Leann Sweeney

Trying to ignore them, I focused on the felt design wall that I used to arrange blocks or quilt pieces. Fabric will stick to the felt all by itself, but paper would have to be pinned. Embroidery pins would do the job.

First, though, I had to find strips of paper that went together. As a longtime quilter, I have an eye for what goes with what. I sat on the floor, a pile of shreds in front of me, and something interesting popped out immediately. The rich blacks and whites of what was obviously a flyer. A flyer I’d seen with my own eyes on Chase Cook’s computer.

I started searching for all the matching pieces I could find, my hands shaking with excitement. I didn’t find more than a third of the picture, but this was Roscoe, all right. My first discovery was that I could recognize some of these shreds as bills and some as computer-generated flyers like my own. I decided to lay one of my own lost Syrah flyers next to me as a guide. If I did put one of those back together, it would confirm that Wilkerson had gotten his hands on one or more and didn’t want any Good Samaritan interfering with the plans he had for Syrah, that being to deliver him to poor, unsuspecting Mr. Green.

After this find, I started placing other strips that seemed to go together in separate piles, a project that proved time-consuming but not all that difficult. There were plenty of colorful shreds and I actually enjoyed myself. Even though it was getting very late, I was determined to put at least one piece of paper back together.

Four hours later, fatigue finally got the better of me. But I had re-created parts of two different cats by pinning pieces on the design wall. I had half a face of one long-haired gray cat with aqua eyes as well as a chest and legs that surely belonged to a Siamese. I knew immediately that this was not the Siamese found at the Pink House and currently in Candace’s care, though. The markings and colors were wrong.

Why couldn’t I have been lucky enough to find the piece of either of these flyers that had a name or phone number on it? Someone could have gone to Wilkerson’s house last Sunday morning hoping to pick up a cat they’d paid for. One of these two cats, perhaps. Maybe the price was too steep, they’d argued and Wilkerson died. And then the killer left with one of these two cats. It seemed possible. I needed a name and phone number, but that would have to wait until I wasn’t cross-eyed from exhaustion.

I dragged myself to bed, making sure the sewing room door remained closed to keep my work safe from prying paws. The shredded paper had to yield something. Maybe then I could provide Baca with more evidence and I wouldn’t have to pump Tom Stewart for information.

Twenty-three

I expected Candace to call me first thing in the morning to urge me to get busy seducing Tom. But it was Daphne who phoned as I was pouring my first cup of coffee.

After I said hello, she said, “I don’t have an alibi. Have you ever needed an alibi in your lifetime?”

She sounded just as upset as the last time we spoke. “Tell me what’s happened,” I said.

“Apparently I was in business with my father—which is news to me. He had a post office box, and the moron used my name and my phone number when he paid for it.”

“Here in Mercy?” I asked. Surely anyone with half a brain would recognize Flake Wilkerson if he came in to rent a box.

“No. In Greenville,” she said. “That’s a two-hour drive from here, and even farther from where I live.”

“Who told you this and how did they find out?” I asked.

“Chief Baca was here bright and early. He told me he’d learned this from the bank records. And since my name was also on the bank account and there’s that big life insurance payout coming in the future, the police are asking me all sorts of questions—especially about this business we were supposedly running.”

“Did you sign on for this joint account?” I said.

“Of course not.”

“Okay. That should help protect you. And what kind of business are we talking about?” I asked.

“There is no business, Jillian. So how the hell would I know? He asked me how many times I’d been to the Greenville-Spartanburg airport lately. But I haven’t been there since I took a vacation to the West Coast last year,” she said.

“But if you never signed any documents to open a bank account, it seems to me they could easily rule you out. And do you have an alibi for the day of the murder?”

She didn’t reply, but I could hear her breathing rapidly.

“Daphne?” I said.

“Why do I have to prove anything to anyone? I didn’t kill him.”

“I know you didn’t,” I said. “Did you tell Baca what you were doing that day?”

“No. He can figure it out himself. I thought you’d understand, but apparently—”

“I do understand. Can we talk about this in person? Please?”

“If you think that will help me, come on. Personally, I doubt it.” She didn’t sound the least bit happy about rehashing her conversation with Baca. But of course she had called me, and that made it pretty clear that she wanted my help.