The Cat, The Quilt and The Corpse Read online

  Phone calls. What happened to Wilkerson’s phone? “So your father did have a phone.”

  “Prepaid cell. He said it saved money. But since he was doing illegal things, I guess that’s the real reason he needed something untraceable.”

  “Did you mention at least that much to Baca?”

  “No. He didn’t ask about the phone.”

  I steeled myself for my next question, knowing I might not like the answer. “Did you stay the night? Wait until the morning your father died before you left?” I hated myself for thinking it, but this could be how it all happened. An angry daughter and a mean old man got into it when he failed to come through on a promise yet again—a last argument that ended in tragedy.

  “Did I wait?” she said, incredulous. “Are you crazy? I drove home that night. Got there in record time, too. For the first time in my life, I wish I’d gotten stopped for speeding. At least then I’d have the precious alibi I so desperately need now.”

  “Wow,” I said. “And you told everything to Baca?”

  She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Come on, Jillian. I hated my father, I was here close to the time he was murdered and we argued—and there’s a witness who saw me. Plus there’s the insurance policy naming me as beneficiary. No, I didn’t say much of anything. I told the chief I needed to speak to my attorney—and by the way, I don’t have an attorney.” She finally stuck a cigarette between her lips.

  “You can’t trust Baca with what you’ve told me?” I said. But she didn’t answer, just rolled her eyes, so I said, “I don’t know any lawyers, either. I could ask Candace. She’d know who’s the best in town.”

  “Have you forgotten she’s a cop?”

  “But she’s also—” I stopped. Knowing Candace and knowing that real evidence pointed straight at Daphne, she was right. I couldn’t ask Candace for help. “Okay. Not a good idea.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.” She swiped at the tears on her pale cheeks. “Right now I just hope you believe me.”

  “I do.” And that was the truth. I started to ask her to come to my house for supper, because if anyone needed a friend right now, it was Daphne, but then I remembered my “date” with Tom. “Your estate sale is set for Monday, so you’ll be staying here.” If you aren’t in jail, I thought. “Why not spend the day with me tomorrow? Stuck here alone, you’ll have nothing to do but think. And that’s not good.”

  “Maybe I’ll take you up on that. And as for the estate sale? Postponed. The chief saw everything boxed up and wondered why I felt compelled—that’s his word—to get rid of my father’s things so fast.” Her cigarette bobbed as she spoke and I almost wished she’d just light up and get it over with.

  “Baca told you to postpone the sale?” I said.

  “He said another warrant might be issued. That means he thinks I’ve hidden evidence that proves I killed my father.” She shook her head. “All this because I was sure I’d get Sophie back.”

  “Tell me about her.” I wasn’t sure if talking about this would help calm Daphne, but it was worth a try.

  She pushed away from the table and got the cell phone that had been charging on the counter. She flipped it open and held it out for me. The wallpaper on her small screen was of a gray long-haired domestic cat sitting on a pillow.

  Uh-oh. I squinted and studied the screen. This cat looked an awful lot like the half a cat I’d pieced together last night But I wasn’t about to mention that. Not until I’d put the whole picture together. I didn’t even know if it was simply a computer-generated picture or a lost-cat flyer right now. But what if it was a picture of Sophie, one Wilkerson used to show her off so he could sell her to a grieving person—the same approach he’d used with Mr. Green? Only that time, a year ago, it was not an Abyssinian but a gray cat. I had to finish that picture. And now I had something to compare it to.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said. “Did your father have any pictures of Sophie?”

  “Not that I know about, but since he took her, he could have taken pictures. Why are you asking?” Daphne said.

  “If your father was supplying cats to people, wouldn’t he need pictures of what he had available to sell?”

  “I suppose,” she said. “But that won’t help me get her back, will it?”

  “Maybe not. But we know your father really was dying and maybe he did intend to reunite you with your cat. It’s not like he provided any other reason, right?”

