Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“This ought to work,” I said to Daphne, who was on a step stool clearing out the contents of cabinets and placing jars, glasses and plates on the counter below.

An unlit cigarette drooped from her upper lip. “I haven’t even touched the garage, but it seemed like there was pretty useful stuff out there,” she said. “Thought the estate agent could advise me. He’s coming into town on Monday.”

I started undoing the twine binding the newspapers. “You’d never consider moving here?” I said.

“I have a business in Columbia—a photography studio. I don’t want to relocate just because I suddenly have this big-ass house. Besides, this wasn’t my beloved childhood home or anything. But the china and silver belonged to my mom, and I’m glad to have them since she picked out those things during what had to be a happier time in her life. Her engagement ring hasn’t turned up so far, though. He probably sold it.”

“It’s good to keep a few things,” I said. I’d kept John’s watch and his Swiss Army knife. And his sweaters—because they smelled like him every time I walked into the closet.

“What’s wrong?” Daphne said.

“Nothing. Just thinking about my husband.”

Daphne made a careful turn on the narrow step so she could face me directly. “What happened to him?”

“Heart attack. He was only fifty-five.”

She removed the cigarette and tossed it on the counter. “I’m really sorry.”

“I’m doing so much better than even a few weeks ago. Guess worrying about stolen cats has helped.” I picked up the newspapers and said, “But talking won’t get anything done around here. I’m off to pack.”

I sat cross-legged on the floor next to a box of china and started pulling apart newspaper pages. Then I began carefully wrapping the dishes—a gold-edged old-fashioned floral design.

I was nearly finished and ready to move on to the next box when something caught my eye as I separated yet another issue of the meager Mercy Messenger . Someone—I assumed Flake Wilkerson—had drawn a red circle around a classified ad.

No surprise that it was an ad for a lost cat—a white shorthair with green eyes whose tag read SNOWBALL. I wanted to write this information down but realized I’d left my bag in Candace’s car and had no pen. I’d also need one to label the boxes, so I looked around and saw a secretary-style desk nearly obscured by boxes and stuffed trash bags on the other side of the room.

I managed to dump the contents of one bag as I tossed them aside to reach the desk drawer.

I stepped over scattered paper strips and found a pen in one of the desk drawers, then hurried back to the newspaper, the pen and a small notepad from a Greenville motel in hand. The newspaper was several months old, but I thought I’d give this person a call anyway.

Now that I’d found this ad, I wondered how many other red circles there were. I groaned at the thought of all those newspapers outside. But didn’t this prove that there were cats Wilkerson might have had that we didn’t know about? And if Chief Baca saw this proof, maybe he’d take a closer look at other suspects—at people who’d had cats stolen by Wilkerson.

Daphne came into the room and said, “I heard you groan. Is something wrong?”

I showed her the ad. “Do you have any idea why he was so obsessed with everyone else’s cats?”

“I think we’ve had this conversation. No.” She glanced over and saw the spilled paper.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was looking for something to write on and got a little clumsy.”

As we both started to stuff the paper back into the bag, I said, “He had a shredding obsession, too.”

“I know. The police gave me a list of what they took from the house as evidence. They took a shredder and its wastebasket from under the desk. Didn’t bother to take what had spilled out around the shredder, though.”

“But what about these two bags? I said.

“I brought those from upstairs,” she said. “Added what the cops missed to one of them.”

“Guess they didn’t care about all the shredded paper,” I said half to myself. I held up a few strips. “This doesn’t look like bills or credit card offers or canceled checks—the kind of things I shred. Look at the colors.”

Daphne held up several long pieces as well. “Looks like pictures,” she said. “Computer-generated, but still pictures.” She pointed at her face. “Photographer’s eye.”

I explained about Ed and the cat flyers I’d collected. “I have a theory. I think your father took down lost-cat flyers before Ed could get to them. Maybe that’s what we’ve got here—shredded posters.”

Daphne squinted at the tops of a few thin strips. “But some of these came from Web sites.” She pointed out what she’d seen, and sure enough, a few “http’s” with forward slashes and numbers were evident at the top.

“You’re right. And did Chief Baca tell you that your father’s computer and keyboard were stolen?” I said.

“I didn’t pay much attention to anything the chief said,” she answered. “I was more focused on what in hell I would do with all of my father’s crap. I’m sure you understand, now that you’ve been here a while.”

“Totally get it. But seeing as how he shredded this stuff, I can’t help wondering if the Web sites he visited could be connected to his murder,” I said. “I’ll have to ask Candace if the police might reconsider and be interested in these particular shreds.”

“There’s at least a thousand puzzle pieces if someone wants to paste strips together to figure out what sites he looked at. Maybe porn. Wouldn’t that be another disgusting revelation?” she said.

“But would porn make someone steal his computer?” I said. “Maybe. If the police aren’t interested in this, I might give it a shot. I’m good at piecing things together.” I told her about my quilt business. And that in turn reminded me about the quilts of mine I’d seen upstairs.

But before I could ask about them, there was a knock on the door.

“Candace must not have had too many errands,” Daphne said as she started for the door.

“That’s probably not her. I called someone to help you out.”

“What? Am I gonna have this whole frickin’ town traipsing through the house?” Her pacifying cigarette was gone, but she looked like she could use one again.

Before I could explain about Ed, she was off to answer the door.

I hurried after her, worried that she would scare him off like she nearly did Candace and me. As she got to the door, I said, “I asked him to bring some real packing material, that’s all.”

Daphne threw open the door and Ed stood there, holding clear plastic bags filled with Styrofoam peanuts. His salt-and-pepper hair was practically standing on end. One overall strap hung down and his eyes were wide, probably in response to Daphne’s commando stare.

He looked to me for help and I said, “Ed, this is Daphne, Flake Wilkerson’s daughter.”

Eyes down, Ed mumbled, “Pleased to meet you.”

Daphne stood there, appraising him. He looked like he’d slept outdoors last night, and his overalls seemed puffy across his chest.

Since I’d left my bag in Candace’s car, all I had was the crumpled ten-dollar bill in my jeans pocket. I hoped it was enough as I held it out to Ed. “I can give you more later,” I said.

He dropped the bags on the doorstep and took the money. “This is plenty.” Then he reached inside his overalls and pulled out a roll of bubble wrap. “Thought this might be helpful, too.”

Daphne accepted it before I could move. “Thank you. It was . . . really nice of you to come out here and bring this.”

Whew . Nice response from a woman who didn’t trust people and who was stressed to the max dealing with the unpleasantness of what her father had left behind.