The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

“I don’t know. He said he wanted to make things right between us before he died and that he could earn back my trust by reuniting me with Sophie,” Daphne said.

“Are you saying he admitted he stole your cat?” I said.

“Oh no. That would have confirmed what I knew all along—that he was a liar and a thief,” she said. “He’d never admit to that.”

“Then how did he plan to find Sophie if he wasn’t involved in her disappearance?” I said.

Daphne said, “Good question. I asked him and he just said, ‘Leave it to me. I have my ways.’ ”

“Did you believe he could make that happen?” Candace asked.

“Not for a minute. He wanted back into my life for a few months for some selfish reason and—” She bit her lower lip, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ve been stupid enough to let that happen over and over. Why not again?”

“Because no matter what kind of man he was, he was still your father,” I said.

Daphne sniffed and swiped at her nose with her sleeve. “Not anymore. Now, if you don’t mind, I have plenty to do. I’d like to get back to it.”

Candace and I stood.

“I’ll stay and help,” I said.

“You don’t have to. I can manage,” Daphne said.

“Then it’s settled. I’m staying,” I said with a smile. “Candace? What about you?”

“I have some errands—you know, the whole day off stuff—but I could come back later and lend a hand,” she said.

“Sounds good.” I was in rescue mode, just like I’d been after Katrina when so many pets needed homes. It felt good.

Nineteen

Iquickly discovered why we hadn’t been invited into the living room earlier. Boxes sat on the floor, on the two worn leather sofas and pretty much everywhere else I looked. Daphne must have been packing all night. No wonder she seemed tired.

“What can I do that would help you the most?” I asked.

Daphne glanced around the room. “There are frames with glass, and I brought in some of the china that belonged to my mother.” She raised two trash bags. “This is shredded paper. Maybe it would make good packing material.”

“You want me to cushion fragile objects with this? Seems good for sending packages, but not sturdy enough to protect glass.”

“I don’t have much else,” she said. “Unless I want to pay for those Styrofoam peanuts at the UPS store fifty miles away.”

“What about newspapers?” I asked.

“There are stacks of those in the garage. Guess we could use them.”

She started to lead me out there, but I told her I could handle it, that she should keep doing what she’d been doing before we’d interrupted her. She went back to work in the kitchen while I went out to the garage.

The late-morning weather had warmed to a pleasant seventy degrees or so. I took off my sweater and tied it around my waist. Then I had an idea and called information for Ed’s number. When I had him on the line, I said, “Have you collected packing peanuts by any chance?”

“Sure. People don’t save nothing these days and I figured if I ever need to up and move, I—”

“Would you mind if I bought some?” I said.

“Wouldn’t mind a bit. How many bags should I pull?” he said.

“Big bags?” I asked.

“Huge. How many?”

“How about three? And I have a favor to ask. Could you deliver them to the Pink House?”

A brief silence followed and then he said, “The daughter’s in town and already starting to clear stuff out?”

I wondered if his mouth was watering at the thought. “Yes. I think she’ll have a bunch of trash, if you’re wondering. And she could use packing material.”

“I’m on it. Give me thirty minutes. I’m with a customer.” He couldn’t disguise the excitement in his voice. This place had to be Treasure Island in Ed’s eyes.

After putting my phone away, I went inside the garage. The place could have housed three cars. But there was only enough room for one late-model Lexus SUV. Hmmm. The man could afford a $50,000 car. That told me something. But it desperately needed a visit to the car wash, just as the house could have used a fresh coat of paint. Tools, fishing and hunting gear and a wall of pesticides, old paint, turpentine and other household chemicals caught my attention next. And there had to be a dozen pet carriers stacked in a corner near the lawn mower and a Weed Eater. I’d seen disassembled carriers in that bedroom upstairs, too. How many cats had passed through this man’s hands for him to need so many carriers?

The newspapers were bundled, bound and piled next to a freezer. I grabbed the top two packs and returned through the kitchen. The papers smelled as musty as the house, and I’d had to brush off several clinging bugs and spiders before I brought them inside.

“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.