The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse acitm-1 Page 11

  He laughed. “I know nothing about making quilts. But if you want to teach me, that’s great. Just don’t tell anyone. Especially any guys.”

  My turn to smile. “There are plenty of wonderful male quilters. But as for this instinct thing, maybe I should pay attention to what my gut is telling me.”

  “Instinct I understand.” He was nodding. “Cops rely on it all the time.”

  “You know how to run an investigation, so could you give me some pointers?”

  “Huh? Why would you want to learn how to—Uh-oh.” He was staring over my left shoulder and I turned to see why.

  Lydia Monk and Candace had come inside the café. I heard Lydia say, “Get us two coffees to go, Candy. Plenty of sugar for me.”

  Candace put the order in with Shondra while Lydia walked over to us. She wore a tight denim skirt, a hot pink sweater that plunged nearly to her navel and high black boots with stiletto heels.

  “I knew you’d be here, Tom, but Ms. Hart’s presence is a surprise,” Lydia said. “You two look plenty cozy in this corner. Are you talking about the murder? Or something more personal?”

  “Everyone’s talking about the murder,” Tom said. He leaned away from Lydia, reminding me of someone dealing with a rattlesnake—paying close attention yet keeping his distance.

  She said, “What better person to discuss this hot topic with than Mercy’s newest beauty? You haven’t wasted any time getting close to her, have you?”

  “What do you want, Lydia?” Tom said.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “Not you and me in private,” he said. “You know how I feel about that.”

  “I will talk to you, and we won’t be as cozy as the two of you are right now. We’ll do the interview at the Mercy police station. Meet you there.” She started to walk away, but stopped and said, “Might as well join your new boyfriend, Ms. Hart. I’d like a word with you, too.”

  She may have liked me yesterday, but things certainly seemed to have changed. I was beginning to understand Tom’s warning.

  The Mercy police station, as well as the jail, was attached to the old city hall and court building in the center of town. We could have walked the two blocks, but both Tom and I took our vehicles. I checked my cat-cam before I started the engine. The clowder was sleeping the day away and I wished I was, too. I’d been on Lydia’s good side prior to her seeing me at Belle’s Beans. What was with her, anyway? I’d glanced Candace’s way when Lydia stomped out, but all she offered was a shrug that said, “You got me.”

  Tom was waiting outside on the steps leading up to the old brick building when I pulled into one of the angled parking spots. As we started up the stairs, I said, “Okay, I’ve got to know. What’s the deal with you and Lydia?”

  “She seems to think we’re destined to be together,” he said. “How she decided that, I have no idea.”

  “She was so nice to me yesterday, I wasn’t prepared for her to be so—so—”

  “Venomous? I sure hope you’re prepared now. My suggestion for when you talk to her is to say as little as possible. Thanks to being seen with me, you’ve landed on that woman’s bad side, and it’s not the nicest spot on earth. I live there. I know.”

  “I’ve told the police everything. What could she want from me now?” I said.

  “She hasn’t questioned me, so my guess is she brings me in, then checks with you to corroborate my story about meeting you at Wilkerson’s place. I’m guessing she’ll want to know why you called me. Again, don’t say much. She’ll think you have a personal interest in me aside from any murder investigation.”

  “We’re friends and I asked you for help,” I said. “What could she possibly read into that?”

  “Does the word stalker mean anything to you? Some of her questions won’t have anything to do with the case. She has this stupid . . . crazy . . .”

  “Obsession with you?” I finished.

  We reached the top step and stopped, and he said, “If she’s getting all worked up about what she thinks might be cooking between you and me—which of course is nothing—you might land at the top of the suspect list again.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She believed me yesterday, so—”

  He shook his head, smiling. “What makes you think she believed you?”

  “She seemed so nice and—”

  “And she can be,” he said. “No one knows that better than I do. Consider my advice and say as little as possible. We have a constitutional right to say whatever we want, but don’t forget we have a right to keep quiet, too. Now let’s get this over with.”

