Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“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.”

My “What?” came out as a whisper. The pounding in my chest felt like a small bomb about to go off.

She put her head down and her wild hair spilled around her face—creating a convenient mask.

“Daphne, look at me,” I said.

She didn’t, but she did speak. “They know I was here, too. They took my fingerprints as soon as I arrived in town, and today Chief Baca says they matched them to a glass found in the sink the day of the murder.”

“But they didn’t find your prints on the murder weapon.” I said it as a statement, not a question.

She jerked her head up, her dark eyes filled with anger and disappointment. Despite my effort to show her I believed her, she wasn’t buying it. “No, not on the murder weapon. But they have a witness.”

A witness ? Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. I willed myself to remain calm, but I was stunned and even a tiny bit frightened. I’d been so sure this woman wasn’t a killer and yet . . . “Tell me everything,” I said. “Otherwise I can’t help you.”

“That man who saves cats and dogs—what’s his name?”

“Shawn?” I said.

“The chief told me Shawn saw me here—through the window—and he kept quiet about it until they brought him in for questioning again. But apparently Shawn finally admitted he saw me and my father having a disagreement.”

It would be like Shawn not to give that up easily. Probably why he was mad at me for so readily telling the police things about him. “Since the police didn’t ask him directly about anything he saw through the window, he didn’t offer it willingly. He’s not a fan of the police force.”

“You must know Shawn pretty well,” she said. “He apparently only gave up the information when they told him about my fingerprints and they pressed him for anything he might have seen.”

“What in God’s name were you doing here?” I asked.

Her turn for a deep breath before she spoke. “My father told me he had Sophie. He said I could pick her up. But when I got here—”

“When did you get here?” I said.

“It was the day before the murder, Saturday afternoon. But Sophie wasn’t here. He’d lied, and I’d fallen for it again.” She was shaking her head, tears welling.

“Why did he lure you here if he didn’t really have your cat?” I said.

“Oh, he stuck to his story. Told me to be patient. Someone would be bringing her to me. Like a fool, I waited, and he kept leaving the room to make phone calls. By ten that night I was so angry I was about to burst. He said there’d been a delay and if Sophie wasn’t here in the morning, he’d personally go and pick her up.”

Phone calls. What happened to Wilkerson’s phone? “So your father did have a phone.”

“Prepaid cell. He said it saved money. But since he was doing illegal things, I guess that’s the real reason he needed something untraceable.”

“Did you mention at least that much to Baca?”

“No. He didn’t ask about the phone.”

I steeled myself for my next question, knowing I might not like the answer. “Did you stay the night? Wait until the morning your father died before you left?” I hated myself for thinking it, but this could be how it all happened. An angry daughter and a mean old man got into it when he failed to come through on a promise yet again—a last argument that ended in tragedy.