Leann Sweeney

He looked at it, held it closer, then turned on a light above his computer. “What is this? Some kind of screwed-up attempt with Photoshop?”

I explained about the shredded paper from the Pink House.

He said, “How long did it take you to put this back together?”

“A long time. Do you know anything about her cat?”

He smiled, and I could tell he thought I was being ridiculous. “You think Diamond was stolen by Wilkerson?”

“It’s possible.” I handed him the other picture—of Daphne’s cat. “You recognize this cat?”

“That’s Diamond, too. I still don’t—”

“Look closer. You really think I’m showing you pictures of the same cat?” I said.

He squinted, looking back and forth between the two photos. “There’s hardly any difference. Why don’t we ask the expert?”

Before I could speak, he got up and hollered out the door. “Mae, can you come here for a sec?”

Marian Mae was dressed now, her blue jeans creased, the buttons on her turquoise sweater revealing a hint of cleavage. “What do you need, Mike?” she asked, ignoring me.

“Look what our concerned citizen Ms. Hart brought to show me.” He handed her the pictures.

She glanced back and forth between them. Her eyes rested on the flyer. “Where did you get this, and why does it look all fuzzy and wavy?”

“Doesn’t matter where she got it,” Baca said. “Tell her about Diamond, because I think she’ll listen better to you than to me.”

Marian Mae cocked her head at Baca as if to say, “What does this have to do with anything?” but then she looked at me. “I lost Diamond last year, put up a few flyers. That’s what people do when something they love disappears.”

It sure seemed like plenty of cats had disappeared around here—and Shawn was probably the only one who’d cared. “And what happened? Did you get Diamond—is it a him or a her?—back?”

“Diamond is a beautiful little girl. But she did get herself lost for a day. She came home right away, though,” she said.

“Good news,” I said. “So this is her, too?” I held out the picture of Sophie.

Marian Mae looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “No. That’s not Diamond. Can’t you tell the difference?”

“I can,” I said. “But Chief Baca didn’t seem to have the same keen eye as the two of us. Of course, I have the advantage of knowing these two are not the same cat.”

“Is this some kind of game?” Marian Mae said, her sky blue eyes darkening. “Mike tells me you keep sticking your nose in police business, but that’s for him to handle. Just don’t bring me and my cat into this.”

I plucked the pictures away from her, not sure if I was irritated with her because of her attitude or upset with myself.

Baca put a hand on her shoulder and massaged the muscles. “It’s okay, hon.” He turned to me. “When Diamond disappeared, Mae was beside herself. I guess I should have been more sympathetic to your own situation with your cat, should have recalled how Mae reacted last year. So, please, take this as an apology.”

“Apology accepted,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

Baca walked me to the door, but before he opened it, I said, “Know who that unidentified cat belongs to?” I said.

“As Mae pointed out, this isn’t a game. Just tell me,” he said. I’d bothered him on a weekend and upset his girlfriend. He was probably past exasperation by now.

I handed him the pictures. “These are for you to keep. See, that other cat, the one that looks so much like Diamond? She belonged to Daphne—before her father stole her. This has something to do with her cat, Sophie. I’m sure of it.”

I opened the door and walked out, but as I headed to my car I heard Baca call, “Stay away from the Pink House, Jillian. That woman could be dangerous.”

Twenty-seven

As I drove away from Baca’s house, I realized that mentioning Daphne hadn’t been the smartest move, since Baca already suspected her. And then I’d gone and asked questions about Marian Mae, the woman he loved. So what if I’d pieced a shredded flyer back together and it had me wondering about Marian Mae? I wasn’t accusing her of anything. But you’d have thought I was. The chief was practically living with a woman who’d lost a cat, and her flyer had ended up in Wilkerson’s shredded pile of paper. Wasn’t that important enough to question? Maybe not. Maybe Candace was right. How many other cat flyers had Wilkerson torn down and shredded? How many other people had the man stolen from? How many other suspects were there in Mercy?