The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse acitm-1
Page 18
“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.
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—”
“That’s why I go to Ed’s Swap Shop, secure it and call Baca.”
“Did you think I planned to take it home?” I said with a laugh. “If I bought it, I thought I could hand it over to Chief Baca, no warrant attached.”
“Oh. Sorry I misunderstood,” she said. “But you don’t have to buy the thing. Ed knows all about stolen goods. I’m surprised they haven’t checked with him about the computer already. Maybe they have by now.”
“And you guys will have people who could make sense of damaged computer guts? Because Ed said it wasn’t in good shape.”
“The county has forensic computer experts. No one in Mercy PD could begin to tackle that job,” she said.
Even though it was after six and I’d had nothing to eat all day, Candace insisted we head straight for Ed’s store. In what seemed like only seconds, we pulled into the tiny parking area, courtesy of Candace trying to set a world record for getting from the Pink House to the other side of town. She told me to stay in the car and she’d deal with Ed. I didn’t mind. Thanks to her driving, my personal fear factor was about a ten on a scale of one to five, and I needed time to calm down.
I watched as Candace navigated through the junk in front of the building and then saw her pounding on the door. No one answered, and when she tried the latch, it was locked. Frustration was evident in every step as she stomped back to the car.
Sliding behind the wheel, she said, “The one time I need Ed to be there, he’s gone. We could probably go to the dump and find him, I suppose.”
“What about Karen? Remember she said they take their meals at her place?” I said.
Candace smiled. “Duh. Good thinking.” She took out her phone, scrolled down in the address book, then pressed the CALL button.
But she didn’t call Karen as I expected. “Tom? This is Candace. Can I have your mother’s phone number?”
Wide-eyed, I said, “Tom Stewart? Are you kidding?”
Candace held up a finger to silence me. She listened intently, repeated the number he gave her and made the second call. When someone answered, she said, “Hi, this is Candace. Is Ed there?”
She listened, then politely said, “I know he’s eating his supper, but this is important. I need him to meet me at the shop.”
More silence as Karen spoke.
Candace said, “Yes, but—”
I could hear Karen’s voice but couldn’t make out the words.
Candace’s shoulders slumped and she rolled her eyes. “Why, yes. We’d be delighted to join you. Be there in a few minutes.” She closed the phone and slapped it down between us.
“Karen is Tom’s mother?” I said.
She reversed the Toyota and peeled out of the driveway. All I could think about on this leg of our journey was that I had to get the name of a good chiropractor.
In comparison to Ed’s shop, Karen’s cottage ranked up there with the Taj Mahal. I swear there wasn’t a blade of grass out of place in her front yard. Two white rockers sat on the latticed porch, and a wind chime played its delicate tune as it swung in the evening breeze.
“How did these two ever end up together?” I whispered as Candace rang the doorbell.
“Met at church is what I heard.” She lowered her voice. “She used to drink. Preferred vodka, which is kinda expensive when you’re downing fifths.”
Before I could respond—and God knew what I’d say, anyway—Karen answered the door. Soon we were sitting at a dining room table that looked old enough to have been handed down from her grandparents. Everything was caramel-colored wood: the chairs, the sideboard, the china hutch and the oval table.
Ed’s hair was now combed and he wore a clean striped shirt buttoned up to his neck. Karen had on a peach sweater with a rabbit fur collar and pearl buttons.
When she caught me gaping, she said, “Fake fur. No animals were harmed in the making of this sweater.”
I smiled. “I didn’t mean to stare, but—”
“Oh, I’m sure you didn’t. Now eat, ladies. Both of you could use some fat on your bones. Women are supposed to have fat to store their estrogen. Did you know that?”
And that was how it went. Ed concentrated on his pot roast, carrots and potatoes, while Karen talked nonstop, mostly offering up her fun facts. She was a wealth of information. But the last one made me set down my fork.
She said, “Did you know they kill cats in Europe for their fur? Make scarves and collars and such. Tabbies are quite popular for that, but I think that’s despicable. I surely do hope that’s not what Flake Wilkerson was up to in the Pink House.”