The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

Twenty-One

I arrived home to find three unhappy cats. I’d spent the entire day away and hadn’t even remembered to turn on Animal Planet. Though I’d checked the cat-cam several times, they, of course, had no idea I’d been checking on them. Maybe one day Tom could make the system interactive and I could talk to them, too.

After they got over their snit, which took only about fifteen minutes, we played with feathers and fake snakes and I eased my guilt by giving them some of that fancy food that costs about a buck a can. I heard purring as I left the kitchen and headed for a hot bath. I hadn’t done this much physical work since John and I had moved in last year, and every muscle was barking. By the time I put my head on the pillow, three cats with fish breath were ready to settle in for the night. I don’t think it took me thirty seconds to fall asleep.

When I woke up, I feared I’d gone way past my usual seven a.m., but I checked the clock and saw I’d overslept by only thirty minutes. First order of business, after coffee and cereal, was to figure out when I’d made those cat quilts and how they’d ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house. The police might not care about this—obviously they didn’t, since they hadn’t taken them as evidence—but I sure did.

I keep photographs of many of the quilts I make, but I’m not always good about noting where or when a particular quilt is sold. I rely on my receipt book for the IRS and usually add a quilt’s description on the NCR forms I use—for instance “brown and pink Lady of the Lake pattern,” with the date and price. In other words, I’m organized to a point. But the pictures might tell me precisely when I’d used the fabrics in the quilts I’d brought home from the Pink House last night.

I took the five cat quilts with me, and Merlot, Chablis, and Syrah followed along into the sewing room. How they love fabric, the hum of the sewing machine, and the chance to swipe at thread as I clip rows of quilting. When I took a photo album from the shelf, Merlot went straight to the window and jumped on the sill, his attention on birds and squirrels. Chablis plopped down in the middle of the floor, perhaps hoping she could trip me and get her revenge. Syrah sat in the middle of the room also and meowed in protest. Looking at an album was not what they’d hoped I’d be doing in here.

I sat in the comfy overstuffed chair in the corner and opened the album—this one with pictures from the last year. Only Syrah joined me, perching on the chair’s arm. He seemed as interested in the pictures as I was, occasionally reaching out a paw to tap a page as I turned it.

Checking fabric patterns and colors against the quilts, I was certain these five had been ordered or purchased in April or May. Three fabrics in particular had been used in all the quilts. What had I been doing in those months, aside from making myself get out of bed and face one day at a time without John? Going to cat or craft shows? Had I sold these through my Web site?

The answer might lie in this year’s tax folder. I retrieved it from its file, and sure enough, I found an almost coherent description of six quilts that matched these. They’d been sold at a cat show in Atlanta. No convenient check or credit card receipt, but I sometimes do ask for a name—in case the customer ever contacts me again. People feel good when you remember their name.

This order was purchased by one B. Smith and was a cash payment—an order for six quilts. And yet only five had been recovered. I wondered what happened to the other one. And I didn’t know if B. Smith was a man or a woman—you’d think I would have remembered if a man had bought that many quilts. My customer base is ninety percent female. But I’d been walking through life as a shadow back then. I had no memory of anything more than making the drive to Atlanta.

Surely that was where Flake Wilkerson purchased my quilts, and even in Atlanta he was being deceptive. Cash. An alias. The kinds of things people do when they have something to hide.

Knowing that I couldn’t do anything more with this information than talk it over with Candace this evening, I was about to start searching through the classifieds of those newspapers I’d brought home, looking for more red circles, when my cell rang.

It was Daphne, who began talking without saying hello. “I have to go the coroner’s office to pick up the death certificate. Do you know where the office is? Because the woman gave me directions like I actually knew what she was talking about, and I feel stupid calling her back. I didn’t grow up in this town. I’ve only been to this house twice in the last five years.”

From what little I knew of Daphne, who I’d decided was a vulnerable woman hiding behind an angry facade, her not wanting to call back sounded about right.

“Why don’t we go together?” I said. “I know my way around a few places in the county.”

“I didn’t call you up so you could take care of me again. But you have a computer and access to MapQuest, right?”

“Sure. Why don’t I print out a map—you’re headed for the county coroner’s office, right?” I said.

“That’s right.”

