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.
“Thought you knew. Anyhow, the only way we’re getting inside that shop without having to get a warrant—which in Mercy would be considered a rude and unfortunate course of action—is to have supper with them. Let’s get this over with.”
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.”
“We were—I mean Jillian was there all day.” Candace looked at me. “You found no sign of a cat massacre, did you?”
I felt sick at the thought.
Ed must have noticed, because he jumped in with, “Hush, Candace. And you, too, Karen. Can’t you see you’re upsetting Miss Jillian? She has a love of animals and you need to respect that.”
I exhaled the air I’d been holding and offered Ed a grateful smile.
Karen said, “I suppose that wasn’t proper talk at the supper table. Please forgive me, Jillian. The last thing I want to do is upset you. Tom has said such nice things about you. Now, time for that icebox pie I made this morning.”
Candace started to clear the table, but Ed held up a hand. “Our job. Just sit.”
After they took the dishes to the kitchen and we were alone, Candace said, “This is driving me crazy. There’s evidence to be collected and we have to waste time being polite.”
“I don’t think that computer is going anywhere,” I said.
“You’re probably right, but I am as edgy as a terrier watching a rat hole.” To prove this, she started gnawing on her pinkie finger.
I was in no hurry. The food was down-home delicious. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had mashed potatoes and gravy. I felt soothed in the presence of this odd couple, whose hospitality and concern were so genuine. I only wished it hadn’t taken a murder to get me out of my house and meeting people in Mercy.
The icebox pie was like nothing I’d ever tasted, rich with lemon cookie pieces, almonds and whipped cream. I was in heaven and, to Candace’s chagrin, I took my time with each bite. She’d eaten hers exactly like she drove her car: way too fast. She refused coffee, and in fear of my life I did, too, though I imagined Karen could make an awesome cup of coffee if the meal we’d had was any indication.
When Ed started to clear the pie plates, Karen waved him off. “Candace is chomping at the bit about something you’ve got in your shop that she sorely wants. You all go on now and I’ll clean up.”
We all stood and I said, “Are you sure? I’d be glad to help.”
Candace’s foot squeezed down on my toes, and it was all I could do not to punch her in the arm in response. But I didn’t. I was forty-one years old, not twelve.
The ride back to the shop was blessedly unhurried since we were following Ed’s truck. The battered, ancient vehicle probably couldn’t do more than forty and, coupled with the leisurely dinner, Ed’s pace was tranquil. I thought Candace might grip the steering wheel so hard her knuckles would snap.
After Ed unlocked the shop and let us in, he said, “Is this about that computer?”
“Yes,” Candace said. “I may be on a day off, but a police officer is always on duty. When Jillian mentioned your find, I thought it best I have a look since the computer could be useful in our investigation.”
Ed had flicked on the lights and was leading us toward the back room. “That proves the point I’ve been trying to make my whole life. Trash can be treasure. We’re a nation of wasters. Throw everything out before it’s served its purpose. And that purpose isn’t always what a thing mighta been made for in the first place.”
I’d never thought about the world quite like that before, but he did have a point.
The remnants of the computer were laid out on an old carpet in the office—keyboard cracked in two with all kinds of missing keys sitting alongside what was once a tower. It was mostly shattered and the back was missing. And there was also a mass of circuits, ribbon wires and other pieces that had been rendered nearly unrecognizable by a good smashing.
Candace, hands on her hips, stared down at the mess. “Whoa. Exactly what did you think you could salvage from this, Ed?”
“Don’t know,” said Ed. “That’s the fun of it.”
She took out her cell and punched several keys. When someone on the other end answered, she said, “Sorry to bother you at home, but I might have found some evidence that needs collecting.” She listened for a second and said, “Yes, the Wilkerson case. Which I am not working, by the way. I just happened to hear about this wrecked computer and thought I’d check it out.”
Her cheeks reddened as she listened some more. Then she gave our location and hung up. “The chief’s coming,” she said. “He wants to see for himself.”
Ed said, “
The dump’s a mucky place. Let me check if it’s dried out enough—”
Candace grabbed his arm. “Don’t touch it.”
He stopped and gave her a confused look. “But there was some nasty stuff in that dump, and I wouldn’t want you or the chief to get all dirty.”
