The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon citm-4

by Leann Sweeney

  I eased myself into my late husband’s recliner, hoping to find comfort in his old leather chair. I was still holding Chablis and clutched her close. From the corner of my eye, I saw Syrah sitting on the foyer tile at the entrance to the living room, his gaze fixed on Lydia. Those two had a little history and did not like each other one bit.

  “Before Candace and Morris put Tom in the squad car, I heard him tell Candace to call you.” Lydia’s ruby-colored lips tightened. “Why would he tell her to do such a thing?”

  Though Lydia had never had so much as a cup of coffee alone with Tom, she was fixated on him and had decided I was a threat to their imaginary relationship. “He probably told Candace to call me because we’re friends?” I stated it as a question, hoping to avoid bringing up Finn. Tom probably wanted Finn to know he was delayed so he wouldn’t think Tom had abandoned him.

  “Nice try, Jillian. You heard about that car wreck and you know something about the victim, don’t you? Tom was sending you some kind of message.”

  “W-why would you think that?” But my slight hesitation apparently stirred even more paranoia in the Queen of Paranoia.

  “Are you sure you want to lie to a county official?” she said. “I’m betting your best buddy Candace has already called you.”

  “Haven’t heard from her,” I said a little too forcefully. I had to keep my cool. It was always better to try to get more information than I gave when it came to Lydia. I could never tell what she was up to. “I understand Tom’s car was in an accident and there was a fatality. That’s all I know.”

  Lydia leaned back on the sofa with a satisfied smile. “If you didn’t talk to Candace, how did you find out?”

  “Tom told me after Candace called him to help identify the victim. But I know nothing about any murder and I certainly had no idea Tom was still at the police station.” I swallowed, trying to make sense of this. Why is he still there after so many hours? I went on, saying, “You, of all people, realize he would never murder anyone.”

  She smiled smugly, gloating, I supposed, over my acknowledgment that she was a friend of Tom’s—even though she really wasn’t. But then she blinked slowly and I saw her glittery purple eye shadow was smeared, almost giving her eyes a bruised look. “He must know something or Candace wouldn’t still be interviewing him. What has he told you, Jillian?”

  So she’d come here to learn why Tom was called to the scene—information I didn’t have. I desperately wanted to get Candace on the phone and learn what the heck was going on. Maybe Lydia was making this all up to find out what I knew. After all, she believed Tom was her soul mate and I somehow stood in the way of their being together. I finally found my voice—and tried to sound conciliatory. “Please, Lydia. If you know why Tom is still at the police station, you know far more than I do. Why is he still there after all this time?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.” She leaned forward and pointed a scarlet-tipped finger at me. “I’m an investigator on this case. Goes with the job description. You need to start talking, lady.”

  Oh, jeez, now she was resorting to her tough-guy routine. What a kaleidoscope of personalities Lydia Monk possessed. “What do you want me to talk about?” Chablis, now curled in my lap, lifted her head in surprise at my tone, and Syrah bounded from his spot in the foyer and came to a stop in front of Lydia. He slowly sat and gazed up at her with slitted golden eyes.

  She recoiled. “You know how I feel about your animals. Get that thing away from me.”

  “Please tell me what you know about Tom,” I said, making no move to rescue Lydia from my cat’s presence. It’s not like he would ever hurt her.

  “I suppose your stepdaughter will be printing it in the paper tomorrow, so you’ll find out anyway. Tom has information about the dead man. But all I’ve been able to learn is the victim was his ex-partner. Now, remove this cat. I know he bites.”

  She’d actually drawn her knees up and, fearing her spiked heels might hurt Syrah, I called, “Here, buddy.” I patted the arm of my chair.

  He complied, but not before rubbing his body on the sofa to leave his scent and let Lydia know who owned this place.

  Once Syrah was sitting next to me, Lydia said, “You’ve admitted to being present when Candace called Tom to the scene. Tell me what you know and maybe Tom will be allowed to go home. You could start with how he got those cuts and bruises and why his ex-partner was driving the Prius.”

