The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

When I woke up, I feared I’d gone way past my usual seven a.m., but I checked the clock and saw I’d overslept by only thirty minutes. First order of business, after coffee and cereal, was to figure out when I’d made those cat quilts and how they’d ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house. The police might not care about this—obviously they didn’t, since they hadn’t taken them as evidence—but I sure did.

I keep photographs of many of the quilts I make, but I’m not always good about noting where or when a particular quilt is sold. I rely on my receipt book for the IRS and usually add a quilt’s description on the NCR forms I use—for instance “brown and pink Lady of the Lake pattern,” with the date and price. In other words, I’m organized to a point. But the pictures might tell me precisely when I’d used the fabrics in the quilts I’d brought home from the Pink House last night.

I took the five cat quilts with me, and Merlot, Chablis, and Syrah followed along into the sewing room. How they love fabric, the hum of the sewing machine, and the chance to swipe at thread as I clip rows of quilting. When I took a photo album from the shelf, Merlot went straight to the window and jumped on the sill, his attention on birds and squirrels. Chablis plopped down in the middle of the floor, perhaps hoping she could trip me and get her revenge. Syrah sat in the middle of the room also and meowed in protest. Looking at an album was not what they’d hoped I’d be doing in here.

I sat in the comfy overstuffed chair in the corner and opened the album—this one with pictures from the last year. Only Syrah joined me, perching on the chair’s arm. He seemed as interested in the pictures as I was, occasionally reaching out a paw to tap a page as I turned it.

Checking fabric patterns and colors against the quilts, I was certain these five had been ordered or purchased in April or May. Three fabrics in particular had been used in all the quilts. What had I been doing in those months, aside from making myself get out of bed and face one day at a time without John? Going to cat or craft shows? Had I sold these through my Web site?

The answer might lie in this year’s tax folder. I retrieved it from its file, and sure enough, I found an almost coherent description of six quilts that matched these. They’d been sold at a cat show in Atlanta. No convenient check or credit card receipt, but I sometimes do ask for a name—in case the customer ever contacts me again. People feel good when you remember their name.

This order was purchased by one B. Smith and was a cash payment—an order for six quilts. And yet only five had been recovered. I wondered what happened to the other one. And I didn’t know if B. Smith was a man or a woman—you’d think I would have remembered if a man had bought that many quilts. My customer base is ninety percent female. But I’d been walking through life as a shadow back then. I had no memory of anything more than making the drive to Atlanta.

Surely that was where Flake Wilkerson purchased my quilts, and even in Atlanta he was being deceptive. Cash. An alias. The kinds of things people do when they have something to hide.

Knowing that I couldn’t do anything more with this information than talk it over with Candace this evening, I was about to start searching through the classifieds of those newspapers I’d brought home, looking for more red circles, when my cell rang.

It was Daphne, who began talking without saying hello. “I have to go the coroner’s office to pick up the death certificate. Do you know where the office is? Because the woman gave me directions like I actually knew what she was talking about, and I feel stupid calling her back. I didn’t grow up in this town. I’ve only been to this house twice in the last five years.”

From what little I knew of Daphne, who I’d decided was a vulnerable woman hiding behind an angry facade, her not wanting to call back sounded about right. “Why don’t we go together?” I said. “I know my way around a few places in the county.”

“I didn’t call you up so you could take care of me again. But you have a computer and access to MapQuest, right?”

“Sure. Why don’t I print out a map—you’re headed for the county coroner’s office, right?” I said.

“That’s right.”

“And since you probably don’t know where I live and don’t have e-mail access, I’ll drive over and give it to you.” She wasn’t fooling me a bit. Daphne was anxious and upset and doing a pitiful job of hiding her emotions.

“We could meet in front of city hall,” she said tersely.

Was there something she wasn’t saying? I had a strong feeling there was. “Nope. It’s settled. I am on my way to the house.” I hung up before she could say another word.

Once I had the map in hand, I blew kisses at the kitties and turned on the TV as well as my security system. Five minutes later I arrived at the Pink House. It didn’t take much convincing for Daphne to let me drive her to the county seat.

When I hit the main road, I said, “You seem pretty upset. What’s going on?”

She was gazing out the passenger window, no cigarette hanging off her upper lip today. But she was working her fingers and tapping her foot. “They said they have to talk to me, that it’s not only about the death certificate.”

“Really? Who called you, by the way?” I said.

“I don’t know. Linda . . . Lucinda . . .”

“Lydia?” I offered.

“That’s it. And she was so damn abrupt. If she treats all the families of homicide victims that way, then she needs to find another job.”

“I know Lydia. Why don’t you let me talk to her?” I said.

Daphne’s head snapped around so she could look at me. “You do not need to be my savior. I can take care of myself.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just thought . . . Well, when I lost John I would have appreciated a shoulder to lean on, that’s all. Each loss is personal, so I apologize if I overstepped.”

A short silence followed and then she said, “Figures I’d stick my foot in my mouth. I’m the one who should be apologizing. And you know what? I’m relieved you’re going with me.”

“There,” I said with a smile. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Her features softened. “Yes, it was.”

On the rest of our drive we talked about family and friends—or the lack thereof. Seemed Flake Wilkerson had been Daphne’s only relative aside from an ex-husband she considered almost more contemptible than her dead father. Her new assignment in life, she told me, was to make sure the ex never found out about any money she inherited.

We found Lydia’s office on the second floor of the county building. How could someone as flamboyant as Lydia survive in this white-walled, plain-Jane office? Perhaps she didn’t want to be outdone even by a room.

She was all in black today, some of her hair beehive-like, similar to the last time I’d seen her. But she’d added the joy of side curls that bounced at her temples.

What fun she must have looking in the mirror .

She gripped Daphne’s hand with both of her own, probably making up for being unpleasant on the phone. “I am so sorry for your loss.” Then she looked at me, and the disdain was evident in her tone when she said, “What are you doing here?”

“She’s a friend of mine,” Daphne said. “And that’s all you need to know.”

What a contrast these two women were. Lydia was all painted and spandexed and bejeweled. And then there was Daphne, her natural curls untamed and her face sans makeup. But they both had plenty of attitude, and I felt like a mouse in the presence of a couple of lionesses.

We sat in plastic molded chairs across from Lydia, her cheap Formica-topped desk between us. I don’t think I’d ever before been in an office where someone had actually framed and displayed their high school diploma, but there it was. The one next to it, from the community college, I could understand, and the certificate of completion from a “death investigator training school”—yes. But once I thought about it, I liked that she hadn’t forgotten another important part of her education. She was a proud woman—proud of more than just her fake boobs.