I said, “That’s okay, Ed. Candace is worried about fingerprints and other stuff you and I probably know nothing about.”
He nodded and smiled. “I get it. If you’re worried about fingerprints, you won’t find mine ’cause I always wear gloves when I pull stuff out of the dump. Heavy-duty ones on account of the rats.”
My skin crawled at the thought.
Candace seemed pleased and said, “Ed is always careful with things. I’ve been here more than once looking for stolen goods, haven’t I, Ed?”
“You and every officer in town,” Ed said. “Hope I sometimes make your job easier.”
“You do indeed.” Candace knelt and stared at what she hoped was the evidence she so desperately wanted. “Wish I understood computers better. Don’t know what if any of this mess will tell us a story.”
“I can call Karen’s boy and ask him to come over. He knows computers inside and out,” Ed said.
“Tom fixed mine up with a wireless network in a hurry,” I agreed.
“We have to leave this to the state computer forensic people,” Candace said.
“If you say so,” Ed said. “But you ask me, Tom’s your best bet.”
She said, “We don’t need—”
I gave the still-crouching Candace a little kick in the butt and said, “I’m certain the police will call on Tom if they need help.” That surely wasn’t true, but Ed had been nothing but kind to us and she didn’t need to be so dismissive.
She stood and looked at me as if to say, “What is wrong with you?”
I almost laughed. I wanted to say, “Payback for the toe crushing,” but instead I said, “Ed seems quite proud of Tom’s skills.”
He smiled broadly. “Been with Karen a while now, and I’ve tried to do right by the both of them. He’s had his share of trouble, mostly thanks to Karen losing her way for a spell, but he’s a fine man.”
We heard the door open and Candace called, “That you, Chief?”
Baca appeared in the office door and nodded at Ed. “Good to see you.” All I got was a hard stare before he focused on the computer wreckage.
Candace started to explain, but he stopped her and began asking Ed questions. After he had the when, why, where and how of Ed’s find, he looked at Candace. “You got your camera and kit?”
You’d have thought Billy Cranor had just asked her on a date. “Got my own kit and camera, so yes, sir.” She was gone in a flash.
Baca turned to me. “You heard about this computer while you were visiting Daphne Wilkerson? Why were you over there?”
I should have known this question was coming, but I was woefully unprepared. I had no fantastic, smooth answer that would satisfy a skeptic like him. I explained how I’d helped her and called Ed for packing material. I finished by saying, “I—I felt like it was the right thing to do—to pay my respects.”
“Really?” Baca said. “And then she asked you to find her packing peanuts? How did you two become so friendly so fast? Because, you know, she didn’t seem the buddy-buddy type to me.”
“She’s had a rough time with her dad,” I said.
“But you two are now fast friends, it would seem,” he said. “Aren’t you the miracle worker? Was Candace over at the Pink House with you?”
Before I could speak, Ed said, “Didn’t see that station wagon Candace races around town in when I was there, Mike. Girl’s gonna get herself hurt one of these days. Drives fast as blue blazes.”
Baca’s narrowed eyes hadn’t left my face, but Candace’s return with the fingerprint kit and camera interrupted whatever he was about to say.
While Baca directed Candace on what photos he wanted, I mouthed a “thank you” at Ed. He nodded knowingly.
Soon Ed was hunting up a box to transport the computer and keyboard off the premises. Seemed Candace could not get any decent prints from what she’d dusted, but listening to her and Baca talk, I guessed there was something else they could try as far as printing the parts and pieces.
While Baca carefully carried the box outside with Candace on his heels, I looked at Ed. I didn’t care what Candace said; he’d found it and he should be paid. “How much do I owe you for that?”
“Nothing. Police come and take something, I don’t get a paycheck and I shouldn’t. Had plenty of stolen stuff pass through my hands and I’m pretty good at figurin’ out when something’s not right with a swap or a sale.”
“I’ll bet you are,” I said with a grin.
His brow creased. “This machine’s not one of those times, though. I thought it got all broke because of the frustratin’ nature of computers. Never woulda known it might be important if not for you askin’ this afternoon.”
“I hope it yields some kind of clue. Murderers should not go free,” I said.
