Leann Sweeney

Once 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.

Shoot? What are you thinking? You don’t step on ants or spiders. You couldn’t even shoot Hannibal Lecter if he came calling.

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.”