The Cat, the Quilt and the Corpse

“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 even 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.