“And since you probably don’t know where I live and don’t have e-mail access, I’ll drive over and give it to you.” She wasn’t fooling me a bit. Daphne was anxious and upset and doing a pitiful job of hiding her emotions.

“We could meet in front of city hall,” she said tersely.

Was there something she wasn’t saying? I had a strong feeling there was. “Nope. It’s settled. I am on my way to the house.” I hung up before she could say another word.

Once I had the map in hand, I blew kisses at the kitties and turned on the TV as well as my security system. Five minutes later I arrived at the Pink House. It didn’t take much convincing for Daphne to let me drive her to the county seat.

When I hit the main road, I said, “You seem pretty upset. What’s going on?”

She was gazing out the passenger window, no cigarette hanging off her upper lip today. But she was working her fingers and tapping her foot. “They said they have to talk to me, that it’s not only about the death certificate.”

“Really? Who called you, by the way?” I said.

“I don’t know. Linda . . . Lucinda . . .”

“Lydia?” I offered.

“That’s it. And she was so damn abrupt. If she treats all the families of homicide victims that way, then she needs to find another job.”

“I know Lydia. Why don’t you let me talk to her?” I said.

Daphne’s head snapped around so she could look at me. “You do not need to be my savior. I can take care of myself.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just thought . . . Well, when I lost John I would have appreciated a shoulder to lean on, that’s all. Each loss is personal, so I apologize if I overstepped.”

A short silence followed and then she said, “Figures I’d stick my foot in my mouth. I’m the one who should be apologizing. And you know what? I’m relieved you’re going with me.”

“There,” I said with a smile. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Her features softened. “Yes, it was.”

On the rest of our drive we talked about family and friends—or the lack thereof. Seemed Flake Wilkerson had been Daphne’s only relative aside from an ex-husband she considered almost more contemptible than her dead father. Her new assignment in life, she told me, was to make sure the ex never found out about any money she inherited.

We found Lydia’s office on the second floor of the county building. How could someone as flamboyant as Lydia survive in this white-walled, plain-Jane office? Perhaps she didn’t want to be outdone even by a room.

She was all in black today, some of her hair beehive-like, similar to the last time I’d seen her. But she’d added the joy of side curls that bounced at her temples.

What fun she must have looking in the mirror.

She gripped Daphne’s hand with both of her own, probably making up for being unpleasant on the phone. “I am so sorry for your loss.” Then she looked at me, and the disdain was evident in her tone when she said, “What are you doing here?”

“She’s a friend of mine,” Daphne said. “And that’s all you need to know.”

What a contrast these two women were. Lydia was all painted and spandexed and bejeweled. And then there was Daphne, her natural curls untamed and her face sans makeup. But they both had plenty of attitude, and I felt like a mouse in the presence of a couple of lionesses.

We sat in plastic molded chairs across from Lydia, her cheap Formica-topped desk between us. I don’t think I’d ever before been in an office where someone had actually framed and displayed their high school diploma, but there it was. The one next to it, from the community college, I could understand, and the certificate of completion from a “death investigator training school”—yes. But once I thought about it, I liked that she hadn’t forgotten another important part of her education. She was a proud woman—proud of more than just her fake boobs.

Lydia said, “Sorry if you’ve taken offense, Ms. Wilkerson—that is your last name?”

“Yes,” she said. “I never took my ex-husband’s name.”

“This new friend you’ve made, well, did you realize that Ms. Hart has been getting around town, finding bodies, making buddies with cops, cuddling up to the men? Yup, she’s been really busy. And you know she found your father that morning?” Lydia said.

“Yes, I am fully aware,” Daphne said. “What I am not aware of, however, is why I had to come here in person to pick up a death certificate. I’m having my father cremated, and I thought the mortuary would take care of that sort of thing.”

“True enough,” Lydia said. “But we did have to do an autopsy, this being a suspicious death and all—”

“Suspicious?” I said, unable to contain myself. “It was a little more than that.”

“I’m trying to be gentle,” Lydia said. “Anyway, I have the autopsy report right here, and you are certainly welcome to a copy. But I would suggest you allow me to summarize. These reports are—well, let’s say this particular doctor we brought in doesn’t always portray the victim as a human being.”

“He might have been on to something,” Daphne said, her tone bitter. “But you’re saying you didn’t do this autopsy yourself?”

