Leann Sweeney полностью

Hoping to put aside thoughts of my almost surreal day, I settled on my sofa at about eight p.m. to watch You’ve Got Mail, the movie John and I had rented on one of our first dates. Unexpectedly, I wanted to enjoy something we’d shared rather than immerse myself in grief at the end of the day. I even lit ylang-ylang oil and poured myself a glass of white wine. I smiled as I came to my favorite lines from Kathleen, where she ponders leading a “small life” and considers whether she does what she does because she likes it or because she hasn’t “been brave.” I’d been brave today. And gosh, despite the trouble I might be in because I could have messed up evidence, I felt good about making sure those cats upstairs in the Pink House hadn’t been sick or hurt and had ultimately been taken care of.

My phone rang, and I mumbled, “Do I really want to talk to anyone?” as I hit the remote’s PAUSE button. Dove, who had taken up residence in my lap, much to Merlot’s chagrin, jumped off when I reached for my cell.

“Miss Hart, this is Lydia Monk. You remember me?” She sounded so tired.

“Sure.” I didn’t add, “Who could forget an encounter with you?”

“If you’re at home, Candy Carson and I need to pay you a visit. And trust me, this is not my idea. The last thing I want to do is bother you any more today.”

“I’m home, but what’s this about?”

“Very kind of you to accommodate us this late on a Sunday evening. We’ll be by shortly and explain.” She disconnected.

Did they want another recitation of the events from when I arrived at Wilkerson’s house this morning? Maybe. Didn’t cop shows always have scenes with witnesses saying, “How many times do I have to tell you what happened?” This thought reminded me that my whole knowledge of police procedure came from watching television—not the most reliable source of information.

They arrived in less than five minutes, so they must have already been on their way when Lydia called. Lydia still wore her tennis shoes and smelled like her deodorant had failed her several hours ago. Plus, her makeup needed a retouch. One false eyelash was coming unglued and her con cealer wasn’t concealing much of anything. She was older than she’d looked earlier—maybe late thirties rather than early thirties. But her breasts were as perky as the day the surgeon sewed them in, and I had to admit that her posture, unlike her face, revealed no fatigue.

I led the two women through the foyer to my living room, where they both refused my offer of a drink.

I caught a vibe from Candace that I interpreted to mean she wanted to pretend we weren’t friends. Maybe that was something she had to do in front of the deputy coroner.

Lydia sighed heavily as she sank into one of the easy chairs near the picture window. A full moon reflected off the restless lake in the darkening sky.

Perfect setting for a repeat interrogation.

Dove reclaimed her spot on my lap, while Merlot decided to play “I can love others, too” by jumping onto Candace’s chair back. He stretched out and Candace reached around to scratch his head. Chablis and Syrah curled up next to me. Chablis closed her eyes, but Syrah seemed alert and ready for conversation.

“I haven’t worked this hard since Frank Donnelly shot his sorry-ass self and his stupid girlfriend took off thinking we’d blame her,” Lydia said.

I don’t know if my confusion showed on my face, but perhaps that was why she went on with this odd opening statement. “Truth is, that woman would have driven anyone to suicide, but you can’t make a case for that in court. Had to follow her trail all the way to Oregon in two frickin’ days because I needed her version of what happened. See, families want answers.”

“And Mr. Wilkerson’s family wants answers, too?” I said.

“Oh, I wasn’t talking about him. I tend to ramble after looking at blood all day. Not that I don’t appreciate a nice bloody crime scene that might offer a wealth of information.”

I swallowed. I didn’t need to hear about that. “So how can I help?” I had initially omitted that Shawn and I visited Wilkerson yesterday. Maybe they wanted more details after speaking to Shawn. And then there was that tuxedo cat. I’d forgotten all about Shawn’s roadside rescue. Maybe Shawn told them about the tuxedo and they wondered why I hadn’t mentioned it. Problem was, so much had gone on, I’d pushed it to the back of my mind. But now I was concerned that if they didn’t know, and I told Lydia and Candace about the catnapping, this might lead to the Sanctuary’s being shut down. I sure wouldn’t want that to happen.

Candace cocked her head. “Did you leave something out earlier today?”