  Sounding disgusted, she said, “You mean besides telling me he’d switched beneficiaries on his insurance?”

  “Switched? I thought this was a new policy and you didn’t know about it,” I said. What else was she holding back?

  “I’ve been racking my brain, and now I do recall him telling me he had life insurance, but I totally forgot, probably figured it was another lie. Apparently I wasn’t the original beneficiary, though. So I guess that’s why when I learned about the switch, I swooped into town and killed my father first chance I got.” She bent her head and pressed her hands against her temples. “Joking aside, I realize this looks bad for me, but I swear I didn’t kill him.”

  “You were upset about Sophie. You say you don’t care about any money, and I believe you.” I rested a hand on her arm. “Listen, if your father did steal Sophie—and he most likely did—he knew what he’d done with her; he knew where she was. And maybe whoever he sold her to was unwilling to return her. Maybe that’s the person he kept calling over and over the night before the murder.”

  The cigarette dropped when Daphne looked up. “You think his death really was about my cat?”

  “Like Candace always says, evidence is the key, and right now I’m only guessing. I don’t have any proof. But it seems plausible after all you’ve told me. Think about it. Not only did the killer take the computer, he or she apparently took your father’s phone, too.”

  “Plausible to you and me,” she said. “Chief Baca might be hard to convince.”

  “That’s why we need evidence.” I thought about that half-completed puzzle of a gray cat on my design board again. Was that picture the key to everything? “Text me that picture of Sophie right now,” I said. “I gotta go, but I’ll call you.”

  I started for home, anxious to transfer Sophie’s picture from my phone to my computer. If I could prove Wilkerson had a cat flyer that resembled Sophie, then Baca might be compelled to consider that he had stolen his daughter’s cat, which in turn might help him believe that Daphne was really only in town in hopes of getting Sophie back. But I swallowed hard, thinking that it could offer Baca an even stronger reason to suspect Daphne of murder.

  I pushed that thought aside as I slid behind the wheel of my van. That’s not what happened. I wasn’t wrong about Daphne. I turned the key in the ignition and went to put my phone in my bag and was again confronted by the photos of Banjo and Syrah, those twin Abyssinians. I didn’t care if Baca laughed me out of the police station—he should see these, maybe even talk to Mr. Green himself. Maybe Mr. Wilkerson said something that day he met with the old guy, something about other customers. I drove into town and parked outside the city hall. I opened my phone and stared at the picture of Sophie that Daphne had just sent. Maybe talking to the chief might not be the best idea after all. Daphne had told me things she should have told Baca herself. Did I trust myself to go in there and not spill everything? Heck, I didn’t even know what Baca had on her, at least not everything. If Daphne got arrested because of my mouth, I’d never forgive myself.

  So I dialed Candace instead.

  She answered on the first ring. “Hey. What’s up?”

  “I need you to give the pictures of Syrah and Banjo to Baca,” I said quickly. “Maybe after he sees how closely the two cats resemble each other he’ll talk to Mr. Green. Mr. Green knows firsthand what Wilkerson—”

  “Can I call you back, Mom?” Candace said.

  Damn. She must be with someone—probably Morris.

  “If you get a break, I’ll be at home.”
I snapped my phone shut and backed up, thinking. Why didn’t Daphne tell Baca everything? And has she told me everything? All I knew was that I believed her, but I could see that Baca and even Candace might not.

  I was aching for the comfort of a cat in my lap and a mind free of questions. I got half of that. All three cats sensed my tension when I came in. I made a cup of tea with honey to rid myself of the chill of a cold day—so cold in so many ways. When I sat on the sofa, Chablis crawled into my lap, her long champagne fur spilling around her. Merlot and Syrah jockeyed for space beside me and soon settled down. There is nothing so calming as the music of three cats purring in unison and a cup of tea on a dark, damp day.

  By the time Candace arrived at my door, my mind felt clearer.

