The Cat, The Quilt and The Corpse Page 17

  Though I expected a weeping, overwrought woman to answer the door, that wasn’t my first impression. Daphne, petite and maybe mid-thirties, had an unlit cigarette clinging to her upper lip, wore an army green Henley and had long, dark frizzy hair. Her features were hard, her jaw tight.

  “The estate sale isn’t until next week. Come back then.” She started to close the door.

  Candace stuck her foot out and stopped this from happening. “Sorry to disturb you, but we’re not here about that. I’m Candace and this is Jillian. We came to offer our condolences about your father.” At least she sounded a lot kinder to her than she’d been with me all morning. Candace could do nice when she wanted to.

  “Did he owe you money? Owe you a cat? What?” The cigarette bobbed as Daphne spoke, and hung precariously from her lip.

  Candace gestured my way. “Jillian found your father that morning. She’d like to talk to you.”

  And what the heck am I supposed to say? I smiled and nodded as if this were my mission in life, to heal grieving hearts.

  “If she’s the one that found that bastard dead, she might need a priest for a future exorcism because his evil soul could have crawled inside her. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Again she started to close the door, but this time Candace grabbed it.

  “We’d like a few minutes of your time,” Candace said.

  I nodded again, smiling like the fool I felt. But her calling Mr. Wilkerson a bastard at least calmed me a little. No love lost between Daphne and her father might make this easier.

  “Are you from some church?” Daphne looked us both up and down. “You’re probably hiding a sheet cake or casserole somewhere, aren’t you?”

  “No. Jillian simply wants to answer any questions you might have,” Candace said. “Just a few minutes of your time? Please?”

  “Questions? What kind of questions?” she said.

  I said, “I-I’ve been so upset since I found your father, and I thought maybe if I talked to you, then—”

  “What do I look like, your shrink?” she said.

  “S-sorry,” I said. Gosh, I wanted to leave in the worst way. Why did Candace expect Daphne would tell us anything?

  But perhaps I’d misjudged Mr. Wilkerson’s daughter—I now noticed a hint of guilt in her eyes. She said, “Oh hell, why not come in and bother me? It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do—aside from arranging a cremation and cleaning out this ridiculously huge house.”

  She released her hold on the door, turned and walked through that once beautiful wood-graced foyer. The uncaredfor scarred oak floor, the curving banister, the window seat at the landing before the stairs turned—all of it must have once been magnificent, years ago. Why had the place fallen into such disrepair? Was Wilkerson obsessed with cats because he needed the money he would get from their sale?

  As Daphne led us into the parlor area where I’d been forced to sit for hours the day of the murder, I glanced back again at the broad stairs I’d raced up as I followed the sounds of those poor trapped cats.

  I expected to smell smoke from her cigarettes, but the musty odors of age and neglect overrode everything. It was stronger than the other day, perhaps because Daphne had been emptying cupboards and closets and filling boxes. At least a half dozen sat in the dining room beyond, three of them right on the spot where her father’s body had lain.

  I took the same seat as the day of the murder, and Candace sat beside me on the old settee.

  Daphne stood looking down at us, hands on her hips. “Out with it, whatever it is,” she said. “Say your piece. I’m busy.”

  “I—I—” But the words wouldn’t come.

  Candace rested a hand on my shoulder. “She’s having a hard time. We thought coming here would help her feel better about finding your father, well . . . lying there and—”

  “Stuck like the pig he was?” Daphne looked at me. “Don’t lose any sleep over it, honey. Is that all?”

  But Candace wasn’t about to let her shove us back out the door. “Jillian, ask her. Go ahead.”

  I looked at Candace, completely confused. “You mean about the . . . ?” About the what? I had no idea. I wondered if my new friend had gone off the deep end.

  “Go ahead, you can say it. Tell her about your cat.” Candace moved her brows and eyes in Daphne’s direction, instructing me to go ahead.

  And then I got it. “Yes. My cat,” I said. “Your father stole my cat, and I was wondering if you had any idea why he might do that?”

  Candace’s shoulder was touching mine and I felt her relax a little.

  “Oh, poor baby. He stole your cat, did he? Well, guess what? He stole mine, too.” She looked at Candace. “Do you have a cat?”

  “Not really,” she said. “I’m—”

  “If you did have one, he would have stolen yours, too. That’s what he did. Took things people loved.” The cigarette had held strong until now, but when she was finished speaking, the thing fell to the floor. She knelt, picked it up and flung it away from her. It didn’t go far.

  When she looked back at us, her eyes were bright with tears.

  Quietly I said, “What kind of cat did you have?”

  Daphne’s breathing had sped up, and she took a few seconds before speaking. “What are you really doing here?”

  “I’m trying to find answers.” A little truth wouldn’t hurt—in fact, I believed this woman needed some truth.

  “Why do you care? I understand from the police you got your cat back. See? I know more about you than you know about me.” She took a slender silver cigarette case from her jeans pocket and jabbed another white-filtered cancer stick between her lips.

  “We’ve learned a bit about all the cats found here. Did you know your father broke a window and got into my house?” I said.

  “Again, no surprise. He was good at breaking things.” She began pacing in front of us.

