Free Leann Sweeney by the Quilt The Cat, the Corpse Page A

Pink House?”
    “I don’t, but—”
    “This is important. Five minutes.”
    “Can you give me a little more time than—”
    “Five minutes.” I snapped the phone closed.
    I took a deep breath and smiled, certain I was about to be reunited with Syrah. But the time it took to get to Wilkerson’s house seemed like forever. I was hoping Tom would beat me there, but his van wasn’t in the driveway when I arrived. I parked on the street close to the ditch, not willing to walk up to that front door alone.
    Be smart, Jillian. You can wait.
    But something changed my mind.
    Syrah.
    My gorgeous Syrah came walking down the driveway away from the house, his distinctive meow—the one I hear when he gets himself stuck behind something or locked in a closet—loud and clear. He was calling for me.
    Worried that I might spook him, I left my van as quietly and carefully as possible, crouched at the end of the driveway and whispered his name. He stopped and looked at me, all thirty-two muscles in his ears working. He cocked his head, meowed again. I know every single one of his special sounds, but I didn’t recognize this one. He sounded . . . well, demanding.
    Then he turned and scurried back toward the house.
    What? No!
    “Syrah. Come here, baby,” I called, running after him.
    At the open back door, Syrah had stopped, back arched, his body pressed against the doorframe and his wonderful big ears twitching. I reached out with both arms, thinking he would jump into them like he always does, but instead he slipped inside the house.
    I stood there, surprised. What the heck was going on?
    Better question, Jillian: Why is the door open?
    The shiver of fear that ran up both arms almost stopped me, but rescuing my cat overrode common sense. I went up two concrete steps leading to the door, halted on the stoop and used one finger to open it wider.
    “Mr. Wilkerson, your door is open,” I called.
    Always the well-mannered Texas girl . Even though this man stole your cat.
    I knelt and called Syrah’s name, hoping he’d come back. Then I could grab him and race to my van. But instead of seeing Syrah coming back to me, I saw a few tiny, rusty-colored pawprints on the kitchen tile in front of me.
    Blood? Oh my God. Was Syrah injured?
    Those sticky-looking pawprints drew me into the kitchen when Syrah did not come bounding back. Where the heck had he gone? He knew I’d help him if he was hurt.
    The kitchen was gloomy gray, and the fear that had taken hold in my gut felt like a hand twisting my insides. Announcing my presence wasn’t exactly the most brilliant thing I’d done today. I looked back at the open back door. Where the heck was Tom? I needed him this instant.
    Leaving might have been a wise choice, but I couldn’t. Not before I found Syrah. I wished I could call Candace, but she was definitely tied up. Besides, why would the police be interested in an injured cat whose feet bled a little on an eccentric old man’s kitchen floor?
    I kept whispering Syrah’s name as I scanned the room. The kitchen, though tidy, smelled sour—like an old sponge—and then I heard the plaintive call of what was surely a trapped or injured cat. Not Syrah’s voice, but some other cat in trouble.
    How serious was this problem I’d stumbled upon? An animal was bleeding, and I was certain that through either neglect or intention Flake Wilkerson had something to do with it. I listened hard and decided that the cat noises were coming from the second floor.
    Find Syrah first and then worry about the other cat .
    Sidestepping the pawprints, I made my way around a rolling butcher block island with a cracked top covered with knife marks. Slices of apple just turning brown and half a glass of fizzing Coke sat abandoned on its surface.
    I kept my eyes on the floor, still whispering for Syrah, and reached an arched entry. I heard a clock somewhere farther inside the house chiming the half hour. I stopped, hoping I would come upon my cat so I could grab