The Cat, the Wife and the Weapon: A Cats in Trouble Mystery (8 page)

Now to hunt down Chablis. I found her in her favorite hiding place, under my bed. She didn’t seem anxious to come out. But with a few “I love you’s,” words she could never resist, she was soon in my arms.

When I came back out into the hallway holding her, I saw Merlot and Syrah positioned outside the guest room. Syrah was pawing under the door and Merlot was sitting like a statue, observing this game. The two of them hoped to engage the dog in a little paw peekaboo, I was sure. For my three cats, a closed door is a challenge, and a fun one at that. They could always lighten my mood, and today, though it had been an awful day to say the least, they cracked me up. Kudos for cat behavior, I thought.

I nuzzled Chablis as I walked into the living room, and again wondered why Tom hadn’t called yet. We left for the emergency clinic at dusk and now it was close to midnight. He was obviously concerned about Finn and would want an update, and yet I hadn’t heard from him. I could call his house, but a call might mean a conversation with Bob—which was the last thing I wanted right now.

Unfortunately the
very
last thing I wanted was about to happen. I’d changed into flannel drawstring pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, not exactly dressed for company—but company arrived. The knock on the front door made my heart skip. Kara, Candace and Tom are back-door friends. So who could this be?

I checked the peephole and almost moaned out loud when I saw the person standing on my front stoop.

Lydia Monk. The craziest assistant coroner on the planet.

Eight

I sighed heavily and unlocked the door. “Hey, Lydia,” I said with far more enthusiasm than I felt. “I was about to head off to bed, so—”

“Let me in,” she said brusquely.

No
please
, no
may I
, just Lydia being Lydia. Nor did she wait for me to step aside before brushing past me and marching on her high-heeled black boots into my living room. I noticed her bleached hair was held back by a large jeweled clip—plenty of rhinestones and a variety of brightly colored fake gems to be had, enough to decorate a tiara.

She sat on my sofa, dropping her patent leather bag beside her. There seemed to be no dress code at the county coroner’s office, or perhaps the coroner himself was too afraid of this woman to address the issue of her gaudy wardrobe. What kind of assistant coroner wears skinny jeans and a leather jacket to the scene of an accident? I assumed that’s where she’d been—the spot Tom had also been called to. She’d probably spoken with him and something he’d said upset her enough to bring her here—because she was certainly on a tear. Lydia’s obsession with all things Tom never failed to surprise me. One day, when I wasn’t exhausted, I’d love to sit down and have a heart-to-heart with her about when she first fell “in love” with a man who never gave her any encouragement in the romance department. Maybe I’d learn more about what made Lydia tick and even begin to understand her.

She didn’t waste any time letting me know just how upset she was. “Jillian Hart, when will you learn to stay out of the murder business? You should be the one sitting in the police station right now, not Tom.”

My eyes widened in surprise.
Tom was still at Mercy PD after all this time?
And did she say
murder
? “I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about, Lydia,” I said as evenly as I could. But my stomach was doing somersaults.

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.”