Black Cat Crossing (6 page)

S
HERIFF CRAWFORD. THE
murder. So much for blocking out thoughts of everything except writing.

I opened the door. “Evening, Sheriff.”

He stood on my porch, Stetson in hand, and I was reminded of the reason the sheriff was considered the most eligible bachelor among the senior women in Lawton County. Jebediah Crawford had a Tom Selleck build, tall and muscular for his age. He had the mustache, too, though Crawford’s hair was solid gray. He’d lost his wife a few years ago, and I suspected that if his admirers knew he was out gathering facts for an investigation, they’d be lining up and claiming knowledge of Bobby Joe Flowers’s killer.

“Come on in.” I opened the door wider and stepped back, self-conscious about my worn hanging-around-the-house clothes and bare feet. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

“Not sure why that is, Sabrina. Thought you’d be bustin’ down my door today, hounding me for clues, tryin’ your darndest to solve the mystery.” He stepped inside, and his girth dwarfed the space.

“I’ve been hoping the whole thing would turn out to be a bad accident,” I said. “That or a nightmare. No mystery to solve. Have a seat.”

Crawford rounded my sofa. His knees creaked as he lowered himself onto the cushions. “Now, Sabrina, you knew right off the bat this was a suspicious death when you called me at two a.m. Don’t backpedal on me.”

“Can’t pull one over on you.” I smiled. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, Coke, water?”

He opted for water, and I brought him a fresh bottle, then sat in the armchair opposite him. “This works a little different from what I see on TV, huh? You aren’t dragging people down to the station to take their statements.”

He chuckled. “We do that sometimes, but it hardly has the desired effect on a suspect seeing as we’re located in the back half of a church building.”

“That’s small-town Texas for you,” I said.

“Doesn’t make us take the work any less seriously.”

My palms had started to sweat, probably around the moment the sheriff spoke the word “suspect.”

Take it easy. This is normal procedure.

I forced myself to breathe naturally. “I’m surprised you didn’t assign the mundane statement-taking to Deputy Rosales.”

“She’s doing her share.” He looked away for a moment before turning back and meeting my eyes. “Matter of fact, she’s talking with your aunt as we speak.”

I popped up off the chair. “But
I’m
the one who found the body. Why’s she talking to Aunt Rowe? Aunt Rowe wasn’t there.”

“Sit down, Sabrina,” he said, his voice stern. “Your aunt owns the property, the deceased was related to her, she has the names of the guests so we can be sure we’ve talked to everyone who was checked in last night. Then there’s the small matter of the deceased’s claim to be Rowe’s brother and her subsequent clubbing him on the head, as you yourself reported to me. Need I go on?”

I dropped back into the chair. “No, I get it, but I wish you wouldn’t talk to the guests. I’d hate for the business to suffer because of this incident.”

I wouldn’t normally belittle a murder by referring to it as an incident, but I felt like I’d reverted to my argumentative teenage years, maybe because the sheriff reminded me of my dad. I was worried, too, about them talking to the girl who’d seen Aunt Rowe outside last night. Maybe we’d get lucky and they’d only question adults.

“Rowe’s business will be fine,” Crawford said.

“At least
you
could have talked to Aunt Rowe instead of sending Rosales. She’s so, so . . . The right word is escaping me.”

“Businesslike?” he suggested. “No nonsense?”

“Harsh,” I said. “That’s the word. She’s way too harsh.”

“Deputy Pat’s personality has many facets.” He unscrewed the cap on his water, took a long swallow, and replaced the cap. “In Rowe’s case, I needed my deputy to do the professional interrogation.”

“Oh my God, she’s
interrogating
Aunt Rowe?” The coffee I’d been drinking all day sat like a gallon of acid in my stomach.

“She’s taking a
statement
,” Crawford said. “Because of my friendship with Rowe, it’s better that I distance myself from discussing the case with her personally.”

“But it’s okay for you to talk to
me
,” I said, “even though we’re friends, too?”

“You’re my good friend’s niece. There’s a difference.” Crawford put a hand up to his face and smoothed his mustache with a thumb and index finger. “Have you thought of any details that didn’t occur to you when you spoke with Deputy Pat after finding the body?”

I shrugged. “Nothing comes to mind.”

