Cat's Claw (9 page)

There was always a painful story behind every divorce, especially when property issues were involved. There could be some hard feelings that China hadn’t picked up on. Maybe Dana Kirk—or her lawyer—had hired a private investigator to dig up some dirt that would give her more leverage in the property settlement. Maybe the PI was the stalker Kirk had spotted.

“The two of them were still living together?” Sheila asked.

“I don’t think so,” China replied. “I don’t know where she’s living. Larry said he was trying to work it out with her—the property thing, I mean. I got the idea that Dana wanted out of the marriage more than he did. Larry hinted a couple of times that she was involved with somebody else.”

“Did he say who?” Sheila asked.

China shook her head. “I don’t know the story, but Ruby and Dana are friends. I’m sure Ruby knows. I’ll find out for you.”

Sheila paused, then asked, “Did Kirk say anything to you about the break-in at his place of business? It happened a few days ago.”

“He didn’t mention it to me. But McQuaid read about it in the
Enterprise
and told me about it.” China raised an eyebrow. “Has there been an arrest?” She didn’t ask,
Do you think the break-in is somehow related to Kirk’s death?
But Sheila knew she was thinking it.

“We’re expecting an arrest this afternoon.” Sheila glanced at her watch. “Actually, any minute now.”

“Oh, yeah? Who?”

Sheila didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “Did Kirk work at home?”

China glanced at her, understanding. “At home, at his shop, both. The company does computer repairs, installations, and so on. Larry had several guys working for him.”

Sheila nodded. The names of Kirk’s employees were in Bartlett’s report on the break-in investigation. If it became relevant, she’d have another look.

China stepped back. “I saw Detective Bartlett while I was waiting here with Ramona, but I didn’t volunteer any of this information. Didn’t want to distract him. I figured he was going to be busy, especially after he brought in the county crime-scene unit.” She paused, her eyebrow raised again, and Sheila knew that she understood the significance of that. “But if you guys have questions, I’m available.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, tilting her head and smiling a little. “How come I haven’t seen Deputy Chief Hardin?”

“Hardin’s gone fishing,” Sheila replied, mirroring China’s smile. Once, she had broken her own rule—never talk shop with friends—and complained bitterly to China about Hardin’s attitude. She took a breath. “I’m on this investigation with Bartlett.”

There. She’d said it.

“Glad to hear that, Sheila.” China nodded approvingly. “It’ll do you good to be away from the desk for a day or two. Get out in the field—get a load of the stuff your officers have to put up with every day from us ungrateful civilians.” She flashed Sheila a crooked grin. “Bubba Harris did that, you know. Not often enough, but sometimes. People liked it when they saw him doing something other than administrative stuff.”

Sheila heard what China was telling her. She pocketed her notebook. “Thanks again, China. I appreciate it. We’ll be in touch.”

She ducked under the yellow tape and went up the drive toward the garage. She was almost there when her cell phone offered its cheerful digital chirp. She flipped it open, expecting Dispatch with the notification of Timms’ surrender and arrest.

But it wasn’t Mary Lou. The caller’s soft, good-old-boy drawl was colored with irritation. “Charlie Lipman, here, Chief. I want to know where he is.”

“Where who is?” Sheila asked warily. Timms was a no-show?

“Aw, come on, Chief. Don’t play that game with me. If you’ve booked my client in my absence—although that was
not
the process we agreed to—I want to talk to him.” His voice became hard. “
Now
.”

“If it’s George Timms you’re looking for, counselor, I don’t know a thing about him. I understood from Deputy Chief Hardin that he was supposed to surrender—” She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see how late it was. “More than an hour ago. Have you tried his home?”

Lipman grunted. “His home, his cell phone, his business, the golf club, his party place in the Hill Country. If your guys have him, cough him up, damn it. I don’t want him talkin’ to y’all unless I’m in the room. And no media. Got that? Timms is not your average—”

“Mr. Lipman,” Sheila broke in sharply. “Your client is overdue for surrender, booking, and arraignment. We do not have him. Since you can’t produce him—since you can’t even locate him—we’ll be glad to help you out. I’m putting out an APB.”

Lipman softened his tone. “Now, now, let’s not be hasty, Chief. As I said, we don’t want any media. You folks put out that bulletin, Hark Hibler’ll jump on it faster’n a rooster on a big ol’ juicy grasshopper. Let’s jes’ downplay this for a few more hours. He’s bound to turn up.” Charlie
Lipman was bidialectal. He talked Texan when he was hanging out at Bean’s Bar and Grill, presenting a case to a Texas jury, or trying to appear harmless. Otherwise, he employed the vocabulary of a Harvard law professor and the standard English of a network news reporter.

“Nothing doing, counselor,” Sheila said firmly. “You hear from your client, you let me know, pronto. And that means
me
, personally.” She paused and added emphatically, “You got that?”

“Got it,” Lipman growled, and hesitated. “Maybe something else goin’ on, huh? Related to Timms’ case? If so, I need to know.”

“I’m not at liberty to say,” Sheila replied.

There was a brief silence while Lipman considered this. “Yeah. Well, what’s happened to Hardin? He’s not returnin’ my calls. Where is he?”

“Gone fishing,” Sheila replied shortly, and broke the connection. She called Dispatch and ordered the APB on Timms’ vehicles.

