Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“I suppose you do. And I am so concerned for Mr. Wilkerson’s family and their tragedy. What an awful way to lose someone,” I said.

“I’m sure,” she replied.

I sensed her discomfort at once. Fearing that she would close down on me, I said, “Did you know him?”

“Everyone knew him,” she answered.

“He came in here quite a bit, I hear,” I said.

“That’s true. Most of the town does.” She took an interest in her lightened coffee by using the wooden stir stick to mix in more thoroughly what looked like cinnamon.

“He wasn’t a friend or anything, though? I only ask because, well, I found him dead and I feel this odd connection to him. I’m interested to know what he was like, besides unpleasant—which is about all I’ve heard, to tell the truth.”

“We were . . . acquaintances. He would come and sit with me on occasion. He could be nice, and not to sound like I’m flattering myself, but I got the feeling he wanted to be more than friends. That, of course, was out of the question.”

“Did he ever talk about his cats? Having been inside the house, I know he had quite a few,” I said.

“Like the one he stole from you?” she asked, one artfully penciled brow raised.

“Yes. His name is Syrah. He’s an Abyssinian and I’m so happy to have him home.”

She smiled and this time I saw genuine warmth in her features. “You’ve had a difficult time. The comfort of a beloved pet is truly remarkable, isn’t it? I’m a cat person myself, so I understand.”

Emotion swelled into my throat. Why did this happen after a mere hint of kindness from a stranger? “Cats are special in so many ways. But as for Mr. Wilkerson—what else can you tell me about him?”

“Do you truly want to explore that man’s character? In my opinion, he was a dark, brooding, unhappy man.”

“And you say this because . . . ?”

“We talked occasionally—like I’m doing with you right now. He had a daughter, I think. But never once did he bring up those cats. I was so surprised to read about them in the newspaper.”

“Because he didn’t seem the type to have pets or—”

She rested a hand on my forearm. “Listen, I understand your curiosity, but I’d prefer we talk about you. Aside from this awful murder, do you like living in Mercy?”

“Yes. I never realized how soothing it would be to live by the water. Sometimes I hear lapping against the dock or rain splatting on the lake and it calms me almost at once.”

We continued to make small talk for a few minutes, and then Marian Mae said she had an appointment and left.

I lifted the bread and took another glance at the sandwich innards. The soggy ham and cheese looked no better than the first time, but I took a bite because I was hungry enough to try it. Not as bad as it looked. I ate slowly, hoping Belle would come in. She seemed the person most likely to offer up something about Flake Wilkerson, anything to help me understand what made the man tick.

Thanks to Chase, I realized I needed to keep my focus on learning why Mr. Wilkerson was obsessed with felines, especially since I couldn’t picture him as a true cat lover. And yet he stole cats. Maybe the chief and I were on the same path after all—this was about cats and money. But there had to be more.

The familiar tinkle that sounded every time the door opened made me glance that way, and this time someone I recognized came in and walked up to the Belle of the Day taking orders.

Lydia wore tight black jeans and a cherry red tunic-style sweater. I couldn’t see her shoes from where I sat, but she seemed especially tall today. Could the stilettos get any higher than what I’d seen her in before? Or was it the teased hair piled and wrapped like a turban? Had to be the hair.

She caught me staring and actually smiled. That was a surprise after the way she’d behaved yesterday. Once the Belle of the Day handed her a whipped-cream concoction, Lydia came over and sat down.

“Nice to see you under more acceptable circumstances, Jillian,” she said.

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Tom’s not with you—and that’s excellent. If you keep reminding yourself that he belongs to me, we can be best buddies. All you have to do is keep your distance from him.”

“He’s just a friend,” I said.

“I saw the way he looked at you. You’re ruining my game and we can’t have that, can we?” She played with the straw in her drink.

“No. Certainly not.” From what I’d witnessed yesterday, I preferred not to get on her bad side and therefore wasn’t about to argue with anything she said. This lady was a little wacko. I felt sorry for Tom. How long had he been dealing with this situation?

“Know what my important duties are for this case?” she said sarcastically. “I get to do things like supervise Candace.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.

“Candace wanted to take samples of all the cat hairs she could find at the Pink House and Baca allowed it. He’s backpedaling after he agreed to take her off the case, if you ask me. He does seem to like her, and you know what that leads to.”

“What does that lead to?” I said.

“With him and me, it led to plenty. And now I’m shoved off the biggest case ever because I dumped him. Ego. It’s all about ego with him.”

“But that’s not what he told me. He said—”

“You are so naive,” Lydia cut in. “I should be running this show, but I’ve been kicked down to go-between.”

“You’re a go-between? Because you’re working with Candace? I’m still not sure I understand.”

“Besides watching Candace pull hair-laden pieces of tape off rugs and furniture—which is the forensic equivalent of watching paint dry, let me tell you—I was also instructed to arrange for the county forensics unit to return for a last run-through to make sure they didn’t miss anything before the daughter gets into town. Between the unit folks and Candace, I did a lot of sitting around.” She stuck out one leg. “Look at my pants. You ever seen so much cat hair in your life?”

I reached for my bag on the chair next to me and removed a mini pet hair roller. “Be my guest.”

Lydia looked at it for a moment. “Isn’t this the cutest thing ever? Purse size.” She began rolling it on her pants.

“Did I hear you mention Flake Wilkerson’s daughter?” I’d already heard about her, but maybe Lydia’s anger at her ex-boyfriend would keep her talking.

“Yup. She’s expected this afternoon. Baca wanted all the tags, the fingerprint dust and the blood gone. Which was a job and a half, thank you very much. You see me wearing a badge that says CLEANUP CREW? No would be the answer. Anyhow, he thinks he’s a hero or something, making the world all bright and beautiful for Daphne What’s-Her-Name. Or maybe he’s thinking about hitting on her since she’ll probably be getting plenty of money.”

There it was again. The money . Was that the money Baca had been referring to? I sipped my coffee and tried to sound nonchalant when I said, “Was Mr. Wilkerson well-off?”

Lydia tore off a hair-filled sticky sheet and used the pet roller again on her pants. “Not certain about that, but we did find one promising insurance policy the day of the murder, with the daughter as the beneficiary. As for anything more? Well, I’m not in charge, so I don’t know if Mr.Wilkerson even had a will. All I know is the daughter’s coming to town.”

“She does have to make funeral arrangements—or someone does, right?” I said.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Guess I’m being cynical thinking she’s coming to see how much cold hard cash she’ll walk away with.” She balled up the used roller tape. “But if I had a say, which I do not, I’d be finding out where that young woman was two days ago. I’d want her to account for every minute.”