Cat in Wolf's Clothing (9781101578889) by Lydia Adamson Page B

body.
    It had all happened so quickly . . . I was so startled . . . I didn’t know what to do.
    Then I knelt beside her and tried to comfort her as best I could. It was obvious I had found Jack Tyre’s lover, the woman who had sent him the strange valentines.
    Slowly she began to regain control of herself. Her fingers held the clipboard so tightly the blood drained from her hands and wrists, which became chalk white.
    â€œPlease. You have to tell me what you know about Jack Tyre. The same madman who killed him murdered more than a dozen other people. Tell me what you know about him.”
    She nodded vigorously. She started to breathe deeply in and out. She was coming around. I helped her up. She placed her arm in mine for support, and we slowly started to walk along the edge of the lake.
    â€œIt was just seeing those leaves again,” she said, “and thinking of that wonderful man. It was so terrible. We were lovers for three years. He broke if off about a year ago. I couldn’t understand why. We were very happy together. And I sort of became childish and kept sending him those leaves. I never believed he would keep them. And he must have kept them . . . or how would you have found them.”
    â€œHe kept them. He treasured them,” I affirmed.
    She stopped and stared out over the water.
    â€œHe was such a wonderful man. So strange and gentle and wise. Do you see those trees on the other side of the lake? That’s the Ramble, one of the most isolated parts of the park. He used to go there on the weekends, with his cat on his shoulder, and wander around there. He told me he had found some of the old caves near the water, and his cat used to love to prowl around there.
    â€œAnd on lunch hours he used to go to the Metropolitan Museum. To the Egyptian Wing. How he loved that place. People loved him. He was sort of an informal tour guide. He knew everything. I can’t explain what a gentle man he was. I had never met anyone like him. Do you know where we made love all the time? In all kinds of weather? There, across the lake, in the Ramble. At first I thought he just didn’t want me to come to his apartment. But no, it wasn’t that. He wanted to make love in the park—that’s all.”
    The tears came again. She leaned her cheek against the clipboard. Then she continued.
    â€œAnd then, suddenly, he told me he couldn’t see me anymore, that he was going on some kind of trip. And he just broke it off. He wouldn’t even say hello when we passed each other in the park. I didn’t know what to do, so I started sending him those leaves . . . like a stupid little girl.”
    â€œDid you speak to the police?”
    â€œNo. No one ever knew we were lovers. No one.”
    â€œWhat kind of trip was he talking about?”
    â€œI couldn’t find out. It was all so strange and terrible. Look, I have to go now. I have to go.”
    But she didn’t go. She started to tap one hand against her clipboard. It made the strangest noise.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked suddenly, as if ashamed of having revealed so much to a total stranger who had not really identified herself. Or worse, as if she had been fooled into one of those brief friendships that are totally delusional.
    â€œI’m a consultant with a major-crimes unit of the New York Police Department. My responsibilities include investigating the murder of the Tyre brothers. I am, however, not interviewing you in any official capacity.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?” she asked.
    I shrugged. I didn’t answer. I felt stupid. I don’t know why I said that.
    She was looking at me now . . . evaluating.
    Perhaps in the same way she evaluated trees before her crew worked on them—with pruning shears, wires, pesticides.
    I knew I should keep my mouth shut. I knew she was making some kind of decision.
    â€œHe had a secret life,” she said