Leann Sweeney

by the Quilt;the Corpse The Cat

  After several kisses, which marked Ed’s mouth with Karen’s bright red lipstick, he turned to us. “I have the flyers. Just haven’t had time to sort through and file them.”

  Karen offered a dismissive laugh and addressed us. “That filing system is a trunk in the back room. And when the trunk gets full, the flyers and whatever else he’s gathered from people’s lawns or out of ditches or what’s meant for the garbage collector is transferred to a cardboard box and dated.”

  Ed squared his shoulders. “It is my belief that what is offered to me on the streets of Mercy is valuable, even though the city wants to throw it all out. See, you two have come searchin’ for something, and I believe that’s proof that I have collected an important piece of—well, I don’t know, but it’s something.”

  I cocked my head. “You know what, Ed? You might just be right.”

  Karen rolled her eyes. “Please do not encourage the man.”

  “That’s not our intent,” Candace said.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I know that. It’s just that Ed and I have been working on his problem with him collecting stuff, mostly because we need to downsize. I read all about this downsizing idea in the money magazines. When you’re ready to retire, that’s one of the first steps.”

  “Could we have a look at all the papers you’ve collected over the last few months?” I said.

  “It’s only a bunch of paper,” Karen said.

  “But what Ed’s collected might provide a clue as to who killed Flake Wilkerson,” Candace said. “Might tell us other people who’ve lost cats in the last few months. See, a few kitties were found in the house, and maybe somebody is sorely missing them.”

  “Missing them enough to kill the man?” Karen asked.

  “I’m not saying that for sure,” Candace explained. “But it’s a place to start.”

  Ed turned on his amazing smile. “In that case, have at it, ladies.”

  The two of them led us to a hallway to the right—no easy task with a treadmill and a slew of old computer monitors in the way. We had been standing in what must have been the living room of the old house, and now we passed a kitchen on our right—at least I thought I saw a refrigerator and a stove. But this had apparently become the kitchen item collection spot. Blenders, microwaves, tables, even sheets of Formica filled the space.

  To the left, however, was a tidy and usable bathroom, and up ahead a bedroom that was neat and habitable.

  Karen was quick to point out that this was her doing. “The man has to have facilities and a place to lay his head when he needs a nap. You two will find later on in life that naps are quite the necessity. Ed does take his meals with me, though. That kitchen here is too much for me to deal with. And that reminds me, I need to get home and fix his supper. Ed’s metabolism keeps him thin as a bed slat. He needs his meals.”

  She told us good-bye and left.

  We’d reached the end of the hall, and Ed was dragging around an old steamer trunk stacked with file boxes. Candace hurried in to help him, and together they pushed it into the hallway, where there was actually space for us to open it.

  “What time period are we looking at with these particular contents?” I asked.

  Ed squinted into the room at the file boxes. “Looks like last time I filed was the end of March.”

  “Seven months’ worth of paper?” Candace said, sounding overwhelmed already.

  “Trees died and men and women labored to make this paper, Candy. Destroying it just don’t seem right.”

  An eco-friendly hoarder. In his peculiar and obstinate way, he made sense.

  He said, “You two go ahead and look for what you want. Use my bedroom if you’re too cramped. Meanwhile I got all of Helen Harper’s costume jewelry from her daughter. She swapped it out for a new toaster oven. Did you know Helen passed two weeks ago, Candy?”

  “I did. Attended the visitation. She was a nice lady.”

  “She was indeed. Now, get busy. You don’t want to miss your supper ’cause you’re stuck here.”

  He went back to the front and we both sat cross-legged by the trunk. Candace released all three brass latches and lifted the lid. Papers were crammed to the brim and some fell out and scattered around us.

  “Guess we should separate any lost-cat flyers from the rest,” I said.

  “Exactly.” Candace reached in with two hands and grabbed as much as she could hold, then handed the mass of papers to me. She repeated the process, putting a pile on her lap.