  As we walked, I felt this odd sense of relief that Tom had no interest in Lydia—a woman so opposite from me. And this thought was immediately followed by another dose of guilt. John hadn’t even been gone a year and I was enjoying the company of an attractive man—and wanted to be attractive to him. But I pushed these thoughts aside as we entered the building.

  I’d never ventured inside the courthouse complex before and was stunned by the old building’s magnificence. The dark marble floor gleamed, and the curving wall on the opposite side of the lobby showcased a giant painting of a trial that looked to have occurred in the early twentieth century, judging from the clothing worn by the men pictured. All of them white men. But the mural was beautifully painted.

  Tom took my elbow and led me to the left. By the time we’d walked a good distance down a drafty hallway, the splendor of the old days had been replaced by the grimy, smelly present. I caught the odor of vomit tinged with stale whiskey, and my stomach rebelled against the strong coffee I’d finished in too much of a hurry.

  Molded plastic chairs lined the corridor. A woman was lying asleep across two of them, one tattooed arm slung over her eyes. We passed her and came to a scarred door with an old-fashioned frosted window. MERCY POLICE was stenciled on the window in green paint. Curse words had been carved into the wood in a few places—they looked fresh—and I wondered how many times a week the door had to be sanded.

  Tom turned the knob and allowed me to enter first, a gentlemanly gesture I wished he’d forgone this one time. I was nervous. I wanted more than ever to go home and cuddle up with the cats in my secure, sweet-smelling home.

  And when I saw Shawn standing in the center of the small reception area nearly eye to eye with Lydia, I wanted to run back out that door. His face was florid with anger, and he was stabbing his finger in Lydia’s direction to emphasize each repetition of “I did not kill that man.” After four times he added, “And Baca’s an ass if he thinks different.”

  That was when he turned to leave and saw me. He flashed an angry glance my way as he stormed past Tom and me.

  “Ah, police business,” Tom said. “Gives you the warm fuzzies every time.”

  “Shut up and get in Baca’s office.” Lydia pointed a bloodred fingernail at me. “You? Sit out here with your girlfriend.”

  I hadn’t had a chance to notice the huge oak desk to my left or the fact that Candace was sitting behind it. A computer monitor held her attention until the door identified on a brass plate as the OFFICE OF POLICE CHIEF MICHAEL BACA slammed shut.

  “You look a lot more upset than I’ve ever seen you. What’s going on?” I asked her.

  “Lydia’s got the hots for Tom Stewart, and when she saw the two of you together she flipped out, started dissing you the minute we walked out of Belle’s Beans. I stuck up for you, and that was apparently a huge mistake. First thing she did when we got here was get the chief to kick me off the case because I’m too friendly with you to be objective.”

  “And he agreed? But that’s wrong. You’re such a good officer and—”

  She held up her hand. “Don’t say stuff like that right now because I might start crying—and girl cops aren’t supposed to cry. This was my shot at a big case and now—” She took a deep breath. “I’m thinking the chief only agreed to kick me to the curb because he wanted to calm Lydia down.”

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “Somehow I
feel like this is my fault and—”

  “Nope. It’s Lydia and the chief’s fault. What I don’t get is how she can work with the chief after they had a damn affair while I get pushed aside because of a friendship.”

  “Good question,” I said. “They’re not together, right? He has some other girlfriend, if I remember right.”

  “He’s moved on, true. What he saw in Lydia I’ll never know. Maybe he went nuts after his wife ran off and he turned to Lydia for comfort. But they were the oddest pair. The chief is Mr. Conservative and Lydia’s gussied up most of the time.” Candace took another deep breath. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be saying any of this—at least not while I’m on the job. The two of them have just made me so darn mad.”

  “Okay, let’s change the subject. I see Shawn didn’t end up in jail. That’s good.”

  “Not enough evidence to hold him,” Candace said. “But tell me again what dumb notion sent you to the Sanctuary this morning? Because you should keep your distance from him.”

  “He didn’t kill anyone, Candace,” I said.

