The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

Hoping to calm her, I said, “You can be sure I won’t be saying anything to anyone about the money. But Mr. Wilkerson could have been getting money from cat sales, right?”

“It’s possible. But Baca wouldn’t listen to me when I said this looked like a crime of passion, not a premeditated murder by someone cold and calculating. Wilkerson made Shawn angry enough to spit nails, and who’s to say he didn’t make someone else that mad?”

“He upset me, that’s for sure,” I said. “Not angry enough to kill him, but everyone has their own breaking point. What if someone went to the Pink House to get their cat back, just as I did?” And then I had another idea. “And what if that person became incensed when he or she realized their pet was already gone?”

“I had the same thought. The killer used a knife from the kitchen, for Pete’s sake. Knives come out of the drawer when someone’s in a rage. I’ve been out on enough domestic calls to know that much. That has to be it. Flake Wilkerson stole the wrong person’s cat—someone who had a major temper failure.”

Candace was really getting worked up.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” I said.

“Tired of being treated like I don’t know squat,” she said.

“By the chief?” I asked.

“By Lydia mostly. The chief and I are cool, but he’s not handing me any assignments directly related to the case aside from those evidence samples I took at the Pink House.”

“Is that why we’re heading there this morning? To take more samples?”

“Not exactly. We’re simply paying a friendly visit to Wilkerson’s daughter, like you and I discussed. She got in last night.”

“She knows we’re coming?” I said.

“Not really.”

Candace made a sharp right onto the dirt road leading to the Pink House, and I nearly cracked my head on the passenger window on the rebound. “The chief interviewed Daphne last night, so we’re not interfering with the investigation. Let’s start out by saying you just want to talk to her, extend your condolences, and I’m along for the ride. She’s the life insurance beneficiary, so the chief probably suspects her, but you and I don’t suspect her of anything. We have no reason to, right?”

“I’ll be able to respond after I recover from my broken neck,” I said.

She looked confused. “What?”

“Never mind,” I said.

But then she slammed to a stop behind an ancient Cadillac Seville sitting in the driveway, and this time the seat belt nearly snapped my collarbone as it tightened in response to the sudden braking.

That does it. She never drives me anywhere again.

Candace slid from behind the wheel, totally oblivious.

Rubbing my surely bruised shoulder, I got out of the car, too. Candace stopped behind the Cadillac, took a small notebook from her jeans pocket and scribbled down the tag number.

When she was done, she said, “Come on, let’s go meet Daphne so you can tell her how sorry you are you walked into this house and found her father dead.”

“Me? I have to start the conversation?” I said.

“Yes.” She’d gone into full cop mode. And here I thought this was supposed to be a friendly visit.

“But you know how to do this stuff,” I said, realizing I sounded like I was whining. I hate whining.

“You are a lot nicer than I am. She’ll like you.” She was walking toward the front door.

Why did I have to be the front woman? Maybe because Daphne—I didn’t even know her last name; was it Wilkerson?—would learn soon enough that Candace was a police officer? If Candace wasn’t forthright, she could get in hot water again. Whereas I could say anything I wanted. Oh brother. I was beginning to think like Candace.

Though I expected a weeping, overwrought woman to answer the door, that wasn’t my first impression. Daphne, petite and maybe mid-thirties, had an unlit cigarette clinging to her upper lip, wore an army green Henley and had long, dark frizzy hair. Her features were hard, her jaw tight.

“The estate sale isn’t until next week. Come back then.” She started to close the door.

Candace stuck her foot out and stopped this from happening. “Sorry to disturb you, but we’re not here about that. I’m Candace and this is Jillian. We came to offer our condolences about your father.” At least she sounded a lot kinder to her than she’d been with me all morning. Candace could do nice when she wanted to.

“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.”