  The sorting took almost ninety minutes with neither of us taking time to look closely at what we had. I did notice several of my own flyers, but far fewer than I expected. Perhaps someone else was out collecting paper, too. Finally we had what we needed—information on plenty of lost cats. Candace and I then “refiled” the rest of Ed’s finds, which included not only garage sale signs but Frisbees, tennis balls and even a dog leash.

  We decided to take all the cat flyers to my house so we could examine them, take down names and numbers and perhaps get a feel for what had been happening to Mercy cats in the last several months. But first we needed to eat. So after thanking Ed and saying our good-byes, we went back to the car.

  Candace said she didn’t want to go to the Little Pig, even though she was craving slaw dogs—a regional favorite I had yet to try. Seemed any cops on duty usually went there on their break.

  “Let’s eat at McMurtry’s Pub,” she said, her RAV4 peeling around a corner and onto Main Street.

  I held on for dear life and vowed to drive if we ever went out on another search-and-find mission.

  She said, “The Pub is a touristy spot with a weird menu, but they have their own special recipe for sweet tea that beats about anything I’ve ever tasted.”

  Turned out the weird menu was typical pub fare, bangers and mash, fish and chips, that kind of thing. But there were also the hamburgers typical for the area, “a-plenty burgers,” where the fries and onion rings were mounded so high they fell off the plate. The sweet tea sure did have something extra—but the waitress wasn’t about to give up the secret, even though I asked more than once.

  As we shared a trifle for dessert, Candace said, “That cat I took in is so hilarious. Cries like a baby.”

  I took out my phone. “That reminds me, I haven’t checked on my crew in hours.” Once I was connected to the cat-cam, I saw I had nothing to worry about. They were all asleep in the living room.

  “My mom’s keeping Boy today—that’s what I call him, Boy. Didn’t want to leave him alone on the very first day he’s free from the likes of a mean old man like Flake Wilkerson. Those cats may have something to do with him being murdered, but I can’t help thinking what if it’s something else? I know the chief is looking into other things.”

  “What would those other things be?” I said.

  “Well, there’s the missing computer. I can tell you about that because you heard it was missing the day we found the body. It’s a safe assumption something on the hard drive connects the killer to Wilkerson, especially since we saw no evidence of robbery. The man had several thousand dollars in a bedroom drawer.”

  “Wasn’t the computer keyboard gone, too?” I said. “Why take—oh, I get it. Fingerprints.”

  She pointed her spoon at me. “That’s right. Wiping down a keyboard would be tough, especially if you were in a hurry. Then there’s his daughter. I can also tell you about her because when we notified her about Mr. Wilkerson, she said she was coming in from Columbia tomorrow to make the arrangements. That’s probably common knowledge in this town already. Chief Baca had me make the phone call to her, and I have to say, she didn’t sound all that upset that he was dead. If something like that happened to my daddy, I’d be hysterical. We need to know what she was up to around the time of the murder.”

  “Columbia’s not that far away, right?” I scraped the edge of the trifle dish to get every morsel of whipped cream.

  “No. She coulda come into town, killed off Flake and been back home by nightfall—if s
he had a reason to knock him off. Could be there’s money involved. I haven’t heard anything about the vic’s finances yet.”

  “Bet Baca hasn’t shared anything about her possible motive or alibi with you, huh?”

  “No,” she said, her expression morose. Candace eyed the empty trifle dish, cleaned inside the bowl with her index finger and licked away the last of our dessert.

  “What’s the daughter’s name? Maybe I could go over there and offer my condolences. I do feel terrible about my part in all this, and she might tell me something we don’t know about Mr. Wilkerson. Like why he was collecting cats.”

  “That’s an idea. Her name is Daphne, and she didn’t sound all that friendly. Maybe I’ll go with you.”

  “Good, because the last time I went to that house—well, you know what I found.”

  Candace said, “And don’t be mentioning this to anyone. I’m off the case and might get myself in some boiling-hot water if the chief finds out.”