  “And I have heard him tell God and everyone that same thing about a hundred times today and yesterday. Police work isn’t about ‘you say it enough times and it’s true.’ ”

  “Got it. Now, why am I here?” I said.

  “Probably because you were sitting with the love of Lydia’s life and she didn’t like it. I can’t think of any other reason.”

  “Did Tom lead her on and then dump her or something?” I said.

  “Him? No way. He’s got better taste. Maybe something he said or did convinced Lydia he was interested, though. Something no one knows about.”

  The phone rang and she picked up the receiver. “Mercy Police.”

  While she took the call, I stood and wandered toward the chief’s office, hoping to catch some of the conversation. The door opened without warning and I started.

  It was Chief Baca. “Join us, please, Ms. Hart. Seems you were planning on that anyway, in a fashion.”

  I felt like a kid caught stealing a cookie. He held the door open and I sidled past him into the office.

  Much nicer digs than the hall or reception area. The chairs were padded, the desk mahogany and the wall color a soothing pale green. But the air was thick with tension between a seemingly angry Lydia and what looked like a less-than-interested Tom.

  “Thank you for coming, Ms. Hart.” Baca settled into his leather high-backed swivel chair.

  “Anything I can do to help,” I said.

  “Tell us about yesterday. Before you arrived at the Wilkerson house. You went there because you saw Mr. Wilkerson on video surveillance inside your home, correct?”

  “Yes. I was certain he’d stolen my cat and—”

  “This decision to go to his house without contacting the authorities—tell me more.”

  “Am I in trouble for that? Because there was that fire and I saw my cat run into the house and Mr. Wilkerson’s door was open and—”

  “You are not in trouble,” he said. “This is an informal interview, and I’m not even taking notes. We just want to figure this whole mess out.”

  That brought the first sound from Lydia since I’d sat down—a noise reminiscent of Chablis hacking up a hairball. Lydia was apparently disgusted, but with him? With me? I had no idea.

  Baca shot her a glance as if to tell her to quit with the attitude. “Go on, Ms. Hart.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer or anything?” I said.

  “We certainly can delay all this until you find one,” he said. “But I sense you don’t have anything to hide, right?”

  I wanted to check Tom’s expression, see if I could read his eyes and if that would tell me what I should do. But I could tell that would certainly not help him, with Lydia fuming close enough to catch his clothes on fire, so I decided I should keep answering the questions—though briefly, as Tom had suggested.

  “I’ve been talking with Mr. Stewart, and he tells me you asked for his assistance at the Wilkerson place? Why was that?” Baca asked.

  “Yeah, I’d like to know the answer to that one, too, seeing as how Shawn Cuddahee seems to be your go-to guy,” Lydia said.

  Baca started to speak but was interrupted by an obviously pissed-off Tom, who said, “Leave her alone, Lydia.”

  Chief Baca slammed a fist on his desk and I nearly jumped a foot in the air. His voice, in contrast, was soft and controlled when he said, “Shut up, both of you. Deputy Coroner Monk, I appreciate your assistance and your need for information, but this is exactly why you will not be working this case except in a secondary capacity.”

  “What?” She rose halfway off her chair. “That’s not the way this works.”

  “I’ve spoken with Coroner Beecham, and he has decided that I will be running this investigation.”

  She stood. “Why? Because I dumped you? Or because you can make a name for yourself if you solve this? Maybe run for county office down the road?”

  Baca flushed. “Prior relationships have nothing to do with the decision. The coroner believes that the Mercy police have the resources to handle this case. We know the town better, and besides, you have a lot on your plate. You did your part by coming out and coordinating the evidence collection yesterday, and we’re grateful for—”

  “Save it, Baca,” she said. Chin high, breasts leading the way, she left the office, and I was thankful for no slamming of doors. I felt rattled enough.

  Baca looked at me. “Do I need to repeat the question?”

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  “Did Mr. Stewart know why you needed his assistance at the Pink House yesterday morning?”

  I hesitated, trying to think back to that brief conversation. “I’m sure I told him, but everything happened so fast and—” I glanced at Tom. “Did I tell you?”

