The Cat, The Quilt and The Corpse Read online

  “You could get to know him better,” she said with a smile. “He treats me like I’m his little sister, but you? You could get plenty out of him.”

  “I wouldn’t feel right about that, Candace.”

  “But if Tom helps the department with the computer, then Baca might be able to solve the case. And won’t you be curious to find out what Tom might learn?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “This reluctance is coming from the woman who went to Taylorville today to question a man about a cat? Can you forget about everything you’ve done trying to solve this thing just because you feel uncomfortable?” She shook her head. “Nope. You’re too much like me. You can’t leave this alone for a minute.”

  Of course she was right.

  Candace left about an hour later, and I closed myself in the sewing room with the bags of shredded paper. I didn’t want to think about being sneaky with Tom, and what better distraction than a paper quilt? It might be a dead end, but I was intrigued.

  Playing with paper, however, would be way too much fun for my cats. Any shreds I moved would become an instant toy, and soon the three of them would destroy any hope I had of piecing together even one flyer or poster. They had to stay outside the room for now—and they didn’t like it one bit. Paws appeared underneath the door the minute I shut the cats out, and then Merlot started meowing loud enough for the people across the lake to hear.

  Trying to ignore them, I focused on the felt design wall that I used to arrange blocks or quilt pieces. Fabric will stick to the felt all by itself, but paper would have to be pinned. Embroidery pins would do the job.

  First, though, I had to find strips of paper that went together. As a longtime quilter, I have an eye for what goes with what. I sat on the floor, a pile of shreds in front of me, and something interesting popped out immediately. The rich blacks and whites of what was obviously a flyer. A flyer I’d seen with my own eyes on Chase Cook’s computer.

  I started searching for all the matching pieces I could find, my hands shaking with excitement. I didn’t find more than a third of the picture, but this was Roscoe, all right. My first discovery was that I could recognize some of these shreds as bills and some as computer-generated flyers like my own. I decided to lay one of my own lost Syrah flyers next to me as a guide. If I did put one of those back together, it would confirm that Wilkerson had gotten his hands on one or more and didn’t want any Good Samaritan interfering with the plans he had for Syrah, that being to deliver him to poor, unsuspecting Mr. Green.

  After this find, I started placing other strips that seemed to go together in separate piles, a project that proved time-consuming but not all that difficult. There were plenty of colorful shreds and I actually enjoyed myself. Even though it was getting very late, I was determined to put at least one piece of paper back together.

  Four hours later, fatigue finally got the better of me. But I had re-created parts of two different cats by pinning pieces on the design wall. I had half a face of one long-haired gray cat with aqua eyes as well as a chest and legs that surely belonged to a Siamese. I knew immediately that this was not the Siamese found at the Pink House and currently in Candace’s care, though. The markings and colors were wrong.

  Why couldn’t I have been lucky enough to find the piece of either of these flyers that had a name or phone number on it? Someone could have gone to Wilkerson’s house last Sunday morning hoping to pick up a cat they’d paid for. One of these two cats, perhaps. Maybe the price was too steep, they’d argued and Wilkerson died. And then the killer left with one of these two cats. It seemed possible. I needed a name and phone number, but that would have to wait until I wasn’t cross-eyed from exhaustion.

  I dragged myself to bed, making sure the sewing room door remained closed to keep my work safe from prying paws. The shredded paper had to yield something. Maybe then I could provide Baca with more evidence and I wouldn’t have to pump Tom Stewart for information.

  Twenty-three

  I expected Candace to call me first thing in the morning to urge me to get busy seducing Tom. But it was Daphne who phoned as I was pouring my first cup of coffee.

  After I said hello, she said, “I don’t have an alibi. Have you ever needed an alibi in your lifetime?”

  She sounded just as upset as the last time we spoke. “Tell me what’s happened,” I said.

  “Apparently I was in business with my father—which is news to me. He had a post office box, and the moron used my name and my phone number when he paid for it.”

  “Here in Mercy?” I asked. Surely anyone with half a brain would recognize Flake Wilkerson if he came in to rent a box.

  “No. In Greenville,” she said. “That’s a two-hour drive from here, and even farther from where I live.”

  “Who told you this and how did they find out?” I asked.

  “Chief Baca was here bright and early. He told me he’d learned this from the bank records. And since my name was also on the bank account and there’s that big life insurance payout coming in the future, the police are asking me all sorts of questions—especially about this business we were supposedly running.”

  “Did you sign on for this joint account?” I said.

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay. That should help protect you. And what kind of business are we talking about?” I asked.

  “There is no business, Jillian. So how the hell would I know? He asked me how many times I’d been to the Greenville-Spartanburg airport lately. But I haven’t been there since I took a vacation to the West Coast last year,” she said.

  “But if you never signed any documents to open a bank account, it seems to me they could easily rule you out. And do you have an alibi for the day of the murder?”

  She didn’t reply, but I could hear her breathing rapidly.

  “Daphne?” I said.

  “Why do I have to prove anything to anyone? I didn’t kill him.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I said. “Did you tell Baca what you were doing that day?”