  Back at my house a short time later, we switched from sweet tea to white wine, which helped Candace and me deal with the tedious task of writing down names and numbers off about fifty stained, wrinkled and mildewed flyers. Who knew so many cats would get themselves lost—but the pile we had went back more than six months.

  We’d laid them out on my dining room table, to the joy of all four cats. At one point Merlot even stretched out on the paper-covered space between Candace and me. Cats always have to be in your business.

  The tedium was interrupted when I came to a particular cat picture. I tapped the faded photo, the one a person named Dale Bartlett had added to his or her plea for help finding the lost cat Beatrice. “That’s the Tonkinese we found at Wilkerson’s house.”

  Candace was looking a little blurry-eyed anyway, and now confusion clouded her features even more. “Tonka-what? I thought we were talking about cats, not little trucks.”

  “Tonkinese is a cat breed,” I said.

  “Oh. Gotcha.”

  “I think that cat is with Shawn. Now that we have the owner’s phone number, we can reunite them. I wonder if we’ll find a flyer for the tuxedo, too,” I said.

  “Trucks and tuxedos? One of us has had too much wine. What in heck are you talking about?”

  “Sorry. Tuxedo cats are black and white—marked, sort of like penguins. Remember, I told you about the cat that escaped the day before the murder?”

  “The cat that ran off into the woods?” she said.

  “Yes. The one Shawn picked up by the side of the road after we left.”

  “Save that for sure, because every cat is a possible lead.”

  “I’m not sure I even told Baca about Shawn picking up the tuxedo. Guess I’ll do that tomorrow,” I said.

  “I never got the chance to tell him, but it is in my report,” she said. “Maybe he’ll begin to understand the importance of the cats if you mention it. I got the feeling he couldn’t care less. Make sure you tell him you forgot and that’s why you failed to mention that penguin cat.”

  “Tuxedo.”

  “Whatever. And now that I’m considering this full-disclosure idea, I definitely have to give the chief our lost-cat list tomorrow, even though he’ll probably laugh me out of his office and order me back to answering phones.”

  “Can I copy it first?” I still had to find out about these missing cats, with or without Baca’s help.

  “It’s your list, not mine, so of course.” She paused and her expression grew worried. “But maybe there will be no laughing, Jillian. Maybe I’ll be suspended for not following orders. Maybe you should keep the list to yourself.”

  “No. Tell him what we’ve done. Honesty is on our side. Let’s keep it that way.”

  She offered a small smile. “That’s exactly what my mom would say. And my mom is always right.”

  Fifteen

  The next day I decided to tell Baca about the tuxedo cat right away. So I headed over to the police station bright and early. The visit to the chief started out pretty well. I didn’t see Candace answering phones, thank God, and I waited less than a minute for Baca to wave me into his office.

  I took a seat in the same chair as yesterday, his big, shiny desk between us. To my chagrin, my hands trembled. I clutched them in my lap to hide my nerves. I hadn’t left here the last time in a very pleasant manner, and for some reason that made me nervous.

  Before he could even ask me why I was here, I blurted, “I forgot to tell you something yesterday. I’m sorry.”

  His expression didn’t change. He just calmly said, “And what would that be, Ms. Hart?”

  “Could you call me Jillian? I’d feel a lot more comfortable if you did.”

  “Sure, Jillian. Now, what exactly is bothering you this morning?”

  I explained about the tuxedo cat, and Baca simply smiled politely. For some reason I found this maddening.

  “Say something,” I said, my frustration fairly obvious.

  He laughed. “How’s this? I appreciate you returning after how things went down yesterday, but we already know about the black-and-white cat and have found the owner.”

  “Oh, did—”

  Baca went on, “Shawn Cuddahee gave us all the details of your visit to Mr. Wilkerson the day before the murder. That black-and-white cat had an implanted microchip. When Shawn figured that out, he felt obliged to tell us so we could ask the local vet for help. The doc scanned the chip, and the cat is already back home.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s great. Did he check all the cats Mr. Wilkerson had for those microchips?”

