The Quilt - Leann Sweeney

“I still think the police are missing something, though. They have some of the shredder contents, but I even wonder if anyone’s working on trying to piece flyers back together—maybe to get names of possible new suspects. I’m working on what you gave me in those bags, and it’s not difficult but it sure is a time suck,” I said.

“You haven’t uncovered some amazing revelation about who killed my father or you would have told me.” She sighed and began turning the silver cigarette box over and over. “That leaves me first on the suspect list.”

“Why not tell the police where you were when your father was murdered?” I said. “They can rule you out and—”

“There’s a problem with that,” she said quietly.

“Why? You don’t remember? You were alone? What?” I said.

“You really want to know?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Okay . . . I was here.”

Twenty-four

My “What?” came out as a whisper. The pounding in my chest felt like a small bomb about to go off.

She put her head down and her wild hair spilled around her face—creating a convenient mask.

“Daphne, look at me,” I said.

She didn’t, but she did speak. “They know I was here, too. They took my fingerprints as soon as I arrived in town, and today Chief Baca says they matched them to a glass found in the sink the day of the murder.”

“But they didn’t find your prints on the murder weapon.” I said it as a statement, not a question.

She jerked her head up, her dark eyes filled with anger and disappointment. Despite my effort to show her I believed her, she wasn’t buying it. “No, not on the murder weapon. But they have a witness.”

A witness ? Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. I willed myself to remain calm, but I was stunned and even a tiny bit frightened. I’d been so sure this woman wasn’t a killer and yet . . . “Tell me everything,” I said. “Otherwise I can’t help you.”

“That man who saves cats and dogs—what’s his name?”

“Shawn?” I said.

“The chief told me Shawn saw me here—through the window—and he kept quiet about it until they brought him in for questioning again. But apparently Shawn finally admitted he saw me and my father having a disagreement.”

It would be like Shawn not to give that up easily. Probably why he was mad at me for so readily telling the police things about him. “Since the police didn’t ask him directly about anything he saw through the window, he didn’t offer it willingly. He’s not a fan of the police force.”

“You must know Shawn pretty well,” she said. “He apparently only gave up the information when they told him about my fingerprints and they pressed him for anything he might have seen.”

“What in God’s name were you doing here?” I asked.

Her turn for a deep breath before she spoke. “My father told me he had Sophie. He said I could pick her up. But when I got here—”

“When did you get here?” I said.

“It was the day before the murder, Saturday afternoon. But Sophie wasn’t here. He’d lied, and I’d fallen for it again.” She was shaking her head, tears welling.

“Why did he lure you here if he didn’t really have your cat?” I said.

“Oh, he stuck to his story. Told me to be patient. Someone would be bringing her to me. Like a fool, I waited, and he kept leaving the room to make phone calls. By ten that night I was so angry I was about to burst. He said there’d been a delay and if Sophie wasn’t here in the morning, he’d personally go and pick her up.”

Phone calls. What happened to Wilkerson’s phone? “So your father did have a phone.”

“Prepaid cell. He said it saved money. But since he was doing illegal things, I guess that’s the real reason he needed something untraceable.”

“Did you mention at least that much to Baca?”

“No. He didn’t ask about the phone.”

I steeled myself for my next question, knowing I might not like the answer. “Did you stay the night? Wait until the morning your father died before you left?” I hated myself for thinking it, but this could be how it all happened. An angry daughter and a mean old man got into it when he failed to come through on a promise yet again—a last argument that ended in tragedy.

“Did I wait?” she said, incredulous. “Are you crazy? I drove home that night. Got there in record time, too. For the first time in my life, I wish I’d gotten stopped for speeding. At least then I’d have the precious alibi I so desperately need now.”

“Wow,” I said. “And you told everything to Baca?”

She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Come on, Jillian. I hated my father, I was here close to the time he was murdered and we argued—and there’s a witness who saw me. Plus there’s the insurance policy naming me as beneficiary. No, I didn’t say much of anything. I told the chief I needed to speak to my attorney—and by the way, I don’t have an attorney.” She finally stuck a cigarette between her lips.

“You can’t trust Baca with what you’ve told me?” I said. But she didn’t answer, just rolled her eyes, so I said, “I don’t know any lawyers, either. I could ask Candace. She’d know who’s the best in town.”

“Have you forgotten she’s a cop?”

“But she’s also—” I stopped. Knowing Candace and knowing that real evidence pointed straight at Daphne, she was right. I couldn’t ask Candace for help. “Okay. Not a good idea.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure it out.” She swiped at the tears on her pale cheeks. “Right now I just hope you believe me.”

“I do.” And that was the truth. I started to ask her to come to my house for supper, because if anyone needed a friend right now, it was Daphne, but then I remembered my “date” with Tom. “Your estate sale is set for Monday, so you’ll be staying here.” If you aren’t in jail , I thought. “Why not spend the day with me tomorrow? Stuck here alone, you’ll have nothing to do but think. And that’s not good.”

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that. And as for the estate sale? Postponed. The chief saw everything boxed up and wondered why I felt compelled— that’s his word—to get rid of my father’s things so fast.” Her cigarette bobbed as she spoke and I almost wished she’d just light up and get it over with.

“Baca told you to postpone the sale?” I said.

“He said another warrant might be issued. That means he thinks I’ve hidden evidence that proves I killed my father.” She shook her head. “All this because I was sure I’d get Sophie back.”

“Tell me about her.” I wasn’t sure if talking about this would help calm Daphne, but it was worth a try.

She pushed away from the table and got the cell phone that had been charging on the counter. She flipped it open and held it out for me. The wallpaper on her small screen was of a gray long-haired domestic cat sitting on a pillow.

Uh-oh. I squinted and studied the screen. This cat looked an awful lot like the half a cat I’d pieced together last night But I wasn’t about to mention that. Not until I’d put the whole picture together. I didn’t even know if it was simply a computer-generated picture or a lost-cat flyer right now. But what if it was a picture of Sophie, one Wilkerson used to show her off so he could sell her to a grieving person—the same approach he’d used with Mr. Green? Only that time, a year ago, it was not an Abyssinian but a gray cat. I had to finish that picture. And now I had something to compare it to.

“She’s beautiful,” I said. “Did your father have any pictures of Sophie?”

“Not that I know about, but since he took her, he could have taken pictures. Why are you asking?” Daphne said.