At least nothing I wanted to tell him.

“Any idea if Bobby Joe Flowers had enemies?”

“I’d be shocked if he didn’t, but I don’t know anything about his life or people who knew him. I don’t even know where he lives, though he claimed he was staying with a friend in the area.”

A small notebook protruded from the sheriff’s shirt pocket, but he didn’t take it out. “What do you know about his claim that he was Rowe’s half brother?”

“Not a thing,” I said. “The first I heard such crazy talk was when he walked in yesterday and blurted it out. That was clearly news to Aunt Rowe, too. She was as shocked as she could be. Her reaction was one of those heat-of-the-moment things. If she had stopped to think, there’s no way she’d ever do—” I was talking way too much. “Anything so rash.”

“Could your mother shed any light on Flowers’s claim?”

“My mother?” I had to laugh. “I’m not sure if my mother ever spent two seconds thinking about Dad’s relatives, especially not one who estranged himself from the whole family. Anyway, she’s on a perpetual trip with the new husband. Couldn’t even tell you where to find her.
If
you wanted to take her statement, that is. Probably a waste of your time.”

Crawford watched me for a moment. “Guess I touched a sore spot. Sorry about that.”

“No problem.” My right eye began to twitch, an annoying reaction that often happens when I get worked up. I looked at the window, hoping to see Hitchcock had returned to watch over me, but the sill was empty.

I turned back to the sheriff. “You could talk to Bobby Joe’s siblings, I suppose, though I don’t know where you’d find
them
either.”

“We’ve already made notification to next of kin,” Crawford said. “They’re in Dallas, by the way. Brother didn’t seem to care one way or the other ’bout what happened. The sister, Becky, I believe, is more affected, ready to take charge of making arrangements for the burial. Which will have to wait until after the autopsy.”

“Maybe the brother was an enemy to Bobby Joe,” I said.

The sheriff nodded. “We’ll check out their whereabouts at the time of death. Speaking of which, and you know I hate to ask you this, Sabrina, but where were you between the hours of nine last night and two this morning?”

My pulse raced. “Are you kidding me?”

He shook his head.

“I was right here, at home.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Inside?”

“For the most part. I’m not a hermit, for goodness’ sake. I’d been to the bookstore in town. Came back and spent some time writing. Went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep so I was going to bake at Aunt Rowe’s. Ended up finding the body instead. Are you asking everyone for an alibi, or am I just lucky?”

“We’ll ask everyone,” he said.

I wasn’t sure I believed that, but they
would
ask Aunt Rowe. Dang it all. What had she been up to last night? I wish I’d had a chance to talk with her before Rosales showed up, but what difference would that have actually made? I wouldn’t have encouraged her to lie. A cold sweat came over me at the thought of how their discussion might be going. The sheriff and his deputy needed a diversion—something to take their attention away from Aunt Rowe’s anger with Bobby Joe. I thought about my talk with Daisy McKetta.

I looked at the sheriff, who seemed to be watching me carefully.

“Have you remembered something important?” he said.

“Maybe. I was thinking about a story I heard in town today. Did you know the body of a girl named Vicki Palmer was found in the same place as Bobby Joe Flowers? Seems like a huge coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I knew the Palmer case,” Crawford said slowly, with no change in his expression. “There’s no connection.”

“You can’t be sure,” I said, “with her case being unsolved all this time. Sure is a shame, poor thing dies and nobody knows what happened to her, even thirty years later?”

“Enough,” Crawford said. “There’s a lot you don’t know about all the hours the sheriff back then poured into investigating the Palmer case. Sometimes answers can’t be found no matter how—” He broke off and looked away.

“Were you on that case?” I said quietly.

He nodded. “We worked it for over a year. Hard. Nobody could say we didn’t try our damnedest.”

I’d caused a diversion all right, but now I felt sorry for bringing up the disturbing topic.

Crawford sat up straight and clapped his palms on his thighs. “That won’t happen with the Flowers case. We’re going to nail the killer this time.” He stood to leave. “I’m hoping that Rowe has a good story—a solid alibi. ’Cause I mean to tell you, Sabrina, if the autopsy proves Bobby Joe Flowers was your aunt’s brother and had any legal claim to this property, she has one doozy of a motive for killing the man.”