  Baca said, “Yup. That was the only one. Candy provided us with the list you two compiled from those flyers. Nice work, I’ll admit. Lydia wanted Candy off the case, but I see that’s not stopping her. As for you, what you’ve been doing is a little far afield from making quilts—that is what you do?”

  His Southern charm was really cloying to me now. “Yes. For charity and for cats.”

  “Like the ones we found in Flake Wilkerson’s house? Come up with any leads on how he got ahold of those?” he asked.

  He was keeping up the “I’m so sweet I’d rot your teeth” act, but I got the distinct feeling the man still suspected me of something nefarious. Aside from Candace, the whole police force probably did.

  “I didn’t find anything in my files,” I said. “But I put a business card on the vet’s bulletin board months ago, and Mr. Wilkerson could have gotten my address on a visit there. Maybe he drove by and saw my cats in the window, then chose my house for a break-in.”

  “And stole the quilts along with the cat?” he said.

  “No. He must have had them for some time. I’m certain of this because of the fabric and the patterns. I sold out of those particular quilts months ago.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  “When I buy fabric, I tend to use it in several quilts until all the yardage is gone. And I also choose a certain pattern—say a rail fence or an Irish chain—for a batch of cat quilts. I recognized the quilts I saw at the house as some that I made maybe seven or eight months ago.”

  “You didn’t decide to go to the Pink House because you remembered selling those quilts to Mr. Wilkerson and for some reason wanted them back?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t even know he had them until the day of the murder—when I went upstairs and saw them. I went there the morning of the murder to get Syrah, not to recover quilts I didn’t know Mr. Wilkerson had.”

  “Had to ask,” he said. “Moving on, your coming here and your working with Candy on that list tells me this investigation has grabbed your interest. It would grab mine, too, if I walked into a house—even if uninvited—and found a corpse.”

  “I’m interested solely because of the cats. There has to be a connection to them and Mr. Wilkerson’s death, right?”

  “Only if his activities concerning the animals angered Shawn Cuddahee enough to make him murder the man.”

  “Shawn wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t. It mu
st have been someone else,” I said. “Maybe someone whose cat Mr. Wilkerson took.”

  “Big maybe. Doesn’t feel right to me—killing someone over a cat. I’m considering other motives,” he said. “And now I’m hoping you’ve thought about the danger you put yourself in as much as you’ve thought about the rest of this case.”

  “Wait a minute. You don’t believe the cats had anything to do with the murder?”

  “There could be a connection, but it’s not exactly a motive I’d put at the top of my list,” he said.

  “Aren’t you even going to question the person who owns the tuxedo cat, just to see how angry he was that Flake took his baby? And what about the business card idea and the list of people who put up flyers about lost cats? Why not ask them if they used the same vet? That veterinary hospital might be where Flake went to hunt for his prey.”

  “Prey?” he said.

  “Cats to steal. The man was a mean cat thief.” I felt warmth on my cheeks. Now I’d spoken ill of the dead. I hadn’t meant to do that.

  “Okay, I’ll give you this much. If cat theft was the motive, we’ll find out. But right now, it seems far-fetched. I’m not inclined to believe someone stuck a knife in Mr. Wilkerson’s abdomen because he nabbed a pet. I’m not ruling it out, but I believe there’s more to it than that. I’m betting on the money.”

  “The money? I get it,” I said, excited now. “Mr. Wilkerson was selling those cats, wasn’t he? I knew it.”

  “Not what I was thinking,” he said quickly. He seemed flustered by letting this money angle slip. I kinda liked him better flustered, rather than all uptight and oh-so-professional.

  Baca pulled a sheet of paper toward him. “Let me confirm a few things.”

  “But I’ve given a statement and—”

  “This isn’t about the other day.” He glanced down at the paper. “According to what I’ve learned, you and your husband moved here less than a year ago, he died unexpectedly—a retired financial adviser, I see—and you started up this cat quilt business.”

  “You’ve got that wrong,” I said. Why did he have to bring up John? He had nothing to do with this.