Leann Sweeney (30 page)

I was aching for the comfort of a cat in my lap and a mind free of questions. I got half of that. All three cats sensed my tension when I came in. I made a cup of tea with honey to rid myself of the chill of a cold day—so cold in so many ways. When I sat on the sofa, Chablis crawled into my lap, her long champagne fur spilling around her. Merlot and Syrah jockeyed for space beside me and soon settled down. There is nothing so calming as the music of three cats purring in unison and a cup of tea on a dark, damp day.

By the time Candace arrived at my door, my mind felt clearer.

My three friends greeted her, and when the petting was over, she straightened and said, “I have ten minutes. What’s going on?”

I handed her the pictures of Syrah and Banjo. “Take these to the chief. Tell him to talk to Mr. Green, and maybe then he’ll pursue a course other than the one he’s chosen.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I cursed silently. With all the evidence against Daphne, Candace would surely see where he was going with his investigation.

“What does that mean?” Candace said.

“All I know is I can’t talk to him again and—”

“Why, Jillian? You know something and you’re not willing to tell me. That’s not good.”

The tension that had eased in my neck returned with a vengeance. Pursuing answers together, we’d developed a true friendship and I couldn’t keep Daphne’s secret from Candace. She would never forgive me when she found out. And she’d surely find out.

“This might take more than ten minutes,” I said.

“Then give me the speed-dating version.”

I told her about Daphne being at the Pink House the day before the murder, how she’d come thinking she was about to get Sophie back.

When I was done, Candace said, “Holy crap.” Her follow-up was, “And you weren’t going to tell me?”

“You have an obligation as a police officer,” I said. “Baca knows she was in the house, but he doesn’t know why, and if he finds out she was angry and disappointed, left in a rage, then, well, you know what will happen.”

She chewed on the inside of her cheek and finally said, “This is all hearsay. Not even admissible in court. I’d suggest Daphne get a lawyer and we both forget you told me anything.”

“Um . . . yeah. What were we talking about, anyway?” I said.

She smiled for the first time. “See what I mean? Shawn Cuddahee is the one who set the chief onto Daphne when he admitted he saw her at the house the day before the murder. The chief knows she lied about being in town, so he’s keeping a close eye on her. He’ll find out what’s what without any help from us.”

“You won’t tell him I was there this morning?” I said.

“I don’t think I heard you mention that,” she said, her jaw tight.

Twenty-five

I
spent most of the afternoon piecing paper on my design board. Finding matching colors was the easy part of this re-creation project. Numbers, letters and other printing, I learned, were difficult to put back together, and I was having little success discovering what “lost” or maybe even “found” message went with the picture.

I’d printed out Sophie’s photo, and though the similarities between her and whatever cat was on this flyer were real, obvious differences had begun to appear. But maybe it was just the difference between Sophie posing on a pillow and the cat I was putting back together, who was sitting by what I’d decided was a fireplace. Finally, my eyes burning, I stopped working.

All three cats were waiting as I cracked the door. I pushed interested noses aside with my palm so I could get out of the room without them slipping inside. They weren’t happy about that. If there’s anything a cat hates, it’s a closed door.

But they were happy to follow me to the bathroom and watch from a safe distance as I took a bath. No splotches of late-afternoon sunlight coming in through the window for them to enjoy today, but the steam from the hot water created a comfortable kitty spa. Merlot spread his huge body out on the marble vanity, not caring that he knocked off toothpaste, cotton swabs and moisturizer as he made space for himself.

I had to laugh at Syrah, who found the cotton swabs wonderful for tossing and carrying off to far corners. Yup, a bath with my friends was just what the doctor ordered. Chablis joined me as I blow-dried my hair. She’s the only one unafraid of the dryer, which always made me believe she might have been a show cat and thus used to being groomed. Who knew what homes these three had lived in before?

Tom arrived at seven on the dot, and I had to admit it felt nice when he told me I had a glow about me despite the rainy, gloomy day.