A
FTER SHERIFF CRAWFORD
left my cottage, I was champing at the bit to see Aunt Rowe. I didn’t want anyone to spot me racing over to her place, though. How would that look? Like there was something suspicious going on. Some big secret I had to pass on to my aunt before it was too late.

I sighed. I spent way too much time living in a fictional, mysterious world. Still, it didn’t seem wise to let my frantic emotions show through to anyone who might be watching. Chances were the sheriff and his deputy would be in the area for a while, until they had crossed everyone they wanted to question off their list.

Aunt Rowe, Glenda, Thomas, the guests.

How many people did we expect this weekend? I ticked them off on my fingers. The Hartmans in Barcelona, the as-yet-unidentified man in Venice, and guests checking into Florence and Madrid sometime today. Of course, the people just arriving wouldn’t have anything to tell about last night’s events.

My growling stomach reminded me of my half-uneaten lunch umpteen hours ago. I looked at the clock hanging on the wall over the table that also served as my desk. Seven. Close enough to the usual dinnertime, a perfect reason for heading to the house. Glenda always cooked a nice meal for Aunt Rowe, and I was famished. There was absolutely nothing suspicious about me joining my aunt for dinner, right?

I slipped into my flip-flops and rushed out the door, making sure to lock up behind myself. I purposefully slowed to a natural pace and scanned the area. No one was in sight, not that the sheriff would conduct his interviews outdoors. He’d invite himself inside to conduct proper, authoritative interrogations. Worrying about what he might learn made me as jumpy as a cricket.

The evening was pleasant with a slight breeze and a hint of honeysuckle in the air. I headed diagonally across the common yard between the cottages, which were scattered around the property rather than lined up in rows. The sheriff had probably parked somewhere on the meandering lane that connected the cottages, and I’d be more likely to escape notice by taking this shortcut.

I passed the Paris cottage, then slipped around a stand of trees behind Venice to avoid the porch-sitting guy. I scanned the property to my right in hopes of spotting Hitchcock, but the cat was nowhere in sight. He might still be somewhere near my place, in hiding for the moment, and I hoped that was the case. He’d be safer if he stayed put instead of gallivanting around the grounds.

When my gaze tracked back across to the Venice cottage, I spotted the man I had hoped to avoid standing not ten feet in front of me. He was behind the cottage, facing away from me and holding a camera up to his face. As luck would have it, a twig snapped under my foot. The man jumped, startled, and turned around.

He recovered quickly and grinned. “Well, hello.”

“Hi.” I cringed inwardly, regretting that I’d left my place without giving one thought to my bedraggled appearance.

The man was on the tall side, thirtyish, with a couple days of blond beard growth that hadn’t showed up from a distance. He wore a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with his jeans and Top-Siders. Now that he’d recovered from my taking him by surprise, he had a confident, easygoing look about him. His camera was the type my ex-husband had insisted on buying, a newfangled digital with a bunch of buttons and switches. Way too complicated, not to mention expensive, for my liking. I wondered what this guy was taking pictures of—all I saw was grass, trees, cottages, and Aunt Rowe’s house in the distance.

“Find any interesting subjects?” I said.

He nodded. “This is a great place. Very peaceful.”

“Peaceful doesn’t exactly show up on a picture,” I said.

He grinned again. “It does if I do a good job.”

“You’re a photographer?”

“Yeah. I specialize in wildlife, mostly birds.” He smiled and offered his hand. “Adam Lee.”

We shook and I introduced myself. “Sorry I interrupted. I need to run.”

“Where you off to in such a hurry?”

“Dinner.” I took a few steps, then stopped when he snapped his fingers.

“You must be the niece. Am I right?”

“That’s me.” I kept walking.

“You’re the writer, moved here from Houston. I’m a Houstonian myself.”

Good grief, had Aunt Rowe told this guy my life story? And if she had, why didn’t he keep the information to himself? Did he want me to ask for his personal details? I was in no mood, so I waved and kept going.

“Stop back and visit anytime,” he said. “I could take your picture.”

I’d had a better impression of him before the close encounter. I certainly didn’t want him taking my picture. What an odd thing for him to even bring up.

