The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

Daphne came into the room and said, “I heard you groan. Is something wrong?”

I showed her the ad. “Do you have any idea why he was so obsessed with everyone else’s cats?”

“I think we’ve had this conversation. No.” She glanced over and saw the spilled paper.

“Sorry,” I said. “I was looking for something to write on and got a little clumsy.”

As we both started to stuff the paper back into the bag, I said, “He had a shredding obsession, too.”

“I know. The police gave me a list of what they took from the house as evidence. They took a shredder and its wastebasket from under the desk. Didn’t bother to take what had spilled out around the shredder, though.”

“But what about these two bags? I said.

“I brought those from upstairs,” she said. “Added what the cops missed to one of them.”

“Guess they didn’t care about all the shredded paper,” I said half to myself. I held up a few strips. “This doesn’t look like bills or credit card offers or canceled checks—the kind of things I shred. Look at the colors.”

Daphne held up several long pieces as well. “Looks like pictures,” she said. “Computer-generated, but still pictures.” She pointed at her face. “Photographer’s eye.”

I explained about Ed and the cat flyers I’d collected. “I have a theory. I think your father took down lost-cat flyers before Ed could get to them. Maybe that’s what we’ve got here—shredded posters.”

Daphne squinted at the tops of a few thin strips. “But some of these came from Web sites.” She pointed out what she’d seen, and sure enough, a few “http’s” with forward slashes and numbers were evident at the top.

“You’re right. And did Chief Baca tell you that your father’s computer and keyboard were stolen?” I said.

“I didn’t pay much attention to anything the chief said,” she answered. “I was more focused on what in hell I would do with all of my father’s crap. I’m sure you understand, now that you’ve been here a while.”

“Totally get it. But seeing as how he shredded this stuff, I can’t help wondering if the Web sites he visited could be connected to his murder,” I said. “I’ll have to ask Candace if the police might reconsider and be interested in these particular shreds.”

“There’s at least a thousand puzzle pieces if someone wants to paste strips together to figure out what sites he looked at. Maybe porn. Wouldn’t that be another disgusting revelation?” she said.

“But would porn make someone steal his computer?” I said. “Maybe. If the police aren’t interested in this, I might give it a shot. I’m good at piecing things together.” I told her about my quilt business. And that in turn reminded me about the quilts of mine I’d seen upstairs.

But before I could ask about them, there was a knock on the door.

“Candace must not have had too many errands,” Daphne said as she started for the door.

“That’s probably not her. I called someone to help you out.”

“What? Am I gonna have this whole frickin’ town traipsing through the house?” Her pacifying cigarette was gone, but she looked like she could use one again.

Before I could explain about Ed, she was off to answer the door.

I hurried after her, worried that she would scare him off like she nearly did Candace and me. As she got to the door, I said, “I asked him to bring some real packing material, that’s all.”

Daphne threw open the door and Ed stood there, holding clear plastic bags filled with Styrofoam peanuts. His salt-and-pepper hair was practically standing on end. One overall strap hung down and his eyes were wide, probably in response to Daphne’s commando stare.

He looked to me for help and I said, “Ed, this is Daphne, Flake Wilkerson’s daughter.”

Eyes down, Ed mumbled, “Pleased to meet you.”

Daphne stood there, appraising him. He looked like he’d slept outdoors last night, and his overalls seemed puffy across his chest.

Since I’d left my bag in Candace’s car, all I had was the crumpled ten-dollar bill in my jeans pocket. I hoped it was enough as I held it out to Ed. “I can give you more later,” I said.

He dropped the bags on the doorstep and took the money. “This is plenty.” Then he reached inside his overalls and pulled out a roll of bubble wrap. “Thought this might be helpful, too.”

Daphne accepted it before I could move. “Thank you. It was . . . really nice of you to come out here and bring this.”

Whew . Nice response from a woman who didn’t trust people and who was stressed to the max dealing with the unpleasantness of what her father had left behind.

“No problem.” Ed was looking past Daphne, trying to see inside the house. “You got anything you don’t know what to do with, give me a call. Miss Jillian here has my number and knows where my store is.”

Uh-oh . Karen wouldn’t be happy if she found out I’d led Ed to junkyard heaven.

Daphne looked out toward the driveway. “I see you have a truck. You’ll need it. After I meet with the estate agent, I’ll give you a call.” She held up the bubble wrap. “Thanks.”

Ed started to turn away but stopped when I said, “I saw computer monitors and towers in your shop. You find anything lately?”

He tilted his head. “I did, as a matter of fact. Found a tower that looked like it’d been attacked with a sledgehammer. “Don’t know if I can salvage anything except the electrical cord, but you never know.”

“When did you find it?” I asked, my heart speeding up.

“Yesterday. At the dump. I know it’s broken, but heck, you can always save something.”

Daphne and I looked at each other, and I said, “Would you recognize your father’s computer?”

“I doubt it,” she said.

But that wasn’t about to stop me. “Ed,” I said, “you save that computer for me, okay? I might want to purchase it.”

“I’ll tell you right now, it ain’t worth much all broke like that. You’ll get a fair price.” He smiled.

And I was smiling, too. But not because I’d get a fair price. If that computer belonged to Flake Wilkerson, even if it was “all broke,” secrets might be resurrected from the rubble—certainly not by me, but Candace would know someone skilled enough to find out what was on it and why it had disappeared from a murdered man’s house.

Twenty

After Candace finished her errands and returned to the Pink House, the three of us made good progress organizing the contents of the house for the estate sale. Daphne was happy to let me have all the old newspapers, as well as the bags of shredded pictures or documents or whatever they were. When I told her about my cat quilts, she said she’d seen them upstairs and I could have them back.

Candace looked at me like I had two heads when we left the house with me carrying the garbage bags and the old newspapers along with the quilts. She said, “Your quilts I understand, but what’s with this other stuff?”

Once we were on the road and I explained, she understood and said, “The day of the murder, I told Lydia about the shredded paper in the cat room. She said the most recent stuff from the wastebasket was enough, said we didn’t have the resources to mess with every tiny scrap of paper.”

“There’s something else,” I said. I told her about the smashed computer. Her mood went from interested to wary in a nanosecond. I could almost reach out and touch the tension between us.

“You can’t buy that computer,” she said.

“Why not? Ed found it at the dump and it could be—”

“Oh, I know what it could be. Hard evidence. The key to everything,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “And that’s why—”