The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

Lydia said, “Sorry if you’ve taken offense, Ms. Wilkerson—that is your last name?”

“Yes,” she said. “I never took my ex-husband’s name.”

“This new friend you’ve made, well, did you realize that Ms. Hart has been getting around town, finding bodies, making buddies with cops, cuddling up to the men? Yup, she’s been really busy. And you know she found your father that morning?” Lydia said.

“Yes, I am fully aware,” Daphne said. “What I am not aware of, however, is why I had to come here in person to pick up a death certificate. I’m having my father cremated, and I thought the mortuary would take care of that sort of thing.”

“True enough,” Lydia said. “But we did have to do an autopsy, this being a suspicious death and all—”

“Suspicious?” I said, unable to contain myself. “It was a little more than that.”

“I’m trying to be gentle,” Lydia said. “Anyway, I have the autopsy report right here, and you are certainly welcome to a copy. But I would suggest you allow me to summarize. These reports are—well, let’s say this particular doctor we brought in doesn’t always portray the victim as a human being.”

“He might have been on to something,” Daphne said, her tone bitter. “But you’re saying you didn’t do this autopsy yourself?”

“My job is to investigate suspicious deaths, issue death certificates when needed, but in cases like this the coroner calls in a doctor to perform the autopsy.” She cleared her throat. “Okay, then. Do you want to read this or can I tell you the gist?”

“Gist away,” Daphne said.

Lydia opened the desk drawer and took out a manila folder and a pair of glasses with bright red frames. She put the glasses on, opened the folder and stared down at the report. “Aside from the obvious cause of death—a significant stab wound to the aorta—” She looked at me. “Which is exactly what I said happened, didn’t I, Ms. Hart?”

“Yes, you did,” I said.

“Anyway, let me flip to the back so I can get this right.” She turned several pages.

Meanwhile Daphne showed her impatience by staring at the ceiling and shaking her head.

Lydia ran a bloodred fingernail along several lines. She then looked up and folded her arms on the desk. “Here goes. Your father, I am sorry to say, was dying of pancreatic cancer. He would have expired within months if someone had not murdered him first.”

Daphne’s features hardened. “That’s a lie.”

Lydia, taken aback at this vehement response, seemed at a loss for words.

“Are you sure, Lydia?” I said.

“What? You think you can steal my boyfriend and do my job? Or what little is left of my job, in this particular case thanks to you,” Lydia said.

Oh my God. Not only was this woman blinded by manufactured jealousy, but she also believed I had gotten her kicked off the case. For Daphne’s sake, I wasn’t about to respond. “Daphne’s had some issues with her father not telling the truth in the past,” I said evenly. “But this cancer was very real, correct?”

Lydia seemed to wake up to the fact that she wasn’t exactly behaving as she should in the presence of a troubled family member. In a softer tone she said, “He had maybe six months to live.”

Daphne raised trembling fingers to her lips and whispered, “He didn’t lie. For once in his sorry life, he didn’t lie.”

“I thought you should hear this directly from the coroner’s office. That’s why I asked you here,” Lydia said. “I’ve gathered together the death certificates and documents you need and will include an autopsy report if you’d like—though I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Daphne was shaking her head. “No. No. I don’t need one.”

“You change your mind, Chief Baca has a copy. You can get one from him.”

“Is that all?” Daphne said.

Lydia removed her glasses and extended a hand across the desk. “Yes. And again, I am sorry for your loss.”

She took Daphne’s hand in both of hers again and squeezed. She looked so normal and nice I believed for a moment that I’d imagined all her silly accusations about Tom and me. But then she glared in my direction and said, “Good-bye. And remember what I told you in Belle’s the other day. You stay away from him.”

Nope. You didn’t imagine anything, Jillian .

More important than my issues with Lydia was the fact that Daphne was struggling mightily with what she’d just learned. She seemed so stunned, in fact, that I picked up the envelope with the death certificates and led her back to my van with an arm around her shoulder.

She said nothing as we drove toward Mercy. Meanwhile, my thoughts turned to the cat that Daphne believed her father had stolen, but I decided that now was not the time to bring up her lost gray kitty. He had promised to get it back, seeing as how his attack of conscience was real.

When we pulled into the driveway of the Pink House, I said, “Don’t feel guilty about not believing your father. From what you’ve told me about him, he gave you good reason not to trust him.”

She sat, not making a move to leave the car. “Why does it have to be so complicated? I mean, I don’t know if what I feel is guilt or relief or simply surprise.”

“Maybe it’s all those things,” I said. “But this is my take. He did make it a little easier to say good-bye by being honest for once in his life.”

“Yeah,” she said, staring straight ahead. She took the envelope from the console between us. “I’m glad you didn’t let me bully you, make you stay away from me. Thank you.”

I reached over and took her hand. “Anytime. And you better not leave town without giving me your number in Columbia.”

She smiled. “I’ll see you again before I leave. Promise.” She got out of the van, and I watched her walk up to the front door before I headed into town.

Whew. I could sure use a double espresso about now .

After I’d parked outside Belle’s Beans, I checked the cat-cam and saw all three cats sleeping, Merlot on the window seat and Chablis and Syrah curled together on the sofa. Since a stuffed mouse lay in tatters on the floor with catnip scattered everywhere, I decided they’d worn themselves out.

The coffee shop, for once, wasn’t busy. But then, the lunch hour had passed. That same woman I’d sat with before, Marian Mae, was here, but this time she had a companion—Mike Baca. And with the way they were leaning so close, they looked pretty darn sweet on each other.

I ordered coffee and a chocolate biscotti to go, hoping I could sneak out before he spotted me, but no such luck. Before I made it out the door, he called my name.

I turned and smiled politely, thinking how odd it was to see him in a social situation after everything that had happened in the last few days. He looked relaxed and, well, the word besotted came to mind. Could coffee be besottifying? No, I surmised that the besotted part was all about Marian Mae, that attractive, elegant woman in her pale blue cashmere sweater and designer jeans.

Baca waved me over and started to introduce me.

“We’ve met,” Marian Mae said.“You know how crowded it gets in here—we shared a table once.” She rested her hand over his, a gesture I assumed was designed to explain that he belonged to her.

“Thanks for the tip about the computer,” he said. “I wasn’t all that polite last night and for that I apologize.”

“No problem,” I said. He seemed to be off the job, and his whole demeanor was different. He actually seemed nice.

“Whatever have you two been up to?” Marian Mae said.

“Work,” he said. “Join us, Jillian? Or are you headed back to the Pink House to help out again?”