“My job is to investigate suspicious deaths, issue death certificates when needed, but in cases like this the coroner calls in a doctor to perform the autopsy.” She cleared her throat. “Okay, then. Do you want to read this or can I tell you the gist?”

“Gist away,” Daphne said.

Lydia opened the desk drawer and took out a manila folder and a pair of glasses with bright red frames. She put the glasses on, opened the folder and stared down at the report. “Aside from the obvious cause of death—a significant stab wound to the aorta—” She looked at me. “Which is exactly what I said happened, didn’t I, Ms. Hart?”

“Yes, you did,” I said.

“Anyway, let me flip to the back so I can get this right.” She turned several pages.

Meanwhile Daphne showed her impatience by staring at the ceiling and shaking her head.

Lydia ran a bloodred fingernail along several lines. She then looked up and folded her arms on the desk. “Here goes. Your father, I am sorry to say, was dying of pancreatic cancer. He would have expired within months if someone had not murdered him first.”

Daphne’s features hardened. “That’s a lie.”

Lydia, taken aback at this vehement response, seemed at a loss for words.

“Are you sure, Lydia?” I said.

“What? You think you can steal my boyfriend and do my job? Or what little is left of my job, in this particular case thanks to you,” Lydia said.

Oh my God. Not only was this woman blinded by manufactured jealousy, but she also believed I had gotten her kicked off the case. For Daphne’s sake, I wasn’t about to respond. “Daphne’s had some issues with her father not telling the truth in the past,” I said evenly. “But this cancer was very real, correct?”

Lydia seemed to wake up to the fact that she wasn’t exactly behaving as she should in the presence of a troubled family member. In a softer tone she said, “He had maybe six months to live.”

Daphne raised trembling fingers to her lips and whispered, “He didn’t lie. For once in his sorry life, he didn’t lie.”

“I thought you should hear this directly from the coroner’s office. That’s why I asked you here,” Lydia said. “I’ve gathered together the death certificates and documents you need and will include an autopsy report if you’d like—though I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Daphne was shaking her head. “No. No. I don’t need one.”

“You change your mind, Chief Baca has a copy. You can get one from him.”

“Is that all?” Daphne said.

Lydia removed her glasses and extended a hand across the desk. “Yes. And again, I am sorry for your loss.”

She took Daphne’s hand in both of hers again and squeezed. She looked so normal and nice I believed for a moment that I’d imagined all her silly accusations about Tom and me. But then she glared in my direction and said, “Good-bye. And remember what I told you in Belle’s the other day. You stay away from him.”

Nope. You didn’t imagine anything, Jillian.

More important than my issues with Lydia was the fact that Daphne was struggling mightily with what she’d just learned. She seemed so stunned, in fact, that I picked up the envelope with the death certificates and led her back to my van with an arm around her shoulder.

She said nothing as we drove toward Mercy. Meanwhile, my thoughts turned to the cat that Daphne believed her father had stolen, but I decided that now was not the time to bring up her lost gray kitty. He had promised to get it back, seeing as how his attack of conscience was real.

When we pulled into the driveway of the Pink House, I said, “Don’t feel guilty about not believing your father. From what you’ve told me about him, he gave you good reason not to trust him.”

She sat, not making a move to leave the car. “Why does it have to be so complicated? I mean, I don’t know if what I feel is guilt or relief or simply surprise.”

“Maybe it’s all those things,” I said. “But this is my take. He did make it a little easier to say good-bye by being honest for once in his life.”

“Yeah,” she said, staring straight ahead. She took the envelope from the console between us. “I’m glad you didn’t let me bully you, make you stay away from me. Thank you.”

I reached over and took her hand. “Anytime. And you better not leave town without giving me your number in Columbia.”

She smiled. “I’ll see you again before I leave. Promise.” She got out of the van, and I watched her walk up to the front door before I headed into town.

Whew. I could sure use a double espresso about now.

After I’d parked outside Belle’s Beans, I checked the cat-cam and saw all three cats sleeping, Merlot on the window seat and Chablis and Syrah curled together on the sofa. Since a stuffed mouse lay in tatters on the floor with catnip scattered everywhere, I decided they’d worn themselves out.

