Leann Sweeney

She took out her phone and snapped off a few pictures before removing a folded brown paper bag from her uniform pocket.

“Candy, what the hell do you think you’re doing now?” Morris said.

“Candace is collecting evidence,” she said, carefully picking up the pieces of glass and putting them in her bag.

“’Cause a cat ran off? I know you take your job real serious, and I try my best to respect that, but I’m thinking the county crime lab won’t be happy about this particular evidence.”

Candace said, “Someone invaded this kind lady’s private property, so I disagree. And can we assume the cat ran off? Maybe the bad guy took him.”

Morris sighed heavily. “Took the cat? Why in heck would someone break in to steal a cat? You can go the SPCA or—Forget it.” He refocused on me. “For my report, exactly when did this happen, Ms. Hart?”

“I got in at one o’clock. Did I mention that this . . . this person turned off my TV?”

“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.

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