  “The only thing I can tell you is what you already know. The man was Tom’s former partner on some police force a long time ago.” I hoped she wouldn’t get back to the cuts and bruises. I didn’t want to answer that particular question since I had no idea what information Tom had shared. He was the one who should be telling the story about what Nolan Roth did to him, not me.

  “You are being intentionally difficult, Jillian Hart. Tom wouldn’t tell me anything at the scene, and I’m beginning to think you’re probably the reason why. Have you ever met this Nolan Roth person?”

  “No. Never,” I said.

  “Really? I’m not sure I believe you, but time will tell. It always does when it comes to crime. As for Tom, I suppose he has his reasons to keep quiet.” She smiled at me—a forced smile, in my opinion. “What you don’t seem to understand is that sometimes he needs help to understand what’s best for him. That’s not you, by the way. We both know who he really cares about.”

  I barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes. I certainly didn’t feel as if I had to say anything more. I most certainly didn’t have to tell her about the kid sleeping in my guest room. “I’m sorry, Lydia, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  Lydia’s features softened. “You’re being stubborn, probably because you believe in your heart you have a chance with Tom. You don’t, but that’s beside the point. Let me reassure you that if you’re worried I’m gonna run to Candace and give up information, you should know me better. I’ll help Tom any way I can, but you could help, too.”

  This new tactic reminded me of a caramel apple—all sticky-sweet on the outside and sour on the inside. Did she believe I’d fall for this? I said, “Lydia, I know next to nothing about Nolan Roth and nothing at all about the accident.”

  “Not an accident. Murder, remember?” She raised her eyebrows expectantly.

  “Why do they think this man was murdered? All I heard about was a car accident.”

  “Think he was murdered? I, the assistant coroner in this county, do my job well. A bullet hole in the skull with the absence of a weapon at the scene tells me this is murder. But here’s the thing—and I told your BFF Candace this, too. I know Tom owns a Glock, not a revolver. The fatal injury came from a much smaller caliber weapon than a Glock. Maybe a .38.” She raised her chin. “Seen my fair share of gunshot wounds, so I know what I’m talking about.”

  I could feel the blood drain from my cheeks. I thought again about the gun found in Finn’s backpack. Was it a .38? I swallowed hard. “He was shot? How horrible.”

  “News flash, Jillian. Murder is horrible.”

  Despite the sarcasm, Lydia was finally giving out information. If she kept telling me things she probably shouldn’t be saying, then maybe I wouldn’t have to answer more questions. I didn’t want to offer anything else. Nothing. I felt protective, not only toward Tom, but toward Finn, too.

  Finn. Why did I feel so protective? But I knew the answer. The kid was hurt, vulnerable and Tom cared about him. Still, I couldn’t stop the questions now filling my head.

  I began to string the day’s events together. When we picked Finn up on the side of the road, he seemed dazed and was obviously injured. Could the bump on his head have come from being in a car accident? Perhaps. So, did Nolan drive the Prius to Mercy and find Finn on the road before we did? Did Nolan pick him up and the car crashed? Maybe when Finn pulled a gun on him? I shook my head to free myself of these thoughts. No. Finn couldn’t have done such a thing. After our conversation and seeing him interact with his beloved dog, I trusted this kid
wasn’t holding back. He didn’t know where the gun had come from—of that much I was certain. Or at least, he couldn’t remember. Could he have forgotten he killed someone, though? Perhaps in self-defense? I wanted to scrub such a thought from my mind, but I couldn’t. The gun could have belonged to Nolan Roth, there could have been a struggle and—

  “What’s going on, Jillian? I can tell your wheels are turning,” Lydia said.

  I blinked several times, determined not to dwell on possible scenarios before I had all the facts. “I—I’m simply tired and I’m picturing my nice, comfy bed. I drove back here this morning from the craft shows and—”

  “Oh, right,” she said with a sarcastic smile. “You’re a businesswoman. How does making those cat blankets, or whatever it is you do, give you enough money to keep you in this nice house?”