The coffee shop, for once, wasn’t busy. But then, the lunch hour had passed. That same woman I’d sat with before, Marian Mae, was here, but this time she had a companion—Mike Baca. And with the way they were leaning so close, they looked pretty darn sweet on each other.

I ordered coffee and a chocolate biscotti to go, hoping I could sneak out before he spotted me, but no such luck. Before I made it out the door, he called my name.

I turned and smiled politely, thinking how odd it was to see him in a social situation after everything that had happened in the last few days. He looked relaxed and, well, the word besotted came to mind. Could coffee be besottifying? No, I surmised that the besotted part was all about Marian Mae, that attractive, elegant woman in her pale blue cashmere sweater and designer jeans.

Baca waved me over and started to introduce me.

“We’ve met,” Marian Mae said.

“You know how crowded it gets in here—we shared a table once.” She rested her hand over his, a gesture I assumed was designed to explain that he belonged to her.

“Thanks for the tip about the computer,” he said. “I wasn’t all that polite last night and for that I apologize.”

“No problem,” I said. He seemed to be off the job, and his whole demeanor was different. He actually seemed nice.

“Whatever have you two been up to?” Marian Mae said.

“Work,” he said. “Join us, Jillian? Or are you headed back to the Pink House to help out again?”

Guess he wasn’t off the job after all. “Would that be a problem if I did go over there?”

He removed his hand from beneath Marian Mae’s and sipped his coffee before answering. “Of course not. You visit who you want. But I’d appreciate it if you call me rather than Candace if you hear anything interesting concerning the case.”

“Is Candy having one of her evidence obsession seizures?” Marian Mae said with a laugh.

Baca said, “Mae, we’ve talked about this. She’s a good cop. But sometimes—” He glanced at me. “Nothing more needs to be said—just that I’m running this investigation, not her. Got that, Jillian?”

“Got it.” But I didn’t exactly like it. He should be grateful he had such a dedicated and intelligent woman working for him. “Sorry I can’t visit. I need to get home,” I said.

I offered a polite good-bye and then turned to leave. But even with my back to the two of them, I couldn’t help hearing Marian Mae say, “You need to practice being more tactful, Mike.”

Gosh, wasn’t that the truth?

I spent the rest of the afternoon checking Flake Wilkerson’s newspapers—that is, when I wasn’t removing a cat, any cat, and all the cats from the table where’d I spread out the papers. Turned out Wilkerson had subscriptions to papers in surrounding towns as well as in Atlanta. I found only four circled names, including the first one I’d already unearthed. Three ads were people hunting for a lost cat, but those were more than a year old. The one that interested me was someone who was hoping to purchase a full-grown Abyssinian—like Syrah. That ad was only two weeks old.

I sat back in the teak chair, considering this. Why wouldn’t you get on the computer and search for breeders? Or put yourself on a list at the local shelters asking to be notified if any Abyssinians came up for adoption? Or even try Craigslist? There were always ads there for cats and dogs needing homes.

The only way to get answers to these questions was to phone the person who’d purchased the ad. Deep down, I wished the police would be the ones to make the call. But as long as Baca was focused on the money, that wouldn’t happen. As I opened my cell to call a stranger, I felt like this was something I must do, whether it was connected to the case or not.

The man who answered sounded very old. I practically had to yell into the phone for him to understand me. Then a woman came on the line and said, “Can’t you tell he doesn’t get what you’re saying? You selling something?”

I explained I was calling about the ad for the Abyssinian.

“We already have one on order—or so we thought,” the woman said. “It was supposed to be here day before yesterday, but I’m beginning to think poor Mr. Green’s been had.”

“Someone sold you a cat already?” I said.

“Had to make a cash down payment. Mr. Green handed the money over before I knew it. You got a cat to sell? Because we might need a backup.”

“No. But I’d sure like to talk to Mr. Green about who sold him this cat you have yet to see.”

“And why’s that?” She was sounding cautious now.

“There could be an explanation as to why he hasn’t gotten the cat he purchased. Please? Can I come and talk to him?”

“I don’t even know your name. And poor Mr. Green’s so fretful, I don’t think his heart—”

I heard the old man say, “Give me that phone,” heard the woman protest, but seconds later, Mr. Green was on the line again. “You holding my cat for ransom or something? You better bring me a new Banjo before the sun sets. I got that caller ID thingie, and this time your number came up. You’re not—”

“A new Banjo?” I said.

