“Probably because you were sitting with the love of Lydia’s life and she didn’t like it. I can’t think of any other reason.”
“Did Tom lead her on and then dump her or something?” I said.
“
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
“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.
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.”
