storm and we fell in love with the three I’ve got now. No one ever claimed them.”

“You got yourself some beautiful cats. I love animals but my mom’s allergic.”

“Allergic! That’s what I forgot to tell you. Chablis was sneezing when I came home and she’s allergic to dandruff—human dandruff. The perp must have left some behind.” She had me using TV cop lingo now.

“Gosh. I wonder if there’s human DNA in dandruff.” She pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. “Dandruff is dead skin, after all. Could be useless. But it could be something.”

“You don’t know?” I said.

A determined look took over. “Nope. But I intend to find out.”

Three

I slept poorly without Syrah curled near my head like he loved to do. Plus Chablis purred as loud as a fan all night. I think I hushed her about a dozen times, but the Benadryl was still in her system. Outside the bedroom, I kept hearing Merlot’s mournful calls for his friend Syrah.

Yeah, sweetheart. I miss him, too.

Last evening Candace and I had ended up on a first-name basis—but there’d been an almost immediate bond between us from the minute she took the time to comfort my stressed-out cats. After I mentioned the dandruff, she spent an hour to find four flecks on the window seat cushion and carefully placed them in one of her little evidence envelopes. Then we shared deli chicken and a salad.

I drink sweet tea by the gallon and it turned out that Candace did, too. We had another thing in common besides a definite admiration for firemen posing for calendar shots. I was surprised how nice it felt to share something silly with her. My husband had been smart and handsome and funny, but definitely not calendar material. I felt a tad guilty enjoying such careful examinations of every page of that calendar, but maybe a little fun was one of the things I needed to help me move on.

The cat hairs Candace collected from Syrah’s favorite spot on the couch resembled what she’d found outside, but she wasn’t making any promises that they were a match until she looked at them under a microscope. She was definitely dedicated when it came to her evidence obsession; maybe Morris didn’t like this, but I sure appreciated it.

She also gave me the number of a small local no-kill shelter. If I didn’t find Syrah hanging around outside looking clueless and pathetic in the morning, maybe he was lost and had been dropped off there. The nearest SPCA was about ninety miles away, in Columbia, and this shelter was the closest thing they had in Mercy.