“That was his name. Banjo. And like I said—”

“Mr. Green,” I said gently, “I don’t have your cat. I can’t sell you a cat. But I might be able to share information with you that will help you understand what happened to your money—and you might be able to help me, too.”

“Then come on, ’cause I’ve had enough of this nonsense.” He rattled off an address, and it was a good thing I had the notepad with his number at hand so I could jot it down, because he hung up immediately.

Should I call Candace to go with me? I wondered, as I went for my car keys hanging on the hook by the back door. Nah. Surely I’d be safe with someone who sounded like he was twice my age.

But I stopped before I’d gone out the door and about-faced. I hurried to the office, where I keep my personal photos, thinking a four-by-six picture of Syrah might come in handy rather than the photos on my cell phone. I had a feeling Mr. Green might have as much trouble seeing as he did hearing.

Mercy is small enough to share an area code with Taylorville, five miles to the south. That was where Mr. Green lived, in a tiny white house between other houses that looked exactly like his.

The woman I’d spoken with on the phone answered the red-painted door at once. She was a dark-skinned black woman, and if not for her graying temples, I wouldn’t have been able to venture a guess whether she was under or over forty.She wore the sternest expression I think I’ve ever seen, and she didn’t bother introducing herself. “You have agitated Mr. Green so much that he’s refusing to take his medication, refusing to do anything but wait by the window for you.”

“I’m truly sorry if I upset both of you,” I said. “My name is Jillian Hart.”

“I’m Alfreda, Mr. Green’s caregiver. Now get your skinny self in here and calm him down. This cat business is wearing me out.”

There was no question Mr. Green was old. His skin was a shade lighter than Alfreda’s and his hair was a mass of pearl gray frizzy tufts. He wore thick tortoiseshell glasses, and a wool blanket with tassels was draped around his frail-looking shoulders. His feet were elevated on an ottoman, and another blanket lay across his knees. The hearing aid in his right ear explained the difficulty we’d had on the phone.

Alfreda pulled me by the elbow over to where he sat near the window in the living room. “This is that woman who called. You can see she don’t have a cat with her.”

Mr. Green lifted a gnarled index finger and pointed at Alfreda. “She never said she was bringing any cat. You think I can’t remember what we talked about not thirty minutes ago.”

“Oh, I don’t think,” Alfreda said. “I know you can’t remember. She’s here, so take your medicine before you have a stroke.”

I believed I might have found the two crankiest people on the planet. “I don’t want to upset you, Mr. Green, but—”

“My name is Cole. And what’s yours, little lady?” Did I see a sparkle in his cloudy brown eyes?

“Jillian. Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course you’ll sit,” he said.

Alfreda said, “He promised he’d take his medicine when you got here.” She stared down at her patient, her hands on her hips. “Didn’t you?”

“That would be a good idea,” I said. “I don’t want you to fall ill while I’m here.” I sat on the edge of an old leather wing chair adjacent to him.

“See how nice she said that, Alfreda?” Mr. Green said. “You could take a lesson. Bring me the horse pills. And bring Miss Jillian here a cup of that hot cocoa you make.”

Alfreda’s full lips hinted at a smile. “And I’m supposing you’d like a cup of cocoa yourself?”

“You would be correct, woman. One of the few times in your life, sorry to say.” But he was holding back a smile, too.

I’ll bet this goes on all day, I thought. These two actually shared a fondness for each other, but they would never admit to it.

When she left the room, Cole Green said, “There’s a conspiracy, isn’t there? I’m not getting a new Banjo.”

I almost did a “huh?” and then remembered that was the name of his cat. “Banjo was an Abyssinian?”

“Didn’t know that’s what he was until he took sick. Vet told me. Can’t hardly pronounce it, much less spell it. Woman at the paper helped me out with the spelling when I called to say I needed a new cat.”

The answers to why he hadn’t used the Internet or visited animal shelters were obvious. Classified ads served the needs of his generation for things like finding a new pet.

“Abyssinians came from ancient Egypt. An Abyssinian cat was considered a child of God,” I said.

Mr. Green nodded and smiled. “Banjo was that indeed.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

His eyes instantly grew rheumy. “Cancer. Cancer’s gonna take over the earth. I’ve had it myself, but I survived. Not poor Banjo.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

Alfreda returned with a tray holding the cocoa. “Kindly help me by setting up one of those TV tables in the closet by the front door,” she said to me.