She stood for a moment, thinking. At this point, all they had was the first report of a suicide. There was no way to know whether this incident was in any way related to Timms’ alleged break-in at Kirk’s place of business the previous week or to the stalker Kirk had mentioned to China. But Sheila had long ago stopped believing in coincidences, and she wanted to see Timms in custody as soon as possible.

Was there a connection?

What was it?

Chapter Four

Still thinking about Larry Kirk’s death, I watched Sheila walk away, then turned back to Ruby and Ramona. Ramona was wiping her eyes and sniffling. Ruby was rubbing Ramona’s back and murmuring sisterly words.

“Look,” I said. “This has been pretty rough for everybody.” It was the understatement of the week. I took a deep breath. “Ruby, how about if we go to your house and have a cup of tea?”

Ramona brightened. “Or supper? I made corn chowder with sausage. Plenty for all of us. And we could have a salad.”

Ruby gave her sister a hug and dropped her arm, her gauzy sleeve fluttering. “There are peaches, too, so there’s shortcake for dessert.” She glanced at me. “McQuaid and the kids are spending the evening in Seguin, aren’t they? You’ll join us, China?”

“Thanks,” I said gratefully. “I’d like that.”

To tell the truth, I didn’t want to be by myself just now. Larry Kirk had been a friend—and a reliable helper. He was a jack-of-all-computer-trades. He had repaired my ailing printer, added more memory to my computer, and taken over my faltering website, making it not only attractive, but functional. And no matter how busy he was with his business, he always found time to update the shop’s website and answer my questions without making me feel like a totally incompetent person with a brain the size of a BB. I was going to miss him. A lot, damn it. And I couldn’t help feeling responsible. Maybe the stalking had nothing to do with what had happened. But maybe it had. If I’d answered his email earlier—

I shoved my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “I can’t believe he’s dead,” I said, mostly to myself. We started to walk down the driveway to the street. “What a horrible thing.”

“Ghastly,” Ramona said. She wrinkled her nose. “The kitchen reeked of beer. There was beer all over the floor. I guess he knocked it off the table when he… when he shot himself.”

I cleared my throat. “How do you know that’s what happened? That he shot himself, I mean.”

She turned to stare at me. “Well, because of the gun. It was right there in his hand.”

In his hand?
I thought. If he had fallen from the chair, knocking the chair over, wouldn’t the fall have dislodged the gun? “Where was he shot?” I asked. “In the head, the chest?”

Ramona pressed her lips together. “There was a round hole above his
temple. And a lot of blood.” She shuddered. “Do we have to talk about it, China? It’s too horrible.”

We reached the sidewalk and turned toward Ruby’s. Suddenly, a cute, athletic blonde broke away from the nearest clump of neighbors and dashed toward us, a journalist’s steno pad in one hand. It was Jessica Nelson, a reporter for the
Enterprise
. Last spring, as an intern, Jessica had scored a big story when she foiled her own abduction and helped to solve a murder, gaining national notoriety as the Seven Iron Slugger. Now, she’s finishing grad school and working part-time at the newspaper. I wasn’t surprised to see her here. She shows up whenever anybody whispers the words
breaking news
.

“China!” Jessica exclaimed. “And Ruby! So great to see you again!” She put out her hand to Ramona. “Hi. I’m Jessica Nelson. I write for the local newspaper. You’re Ramona Donahue?”

Ramona nodded wordlessly.

“I understand that you discovered Mr. Kirk’s body.” Jessica flipped her steno pad to a new page. “Can you tell me about it?” She glanced down at the shredded knee of Ramona’s pants. “Gosh, I hope you’re not hurt. I heard that you fell down the back steps.”

“That’s right.” Confronted by the possibility of media attention, Ramona forgot that she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. “What would you like to know?”

“Stop.” I put up my hand. “Jessica, you know better. Ms. Donahue isn’t talking to you until Chief Dawson says she can.”

“Aw, come on, China,” Jessica wheedled. “Mr. Hibler says we’re going with a front-page story on this. All I want is a little human interest. I’m not asking for state secrets.”

Ramona frowned at me. “Really, China, I don’t see why you’re being so mean. It’s not—”

“I’m being mean in order to keep Jessica out of Sheila Dawson’s doghouse. She can have all the human interest she wants,
after
the police release.” I smiled at Jessica. “Check back tomorrow, Jess. And in the meantime, check with the chief.”

Jessica sighed. “You’re a hard woman, China Bayles.”

“You think I’m hard?” I chuckled wryly. “Try crossing Sheila Dawson.”

“Actually, I’ve already got quite a few nice little bits,” Jessica said defiantly. “I talked to the next-door neighbor who was picking her squash when Ms. Donahue discovered the body. That’s human interest, don’t you think? She said she was going to make a casserole for her nephew, who was coming over for supper.” She flipped a page. “I also talked to the old lady who heard the gunshot. That’s what she thought it was, anyway.”

“A gunshot?” I asked sharply. This was news to me. “Who? When?”

Jessica peered at her notes. “Mrs. Wauer,” she said. “Ethel W-a-u-e-r. A sweet little old thing. She says she heard it just before two o’clock.” She began to read. “‘I was giving Oodles a bath—I have to wear my raincoat because he shakes water all over me, and of course then I have to mop the floor. The bathroom window was open because when Oodles is wet, he doesn’t always smell real sweet, which was how come I happened to hear it.’” She frowned. “I guess I should have asked Mrs. Wauer about Oodles.”