The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse acitm-1

by Leann Sweeney

  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.

  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 ni
ce.

  “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?”

  Guess he wasn’t off the job after all. “Would that be a problem if I did go over there?”

  He removed his hand from beneath Marian Mae’s and sipped his coffee before answering. “Of course not. You visit who you want. But I’d appreciate it if you call me rather than Candace if you hear anything interesting concerning the case.”

  “Is Candy having one of her evidence obsession seizures?” Marian Mae said with a laugh.

  Baca said, “Mae, we’ve talked about this. She’s a good cop. But sometimes—” He glanced at me. “Nothing more needs to be said—just that I’m running this investigation, not her. Got that, Jillian?”

  “Got it.” But I didn’t exactly like it. He should be grateful he had such a dedicated and intelligent woman working for him. “Sorry I can’t visit. I need to get home,” I said.

  I offered a polite good-bye and then turned to leave. But even with my back to the two of them, I couldn’t help hearing Marian Mae say, “You need to practice being more tactful, Mike.”

  Gosh, wasn’t that the truth?

  I spent the rest of the afternoon checking Flake Wilkerson’s newspapers—that is, when I wasn’t removing a cat, any cat, and all the cats from the table where’d I spread out the papers. Turned out Wilkerson had subscriptions to papers in surrounding towns as well as in Atlanta. I found only four circled names, including the first one I’d already unearthed. Three ads were people hunting for a lost cat, but those were more than a year old. The one that interested me was someone who was hoping to purchase a full-grown Abyssinian—like Syrah. That ad was only two weeks old.

  I sat back in the teak chair, considering this. Why wouldn’t you get on the computer and search for breeders? Or put yourself on a list at the local shelters asking to be notified if any Abyssinians came up for adoption? Or even try Craigslist? There were always ads there for cats and dogs needing homes.

  The only way to get answers to these questions was to phone the person who’d purchased the ad. Deep down, I wished the police would be the ones to make the call. But as long as Baca was focused on the money, that wouldn’t happen. As I opened my cell to call a stranger, I felt like this was something I must do, whether it was connected to the case or not.

  The man who answered sounded very old. I practically had to yell into the phone for him to understand me. Then a woman came on the line and said, “Can’t you tell he doesn’t get what you’re saying? You selling something?”

  I explained I was calling about the ad for the Abyssinian.

  “We already have one on order—or so we thought,” the woman said. “It was supposed to be here day before yesterday, but I’m beginning to think poor Mr. Green’s been had.”

  “Someone sold you a cat already?” I said.

  “Had to make a cash down payment. Mr. Green handed the money over before I knew it. You got a cat to sell? Because we might need a backup.”

  “No. But I’d sure like to talk to Mr. Green about who sold him this cat you have yet to see.”

  “And why’s that?” She was sounding cautious now.

  “There could be an explanation as to why he hasn’t gotten the cat he purchased. Please? Can I come and talk to him?”

  “I don’t even know your name. And poor Mr. Green’s so fretful, I don’t think his heart—”

  I heard the old man say, “Give me that phone,” heard the woman protest, but seconds later, Mr. Green was on the line again. “You holding my cat for ransom or something? You better bring me a new Banjo before the sun sets. I got that caller ID thingie, and this time your number came up. You’re not—”

  “A new Banjo?” I said.

  “That was his name. Banjo. And like I said—”

  “Mr. Green,” I said gently, “I don’t have your cat. I can’t sell you a cat. But I might be able to share information with you that will help you understand what happened to your money—and you might be able to help me, too.”

  “Then come on, ’cause I’ve had enough of this nonsense.” He rattled off an address, and it was a good thing I had the notepad with his number at hand so I could jot it down, because he hung up immediately.

  Should I call Candace to go with me? I wondered, as I went for my car keys hanging on the hook by the back door. Nah. Surely I’d be safe with someone who sounded like he was twice my age.

  But I stopped before I’d gone out the door and about-faced. I hurried to the office, where I keep my personal photos, thinking a four-by-six picture of Syrah might come in handy rather than the photos on my cell phone. I had a feeling Mr. Green might have as much trouble seeing as he did hearing.

  Mercy is small enough to share an area code with Taylorville, five miles to the south. That was where Mr. Green lived, in a tiny white house between other houses that looked exactly like his.

