Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

Why couldn’t I have been lucky enough to find the piece of either of these flyers that had a name or phone number on it? Someone could have gone to Wilkerson’s house last Sunday morning hoping to pick up a cat they’d paid for. One of these two cats, perhaps. Maybe the price was too steep, they’d argued and Wilkerson died. And then the killer left with one of these two cats. It seemed possible. I needed a name and phone number, but that would have to wait until I wasn’t cross-eyed from exhaustion.

I dragged myself to bed, making sure the sewing room door remained closed to keep my work safe from prying paws. The shredded paper had to yield something. Maybe then I could provide Baca with more evidence and I wouldn’t have to pump Tom Stewart for information.

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.