Daphne looked out toward the driveway. “I see you have a truck. You’ll need it. After I meet with the estate agent, I’ll give you a call.” She held up the bubble wrap. “Thanks.”
Ed started to turn away but stopped when I said, “I saw computer monitors and towers in your shop. You find anything lately?”
He tilted his head. “I did, as a matter of fact. Found a tower that looked like it’d been attacked with a sledgehammer. “Don’t know if I can salvage anything except the electrical cord, but you never know.”
“When did you find it?” I asked, my heart speeding up.
“Yesterday. At the dump. I know it’s broken, but heck, you can always save something.”
Daphne and I looked at each other, and I said, “Would you recognize your father’s computer?”
“I doubt it,” she said.
But that wasn’t about to stop me. “Ed,” I said, “you save that computer for me, okay? I might want to purchase it.”
“I’ll tell you right now, it ain’t worth much all broke like that. You’ll get a fair price.” He smiled.
And I was smiling, too. But not because I’d get a fair price. If that computer belonged to Flake Wilkerson, even if it was “all broke,” secrets might be resurrected from the rubble—certainly not by me, but Candace would know someone skilled enough to find out what was on it and why it had disappeared from a murdered man’s house.
Twenty
After Candace finished her errands and returned to the Pink House, the three of us made good progress organizing the contents of the house for the estate sale. Daphne was happy to let me have all the old newspapers, as well as the bags of shredded pictures or documents or whatever they were. When I told her about my cat quilts, she said she’d seen them upstairs and I could have them back.
Candace looked at me like I had two heads when we left the house with me carrying the garbage bags and the old newspapers along with the quilts. She said, “Your quilts I understand, but what’s with this other stuff?”
Once we were on the road and I explained, she understood and said, “The day of the murder, I told Lydia about the shredded paper in the cat room. She said the most recent stuff from the wastebasket was enough, said we didn’t have the resources to mess with every tiny scrap of paper.”
“There’s something else,” I said. I told her about the smashed computer. Her mood went from interested to wary in a nanosecond. I could almost reach out and touch the tension between us.
“You can’t buy that computer,” she said.
“Why not? Ed found it at the dump and it could be—”
“Oh, I know what it could be. Hard evidence. The key to everything,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “And that’s why—”
“That’s why I go to Ed’s Swap Shop, secure it and call Baca.”
“Did you think I planned to take it home?” I said with a laugh. “If I bought it, I thought I could hand it over to Chief Baca, no warrant attached.”
“Oh. Sorry I misunderstood,” she said. “But you don’t have to buy the thing. Ed knows all about stolen goods. I’m surprised they haven’t checked with him about the computer already. Maybe they have by now.”
“And you guys will have people who could make sense of damaged computer guts? Because Ed said it wasn’t in good shape.”
“The county has forensic computer experts. No one in Mercy PD could begin to tackle that job,” she said.
Even though it was after six and I’d had nothing to eat all day, Candace insisted we head straight for Ed’s store. In what seemed like only seconds, we pulled into the tiny parking area, courtesy of Candace trying to set a world record for getting from the Pink House to the other side of town. She told me to stay in the car and she’d deal with Ed. I didn’t mind. Thanks to her driving, my personal fear factor was about a ten on a scale of one to five, and I needed time to calm down.
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