His driving—he’d arrived in a Prius rather than his van—was nothing like what I’d had to endure with Candace. When we parked a block down from the Finest Catch, Tom said, “You’ve gone quiet on me. Was it my driving?”

I had to laugh at that one. “No. You have no idea how much I appreciated your driving. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you laugh,” he said as we approached the entrance to the restaurant. “What a great laugh you have.”

He took my hand as we went inside, and though my first instinct was to withdraw, I didn’t. His touch felt warm and strong. I liked it.

After the waitress took our drink order, Tom said, “If you favor bass, they do an amazing job with the largemouth from Mercy Lake.”

“That was easy.” I closed the menu. “Is that what you’re having?”

“Yes,” he said, “but the coffee here sucks. We’ll go to Belle’s after dinner and have a cappuccino, okay?”

“Sounds good. I noticed you say ‘dinner,’ not ‘supper,’ and the way you talk—”

“I was born here, but I left with my mother when I was in grade school. We lived in New York, New Jersey, New Hampshire—all the
new
places. I truly believe my mother thought about that word as she dragged me around with each
new
boyfriend.”

“How did you end up back here?” I asked.

Before he could answer, our drinks arrived, white wine for me and Scotch for Tom. The waitress then took our order.

Tom looked at me after she left and said, “All this first-date business is awkward.”

The memory of his hand clutching mine reminded me that despite being urged on by Candace, I felt as if this actually was a date. I liked what I was seeing across the table from me and felt the heat on my cheeks as soon as that thought crossed my mind.

“You feel guilty, don’t you? Like you’re cheating on him?” Tom said.

I nodded. “That is such a cliché. But it’s true. To help me get past it, you have to tell me as much about yourself as you know about me.”

“I already have.” He slugged down a hefty swallow of Scotch. “But I’ll go on. You asked why we came back to Mercy. Because my mother finally found that the twelve steps worked for her and it was time to come home. She’d gotten some money when she divorced her third—or maybe fourth—husband. She bought that little house you’ve been to. I was grown by then, but I have worried about her all my life. I decided I should be close.”

“Sounds like you love your mom a lot,” I said. “She’s an interesting person, that’s for sure.”

“I do love her,” he said. That brought out his smile.

Once we’d moved past conversation about his mother, he opened up about his current job, about how he’d never thought he’d enjoy working for himself but he did, and about how he finally felt, after five years, that he was fitting into the community.

The fish, as advertised, was delicious. Tom had ordered his blackened, while I’d chosen mine broiled with lemon and wine sauce. Unfortunately we never reached a point where I felt comfortable asking him whether he’d been consulted about that wrecked computer. He kept talking about his job and the great fishing here and how he loved the weather while I kept listening.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle as we took the short walk to Belle’s Beans. I decided I needed to give a little information since he’d completely opened up, so I told him about meeting my husband, how we rescued the cats, moved here and thought everything in our little world was perfect.

“Life has a way of doing that—screwing up the perfect times,” he said.

“I was finally getting past the grief and then what happens? I find a body. Never had that on my to-do list.”

He said, “Never thought of it that way, but I understand.”

I said, “I was talking with Daphne Wilkerson today and—”

“Ah, Daphne,” he said. “From what I’ve heard she’s a nutcase.”

I stopped. “She lost her father. I think that’s an especially unkind way to portray her.”

Tom held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say she
was
a nutcase. I said that’s what I’ve heard.”

We started walking again. “You did. Sorry. I happen to like her, though.”

“You’re getting to know the neighbors, then.” He pulled open the door, and the smells of roasted beans rushed out to greet us.

“I hope it doesn’t take me five years to fit in,” I said with a laugh.

“It won’t. You’re a lot sweeter than me. Cappuccino okay?”

The weather had brought the town in for coffee, but I was lucky to nab a table just as a couple left. When Tom brought our coffee in real china cappuccino cups, I was surprised. “I didn’t know you had a choice between paper or the real deal,” I said.