  “No. He can figure it out himself. I thought you’d understand, but apparently—”

  “I do understand. Can we talk about this in person? Please?”

  “If you think that will help me, come on. Personally, I doubt it.” She didn’t sound the least bit happy about rehashing her conversation with Baca. But of course she had called me, and that made it pretty clear that she wanted my help.

  I poured my coffee down the drain, deciding to stop by Belle’s Beans and pick up coffee for both of us. We’d had a steady rain all night, and when I’d gone out for the paper I discovered the temperature was in the low fifties, so that delicious, rich coffee might do us both some good. I put my hair in a ponytail and slipped on a sweatshirt and jeans, not bothering with makeup.

  But when I entered Belle’s and saw Tom Stewart in line waiting to place his order, I wished I’d at least opted for lipstick. Despite my reluctance to use him to get information, I did want to talk to him. Just because . . . well, just because. Reaching around the person standing between us, I poked his shoulder.

  He turned and smiled when he saw me. “Hey, there. You’re up early.”

  “You, too,” I said.

  He allowed the woman ahead of me to move up so we could be next to each other in line. “Making my first coffee run of the day. Got to sell my services to a couple on the lake and need to be alert and ready for all their questions.”

  “If they need a cat-cam, you’re the man,” I said with a laugh. “By the way, I met your mother the other day. Had supper with her and Ed, as a matter of fact.”

  We stepped ahead as the line moved.

  “How did that happen?” he asked, color rising up his neck. “Because they are perhaps the oddest pair in town.”

  I playfully punched his arm. “Come on. They’re sweet.”

  He looked relieved. “I like them, but I never know what people might think when they first meet them.”

  It was his turn at the counter and he
offered to get my coffee. I told him I was buying for someone else as well as myself and that he didn’t need to buy three coffees. But he did anyway, without asking who the coffee was for. Once he’d paid, he picked up his cup and seemed in a rush to get to his meeting.

  “Tom, wait,” I said before he reached the door.

  He stood there, waiting for me to gather sugar and cream for my coffees.

  I carried my drinks over to him and said, “Remember the other night when you asked me to get a bite to eat with you?”

  “Yeah,” he said warily.

  “Can I change my mind?”

  He glanced down at the two coffees and pointed back and forth between the two cups. “Those aren’t for some guy you’ve met since I last saw you?”

  “These? Oh, no. These are for Daphne and me.”

  He looked confused. “Wilkerson’s daughter? Oh, wait. That’s right. I heard she was staying at the house.” His shoulders relaxed and his engaging smile appeared. “Tonight good for you?”

  “Perfect,” I said. “How about the Finest Catch? I’ve been dying to try that place.”

  “Pick you up at seven,” he said, and hurried out the door.

  I gave him some lead time before exiting. That had been tough, but I realized I liked this guy and wanted him to trust me. I would figure this out—maybe just ask him straight out if he would let me know what he learned from the computer. That seemed simple enough. But what if he wouldn’t tell me? Then I’d have to contend with Candace.

  Daphne, I discovered when she answered the door, had gone back to the unlit cigarette trick to calm herself. She took the coffee gratefully and led me through the house. Neatly stacked and labeled boxes lined the walls in the living and dining rooms, and I decided she must be exhausted after all the work she’d done, even with the help of Candace and me. We went into the kitchen—I could still picture that apple sitting there on the butcher block island, the one Daphne’s father had probably been about to eat right before someone killed him.

  Daphne held the cardboard cup to her nose and said, “Heaven.”

  Thank goodness she had to remove the cigarette to drink.

  We sat at the small round table in the breakfast nook area. Even though a nook by definition is small, this one had been built for much larger furniture. The table, not to mention both of us, seemed lost in the space. Rain had started up again, and it pattered on the roof and meandered down the windowpanes surrounding us.

  “Tell me about Baca,” I said. “Why did he come here this morning?”

  “I told you most of it on the phone. He said I could have come here to kill my father. He said our—what was his word?—estrangement was well-known.”

  “Well-known? I don’t suppose he mentioned who told him that?” I said.

  “No answer except to say he had reliable sources,” she said.

  “So this information came from someone your father knew. Who were his friends?” I said.

  “That’s the problem. I have no idea.”

  “I’ve learned he was a regular at Belle’s Beans and spoke to people there. But from the few folks I talked to, he didn’t seem to have any true buddies.”

  But I was thinking of Chase and how he and Wilkerson had frequented Belle’s Beans at the same time every day, until Chase’s cat disappeared. Was this the friend that Wilkerson confided in about his problems with his daughter?

  “What are you thinking?” Daphne wanted to know.

  “I’ve met a few of your father’s acquaintances. Chase Cook and Belle—the owner of the coffee place. She thought your father might want to take her out. But then he stole her cat instead . . . and Chase’s, too.”

  “He only made friends with people so he could steal from them,” Daphne said. “Figures.”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s a pattern. It’s what he did. And that’s what got him killed, not any money he might have left to you.”