  Like your heart, I thought. “You said he stole your cat, too. Can you tell me about that?” Maybe the exotic shorthair or the Siamese belonged to her. If so, then almost all the cats we’d found would be accounted for.

  Daphne didn’t reply. She kept walking back and forth, apparently lost in thought.

  “I have three cats,” I said. “My husband named them all for different wines. We used to love to drink wine in the evening.”

  “Used to?” Daphne’s gaze was on her feet, her combat-style boots clunking on the floor.

  “My husband died. We all miss him—the cats and me.”

  The sound of the clock chiming the half hour broke the subsequent silence.

  Daphne said, “I am so tired of that stupid clock. Either of you have a clue how to shut it up? There’s no plug to pull.”

  Candace stood. “I can manage that. My mee-maw had a grandfather clock. Let me see what I can do.”

  Daphne pointed left. “It’s in the living room.”

  I started to ask Daphne about her cat again, but she spoke first. “Did you love your husband?”

  “Very much,” I said.

  “Is it easier to get over someone dying when you love them?” She removed the cigarette and sat on a straight-back upholstered chair across from me.

  “I don’t know. Are you asking because you didn’t love your father?”

  She was rolling the cigarette between her thumb and fingers and seemed a million miles away. “I never thought I loved him. He was a horrible man.”

  “How was he horrible?” I asked.

  She looked at me then. “He never cared about anyone but himself. No one was good enough, especially my mom and me. How do you love someone like that?”

  “Better question is how do you grieve for them when they’re gone?” I said.

  “There you go.”

  “He was your father and he’s dead. You were connected enough—maybe merely by pain—to come here. To me, that means you have unfinished business.”

  “You sure some church didn’t send you?” she asked. But the harsh tone was now subdued. “I mean, I�
�m not against religion or anything, but this was a house of hatred and I tried not to visit here much after my father bought it.”

  “So you didn’t grow up here?” I said.

  “No. I didn’t even grow up in this town. He moved here after my mother died. Bought the place as an investment. As you may have noticed, he didn’t exactly take care of that investment.”

  “It must have been beautiful once. Could be again,” I said.

  “Do you have another agenda?” she said. “Did the neighborhood improvement people send you to convince me to spruce the place up?”

  “No one sent me. And by the way, this is your house now and if you need that cigarette, then—”

  “I quit ten years ago,” she said. “But when I learned I had to come to Mercy, first thing I did was go out and buy a pack. Haven’t smoked one yet, but I think I might with every passing minute I spend here.”

  “I’d like to help you if I can,” I said. This was a troubled person, and I felt this odd connection to her. We may have had very different ways of grieving, but I knew what she was going through.

  “Okay, your visit is not about God. You’ve got to be a shrink.” The guarded look and angry tone had returned. “But I don’t need that kind of help.”

  I smiled. “I am no shrink. When I said I’d like to help I was being practical, not esoteric. You said something about an estate sale, and obviously you’re getting ready, but this is a huge house. I’d be glad to help you sort things, trash things, do whatever is necessary.”

  She cocked her head. “You’d do that for a stranger?”

  “Sure. I’d love to.” And even though Candace might think I’d scored big-time if I were invited to hunt around in here, it wasn’t like that for me. I did want to help this woman. It just felt right.

  Candace returned and said, “The clock won’t bother you anymore.”

  “Thanks,” Daphne said. “Tell me your name again?”

  “Candace Carson,” she mumbled, reclaiming her spot next to me on the settee.

  Not Deputy Carson, I thought. Wonder why. And I was also wondering why we couldn’t go into the living room, where it would surely be more comfortable.

  “You know,” Candace said, “Shawn Cuddahee’s animal shelter took all the cats your father had here, but he didn’t have room for all of them. I agreed to take home a Siamese until we either find the owner or someone adopts the poor guy. Could he be your cat—the one your father took from you?”

  “Or an exotic shorthair?” I said. “He had one of those, too.”

  But Daphne shook her head. “No. Sophie wasn’t a Siamese or whatever else you said. She was a gray long-haired sweetheart.When my father came to visit me in Columbia—we were actually on speaking terms at the time—he was all over her, how pretty she was, how affectionate. Then he took off with her in the middle of the night.”

  “Are you kidding me?” But why should I be surprised?

  “I wish I were kidding. I got in my car and drove here when I discovered she was gone. But though he had several other cats, no Sophie. And he claimed he didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance.”

  “Then what was his explanation for leaving your place in the middle of the night?” Candace said.

  “He said he was tired of me. And since I’d heard that before, I didn’t argue. And like a fool, I believed him when he said it was a coincidence that Sophie disappeared when he did, that maybe she slipped out when he was leaving. But I know different now.” The more she talked, the more the contempt returned to her voice.

  “What changed your mind about this coincidence?” I asked.

  “This last month he’s been calling me. Same old thing. He wants to make things right between us; he doesn’t want to die with us being estranged. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “But that doesn’t answer why you seem so sure now that he took your cat,” Candace said.

  “I’ve explained all this to the police, and it doesn’t really matter now that he’s dead, does it?” she said. “Sophie’s been gone more than a year. I’ll never see her again.”

