Though I expected a weeping, overwrought woman to answer the door, that wasn’t my first impression. Daphne, petite and maybe mid-thirties, had an unlit cigarette clinging to her upper lip, wore an army green Henley and had long, dark frizzy hair. Her features were hard, her jaw tight.
“The estate sale isn’t until next week. Come back then.” She started to close the door.
Candace stuck her foot out and stopped this from happening. “Sorry to disturb you, but we’re not here about that. I’m Candace and this is Jillian. We came to offer our condolences about your father.” At least she sounded a lot kinder to her than she’d been with me all morning. Candace could do nice when she wanted to.
“Did he owe you money? Owe you a cat? What?” The cigarette bobbed as Daphne spoke, and hung precariously from her lip.
Candace gestured my way. “Jillian found your father that morning. She’d like to talk to you.”
“If she’s the one that found that bastard dead, she might need a priest for a future exorcism because his evil soul could have crawled inside her. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Again she started to close the door, but this time Candace grabbed it.
“We’d like a few minutes of your time,” Candace said.
I nodded again, smiling like the fool I felt. But her calling Mr. Wilkerson a bastard at least calmed me a little. No love lost between Daphne and her father might make this easier.
“Are you from some church?” Daphne looked us both up and down. “You’re probably hiding a sheet cake or casserole somewhere, aren’t you?”
“No. Jillian simply wants to answer any questions you might have,” Candace said. “Just a few minutes of your time? Please?”
“Questions? What kind of questions?” she said.
I said, “I-I’ve been so upset since I found your father, and I thought maybe if I talked to you, then—”
“What do I look like, your shrink?” she said.
“S-sorry,” I said. Gosh, I wanted to leave in the worst way. Why did Candace expect Daphne would tell us anything?
But perhaps I’d misjudged Mr. Wilkerson’s daughter—I now noticed a hint of guilt in her eyes. She said, “Oh hell, why not come in and bother me? It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do—aside from arranging a cremation and cleaning out this ridiculously huge house.”
She released her hold on the door, turned and walked through that once beautiful wood-graced foyer. The uncaredfor scarred oak floor, the curving banister, the window seat at the landing before the stairs turned—all of it must have once been magnificent, years ago. Why had the place fallen into such disrepair? Was Wilkerson obsessed with cats because he needed the money he would get from their sale?
As Daphne led us into the parlor area where I’d been forced to sit for hours the day of the murder, I glanced back again at the broad stairs I’d raced up as I followed the sounds of those poor trapped cats.
I expected to smell smoke from her cigarettes, but the musty odors of age and neglect overrode everything. It was stronger than the other day, perhaps because Daphne had been emptying cupboards and closets and filling boxes. At least a half dozen sat in the dining room beyond, three of them right on the spot where her father’s body had lain.
I took the same seat as the day of the murder, and Candace sat beside me on the old settee.
Daphne stood looking down at us, hands on her hips. “Out with it, whatever it is,” she said. “Say your piece. I’m busy.”
“I—I—” But the words wouldn’t come.
Candace rested a hand on my shoulder. “She’s having a hard time. We thought coming here would help her feel better about finding your father, well . . . lying there and—”
“Stuck like the pig he was?” Daphne looked at me. “Don’t lose any sleep over it, honey. Is that all?”
But Candace wasn’t about to let her shove us back out the door. “Jillian, ask her. Go ahead.”
I looked at Candace, completely confused. “You mean about the . . . ?”
“Go ahead, you can say it. Tell her about your cat.” Candace moved her brows and eyes in Daphne’s direction, instructing me to go ahead.
And then I got it. “Yes. My cat,” I said. “Your father stole my cat, and I was wondering if you had any idea why he might do that?”
Candace’s shoulder was touching mine and I felt her relax a little.
“Oh, poor baby. He stole your cat, did he? Well, guess what? He stole mine, too.” She looked at Candace. “Do you have a cat?”
“Not really,” she said. “I’m—”
“If you did have one, he would have stolen yours, too. That’s what he did. Took things people loved.” The cigarette had held strong until now, but when she was finished speaking, the thing fell to the floor. She knelt, picked it up and flung it away from her. It didn’t go far.
When she looked back at us, her eyes were bright with tears.
Quietly I said, “What kind of cat did you have?”