Belatedly, I remembered Aunt Rowe’s preaching about making all guests feel welcome. I looked over my shoulder and called, “Enjoy your stay.”

The man had already turned away from me and was fiddling with the camera.

Fine.

I stalked toward Aunt Rowe’s house, feeling unreasonably annoyed about my conversation with the stranger. Something about the guy bugged me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

I passed the Madrid cottage and noted a car, indicating the arrival of a new guest. Across the way, Florence still appeared empty. At the Barcelona cottage, a second car was parked next to Tim Hartman’s. I hoped the girlfriend liked kids and that the family enjoyed their stay.

Diversions had made me forget my concerns for a few minutes. When I saw a sheriff’s department car in Aunt Rowe’s driveway, worries flooded back. I hesitated for a moment, then decided to go around back to the screened porch. The door was unlocked—not good, given that someone had been murdered nearby last night—and I let myself in.

The delicious scent of Glenda’s enchilada casserole hit me the moment I stepped over the threshold. Normally, I’d head straight for that yummy dish, but eating wasn’t at the top of my priority list tonight. I peeked into an empty kitchen. I tiptoed toward the living room and listened for voices. All quiet. The house was dim as the last vestiges of daylight slipped away, and it felt deserted. I caught the faint clack of a keyboard and followed the noise to Aunt Rowe’s office.

I stopped before reaching the door and poked my head around the corner like a cop checking for an intruder before entering. Aunt Rowe was alone, seated behind her desk, her hand on the computer mouse. She had earbuds plugged in her ears. She looked tired and a bit pale, but her head bopped, presumably to the beat of music. Was she rocking out after the tension of Rosales’s interrogation?

She noticed me and pulled the earbuds out. “How’s my favorite writer?”

She sounded way too relaxed. “I’m good, but I’m more concerned about you. Where’s Rosales? Her car’s parked in the driveway. I thought she’d be in here.”

Aunt Rowe held an index finger to her lips. “Shh. She’s down the hall with Glenda.”

“Oh, great.” I turned to push the door against the jamb without latching it. “Sheriff Crawford just left my place. Seems to me they’re concentrating on the wrong people.”

“Ach.” Aunt Rowe waved a hand. “They’ll get on track eventually. Don’t be a worrywart.”

She turned her computer monitor so I could see the screen. “How do you feel about cruising to Bangkok? There’s a great deal coming up this September. My cast should come off way before then.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re thinking about traveling?”

“It’s been too long,” she said. “Work, work, work, that’s all I’ve been up to lately. I miss going places. I’d like you to come along this time.”

“What?” Were her meds talking?

“You don’t want to see the world?” she asked.

I shook my head and lowered my voice. “I have nothing against travel, but how can you even be thinking about going anywhere at a time like this?”

“A time like what? The deputy talked to me, but she didn’t give me any kind of warning like I shouldn’t leave town. Is that what you’re looking all panic-stricken about?”

I pulled out a chair parked across the desk from her and plopped into it. “Yeah, partly.”

“They’ll have this mess figured out way before the cruise date. The only thing that annoys me is Jeb not coming here to talk to me himself. And he claims he’s my friend.”

“The fact that the sheriff is your friend is exactly why he
didn’t
come here,” I said. “Aunt Rowe, this is dead serious. They’re looking for a killer.”

“I know that.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a moron.”

My shoulders sagged. “I didn’t mean to insult you, but listen. I don’t think they’re getting anywhere with the investigation. We need to help them solve this. Do you have any idea who would have wanted Bobby Joe dead?”

Rowe grinned. “You mean besides me?”

I opened my eyes wide, trying to send a warning message, and spoke even lower. “Hush. I hope you didn’t act so glib in front of Deputy Rosales. What did you tell her?”

Aunt Rowe gave me a palms-up gesture. “The truth. I’m sorry that this happened, but I’m not terribly sorry Bobby Joe is dead.”

“Aunt Rowe!”

Footsteps tapped on the hallway’s wood floor, but Aunt Rowe wasn’t finished and apparently hadn’t heard them.

“Sweetie, quit your worrying,” she went on. “Bobby Joe Flowers isn’t worth it. Trust me, if you’d known him all your life you’d have killed him in a book years ago.”

Behind me, the door creaked open.