The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

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.

Meanwhile Daphne showed her impatience by staring at the ceiling and shaking her head.

Lydia ran a bloodred fingernail along several lines. She then looked up and folded her arms on the desk. “Here goes. Your father, I am sorry to say, was dying of pancreatic cancer. He would have expired within months if someone had not murdered him first.”

Daphne’s features hardened. “That’s a lie.”

Lydia, taken aback at this vehement response, seemed at a loss for words.

“Are you sure, Lydia?” I said.

“What? You think you can steal my boyfriend and do my job? Or what little is left of my job, in this particular case thanks to you,” Lydia said.

Oh my God. Not only was this woman blinded by manufactured jealousy, but she also believed I had gotten her kicked off the case. For Daphne’s sake, I wasn’t about to respond. “Daphne’s had some issues with her father not telling the truth in the past,” I said evenly. “But this cancer was very real, correct?”

Lydia seemed to wake up to the fact that she wasn’t exactly behaving as she should in the presence of a troubled family member. In a softer tone she said, “He had maybe six months to live.”

Daphne raised trembling fingers to her lips and whispered, “He didn’t lie. For once in his sorry life, he didn’t lie.”

“I thought you should hear this directly from the coroner’s office. That’s why I asked you here,” Lydia said. “I’ve gathered together the death certificates and documents you need and will include an autopsy report if you’d like—though I wouldn’t recommend that.”

Daphne was shaking her head. “No. No. I don’t need one.”

“You change your mind, Chief Baca has a copy. You can get one from him.”

“Is that all?” Daphne said.

Lydia removed her glasses and extended a hand across the desk. “Yes. And again, I am sorry for your loss.”

She took Daphne’s hand in both of hers again and squeezed. She looked so normal and nice I believed for a moment that I’d imagined all her silly accusations about Tom and me. But then she glared in my direction and said, “Good-bye. And remember what I told you in Belle’s the other day. You stay away from him.”

Nope. You didn’t imagine anything, Jillian.

More important than my issues with Lydia was the fact that Daphne was struggling mightily with what she’d just learned. She seemed so stunned, in fact, that I picked up the envelope with the death certificates and led her back to my van with an arm around her shoulder.

She said nothing as we drove toward Mercy. Meanwhile, my thoughts turned to the cat that Daphne believed her father had stolen, but I decided that now was not the time to bring up her lost gray kitty. He had promised to get it back, seeing as how his attack of conscience was real.

When we pulled into the driveway of the Pink House, I said, “Don’t feel guilty about not believing your father. From what you’ve told me about him, he gave you good reason not to trust him.”

She sat, not making a move to leave the car. “Why does it have to be so complicated? I mean, I don’t know if what I feel is guilt or relief or simply surprise.”

“Maybe it’s all those things,” I said. “But this is my take. He did make it a little easier to say good-bye by being honest for once in his life.”

“Yeah,” she said, staring straight ahead. She took the envelope from the console between us. “I’m glad you didn’t let me bully you, make you stay away from me. Thank you.”

I reached over and took her hand. “Anytime. And you better not leave town without giving me your number in Columbia.”