  I wasn’t about to tell her that when John died, he left me enough to live comfortably even if I never made another cat quilt in my life. It was none of her business and, besides, mentioning John’s name in her presence seemed… wrong. “Sorry, I’m not sure what my financial status has to do with why you came here tonight.”

  “Just always wanted to ask how you maintain this comfortable lifestyle. You’re saying you were gone part of today? What part?” she said.

  Where was she going with this? “Why do you need to know?”

  “You say you were out of town and yet you were with Tom when Candace called him,” Lydia said. “Do you always head straight for him when you come home? Because I’m certain he wasn’t waiting here for you.”

  What would she do if she knew he actually was waiting here for me earlier today? I wasn’t about to offer that piece of information and set her off. Did she even realize we were at Tom’s house when the call came? Did she know anything about Bob? I decided it wasn’t my responsibility to enlighten her about anything. If I mentioned Finn, Tom’s being kidnapped, or the gun, I was certain Lydia would take the information, twist it and end up making Tom, Candace and probably the police chief pretty darn angry.

  No, I would call Candace the minute I got Lydia out of here and tell her what I knew.

  Get her to leave, Jillian, I told myself. Finn might wake up and walk out here, or Yoshi might start barking.

  But she seemed settled in, even comfortable, so I said, “Do you think Tom will be free to go soon? It’s getting really late.”

  Her demeanor changed abruptly. “If you’d tell me what I need to know,” she said with fire in her eyes, “I could relay information to Candace and he could go home in a New York minute. But if you don’t come through with anything helpful, they might make him sleep in the jail tonight.”

  Now she was trying to make me feel guilty. I wanted to scream with frustration. Instead I repeated, “I don’t know anything more.” To myself I added, Because you, Lydia, aren’t the one who holds the key to him leaving the police station. It’s Candace.

  “Back to my earlier question. How did Tom get so banged up? Was he in the Prius when it crashed?” she said.

  I wanted to thunk myself on the forehead with my palm. Of course. Candace and Lydia could be assuming his injuries came from being in the car with Nolan when it crashed. “You’re an expert at seeing folks who’ve suffered injuries. Did his face look like he’d been in a wreck, Lydia?”

  She sat straight up and leaned toward me, realization brightening her face. “No. Absolutely not. For once we’re on the same page. Now that I think about it, his face looked like he’d been in a fight, not in any car accident.”

  “But Candace wants to hear what happened directly from him. Makes sense to me,” I said. “Could be he’s helping her piece evidence together and it’s taking longer than you expected.”

  She pointed at me again. “You know something. Why won’t you help me help Tom?”

  For once her instincts were right. I knew about a troubled, sleeping eighteen-year-old in my guest room. What I didn’t know was if he was somehow connected to Roth’s death. And I wasn’t about to speculate on that with Lydia Monk. Fortunately, Merlot ambled in from the hallway, probably having grown tired of waiting outside the guest room door for the dog to reappear.

  Lydia threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, for crying out loud, here’s the other cat. I have got to get out of this… this cattery.” She stood. “I hope you can sleep tonight knowing you refused to help a good and decent man who is supposed to be your friend.”

  She stood and took a wide path around Merlot since he had stopped and was staring up at her, his big tail twitching at the tip.

  “Bye, Lydia,” I called after her.

  She responded by slamming my front door after she went out.

  I’d left my phone in the bedroom when I’d undressed earlier. I picked up Chablis and went to my room, the other two cats beating a path ahead of me. They were ready to settle down for the night.

  I sat cross-legged on my bed and dialed Candace. Her phone went straight to voice mail. Since I knew Tom didn’t have a phone, I decided to call the Mercy Police Station.

  B. J. Harrington, a part-time dispatcher, answered.

  “Hi, B.J., it’s Jillian,” I said.

  “Hey, Mrs. Hart. You got a problem over at the lake?” He sounded concerned.

  Such a sweet kid, I thought. “No problems,” I replied. “I’d like to talk to Candace, if she’s still there.”

  “Oh, she’s here. Everyone the city council hasn’t laid off is here.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “There’s been a murder.”

