The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“Tell me about her.” I wasn’t sure if talking about this would help calm Daphne, but it was worth a try.

She pushed away from the table and got the cell phone that had been charging on the counter. She flipped it open and held it out for me. The wallpaper on her small screen was of a gray long-haired domestic cat sitting on a pillow.

Uh-oh. I squinted and studied the screen. This cat looked an awful lot like the half a cat I’d pieced together last night. But I wasn’t about to mention that. Not until I’d put the whole picture together. I didn’t even know if it was simply a computer-generated picture or a lost-cat flyer right now. But what if it was a picture of Sophie, one Wilkerson used to show her off so he could sell her to a grieving person—the same approach he’d used with Mr. Green? Only that time, a year ago, it was not an Abyssinian but a gray cat. I had to finish that picture. And now I had something to compare it to.

“She’s beautiful,” I said. “Did your father have any pictures of Sophie?”

“Not that I know about, but since he took her, he could have taken pictures. Why are you asking?” Daphne said.

“If your father was supplying cats to people, wouldn’t he need pictures of what he had available to sell?”

“I suppose,” she said. “But that won’t help me get her back, will it?”

“Maybe not. But we know your father really was dying and maybe he did intend to reunite you with your cat. It’s not like he provided any other reason, right?”

Sounding disgusted, she said, “You mean besides telling me he’d switched beneficiaries on his insurance?”

“Switched? I thought this was a new policy and you didn’t know about it,” I said. What else was she holding back?

“I’ve been racking my brain, and now I do recall him telling me he had life insurance, but I totally forgot, probably figured it was another lie. Apparently I wasn’t the original beneficiary, though. So I guess that’s why when I learned about the switch, I swooped into town and killed my father first chance I got.” She bent her head and pressed her hands against her temples. “Joking aside, I realize this looks bad for me, but I swear I didn’t kill him.”

“You were upset about Sophie. You say you don’t care about any money, and I believe you.” I rested a hand on her arm. “Listen, if your father did steal Sophie—and he most likely did—he knew what he’d done with her; he knew where she was. And maybe whoever he sold her to was unwilling to return her. Maybe that’s the person he kept calling over and over the night before the murder.”

The cigarette dropped when Daphne looked up. “You think his death really was about my cat?”

“Like Candace always says, evidence is the key, and right now I’m only guessing. I don’t have any proof. But it seems plausible after all you’ve told me. Think about it. Not only did the killer take the computer, he or she apparently took your father’s phone, too.”

“Plausible to you and me,” she said. “Chief Baca might be hard to convince.”

“That’s why we need evidence.” I thought about that half-completed puzzle of a gray cat on my design board again. Was that picture the key to everything? “Text me that picture of Sophie right now,” I said. “I gotta go, but I’ll call you.”

I started for home, anxious to transfer Sophie’s picture from my phone to my computer. If I could prove Wilkerson had a cat flyer that resembled Sophie, then Baca might be compelled to consider that he had stolen his daughter’s cat, which in turn might help him believe that Daphne was really only in town in hopes of getting Sophie back. But I swallowed hard, thinking that it could offer Baca an even stronger reason to suspect Daphne of murder.

I pushed that thought aside as I slid behind the wheel of my van. That’s not what happened. I wasn’t wrong about Daphne. I turned the key in the ignition and went to put my phone in my bag and was again confronted by the photos of Banjo and Syrah, those twin Abyssinians. I didn’t care if Baca laughed me out of the police station—he should see these, maybe even talk to Mr. Green himself. Maybe Mr. Wilkerson said something that day he met with the old guy, something about other customers. I drove into town and parked outside the city hall. I opened my phone and stared at the picture of Sophie that Daphne had just sent. Maybe talking to the chief might not be the best idea after all. Daphne had told me things she should have told Baca herself. Did I trust myself to go in there and not spill everything? Heck, I didn’t even know what Baca had on her, at least not everything. If Daphne got arrested because of my mouth, I’d never forgive myself.

So I dialed Candace instead.She answered on the first ring. “Hey. What’s up?”

“I need you to give the pictures of Syrah and Banjo to Baca,” I said quickly. “Maybe after he sees how closely the two cats resemble each other he’ll talk to Mr. Green. Mr. Green knows firsthand what Wilkerson—”

“Can I call you back, Mom?” Candace said.

Damn. She must be with someone—probably Morris.

“If you get a break, I’ll be at home.” I snapped my phone shut and backed up, thinking. Why didn’t Daphne tell Baca everything? And has she told me everything? All I knew was that I believed her, but I could see that Baca and even Candace might not.

I was aching for the comfort of a cat in my lap and a mind free of questions. I got half of that. All three cats sensed my tension when I came in. I made a cup of tea with honey to rid myself of the chill of a cold day—so cold in so many ways. When I sat on the sofa, Chablis crawled into my lap, her long champagne fur spilling around her. Merlot and Syrah jockeyed for space beside me and soon settled down. There is nothing so calming as the music of three cats purring in unison and a cup of tea on a dark, damp day.

By the time Candace arrived at my door, my mind felt clearer.My three friends greeted her, and when the petting was over, she straightened and said, “I have ten minutes. What’s going on?”

I handed her the pictures of Syrah and Banjo. “Take these to the chief. Tell him to talk to Mr. Green, and maybe then he’ll pursue a course other than the one he’s chosen.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I cursed silently. With all the evidence against Daphne, Candace would surely see where he was going with his investigation.

“What does that mean?” Candace said.

“All I know is I can’t talk to him again and—”

“Why, Jillian? You know something and you’re not willing to tell me. That’s not good.”

The tension that had eased in my neck returned with a vengeance. Pursuing answers together, we’d developed a true friendship and I couldn’t keep Daphne’s secret from Candace. She would never forgive me when she found out. And she’d surely find out.

“This might take more than ten minutes,” I said.

“Then give me the speed-dating version.”

I told her about Daphne being at the Pink House the day before the murder, how she’d come thinking she was about to get Sophie back.

When I was done, Candace said, “Holy crap.” Her follow-up was, “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“You have an obligation as a police officer,” I said. “Baca knows she was in the house, but he doesn’t know why, and if he finds out she was angry and disappointed, left in a rage, then, well, you know what will happen.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek and finally said, “This is all hearsay. Not even admissible in court. I’d suggest Daphne get a lawyer and we both forget you told me anything.”

“Um . . . yeah. What were we talking about, anyway?” I said.

She smiled for the first time. “See what I mean? Shawn Cuddahee is the one who set the chief onto Daphne when he admitted he saw her at the house the day before the murder. The chief knows she lied about being in town, so he’s keeping a close eye on her. He’ll find out what’s what without any help from us.”

“You won’t tell him I was there this morning?” I said.

“I don’t think I heard you mention that,” she said, her jaw tight.

Twenty-Five