The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Eighteen

Candace arrived about ten a.m.—it was her day off—and she looked cranky and tired. Though I didn’t want another adventurous trek in her RAV4, I was afraid that if I suggested I drive it might agitate her even more, so I kept my mouth shut. I noticed she was wearing a Sam Houston State University sweatshirt and thought asking her about that would be safe territory.

After I was sitting beside her, braced for another Indystyle race to our destination, I said, “I like your sweatshirt. That college is north of my old stomping grounds in Texas.”

“Went to a three-day workshop there. They have an awesome criminal justice school. I took a forensics course, but now that you’ve brought that up, I’m pissed off all over again. Why do I have to practically beg to use what I’ve learned?”

Pissed off all over again? My guess was she woke up that way and nothing had changed. “Baca still being stubborn?” I said.

“He’s saying this is a crime about money, not some silly cats,” she said.

“Baca mentioned money when he talked to me too, and then Lydia brought up a life insurance policy. Is that the money he’s talking about?”

“That Lydia. She doesn’t know how to keep her mouth shut.” This further cause for irritation made Candace press her foot down on the gas even harder, and I closed my eyes, sure that we’d end up wrapped around a telephone pole.

Hoping to calm her, I said, “You can be sure I won’t be saying anything to anyone about the money. But Mr. Wilkerson could have been getting money from cat sales, right?”

“It’s possible. But Baca wouldn’t listen to me when I said this looked like a crime of passion, not a premeditated murder by someone cold and calculating. Wilkerson made Shawn angry enough to spit nails, and who’s to say he didn’t make someone else that mad?”

“He upset me, that’s for sure,” I said. “Not angry enough to kill him, but everyone has their own breaking point. What if someone went to the Pink House to get their cat back, just as I did?” And then I had another idea. “And what if that person became incensed when he or she realized their pet was already gone?”

“I had the same thought. The killer used a knife from the kitchen, for Pete’s sake. Knives come out of the drawer when someone’s in a rage. I’ve been out on enough domestic calls to know that much. That has to be it. Flake Wilkerson stole the wrong person’s cat—someone who had a major temper failure.”

Candace was really getting worked up.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” I said.

“Tired of being treated like I don’t know squat,” she said.

“By the chief?” I asked.

“By Lydia mostly. The chief and I are cool, but he’s not handing me any assignments directly related to the case aside from those evidence samples I took at the Pink House.”

“Is that why we’re heading there this morning? To take more samples?”

“Not exactly. We’re simply paying a friendly visit to Wilkerson’s daughter, like you and I discussed. She got in last night.”

“She knows we’re coming?” I said.

“Not really.”

Candace made a sharp right onto the dirt road leading to the Pink House, and I nearly cracked my head on the passenger window on the rebound. “The chief interviewed Daphne last night, so we’re not interfering with the investigation. Let’s start out by saying you just want to talk to her, extend your condolences, and I’m along for the ride. She’s the life insurance beneficiary, so the chief probably suspects her, but you and I don’t suspect her of anything. We have no reason to, right?”

“I’ll be able to respond after I recover from my broken neck,” I said.

She looked confused. “What?”

“Never mind,” I said.

But then she slammed to a stop behind an ancient Cadillac Seville sitting in the driveway, and this time the seat belt nearly snapped my collarbone as it tightened in response to the sudden braking.

That does it. She never drives me anywhere again. Candace slid from behind the wheel, totally oblivious.

Rubbing my surely bruised shoulder, I got out of the car, too. Candace stopped behind the Cadillac, took a small notebook from her jeans pocket and scribbled down the tag number.

When she was done, she said, “Come on, let’s go meet Daphne so you can tell her how sorry you are you walked into this house and found her father dead.”

“Me? I have to start the conversation?” I said.

“Yes.” She’d gone into full cop mode. And here I thought this was supposed to be a friendly visit.

“But you know how to do this stuff,” I said, realizing I sounded like I was whining. I hate whining.

“You are a lot nicer than I am. She’ll like you.” She was walking toward the front door.

Why did I have to be the front woman? Maybe because Daphne—I didn’t even know her last name; was it Wilkerson?—would learn soon enough that Candace was a police officer? If Candace wasn’t forthright, she could get in hot water again. Whereas I could say anything I wanted. Oh brother. I was beginning to think like Candace.

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 many 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.

“I found out they dug up records of all the calls my father made to me. The chief asked me about those and was especially interested in the ones that started about a month ago. I told him that was how things always went. My father came into my life, usually when he needed something. Then he’d leave. This last month? It was all a bunch of new lies.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“He said he was dying, for one thing. For sympathy, of course. One time he told me he was having open heart surgery just to get me here. You know what he wanted? My mother’s engagement ring. The one I used to wear all the time. Said he had a use for it and that it was his property.”

“Did you give it to him?” I asked.

“Yes. He did buy it originally, after all—and that made it tainted. Him reminding me of that? Well, he knew how I’d react and that I’d give him the ring. Besides, I was done arguing about every little thing. I have good memories of my mom, and that’s all that counts.”

“There was no heart surgery?” I asked.

“No way,” she said in a scoffing tone. “He was healthier than me. I swear if someone hadn’t stabbed him, he would have outlived everyone in this room.”

“Back to these recent phone calls,” Candace said. “What do you think his motives were this time?”

“I don’t know. He said he wanted to make things right between us before he died and that he could earn back my trust by reuniting me with Sophie,” Daphne said.

“Are you saying he admitted he stole your cat?” I said.

“Oh no. That would have confirmed what I knew all along—that he was a liar and a thief,” she said. “He’d never admit to that.”

“Then how did he plan to find Sophie if he wasn’t involved in her disappearance?” I said.

Daphne said, “Good question. I asked him and he just said, ‘Leave it to me. I have my ways.’ ”

“Did you believe he could make that happen?” Candace asked.

“Not for a minute. He wanted back into my life for a few months for some selfish reason and—” She bit her lower lip, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ve been stupid enough to let that happen over and over. Why not again?”

“Because no matter what kind of man he was, he was still your father,” I said.

Daphne sniffed and swiped at her nose with her sleeve. “Not anymore. Now, if you don’t mind, I have plenty to do. I’d like to get back to it.”

Candace and I stood.

“I’ll stay and help,” I said.

“You don’t have to. I can manage,” Daphne said.

“Then it’s settled. I’m staying,” I said with a smile. “Candace? What about you?”

“I have some errands—you know, the whole day off stuff—but I could come back later and lend a hand,” she said.

“Sounds good.” I was in rescue mode, just like I’d been after Katrina when so many pets needed homes. It felt good.