He shook his head. “No, I have my own place a few blocks over. This was closer, and my mom had to run some errands. She left me in charge of her kitchen.”
He pushed the door at the end of the hallway and we entered what looked like a witch’s workroom. The walls were dark wood with exposed beams overhead that were cluttered with hanging herbs and grasses. Several blackened pots sat on an ancient stove. One bubbled madly and spit liquid onto the fire below. Tom moved quickly past shelves of glass vials and bottles, most of which contained powders and liquids that Jillian used in her healing work, and turned down the heat. Some people were just not satisfied with healing energies and crystals, and Jillian had always been known as someone who could mix up a few drops of something to cure just about any illness or distress. Just as he stopped the pan from boiling over, a teakettle began a steady scream.
Tom removed the kettle from the burner. The shriek died away. He began making tea as if we met every day in his mother’s workshop.
“Sit, relax,” he said.
I sat. I did not relax.
“What’s up, Tom?” I said as he placed a heavy brown mug in front of me. It smelled of vanilla and damp leaves. Rooibos. Jillian’s favorite and something I had been subjected to since childhood.
He sat across from me with his own steaming beverage. He clasped the mug in both hands and inhaled the steam.
“Since I joined the force I’ve heard great things about your work in Ann Arbor,” he said. “Your mother can’t say enough about what a great job you did there. According to her, you’re good at sensing where to find evidence, questioning witnesses, and figuring out how crimes were committed. She says you had an incredible record while you were with the police.”
The room was hushed; even the bubbling pot seemed quieter. I didn’t know what to say. I had no idea my mother paid any attention to my police work. Most of my conversations with her circled the question of why I wouldn’t allow my “talents” to develop.
“She really said all that?”
Tom nodded. “I was hoping you would help me on this case. I’ve never worked on a murder before, and Detective McKenzie doesn’t tolerate mistakes.”
“What’s with the cane?” I asked as I stirred my drink.
Tom shrugged and shook his head. “He doesn’t talk about it. I heard he was shot during a drug bust. He transferred back here when the job opened up in the sherriff’s office. Lisa told me the receptionist over there claims the cane is only temporary. All I know is he gets pretty grumpy if he thinks you’re looking at it.”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I said.
Tom looked at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“I’ll do what I can to help you, but I already told you everything I know.”
“No, I mean, I want you to work the case with me,” he said to his tea.
“I’m on leave, Tom. I can’t do any official police work. . . .”
“I don’t need official help. Mac already thinks I’m an idiot. I can’t do anything right when he’s around.” His shoulders slumped. “I just need some extra insight.”
“You want to consult with me on the case?”
“Yeah, consult. That would be great!” His eyes lit up as they met mine.
“Well, I suppose I could.”
“Thank you!” He jumped up and stirred the pot boiling on the stove. It released an odor similar to cauliflower and dirty socks.
I buried my nose in the tea mug, wet leaves being preferable to whatever he was cooking. When I came up for air, I said, “You’ll have to tell me what evidence you have so far and what new leads come up. You know if Mac finds out he’ll kill us both.”
“Right. We have to keep this between us.” Tom sat down again and pulled out a little notebook. “What kind of evidence do you need? Something from the house? Clothing she was wearing?”
“I need whatever evidence you’re using to solve the case.”
“All of it? I don’t think I can sneak it all out.” He chewed on the end of his pencil. “Maybe I can get you in after hours. . . . Do you have to keep the items or just touch them?”
“What are you talking about?” I said a bit too loudly.
Tom looked up from his notebook.
“I don’t want the items at all. I just want to know what they are so I have all the information,” I said.
He watched me for a moment, and then a slow pink tide swept up from his neck to cover his face.
“Wait a minute. What kind of help do you want?” I didn’t think it was common knowledge that I could “read” items—and sometimes even people—through touch. I had convinced my mother that I didn’t have that ability, but she must have said something to Jillian.
“Just do what you did in Ann Arbor. To solve the case.” Tom gave a palms-up gesture and knocked over his tea. Fortunately, it was mostly empty, but he made a big fuss over cleaning it up.
When he was done and I had him looking at me again, I raised an eyebrow, and said, “I used my brain and deductive reasoning, nothing more.”