  The woman I’d spoken with on the phone answered the red-painted door at once. She was a dark-skinned black woman, and if not for her graying temples, I wouldn’t have been able to venture a guess whether she was under or over forty.She wore the sternest expression I think I’ve ever seen, and she didn’t bother introducing herself. “You have agitated Mr. Green so much that he’s refusing to take his medication, refusing to do anything but wait by the window for you.”

  “I’m truly sorry if I upset both of you,” I said. “My name is Jillian Hart.”

  “I’m Alfreda, Mr. Green’s caregiver. Now get your skinny self in here and calm him down. This cat business is wearing me out.”

  There was no question Mr. Green was old. His skin was a shade lighter than Alfreda’s and his hair was a mass of pearl gray frizzy tufts. He wore thick tortoiseshell glasses, and a wool blanket with tassels was draped around his frail-looking shoulders. His feet were elevated on an ottoman, and another blanket lay across his knees. The hearing aid in his right ear explained the difficulty we’d had on the phone.

  Alfreda pulled me by the elbow over to where he sat near the window in the living room. “This is that woman who called. You can see she don’t have a cat with her.”

  Mr. Green lifted a gnarled index finger and pointed at Alfreda. “She never said she was bringing any cat. You think I can’t remember what we talked about not thirty minutes ago.”

  “Oh, I don’t think,” Alfreda said. “I know you can’t remember. She’s here, so take your medicine before you have a stroke.”

  I believed I might have found the two crankiest people on the planet. “I don’t want to upset you, Mr. Green, but—”

  “My name is Cole. And what’s yours, little lady?” Did I see a sparkle in his cloudy brown eyes?

  “Jillian. Mind if I sit down?”

  “Of course you’ll sit,” he said.

  Alfreda said, “He promised he’d take his medicine when you got here.” She stared down at her patient, her hands on her hips. “Didn’t you?”

  “That would be a good idea,” I said. “I don’t want you to fall ill while I’m here.” I sat on the edge of an old leather wing chair adjacent to him.

  “See how nice she said that, Alfreda?” Mr. Green said. “You could take a lesson. Bring me the horse pills. And bring Miss Jillian here a cup of that hot cocoa you make.”

  Alfreda’s full lips hinted at a smile. “And I’m supposing you’d like a cup of cocoa yourself?”

  “You would be correct, woman. One of the few times in your life, sorry to say.” But he was holding back a smile, too.

  I’ll bet this goes on all day, I thought. These two actually shared a fondness for each other, but they would never admit to it.

  When she left the room, Cole Green said, “There’s a conspiracy, isn’t there? I’m not getting a new Banjo.”

  I almost did a “huh?” and then remembered that was the name of his cat. “Banjo was an Abyssinian?”

  “Didn’t know that’s what he was
until he took sick. Vet told me. Can’t hardly pronounce it, much less spell it. Woman at the paper helped me out with the spelling when I called to say I needed a new cat.”

  The answers to why he hadn’t used the Internet or visited animal shelters were obvious. Classified ads served the needs of his generation for things like finding a new pet.

  “Abyssinians came from ancient Egypt. An Abyssinian cat was considered a child of God,” I said.

  Mr. Green nodded and smiled. “Banjo was that indeed.”

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  His eyes instantly grew rheumy. “Cancer. Cancer’s gonna take over the earth. I’ve had it myself, but I survived. Not poor Banjo.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Alfreda returned with a tray holding the cocoa. “Kindly help me by setting up one of those TV tables in the closet by the front door,” she said to me.

  Soon the folding table was between us, and Alfreda gave Mr. Green a handful of pills and a glass of water to wash them down. He grumbled but did take the medicine.

  “I got laundry to do,” Alfreda said. “Need anything, you holler.” She pointed at Mr. Green. “And that means she can holler, not you. I’ve had enough of your hollering for one day.”

  She turned and walked out of the room.

  The smell of chocolate had filled the air, and one taste of Alfreda’s rich, sweet concoction soothed me from head to toe.

  Mr. Green must have noticed the change in my demeanor because he was smiling. “Now, that’s nature’s best medicine.” He nodded at my cup. “A decent dose of cocoa. I keep telling her I don’t need all those pills, just two cups of this every day.”

  “You could be on to something.” I set down the cup and leaned toward him. “Tell me about Banjo and this person who answered your ad.”

  “You first. What’s it to you?”

  “That’s a long story, but I’ll try to give you a quick summary.” The summary took long enough for us both to finish our cocoa. “Did you follow all that?” I said, using one of the small paper napkins Alfreda had provided to wipe away my chocolate mustache.