Soon the folding table was between us, and Alfreda gave Mr. Green a handful of pills and a glass of water to wash them down. He grumbled but did take the medicine.

“I got laundry to do,” Alfreda said. “Need anything, you holler.” She pointed at Mr. Green. “And that means she can holler, not you. I’ve had enough of your hollering for one day.”

She turned and walked out of the room.

The smell of chocolate had filled the air, and one taste of Alfreda’s rich, sweet concoction soothed me from head to toe.

Mr. Green must have noticed the change in my demeanor because he was smiling. “Now, that’s nature’s best medicine.” He nodded at my cup. “A decent dose of cocoa. I keep telling her I don’t need all those pills, just two cups of this every day.”

“You could be on to something.” I set down the cup and leaned toward him. “Tell me about Banjo and this person who answered your ad.”

“You first. What’s it to you?”

“That’s a long story, but I’ll try to give you a quick summary.” The summary took long enough for us both to finish our cocoa. “Did you follow all that?” I said, using one of the small paper napkins Alfreda had provided to wipe away my chocolate mustache.

“I may be half deaf and nearly blind, but I got the rest of my faculties,” he said. “This man stole your cat, and you’re on a quest for answers. That about sum it up?”

I smiled. “True enough. Was it a man who answered your ad?”

“It was, and he came with a picture. The cat was sitting in someone’s big picture window. Taken from the outside, not the inside.” Mr. Green stroked his chin. “Struck me as odd he’d take a picture of the cat from the outside of a house. That shoulda clued me something wasn’t right.”

I had a picture window and an Abyssinian. Everything seemed to fit so far. “Alfreda mentioned you gave this man money, that he came here?”

“Do I look like I could drive around town meeting up with people? Course he came here,” he said.

“Was he about sixty? Messy hair with plenty of dandruff on his shoulders?” I said.

“You think these old eyes could see dandruff? I can’t even tell if I have it. But the man who came—Mr. Barney Smith, he said—was gray-headed, and I had a bad feeling about him. But I was so wanting a new Banjo, I didn’t listen to what my insides were telling me. And now the cat’s not arrived, and I’ve got enough smarts to figure out this man is your corpse, Mr. Flake Wilkerson.”

“That’s my guess. You think you’d recognize the cat he showed you if you looked at my Abyssinian?” I said.

“Since the cat I was supposed to receive looked exactly like Banjo, probably.”

I opened my bag and took out the picture. I handed it to Mr. Green.He stared down at Syrah and then slowly his hand came to rest against his heart. “That’s him. That’s Banjo all over again.”

“How much money did you give Mr. Wilkerson?” I said softly.

“Five hundred dollars.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the photo.

“And how much more were you expected to pay?” I said.

“You’ll be thinking I’m crazy when I tell you. Alfreda thinks I am.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy for a minute. Just tell me.”

“Two thousand.” He looked up at me then, his eyes wet with tears. “You can’t put a price on getting your best friend back.”

I smiled, feeling an immense sadness. “No, you can’t.”

“This your cat? The one he stole?” he asked.

“It is. His name is Syrah.”

He handed over the picture with a trembling hand. “I’m glad he’s home where he belongs.”

“Do you have a photo of Banjo?” I asked.

“Got a million of them.” He shouted, “Alfreda? Get yourself in here.”

She bustled into the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “I told you not to holler at me.”

“Get me the album. This lady needs to see Banjo. And you’ll be happy to know that man who came here has met his Maker, as well he should have. He was a liar and a thief.”

I left shortly afterward with the only picture of Mr. Green’s beloved cat that he was willing to part with. The resemblance between Banjo and Syrah was amazing. Sure, there are bound to be similarities in certain breeds, but these two could have been twins. No wonder the man was willing to spend twenty-five hundred dollars hoping to replace his old friend.

Despite my sadness that Wilkerson had taken advantage of Mr. Green, I was also glad that I now had proof that this murder could very well be about cats and money—just as Candace and I had believed from the start.

It was despicable that Flake Wilkerson had taken advantage of the poor man. The question now was how many more desperate people like Mr. Green had Wilkerson made deals with?