  My three friends greeted her, and when the petting was over, she straightened and said, “I have ten minutes. What’s going on?”

  I handed her the pictures of Syrah and Banjo. “Take these to the chief. Tell him to talk to Mr. Green, and maybe then he’ll pursue a course other than the one he’s chosen.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I cursed silently. With all the evidence against Daphne, Candace would surely see where he was going with his investigation.

  “What does that mean?” Candace said.

  “All I know is I can’t talk to him again and—”

  “Why, Jillian? You know something and you’re not willing to tell me. That’s not good.”

  The tension that had eased in my neck returned with a vengeance. Pursuing answers together, we’d developed a true friendship and I couldn’t keep Daphne’s secret from Candace. She would never forgive me when she found out. And she’d surely find out.

  “This might take more than ten minutes,” I said.

  “Then give me the speed-dating version.”

  I told her about Daphne being at the Pink House the day before the murder, how she’d come thinking she was about to get Sophie back.

  When I was done, Candace said, “Holy crap.” Her follow-up was, “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

  “You have an obligation as a police officer,” I said. “Baca knows she was in the house, but he doesn’t know why, and if he finds out she was angry and disappointed, left in a rage, then, well, you know what will happen.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek and finally said, “This is all hearsay. Not even admissible in court. I’d suggest Daphne get a lawyer and we both forget you told me anything.”

  “Um . . . yeah. What were we talking about, anyway?” I said.

  She smiled for the first time. “See what I mean? Shawn Cuddahee is the one who set the chief onto Daphne when he admitted he saw her at the house the day before the murder. The chief knows she lied about being in town, so he’s keeping a close eye on her. He’ll find out what’s what without any help from us.”

  “You won’t tell him I was there this morning?” I said.

  “I don’t think I heard you mention that,” she said, her jaw tight.

  Twenty-five

  I spent most of the afternoon piecing paper on my design board. Finding matching colors was the easy part of this re-creation project. Numbers, letters and other printing, I learned, were difficult to put back together, and I was having little success discovering what “lost” or maybe even “found” message went with the picture.

  I’d printed out Sophie’s photo, and though the similarities between her and whatever cat was on this flyer were real, obvious differences had begun to appear. But maybe it was just the difference between Sophie posing on a pillow and the cat I was putting back together, who was sitting by what I’d decided was a fireplace. Finally, my eyes burning, I stopped working.

  All three cats were waiting as I cracked the door. I pushed interested noses aside with my palm so I could get out of the room without them slipping inside. They weren’t happy about that. If there’s anything a cat hates, it’s a closed door.

  But they were happy to follow me to the bathroom and watch from a safe distance as I took a bath. No splotches of late-afternoon sunlight coming in through the window for them to enjoy today, but the steam from the hot water created a comfortable kitty spa. Merlot spread his huge body out on the marble vanity, not caring that he knocked off toothpaste, cotton swabs and moisturizer as he made space for himself.

  I had to laugh at Syrah, who found the cotton swabs wonderful for tossing and carrying off to far corners. Yup, a bath with my friends was just what the doctor ordered. Chablis joined me as I blow-dried my hair. She’s the only one unafraid of the dryer, which always made me believe she might have been a show cat and thus used to being groomed. Who knew what homes these three had lived in before?

  Tom arrived at seven on the dot, and I had to admit it felt nice when he told me I had a glow about me despite the rainy, gloomy day.

  His driving—he’d arrived in a Prius rather than his van—was nothing like what I’d had to endure with Candace. When we parked a block down from the Finest Catch, Tom said, “You’ve gone quiet on me. Was it my driving?”

  I had to laugh at that one. “No. You have no idea how much I appreciated your driving. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

  “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” he said as we approached the entrance to the restaurant. “What a great laugh you have.”

  He took my hand as we went inside, and though my first instinct was to withdraw, I didn’t. His touch felt warm and strong. I liked it.

