Leann Sweeney - The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“Hold on. Remember what I said about her? Do not trust that woman,” he said.

“But she wants to find the truth, right? That’s her job,” I said.

“This has more to do with her personality than how she does her job. You should know that even though I don’t suspect you, if I were still a cop, I couldn’t rule you out simply by looking at you.”

“She’s trying to be the good cop when she talks to me?” I said.

“That would imply there’s a bad cop. Are you thinking of Chief Baca? I’m sure she wants him to appear that way, believe me,” he said. “In my opinion, this shows the coroner system is flawed. Mike Baca is better equipped to handle this case.”

“I don’t pretend to understand any of it, so I believe you. Now, back to Shawn. Even if he does have a temper, there’s this wonderful compassionate side to him. He seems—”

“Yeah, yeah, so you like the guy. But surely you saw that he’s happily married?”

“It’s not like that.” I was surprised at Tom’s reaction—that I might be interested in Shawn as more than a friend. And though I felt a little guilty because John came immediately to mind, I realized the very good-looking Tom Stewart was acting, well, jealous . And it made me feel something I hadn’t expected to feel again. Attractive.

“Then what is it like between you two?” Tom cocked his head.

I paused after that question. “I met him the other day and was impressed with the Sanctuary. I had already come to think of him as a friend. Like you’ve become. And that means I have to do something to help him. And besides, you see a person dead by such violent means and you . . . you . . . well, that makes it even more important to make sure justice is done. Especially since I’m certain Baca is wrong about Shawn.”

“How can you be so sure about Shawn’s innocence? Are you relying on instinct?” he said.

“Yes—maybe that’s it. Though I do have a partial left brain,” I said with a laugh. “You need a few math skills for making quilts. Angles, numbers, precision—all come into play.”

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.