The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

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.”

Lydia stood and looked down at her pants. “You are a savior. Good as new.” She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Let me give you a piece of advice. I understand that you’re not just being small-town curious with all your questions. Maybe you and Tom want to play detective together. But getting involved in this hateful business might not be good for your health. Especially if you’re tangled up with Tom. He’s mine.” She pointed a glittery finger at me. “Don’t you forget it, neither.”

She pushed in her stool, smiled and handed me back my roller. Then she walked away, high heels clicking on the tile. She sipped on that milk shake disguised as coffee all the way out the door.

Whoa , I thought. Did she just threaten me? Or was she simply talking about chasing after murderers? Maybe Candace could help me understand, but it would have to wait until she was off her shift. Knowing I had enough quilt orders to keep me busy until later today, I put the roller back in my bag and was preparing to leave, but then the real Belle came in.

Maybe , I thought, here is someone who truly knew Mr. Wilkerson and can portray him as more than the one-dimensional man everyone else makes him out to be.

Belle spotted me at once and called, “Sit tight. I’ll be right over to chat, pretty lady.”

After the Belle of the Day prepared her coffee, as well as a repeat of my own latte, she joined me.

She set the coffee in front of me and smiled. “I could say, ‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ but I wouldn’t want you to take my joke wrong. Hope a coffee on the house will cheer you up. You’ve had your share of sorry luck lately, haven’t you?”

Not a white hair was out of place, but oh my God, would anyone ever tell her about the lipstick problem? She’d applied the stuff past her bottom lip by a good quarter inch.

“It’s been an unsettling few days,” I said. “But I do have my Syrah back. Not that I wanted anyone to die to make that happen.”

“Of course you didn’t. And I’ll slap silly anyone who dares to say as much.”

I smiled. I was sure she would.

She went on, saying, “We’ve had very few violent deaths in Mercy that I can remember, so tell me all about it. Was it just sickeningly awful?”

“That about sums it up,” I said.

She rested her elbows on the table and her chin on her fists. “I want details.”

This was how the grapevine worked. And if I wanted to be a part of it . . . well, no one told me not to say anything about the murder. I related the events of that terrible day, making sure to stick to what I saw and heard firsthand. The only thing I said about Shawn was that he’d picked up the remaining cats. He didn’t need me contributing to his reputation as a hothead, and that might happen if I shared details of the day before the murder.

When I’d finished, I said, “I understand Flake Wilkerson came here often.”

“He did. Not that I was always present, mind you, but I heard. He was always arguing with the men and I heard tell he and Shawn Cuddahee almost came to blows one time. I woulda kicked the two of them down the street if I’d been here. Anyway, when I was here, Flake went out of his way to make conversation. He wasn’t good at conversation, though. Not a Southern gentleman at all, our Flake.”

I said, “But he tried to be nice to you?”

“Tried and failed,” she said. “Your true spirit always comes through. And his spirit was troubled, maybe damaged by some long-ago injury. You never know what people are hiding.”

I stirred my coffee for a second. “What did Mr. Wilkerson talk about?”