  After the waitress took our drink order, Tom said, “If you favor bass, they do an amazing job with the largemouth from Mercy Lake.”

  “That was easy.” I closed the menu. “Is that what you’re having?”

  “Yes,” he said, “but the coffee here sucks. We’ll go to Belle’s after dinner and have a cappuccino, okay?”

  “Sounds good. I noticed you say ‘dinner,’ not ‘supper,’ and the way you talk—”

  “I was born here, but I left with my mother when I was in grade school. We lived in New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire—all the new places. I truly believe my mother thought about that word as she dragged me around with each new boyfriend.”

  “How did you end up back here?” I asked.

  Before he could answer, our drinks arrived, white wine for me and Scotch for Tom. The waitress then took our order.

  Tom looked at me after she left and said, “All this first-date business is awkward.”

  The memory of his hand clutching mine reminded me that despite being urged on by Candace, I felt as if this actually was a date. I liked what I was seeing across the table from me and felt the heat on my cheeks as soon as that thought crossed my mind.

  “You feel guilty, don’t you? Like you’re cheating on him?” Tom said.

  I nodded. “That is such a cliché. But it’s true. To help me get past it, you have to tell me as much about yourself as you know about me.”

  “I already have.” He slugged down a hefty swallow of Scotch. “But I’ll go on. You asked why we came back to Mercy. Because my mother finally found that the twelve steps worked for her and it was time to come home. She’d gotten some money when she divorced her third—or maybe fourth—husband. She bought that little house you’ve been to. I was grown by then, but I have worried about her all my life. I decided I should be close.”

  “Sounds like you love your mom a lot,” I said. “She’s an interesting person, that’s for sure.”

  “I do love her,” he said. That brought out his smile.

  Once we’d moved past conversation about his mother, he opened up about his current job, about how he’d never thought he’d enjoy working for himself but he did, and about how he finally felt, after five years, that he was fitting into the community.

  The fish, as advertised, was delicious. Tom had ordered his blackened, while I’d chosen mine broiled with lemon and wine sauce. Unfortunately we never reached a point where I felt comfortable asking him whether he’d been consulted about that wrecked computer. He kept talking about his job and the great fish
ing here and how he loved the weather while I kept listening.

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle as we took the short walk to Belle’s Beans. I decided I needed to give a little information since he’d completely opened up, so I told him about meeting my husband, how we rescued the cats, moved here and thought everything in our little world was perfect.

  “Life has a way of doing that—screwing up the perfect times,” he said.

  “I was finally getting past the grief and then what happens? I find a body. Never had that on my to-do list.”

  He said, “Never thought of it that way, but I understand.”

  I said, “I was talking with Daphne Wilkerson today and—”

  “Ah, Daphne,” he said. “From what I’ve heard she’s a nutcase.”

  I stopped. “She lost her father. I think that’s an especially unkind way to portray her.”

  Tom held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say she was a nutcase. I said that’s what I’ve heard.”

  We started walking again. “You did. Sorry. I happen to like her, though.”

  “You’re getting to know the neighbors, then.” He pulled open the door, and the smells of roasted beans rushed out to greet us.

  “I hope it doesn’t take me five years to fit in,” I said with a laugh.

  “It won’t. You’re a lot sweeter than me. Cappuccino okay?”

  The weather had brought the town in for coffee, but I was lucky to nab a table just as a couple left. When Tom brought our coffee in real china cappuccino cups, I was surprised. “I didn’t know you had a choice between paper or the real deal,” I said.

  “You do, but it’s a poorly kept secret—just like everything else in town.” He offered me a choice between a rock candy stir stick and a tiny chocolate spoon. Guess what I chose.

  We both paid attention to our coffee for a few seconds, and finally he said, “Seems I have a new calling—police consultant. I think that’s pretty hilarious.” He stirred the rock candy stick a little faster.

  “Why?” I said. I’d been tense all night about this very topic and now he’d brought it up himself. Amazing.