Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon

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.