  He was looking down, shaking his head, his hand to his forehead.

  Wrong answer, Jillian. First Shawn, then Candace and now Tom. Who else could I get in trouble?

  Thirteen

  “Please think real hard, Ms. Hart,” Baca said, all his South Carolina charm dripping into every word. “Why did you call Mr. Stewart for help?”

  What was I missing here? He seemed to be looking for a specific answer, probably something I knew nothing about, or at least I didn’t think I did. I looked over at Tom again, but he still had his head down. “I called Tom because I know very few people in town, and since the police had responded to that fire, I didn’t want to bother them.”

  “But Mr. Cuddahee helped you the day before. Like Ms. Monk said, why not call him?” Baca said.

  Perhaps I’d been so disturbed by Shawn’s behavior with Wilkerson the day before, I’d never even thought of phoning him instead of Tom. But mentioning that might hurt Shawn even more as far as suspect status. I had to say something, though. “I guess Tom came to mind because he’d put in my security system Saturday night. He’d helped me.”

  “And Mr. Stewart could be of more assistance than a man like Mr. Cuddahee, who we all know tends to be confrontational?”

  “That wasn’t my first thought when I called Tom.”

  “Sounds like you did think about it, though,” Baca said. “Mind if I look at your cell phone? Confirm this call was made?”

  “You think I’d lie?” I was surprised how much his words upset me.

  “I have to confirm the call, that’s all,” he said.Tom finally spoke. “Take mine. Like I told you, the call was short and sweet.” He shoved his phone across the desk.

  Baca pressed buttons on the phone and apparently found what he wanted because he read off my cell number, then said, “That yours?”

  I nodded.He pressed another button, and I heard my muffled ringtone coming from my jeans pocket. It stopped when Baca closed Tom’s phone.

  “Thanks,” Baca said, handing the cell back to Tom.

  Despite Tom’s warning to say as little as possible, I felt the need to explain further. The police do seem to have a way of making you feel guilty eve
n when you’re not. “I do remember the conversation better now. Tom said he knew where Flake Wilkerson lived when I asked if he needed directions. He agreed to meet me there, and that was about it.”

  “He said he knew where he lived?” Though he was speaking to me, Baca was looking at Tom.

  Uh-oh. What had I done now? I quickly added, “I also said something about Tom meeting me in five minutes. I’ll admit I was upset with Mr. Wilkerson for breaking into my house and I was sure he had stolen my cat. I’m certain that even if Tom hadn’t agreed to help me with that problem, I would have gone to the Pink House no matter what.”

  “Really?” Baca settled back, hands intertwined behind his neck, and said, “You were that angry?”

  “Angry?” I said. “No. That’s the wrong—”

  “I don’t think you should say anything else,” Tom said.

  “You got a law degree, too, Mr. Stewart?” Baca said.

  “Would you quit with the cop crap? I’m Tom and you’re Mike. We’re friends, remember?”

  “The cop crap? Is that what murder was to you when you were on the force?” Baca said.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” Tom said.

  I stood, tired of all these complicated Mercy relationships coming into play. “You know what?” I said. “No matter what Flake Wilkerson did, I would never kill him. That’s not the kind of person I am. Now, I’m leaving.” I walked out of the office, my heart beating so fast I had trouble breathing. Could you actually walk away from the police without ending up in handcuffs?

  Seemed I could, because no one called my name and told me to stop, and no one followed me. Candace might have, if she’d been in the waiting area—but a new person sat behind the desk, a young man who could have passed for twelve. Since he was wearing a Mercy Police uniform, he was probably closer to eighteen or nineteen.

  I hurried down the hall and out of the building, making a beeline for my minivan. The sun was desperately attempting to break through the cloud cover. A warm change was imminent—the humidity told me as much. Yes, in many ways this was a different world than it had been a few days ago. But it would not be a world where I hid in my sewing room trying to pretend none of this had happened. I had to find out why Flake Wilkerson stole my cat and what, if anything, that had to do with his death.