Baca appeared in the office door and nodded at Ed. “Good to see you.” All I got was a hard stare before he focused on the computer wreckage.
Candace started to explain, but he stopped her and began asking Ed questions. After he had the when, why, where and how of Ed’s find, he looked at Candace. “You got your camera and kit?”
You’d have thought Billy Cranor had just asked her on a date. “Got my own kit and camera, so yes, sir.” She was gone in a flash.
Baca turned to me. “You heard about this computer while you were visiting Daphne Wilkerson? Why were you over there?”
I should have known this question was coming, but I was woefully unprepared. I had no fantastic, smooth answer that would satisfy a skeptic like him. I explained how I’d helped her and called Ed for packing material. I finished by saying, “I—I felt like it was the right thing to do—to pay my respects.”
“Really?” Baca said. “And then she asked you to find her packing peanuts? How did you two become so friendly so fast? Because, you know, she didn’t seem the buddy-buddy type to me.”
“She’s had a rough time with her dad,” I said.
“But you two are now fast friends, it would seem,” he said. “Aren’t you the miracle worker? Was Candace over at the Pink House with you?”
Before I could speak, Ed said, “Didn’t see that station wagon Candace races around town in when I was there, Mike. Girl’s gonna get herself hurt one of these days. Drives fast as blue blazes.”
Baca’s narrowed eyes hadn’t left my face, but Candace’s return with the fingerprint kit and camera interrupted whatever he was about to say.
While Baca directed Candace on what photos he wanted, I mouthed a “thank you” at Ed. He nodded knowingly.
Soon Ed was hunting up a box to transport the computer and keyboard off the premises. Seemed Candace could not get any decent prints from what she’d dusted, but listening to her and Baca talk, I guessed there was something else they could try as far as printing the parts and pieces.
While Baca carefully carried the box outside with Candace on his heels, I looked at Ed. I didn’t care what Candace said; he’d found it and he should be paid. “How much do I owe you for that?”
“Nothing. Police come and take something, I don’t get a paycheck and I shouldn’t. Had plenty of stolen stuff pass through my hands and I’m pretty good at figurin’ out when something’s not right with a swap or a sale.”
“I’ll bet you are,” I said with a grin.
His brow creased. “This machine’s not one of those times, though. I thought it got all broke because of the frustratin’ nature of computers. Never woulda known it might be important if not for you askin’ this afternoon.”
“I hope it yields some kind of clue. Murderers should not go free,” I said.
Ed checked his watch. “Man like me who gets up at the crack of dawn needs to be in bed by this time. You riding with Candace? ’Cause I’d be glad to drop you at home.”
“No, she’ll give me a ride.” I wanted to take him up on his offer, but we had already inconvenienced him enough.
But he seemed well aware I would have rather ridden with him, because he said, “Then I wish you luck on reaching your destination in one piece.” And with that he gave me a commiserating wink.
Twenty-one
I arrived home to find three unhappy cats. I’d spent the entire day away and hadn’t even remembered to turn on
After they got over their snit, which took only about fifteen minutes, we played with feathers and fake snakes and I eased my guilt by giving them some of that fancy food that costs about a buck a can. I heard purring as I left the kitchen and headed for a hot bath. I hadn’t done this much physical work since John and I had moved in last year, and every muscle was barking. By the time I put my head on the pillow, three cats with fish breath were ready to settle in for the night. I don’t think it took me thirty seconds to fall asleep.
When I woke up, I feared I’d gone way past my usual seven a.m., but I checked the clock and saw I’d overslept by only thirty minutes. First order of business, after coffee and cereal, was to figure out when I’d made those cat quilts and how they’d ended up in Flake Wilkerson’s house. The police might not care about this—obviously they didn’t, since they hadn’t taken them as evidence—but I sure did.
I keep photographs of many of the quilts I make, but I’m not always good about noting where or when a particular quilt is sold. I rely on my receipt book for the IRS and usually add a quilt’s description on the NCR forms I use—for instance “brown and pink Lady of the Lake pattern,” with the date and price. In other words, I’m organized to a point. But the pictures might tell me precisely when I’d used the fabrics in the quilts I’d brought home from the Pink House last night.
