Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“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?”