Leann Sweeney

“It was, and he came with a picture. The cat was sitting in someone’s big picture window. Taken from the outside, not the inside.” Mr. Green stroked his chin. “Struck me as odd he’d take a picture of the cat from the outside of a house. That shoulda clued me something wasn’t right.”

I had a picture window and an Abyssinian. Everything seemed to fit so far. “Alfreda mentioned you gave this man money, that he came here?”

“Do I look like I could drive around town meeting up with people? Course he came here,” he said.

“Was he about sixty? Messy hair with plenty of dandruff on his shoulders?” I said.

“You think these old eyes could see dandruff? I can’t even tell if I have it. But the man who came—Mr. Barney Smith, he said—was gray-headed, and I had a bad feeling about him. But I was so wanting a new Banjo, I didn’t listen to what my insides were telling me. And now the cat’s not arrived, and I’ve got enough smarts to figure out this man is your corpse, Mr. Flake Wilkerson.”

“That’s my guess. You think you’d recognize the cat he showed you if you looked at my Abyssinian?” I said.

“Since the cat I was supposed to receive looked exactly like Banjo, probably.”

I opened my bag and took out the picture. I handed it to Mr. Green.

He stared down at Syrah and then slowly his hand came to rest against his heart. “That’s him. That’s Banjo all over again.”

“How much money did you give Mr. Wilkerson?” I said softly.

“Five hundred dollars.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the photo.

“And how much more were you expected to pay?” I said.

“You’ll be thinking I’m crazy when I tell you. Alfreda thinks I am.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy for a minute. Just tell me.”

“Two thousand.” He looked up at me then, his eyes wet with tears. “You can’t put a price on getting your best friend back.”

I smiled, feeling an immense sadness. “No, you can’t.”

“This your cat? The one he stole?” he asked.

“It is. His name is Syrah.”

He handed over the picture with a trembling hand. “I’m glad he’s home where he belongs.”

“Do you have a photo of Banjo?” I asked.

“Got a million of them.” He shouted, “Alfreda? Get yourself in here.”

She bustled into the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I told you not to holler at me.”

“Get me the album. This lady needs to see Banjo. And you’ll be happy to know that man who came here has met his Maker, as well he should have. He was a liar and a thief.”

I left shortly afterward with the only picture of Mr. Green’s beloved cat that he was willing to part with. The resemblance between Banjo and Syrah was amazing. Sure, there are bound to be similarities in certain breeds, but these two could have been twins. No wonder the man was willing to spend twenty-five hundred dollars hoping to replace his old friend.

Despite my sadness that Wilkerson had taken advantage of Mr. Green, I was also glad that I now had proof that this murder could very well be about cats and money—just as Candace and I had believed from the start.

It was despicable that Flake Wilkerson had taken advantage of the poor man. The question now was how many more desperate people like Mr. Green had Wilkerson made deals with?

Twenty-two

I drove straight to the Mercy city hall, convinced I now had proof that cats plus money were behind Wilkerson’s murder. I had pictures of two very similar cats and a story to tell Baca. He’d better pay attention for once.

But the first person I saw when I walked into the police office was Candace. Her surprise was evident.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, glancing back toward the hall that led to the chief’s office.

“I’ve made a small breakthrough. Remember those newspapers Daphne gave me?”

She nodded, but before I could tell her what I’d learned, Baca walked out of his office. He was concentrating on putting on his jacket, but when he looked up and saw us, he quit halfway through the process. “What are you two cooking up now?”

I lifted my chin. “Nothing. You said to tell you if I learned anything interesting connected to the case, so here I am.”

“Is this about cats again?” He seemed ready to leave and looked at Candace, not me. “Is it?”

“I have no idea, sir,” she said.

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” He leveled a hard stare my way. “What’s this about?”

“It will take me a minute to explain. Can we go into your office?” I didn’t add, “And can Candace come, too?” though I wanted to.

“I have dinner plans,” he said, starting past us. “But if it’s that important, come along.”

I hadn’t expected this response. I was hoping we could talk here, but instead I ended up following him out.

Candace grabbed my arm and whispered, “Get with me later.”

I mouthed, “I will,” and hurried to catch up with Baca.

He said he was headed to the Finest Catch, a restaurant less than a block away. We walked there, and I practically had to run to keep up with him.

He asked for a table for three. Once we were seated near a window that looked out on a garden between this building and the next, he said, “Mae is always late. So, tell me this important piece of information.”