Ed checked his watch. “Man like me who gets up at the crack of dawn needs to be in bed by this time. You riding with Candace? ’Cause I’d be glad to drop you at home.”
“No, she’ll give me a ride.” I wanted to take him up on his offer, but we had already inconvenienced him enough.
But he seemed well aware I would have rather ridden with him, because he said, “Then I wish you luck on reaching your destination in one piece.” And with that he gave me a commiserating wink.
Twenty-one
I arrived home to find three unhappy cats. I’d spent the entire day away and hadn’t even remembered to turn on Animal Planet. Though I’d checked the cat-cam several times, they, of course, had no idea I’d been checking on them. Maybe one day Tom could make the system interactive and I could talk to them, too.
After they got over their snit, which took only about fifteen minutes, we played with feathers and fake snakes and I eased my guilt by giving them some of that fancy food that costs about a buck a can. I heard purring as I left the kitchen and headed for a hot bath. I hadn’t done this much physical work since John and I had moved in last year, and every muscle was barking. By the time I put my head on the pillow, three cats with fish breath were ready to settle in for the night. I don’t think it took me thirty seconds to fall asleep.
When I woke up, I feared I’d gone way past my usual seven a.m., but I checked the clock and saw I’d overslept by only thirty minutes. First order of business, after coffee and cereal, was to figure out when I’d made those cat quilts and how they’d ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house. The police might not care about this—obviously they didn’t, since they hadn’t taken them as evidence—but I sure did.
I keep photographs of many of the quilts I make, but I’m not always good about noting where or when a particular quilt is sold. I rely on my receipt book for the IRS and usually add a quilt’s description on the NCR forms I use—for instance “brown and pink Lady of the Lake pattern,” with the date and price. In other words, I’m organized to a point. But the pictures might tell me precisely when I’d used the fabrics in the quilts I’d brought home from the Pink House last night.
I took the five cat quilts with me, and Merlot, Chablis, and Syrah followed along into the sewing room. How they love fabric, the hum of the sewing machine, and the chance to swipe at thread as I clip rows of quilting. When I took a photo album from the shelf, Merlot went straight to the window and jumped on the sill, his attention on birds and squirrels. Chablis plopped down in the middle of the floor, perhaps hoping she could trip me and get her revenge. Syrah sat in the middle of the room also and meowed in protest. Looking at an album was not what they’d hoped I’d be doing in here.
I sat in the comfy overstuffed chair in the corner and opened the album—this one with pictures from the last year. Only Syrah joined me, perching on the chair’s arm. He seemed as interested in the pictures as I was, occasionally reaching out a paw to
tap a page as I turned it.
Checking fabric patterns and colors against the quilts, I was certain these five had been ordered or purchased in April or May. Three fabrics in particular had been used in all the quilts. What had I been doing in those months, aside from making myself get out of bed and face one day at a time without John? Going to cat or craft shows? Had I sold these through my Web site?
The answer might lie in this year’s tax folder. I retrieved it from its file, and sure enough, I found an almost coherent description of six quilts that matched these. They’d been sold at a cat show in Atlanta. No convenient check or credit card receipt, but I sometimes do ask for a name—in case the customer ever contacts me again. People feel good when you remember their name.
This order was purchased by one B. Smith and was a cash payment—an order for six quilts. And yet only five had been recovered. I wondered what happened to the other one. And I didn’t know if B. Smith was a man or a woman—you’d think I would have remembered if a man had bought that many quilts. My customer base is ninety percent female. But I’d been walking through life as a shadow back then. I had no memory of anything more than making the drive to Atlanta.
Surely that was where Flake Wilkerson purchased my quilts, and even in Atlanta he was being deceptive. Cash. An alias. The kinds of things people do when they have something to hide.
Knowing that I couldn’t do anything more with this information than talk it over with Candace this evening, I was about to start searching through the classifieds of those newspapers I’d brought home, looking for more red circles, when my cell rang.
It was Daphne, who began talking without saying hello. “I have to go the coroner’s office to pick up the death certificate. Do you know where the office is? Because the woman gave me directions like I actually knew what she was talking about, and I feel stupid calling her back. I didn’t grow up in this town. I’ve only been to this house twice in the last five years.”
Leann Sweeney Page 19