“You do, but it’s a poorly kept secret—just like everything else in town.” He offered me a choice between a rock candy stir stick and a tiny chocolate spoon. Guess what I chose.

We both paid attention to our coffee for a few seconds, and finally he said, “Seems I have a new calling—police consultant. I think that’s pretty hilarious.” He stirred the rock candy stick a little faster.

“Why?” I said. I’d been tense all night about this very topic and now he’d brought it up himself. Amazing.

“Because Mike Baca, even though we’re friends, doesn’t exactly think I have many skills. He thought all I could do was install cameras. So he was surprised to learn how much I know about computer forensics—but any decent PI has to know that stuff.”

“Baca asked for your help?” Gosh, I felt like such a fake. And I didn’t like that one bit, so I said, “Actually, let me correct that. I heard he asked you to help. I, too, listen to the Mercy grapevine.”

Tom laughed. “Did Candace encourage you to accept a date with me to find out what I learned? Because I know that girl, and she is steaming mad that she’s been pushed aside.”

“She may have encouraged me, but it didn’t take much convincing. I wanted to go out the first time you asked,” I said. “Although maybe I should be worried about Lydia finding us together. You sure she’s not waiting outside?”

His jaw tightened. “I cannot shake that woman. Did you know she and Mike Baca were involved once? She was on him like a fly on sticky paper the first time they met. He’s since dumped her for Marian Mae Temple, the reigning queen of Mercy. Lydia’s left those two alone, so why won’t she give up on me?”

“I got nothing for you,” I said with a laugh, “except that she maintains
she
dumped
him
. I wish Lydia wanted Baca back rather than focusing on you. The elegant and rich Marian Mae is a much better target of her derision, don’t you think?”

“Not in my book. If Lydia thinks she can compete with you, she’s completely deluded. But don’t be fooled by Marian Mae. I installed her security system and she’s as fake as that red-colored crabmeat at the supermarket.”

“You’re kidding. Fake how?”

“I shouldn’t be saying anything about former clients, but since her check bounced and I never collected near what she owed me—mostly because I can’t seem to escape being Mr. Nice Guy—I don’t feel I need to keep secrets about her.”

“She’s not rich? She sure dresses and acts like she is,” I said.

“Rough divorce. Money troubles. I felt sorry for her, I guess. Baca’s taking care of her now, so she’ll be fine.”

“Okay, enough about the Mercy-ites,” I said. “Can you muster a little Mr. Nice Guy and pacify poor Candace? Is there anything you can tell me about that computer?”

“Mom told me that you had Ed open the shop after you heard he’d rescued it from the dump.” He rested a hand on mine. “Even if you’re using me to get information, I don’t give a crap. It’s fine with me.”

“Hey. Don’t think like that. You’re easy to talk to, easy to look at and I’d like to get to know you better,” I said.

“Good. What do you want to know?” he said.

“You’re willing to tell me if you found something on that computer?” I said. This was so much easier than I’d thought it would be—and much more fun than I’d had in the last year.

“Sure, because there isn’t much to tell. Looks like Wilkerson was running his cat business off a MyFriend page. That’s not good news for Baca.”

“MyFriend?” I said.

“Sort of a MySpace and Craigslist rolled into one. But though I reconstructed enough of the hard drive and memory to figure that out, it’s too late for a preservation order. The page he was running—called Match-a-Cat, by the way—has been taken down already.”

“What’s a preservation order?” I asked.

“An order from a judge not to destroy any account access records to the pages a user has created,” he said. “That computer is a challenge all by itself, but then you add the complication of a business run off MyFriend? Tough stuff. Figuring out where the Internet traffic to that site originated is nearly impossible.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Traveling on the Internet is like traveling on any highway. The more turns you take, the harder it is to follow your trail. You log on through your provider, you go to, say, Yahoo or Google or Hotmail, wherever you pick up your mail, and there are passwords at each stop. Using a server like—”

“I got it. It’s sort of like peeling back an onion to find out who’s been logging on. Lots of layers.”

“I’ll quit with the geek speak if you want,” he said.