The Cat, The Quilt And The Corpse

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.”