Leann Sweeney (25 page)

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.”

From what little I knew of Daphne, who I’d decided was a vulnerable woman hiding behind an angry facade, her not wanting to call back sounded about right. “Why don’t we go together?” I said. “I know my way around a few places in the county.”

“I didn’t call you up so you could take care of me again. But you have a computer and access to MapQuest, right?”

“Sure. Why don’t I print out a map—you’re headed for the county coroner’s office, right?” I said.

“That’s right.”

“And since you probably don’t know where I live and don’t have e-mail access, I’ll drive over and give it to you.” She wasn’t fooling me a bit. Daphne was anxious and upset and doing a pitiful job of hiding her emotions.

“We could meet in front of city hall,” she said tersely.

Was there something she wasn’t saying? I had a strong feeling there was. “Nope. It’s settled. I am on my way to the house.” I hung up before she could say another word.

Once I had the map in hand, I blew kisses at the kitties and turned on the TV as well as my security system. Five minutes later I arrived at the Pink House. It didn’t take much convincing for Daphne to let me drive her to the county seat.

When I hit the main road, I said, “You seem pretty upset. What’s going on?”

She was gazing out the passenger window, no cigarette hanging off her upper lip today. But she was working her fingers and tapping her foot. “They said they have to talk to me, that it’s not only about the death certificate.”

“Really? Who called you, by the way?” I said.

“I don’t know. Linda . . . Lucinda . . .”

“Lydia?” I offered.

“That’s it. And she was so damn abrupt. If she treats all the families of homicide victims that way, then she needs to find another job.”

“I know Lydia. Why don’t you let me talk to her?” I said.

Daphne’s head snapped around so she could look at me. “You do
not
need to be my savior. I can take care of myself.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I just thought . . . Well, when I lost John I would have appreciated a shoulder to lean on, that’s all. Each loss is personal, so I apologize if I overstepped.”

A short silence followed and then she said, “Figures I’d stick my foot in my mouth. I’m the one who should be apologizing. And you know what? I’m relieved you’re going with me.”

“There,” I said with a smile. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Her features softened. “Yes, it was.”

On the rest of our drive we talked about family and friends—or the lack thereof. Seemed Flake Wilkerson had been Daphne’s only relative aside from an ex-husband she considered almost more contemptible than her dead father. Her new assignment in life, she told me, was to make sure the ex never found out about any money she inherited.

We found Lydia’s office on the second floor of the county building. How could someone as flamboyant as Lydia survive in this white-walled, plain-Jane office? Perhaps she didn’t want to be outdone even by a room.

She was all in black today, some of her hair beehive-like, similar to the last time I’d seen her. But she’d added the joy of side curls that bounced at her temples.

What fun she must have looking in the mirror
.

She gripped Daphne’s hand with both of her own, probably making up for being unpleasant on the phone. “I am so sorry for your loss.” Then she looked at me, and the disdain was evident in her tone when she said, “What are
you
doing here?”

“She’s a friend of mine,” Daphne said. “And that’s all you need to know.”

What a contrast these two women were. Lydia was all painted and spandexed and bejeweled. And then there was Daphne, her natural curls untamed and her face sans makeup. But they both had plenty of attitude, and I felt like a mouse in the presence of a couple of lionesses.

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.