“So you didn’t grow up here?” I said.
“No. I didn’t even grow up in this town. He moved here after my mother died. Bought the place as an investment. As you may have noticed, he didn’t exactly take care of that investment.”
“It must have been beautiful once. Could be again,” I said.
“Do you have another agenda?” she said. “Did the neighborhood improvement people send you to convince me to spruce the place up?”
“No one sent me. And by the way, this is your house now and if you need that cigarette, then—”
“I quit ten years ago,” she said. “But when I learned I had to come to Mercy, first thing I did was go out and buy a pack. Haven’t smoked one yet, but I think I might with every passing minute I spend here.”
“I’d like to help you if I can,” I said. This was a troubled person, and I felt this odd connection to her. We may have had very different ways of grieving, but I knew what she was going through.
“Okay, your visit is not about God. You’ve got to be a shrink.” The guarded look and angry tone had returned. “But I don’t need that kind of help.”
I smiled. “I am no shrink. When I said I’d like to help I was being practical, not esoteric. You said something about an estate sale, and obviously you’re getting ready, but this is a huge house. I’d be glad to help you sort things, trash things, do whatever is necessary.”
She cocked her head. “You’d do that for a stranger?”
“Sure. I’d love to.” And even though Candace might think I’d scored big-time if I were invited to hunt around in here, it wasn’t like that for me. I did want to help this woman. It just felt right.
Candace returned and said, “The clock won’t bother you anymore.”
“Thanks,” Daphne said. “Tell me your name again?”
“Candace Carson,” she mumbled, reclaiming her spot next to me on the settee.
“You know,” Candace said, “Shawn Cuddahee’s animal shelter took all the cats your father had here, but he didn’t have room for all of them. I agreed to take home a Siamese until we either find the owner or someone adopts the poor guy. Could he be your cat—the one your father took from you?”
“Or an exotic shorthair?” I said. “He had one of those, too.”
But Daphne shook her head. “No. Sophie wasn’t a Siamese or whatever else you said. She was a gray long- haired sweetheart.When my father came to visit me in Columbia—we were actually on speaking terms at the time —he was all over her, how pretty she was, how affectionate. Then he took off with her in the middle of the night.”
“Are you kidding me?” But why should I be surprised?
“I wish I were kidding. I got in my car and drove here when I discovered she was gone. But though he had several other cats, no Sophie. And he claimed he didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance.”
“Then what was his explanation for leaving your place in the middle of the night?” Candace said.
“He said he was tired of me. And since I’d heard that before, I didn’t argue. And like a fool, I believed him when he said it was a coincidence that Sophie disappeared when he did, that maybe she slipped out when he was leaving. But I know different now.” The more she talked, the more the contempt returned to her voice.
“What changed your mind about this coincidence?” I asked.
“This last month he’s been calling me. Same old thing. He wants to make things right between us; he doesn’t want to die with us being estranged. I’ve heard it all before.”
“But that doesn’t answer why you seem so sure now that he took your cat,” Candace said.
“I’ve explained all this to the police, and it doesn’t really matter now that he’s dead, does it?” she said. “Sophie’s been gone more than a year. I’ll never see her again.”
“The police?” I said. “They asked about your cat?”
“No, they didn’t. I mentioned it to Chief Baca after he said my father had a bunch of cats here. He didn’t seem to care.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Candace said under her breath.
“You’re awfully interested in this,” she said, her scorn morphing to skepticism.
“Partly because of Shawn, the guy who owns that shelter,” I said quickly.
“I heard my father complain about him more than once,” Daphne said.
“He’s a friend of ours,” I said, “and apparently the main suspect. But we’re sure he couldn’t have killed your father, and we wish the police chief would listen to us. We believe the cats had something to do with your father’s murder.”
“We? Us? What are you, conjoined twins or something?” A new cigarette came out of the case and she put it between her lips.
“No,” Candace and I said in unison.
Daphne actually smiled for the first time. “Better check your hips for scars.”
“We’re curious types—maybe that’s why we relate to cats so well,” I said. “I’ve had a round or two with Chief Baca. I hope your experience was better than mine.”
“Does he suspect you, too?” she said.
“At first he did, mostly because I ... well, I found . . . your father.” I couldn’t help glancing toward the dining room.
Daphne tossed her head in the direction of my stare. “That’s where he was, huh?”
I nodded, knowing that the image of him lying there would never leave me. I could picture the whole scene so clearly, as if it had just happened.
“Thanks to me, looks like they don’t suspect you or Shawn as much as they do me,” Daphne said.
“The chief told you that you were a suspect?” I said.
“No, but I’m not stupid. I picked up on his suspicions,” she said.
“Did you come into town and go straight to the police station or did you stop by here first?” Candace asked.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Daphne spoke so quickly she lost the cigarette, but she didn’t seem to notice.
Candace flushed. “I was wondering if you went to the station first and they took your clothing while you were there.”
“Took my clothes?” Her eyebrows were raised and she looked completely confused. But then she got it, because she said, “You think that if I killed my father I’d be stupid enough to wear bloody clothes I wore days ago to an interview with the police?”
“No, no, no,” Candace said, shaking her head. “It’s about trace evidence transfer. If you didn’t come here to the Pink House before you talked to them, there’d be no cat hair on your clothing and—”
“Trace evidence? You’re a cop,” Daphne said. “You’re a damn cop. And you think I killed him.” She rose and pointed toward the foyer. “Get out of here.”
I stood, palms held out in a “wait a minute” gesture. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand. You came here while I’m sorting through years of memories that he took from our old house, pictures and letters that only bring me pain, and you pretend like you want to help me. That’s as cold as his heart.”
Candace’s head was down. Obviously she knew she’d screwed up big-time. “It’s not like that,” I said, my tone more forceful than I intended.
“Really? How is it, then?” Daphne said.
“True, Candace is a cop,” I said, “but since she’s friendly with me she’s not officially investigating the murder. Remember, I was a suspect, too, and maybe I still am.”
“You two buddies came here to find a new suspect. So she is
“We did not come here for that,” I said emphatically. “I promise you. I’m here because of the cats. What I’ve learned today is that you were victimized by your father like so many others. And I want to help you.”
“What about her? What’s her plan, since we’re getting all mushy and honest and heartfelt?” Daphne folded her arms across her chest, her lips tight with anger.
Candace’s head jerked up. “I’m as pissed off as you are; that’s why I’m here. At first someone had me