  “I heard, which is kind of why I wanted to talk to her,” I said.

  “You know something about this case?” he said.

  “I don’t know anything directly. I just need to talk to Candace as soon as possible.”

  “Sounds like you do know something,” he said.

  “You practicing what you’re learning in those criminology classes on me now?” I said with a laugh—though I’d never felt less like laughing in my life.

  “Guess I am. Sorry, Mrs. Hart, but I can’t interrupt Deputy Carson’s interview. She’s been collecting evidence, trying to find witnesses and has been talking to Tom. She’d have me for lunch if I stuck my head in the interview room.”

  “You’re right. Candace might get upset,” I said. “Is Chief Baca there, too?” I asked. “Maybe he could—”

  “He’s in the room with Tom, too. I can have one of them phone you back. How’s that?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Have Candace call me when she’s free.”

  I disconnected, feeling disappointed. All three cats had settled on their cat quilts at the foot of my bed. But Syrah lifted his head and looked at me when I just sat there, phone in hand.

  “How will I ever get any sleep? Tom’s been hurt and must be exhausted. He should be home by now,” I said.

  Syrah stood, stretched and walked over to me. He rubbed his head against my knee and then sat and meowed quietly, as if telling me everything would be okay.

  As I stroked Syrah’s silky coat, I considered getting in my van and driving to the police station. Then reconsidered. Tom wouldn’t want that. He would want me to stay with Finn.

  I turned off the light and slipped under my winter quilt.

  Sleep would not come. After an hour of tossing and turning, I took the flashlight from my bedside stand and got up. The cats didn’t budge. This had been a long day for them and they were sleeping soundly, but they would probably wake within minutes of me leaving them. I made sure to close my bedroom door so they wouldn’t follow me.

  I went to the guest room. Though Finn had appeared to feel much better when he turned in, I wanted to make sure he was okay. I slowly turned the knob and immediately Yoshi barked.

  “It’s me, Yoshi,” I whispered through the small opening in the door.

  Seconds later, his muzzle appeared in the crack. I knelt and petted him, whispering for him to stay quiet. I opened the door wider and, keeping the flashlight trained on the floor, I peered into the room.

  Finn
apparently hadn’t heard the dog because he was snoring softly.

  He seemed comfortable and at peace. The only way I could help Tom was to make sure someone he loved was safe—at least for now.

  Nine

  After a fitful night’s sleep, the sound of my cell phone woke me at seven a.m. It was Candace. Before I could say more than hello, she told me she was on the way to my house and disconnected. She sounded abrupt, to say the least. My guess was, she was tired, too.

  Since Mercy is small enough that the longest drive is about five minutes from one place to the next, she’d be here soon. I got up, splashed water on my face and changed into jeans and a rose-colored henley T-shirt.

  The cats had already left my room. Dawn and dusk are the busy times for felines. I wondered if they’d been sticking their paws under the guest room door to bother Yoshi. More likely, however, they were sitting by various windows, checking out birds and squirrels and anything else on the move outdoors. That’s how they usually began their day, and nothing was as important as routine in their animal world.

  As I walked down the hall I heard Yoshi whining and guessed he needed to go outside. I cracked the door and he squeezed out into the hall and took off. I checked on Finn and he was still sleeping. I shut the door and hurried after the dog before he and the cats got into a fracas.

  But Yoshi made a beeline for the back door and was doing his jack-in-the-box thing as when I’d first seen him on the side of the road. Merlot and Syrah sat outside the utility room door observing his actions with interest. Though cats can jump up to seven times their height with ease, they don’t bother unless their life is in danger or they’re playing with feathery objects. A cat’s philosophy is this: Why expend energy if not absolutely necessary?

  I attached Yoshi’s leash, disabled the security alarm and the dog nearly dragged me down the porch steps and out to the backyard. The temperature was maybe in the high forties and I shivered while Yoshi lifted his leg on the first white oak he came to. After his urgent need was satisfied, he stood like a statue, his stubby tail wiggling, his nose busy sniffing the air.