  “The police?” I said. “They asked about your cat?”

  “No, they didn’t. I mentioned it to Chief Baca after he said my father had a bunch of cats here. He didn’t seem to care.”

  “Yeah, tell me about it,” Candace said under her breath.

  “You’re awfully interested in this,” she said, her scorn morphing to skepticism.

  “Partly because of Shawn, the guy who owns that shelter,” I said quickly.

  “I heard my father complain about him more than once,” Daphne said.

  “He’s a friend of ours,” I said, “and apparently the main suspect. But we’re sure he couldn’t have killed your father, and we wish the police chief would listen to us. We believe the cats had something to do with your father’s murder.”

  “We? Us? What are you, conjoined twins or something?” A new cigarette came out of the case and she put it between her lips.

  “No,” Candace and I said in unison.

  Daphne actually smiled for the first time. “Better check your hips for scars.”

  “We’re curious types—maybe that’s why we relate to cats so well,” I said. “I’ve had a round or two with Chief Baca. I hope your experience was better than mine.”

  “Does he suspect you, too?” she said.

  “At first he did, mostly because I ... well, I found . . . your father.” I couldn’t help glancing toward the dining room.

  Daphne tossed her head in the direction of my stare. “That’s where he was, huh?”

  I nodded, knowing that the image of him lying there would never leave me. I could picture the whole scene so clearly, as if it had just happened.

  “Thanks to me, looks like they don’t suspect you or Shawn as much as they do me,” Daphne said.

  “The chief told you that you were a suspect?” I said.

  “No, but I’m not stupid. I picked up on his suspicions,” she said.

  “Did you come into town and go straight to the police station or did you stop by here first?” Candace asked.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Daphne spoke so quickly she lost the cigarette, but she didn’t seem to notice.

  Candace flushed. “I was wondering if you went to the station first and they took your clothing while you were there.”

  “Took my clothes?” Her eyebrows were raised and she looked completely confused. But then she got it, because she said, “You think that if I killed my father I’d be stupid enough to wear bloody clothes I wore days ago to an interview with the police?”

  “No, no, no,” Candace said, shaking her head. “It’s about trace evidence transfer. If you didn’t come here to the Pink House before you talked to them, there’d be no cat hair on your clothing and—”

  “Trace evidence? You’re a cop,” Daphne said. “You’re a damn cop. And you think I killed him.” She rose and pointed toward the foyer. “Get out of here.”

  I stood, palms held out in a “wait a minute” gesture. “You don’t understand.”

  “Oh, I understand. You came here while I’m sorting through years of memories that he took from our old house, pictures and letters that only bring me pain, and you pretend like you want to help me. That’s as cold as his heart.”

  Candace’s head was down. Obviously she knew she’d screwed up big-time. “It’s not like that,” I said, my tone more forceful than I intended.

  “Really? How is it, then?” Daphne said.

  “True, Candace is a cop,” I said, “but since she’s friendly with me she’s not officially investigating the murder. Remember, I was a suspect, too, and maybe I still am.”

  “You two buddies came here to find a new suspect. So she is investigating.” Daphne stared down at Candace.

  “We did not come here for that,” I said emphatically. “I promise you. I’m here because of the cats. What I’ve learned today is that you were victimized by your father like so ma
ny others. And I want to help you.”

  “What about her? What’s her plan, since we’re getting all mushy and honest and heartfelt?” Daphne folded her arms across her chest, her lips tight with anger.

  Candace’s head jerked up. “I’m as pissed off as you are; that’s why I’m here. At first someone had me yanked off this case for no good reason. And now I can’t convince the chief your father’s death might have been about more than money. That’s why you’re his current target. Word is, you’ll inherit a pretty penny.”

  Daphne took a moment to think this through. Then she inhaled deeply and released the breath with her eyes closed. At last she said, “And you’re saying you don’t think I killed my father for his money?”

  “I sure don’t,” I said.

  Candace looked from me to Daphne and back to me and said, “I’m with her.”

  “You two swear you didn’t come here because that cop sent you to see if my story’s changed since I talked to them?” Daphne said.

  “He doesn’t know we’re here,” Candace said. “And if he finds out, I’m toast. I’ll be answering phones again.”

  She stared at Candace for a long time, then me, before saying, “I may be the biggest idiot on the planet, but because of my own poor cat, and because I know plenty of cats passed through my father’s lying, thieving hands, I believe you.” She sat down again.

  Relieved, I followed suit. For the first time I noticed how dark those circles under her eyes were, how her shoulders sagged. Now that honesty had robbed her of anger and cynicism, she looked defeated and exhausted.

  “We want to find your father’s killer,” I said.

  “I still don’t get why you care,” she said.

  “I need to know why he was stealing cats. Added to that, I walked in here and found a dead man. And you know what? Chief Baca has no clue that a person who’s had a pet stolen can become desperate and unreasonable, and maybe capable of murder.”

  “Then Chief Baca is plain dense, because you’re right,” Daphne said. “I saw firsthand how fixated the big bad policeman is on the money motive. He kept asking me if I knew how rich I was about to become. Well, guess what? I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “What else did you two discuss?” Candace asked.