Leann Sweeney

We had to park on the next block, and we saw why when we walked up to the crime scene tape tied to several trees. The search warrant was being executed, and gloved police people were removing items from the house. I saw a laptop in one officer’s hands. And Mike Baca standing well away from the house, hands clasped behind his back, head hung.

And then I saw why. Lydia emerged from the house, her hands gloved, her hair piled high. She wore purple today, but the satisfied smile on her face was more prominent than anything else. She was in charge again and loving it.

Candace came down the walkway and approached me from the other side of the tape. “This is pretty awesome, huh?”

“Very,” Daphne said. “That woman was crazy.”

I had to smile at that one.

“One thing I didn’t get to tell you back at your house was that I’d gathered a little more evidence,” Candace said. “We might not need it now, though.”

“But tell me first how you answered the 911 so fast?” I said.

“Um, you’ve driven with me, right?” She grinned.

“Oh yeah. Guess I do appreciate your timing.” I pulled my oversize cardigan tighter around me, thinking that didn’t mean I wanted another ride with her in the near future.

“Is my cat in there?” Daphne was wearing my jacket, which hung on her thin frame. She was looking past Candace toward the house.

“Let me explain about this evidence,” Candace said excitedly. “I noticed the chief had gray cat hairs on his coat yesterday—not the suit jacket he was wearing the day he came to the crime scene, either. So when he left for a bathroom break, I took some Scotch tape and grabbed a sample off the coat he’d left on the back of his chair.”

“What does that have to do with Sophie?” Daphne said.

“Here’s the deal,” Candace said. “I took many cat hair samples from your father’s house, but I also took some from his clothing—what he was wearing when he died. That gray hair on his pants legs didn’t appear to match anything in the house—and believe me, I examined a ton of cat hair under the microscope. See, cat hairs are pretty distinctive, and—”

“Please. What about Sophie?” Daphne said.

“The cat hair on the victim’s pants appears very similar to the cat hair I pulled off the chief’s coat,” Candace said with a smile.

“I’m confused,” I said. “What does that mean?”

“I think I follow,” Tom said. “You took a sample from the gray cat that I assume you just found in that house. You think it matches those other two samples?”

Candace leaned back, pointing at him. “You got it. We know the chief has been inside Marian Mae’s house before, but now we know either Wilkerson was at Marian Mae’s house the morning he died or she transferred her cat’s hair onto him when she killed him. My guess is the latter. It’s proof. Animal hair has been used over and over in court and—”

“Is my cat in that house?” Daphne said tersely. She had the silver cigarette case in her hands, and from the look on her drawn face, she’d had about all she could take of Candace’s enthusiastic explanation.

“There is a cat in there. Lydia says that since we’ve taken the hair samples, there’s no need to keep her. We can turn her over to Shawn if she’s not yours—but there is a little surprise. Wait right here.” Candace took off running back toward the house.

Like she was worried we’d leave if she didn’t hurry? Candace was something else.

But Daphne wasn’t amused. She didn’t take out a cigarette, but she kept turning the case over and over as we stood there.

A minute later Candace came out carrying a cardboard box with my missing sixth quilt covering it.

“Oh no,” Daphne said, as Candace approached. “Is she hurt or something?”

Candace ducked under the crime scene tape and set the box on the grass in front of us. “Check this out,” she said, lifting the quilt.

Daphne’s hands flew to cover her mouth and she knelt in front of the box. “Sophie. Oh my God, Sophie.”

I went on my knees beside her, my smile so big it hurt.

Daphne only had eyes for her kidnapped cat and was gently petting her head.

But I was melting at the sight of four beautiful silver kittens suckling at their mama’s teats.

Thirty

It was closing in on six o’clock and I was sitting in my living room with Chablis, Merlot and Syrah, waiting on Candace and Tom to arrive. The three cats had me surrounded—Chablis on my lap and Syrah and Merlot on either side.

Tom, Candace and I were headed out to dinner for a celebration. A week had passed since Marian Mae Temple’s arrest for murdering Flake Wilkerson, and evidence of her guilt had piled up. Her lawyer made a deal by Wednesday. Seemed her computer showed she’d accessed the Match-a-Cat Web site too many times to count.

And the e-mails exchanged between Wilkerson and Marian Mae explained their relationship—one created when Marian Mae mentioned her lost cat at Belle’s Beans and Flake Wilkerson came up with a plan to replace Diamond with his daughter’s cat—for a price.