  “I told that cop I don’t want his stupid money. I want to clear this place out and get back to my studio.” She took the lid off her coffee and inhaled again.

  “You’re convinced Baca suspects you?” I said.

  “Duh, yeah. He’s asking me for an alibi. He told me my father was shipping cats all over the place.”

  “I wish Baca would have believed me from the beginning,” I said. “This has always been about the cats.”

  “You were right. But since my name was obviously used to set up the shipping account, I guess I’m involved. Maybe I have a multiple personality disorder and one of me came to town to ship cats out every now and then. And maybe I have another evil personality that came here and killed him.”

  “Just because he’s asking you for an alibi doesn’t mean he thinks you’re guilty,” I said. “Maybe he’s trying to rule you out.”

  “That’s what he said, but I watch the news. One minute the police are claiming a person’s not a suspect; then, next thing you know, that person is under arrest.”

  “Again, you have to have some sense of why Baca came here first thing this morning,” I said. “Did he get some new information other than—”

  “Other than the fact that my father was using my name for no good and that I needed to come up with an alibi?” she said, her voice strained by anger and what also sounded like fear.

  The cigarette would reappear if I didn’t calm her down. “Sorry. I know this isn’t easy. But I need your help to understand it better.”

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. “I know. None of this is your fault.”

  “Tell me one thing,” I said. “Did you tell Baca that your father took your cat?”

  “Yes, but he stole Sophie over a year ago. The chief wasn’t interested. But now that I think about it, when I mentioned Sophie he said the evidence told them that many, many cats had come and gone from this house. I guess that’s why she wasn’t important—because she was just one of many.”

  “If he’d shown that same attitude toward Syrah, I might have socked the man in the nose,” I said.

  Daphne smiled. “I’m glad someone understands.”

  “They found the insurance policy right after the murder,” I said. “Did he show you the paperwork?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Guess it might be evidence. That’s why he can’t show you,” I said.

  “Why would I want to see the policy? I keep telling everyone I don’t give a flip about his money.” Daphne was hunting for her cigarette case again.

  “I believe you, if that means anything,” I said.

  She stopped short of taking out a cigarette. “It means a lot.”

  “I still think the police are missing something, though. They have some of the shredder contents, but I even wonder if anyone’s working on trying to piece flyers back together—maybe to get names of possible new suspects. I’m working on what you gave me in those bags, and it’s not difficult but it sure is a time suck,” I said.

  “You haven’t uncovered some amazing revelation about who killed my father or you would have told me.” She sighed and began turning the silver cigarette box over and over. “That leaves me first on the suspect list.”

  “Why not tell the police where you were when your father was murdered?” I said. “They can rule you out and—”

  “There’s a problem with that,” she said quietly.

  “Why? You don’t remember? You were alone? What?” I said.

  “You really want to know?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Okay . . . I was here.”

  Twenty-four

  My “What?” came out as a whisper. The pounding in my chest felt like a small bomb about to go off.

  She put her head down and her wild hair spilled around her face—creating a convenient mask.

  “Daphne, look at me,” I said.

  She didn’t, but she did speak. “They know I was here, too. They took my fingerprints as soon as I arrived in town, and today Chief Baca says they matched them to a glass found in the sink the
day of the murder.”

  “But they didn’t find your prints on the murder weapon.” I said it as a statement, not a question.

  She jerked her head up, her dark eyes filled with anger and disappointment. Despite my effort to show her I believed her, she wasn’t buying it. “No, not on the murder weapon. But they have a witness.”

  A witness? Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. I willed myself to remain calm, but I was stunned and even a tiny bit frightened. I’d been so sure this woman wasn’t a killer and yet . . . “Tell me everything,” I said. “Otherwise I can’t help you.”

  “That man who saves cats and dogs—what’s his name?”

  “Shawn?” I said.

  “The chief told me Shawn saw me here—through the window—and he kept quiet about it until they brought him in for questioning again. But apparently Shawn finally admitted he saw me and my father having a disagreement.”

  It would be like Shawn not to give that up easily. Probably why he was mad at me for so readily telling the police things about him. “Since the police didn’t ask him directly about anything he saw through the window, he didn’t offer it willingly. He’s not a fan of the police force.”

  “You must know Shawn pretty well,” she said. “He apparently only gave up the information when they told him about my fingerprints and they pressed him for anything he might have seen.”

  “What in God’s name were you doing here?” I asked.

  Her turn for a deep breath before she spoke. “My father told me he had Sophie. He said I could pick her up. But when I got here—”

  “When did you get here?” I said.

  “It was the day before the murder, Saturday afternoon. But Sophie wasn’t here. He’d lied, and I’d fallen for it again.” She was shaking her head, tears welling.

  “Why did he lure you here if he didn’t really have your cat?” I said.

  “Oh, he stuck to his story. Told me to be patient. Someone would be bringing her to me. Like a fool, I waited, and he kept leaving the room to make phone calls. By ten that night I was so angry I was about to burst. He said there’d been a delay and if Sophie wasn’t here in the morning, he’d personally go and pick her up.”