“I guess.” Clara waved good-bye, feeling disgruntled. She would love to clear Wes’s name, since it meant so much to Rick, but she couldn’t ignore the fact that Wes had three strikes against him—the pigging string, his stormy relationship with Lisa and the red shirt. If Paul’s alibi held up, they would be back to square one.
She spent the rest of the afternoon trying to put the murder out of her mind. A steady stream of customers helped her do that, and late in the day things brightened up considerably when she saw Rick’s tall figure appear in the doorway.
“I came to see if you’ve heard about Seth Ferguson,” he said, as she led him down the aisle to the Reading Nook.
“Yes, I did. I still can’t believe it.” She picked up the coffeepot. “Want some? It’s been sitting a while.”
He shook his head. “The weird thing is, Wes told me yesterday afternoon when he was in the shop that an old buddy of his had been killed in a hit-and-run. I didn’t realize at the time that it was Seth. Not until I saw it on the news last night.”
Remembering Grace’s words, Clara nodded. “I visited Seth’s wife this morning. She said Seth used to be a rodeo clown, and knew most of the guys in the rodeo.”
“Yeah, I guess the news was all over the rodeo the next morning. It must have been a shock to them. Wes told me they were all talking to Seth in the pub minutes before he went outside and got run down.”
“How awful.” The memory of her vision was still fresh in her mind, and she shivered. “Two deaths in two days. You know what they say about threes.”
Rick wound an arm across her shoulders. “I do, and I know it’s just a fallacy, so quit your worrying. Go out tonight and have a good time. Put all this out of your mind.”
“I’ll try.” She watched him leave, wishing she could forget the visions that haunted her.
By the time the last customer had left, Edgar had taken up residence on the counter. His presence was strangely comforting as he watched her enter the last of the receipts in the computer. After giving him some fresh milk from the fridge, she found the cans of food in the broom closet and opened up a can for him.
“There you go, Edgar,” she said, watching the cat curl up in his bed. “Sleep well and keep your eyes open for mice, okay?”
She was at the door when the voice spoke in her head.
No problem.
Startled, she looked back at the cat. He stared back at her, his eyes gleaming gold in the reflection from the light overhead.
Wonderful. Now she was reading the cat’s thoughts. Shaking her head, she gently closed the door and locked it.
The Pioneer Inn was crowded when the cousins arrived there later. Clara had expected something rustic and a little primitive, in keeping with the restaurant’s name. She was pleasantly surprised to see an elegant dining room with a nautical theme. Old-fashioned lanterns hung on the walls above the tables, and mother-of-pearl seashells provided bases for candles.
Boats and lighthouses decorated the wallpaper, and tiny blue anchors were embroidered on the corners of the white tablecloths.
The restaurant was noted for its seafood, so Clara ordered the salmon, while Stephanie chose the coconut shrimp. The waiters wore a mock naval uniform, and the guy who waited on them seemed somewhat stuffy at first, but after Stephanie worked her magic on him, he softened up a bit.
“When are you going to ask him about Paul?” Stephanie asked, watching the waiter as he strode back to the kitchen. “What if he wants to know why you’re asking?”
Clara poked her fork into her salmon. “I’ll tell him we have a bet. You say Paul was at the rodeo that night, I say he was here.”
Stephanie frowned. “That’s a bit lame, isn’t it?”
Clara finished her mouthful of fish before answering. “I know, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I’m hoping it won’t get that far. I’m hoping he’ll take one look at the picture and say, ‘Oh, right. He was just here the other night.’ Then that will take care of it.”
Her mouth full, Stephanie nodded. “That would help a lot,” she said, when she could speak again.
Clara grinned. “This salmon is delicious. It was worth the trip for the food.”
“And the wine.” Stephanie took a sip of hers. “We should do this more often. Preferably when we’re not investigating a murder.”
“Shhh!” Clara glanced at the next table, but the couple who sat there were too engrossed in each other to pay attention to anything else. “Let’s change the subject. Tell me how the kids are doing.”
It was the right thing to ask her cousin, who launched into a string of tales about the latest escapades of her offspring. “They remind me so much of us when we were their age,” she said, as she laid her fork down on her empty plate. “Do you remember when you tried to hypnotize your neighbor’s dog?”
Clara rolled her eyes. “That’s something I’d prefer to forget.”
Stephanie started to laugh. “You kept swinging your father’s pocket watch in front of his face, chanting”—she lowered her voice to a hollow drawl—“‘Sleep, you stupid dog. Go to sleep.’”
“What a waste of time.”
“Yeah, until the dog snatched the watch and ran off with it. Then it got fun—the two of us chasing that dog all over the yard . . .”
“And across the street . . .”
“Where he dropped the watch into the ditch . . .”
“And I had to climb down in the stinging nettles to get it. I had a rash for weeks.”
Still laughing, Stephanie looked up as the waiter approached, carrying a tray loaded with mouthwatering concoctions of fruit, cream and chocolate. “Ooh, that looks so good!” She pointed to a chocolate mousse decorated with whipped cream and a fresh strawberry.
“I’ll have the crème brûlée,” Clara said with a smile.
The waiter smiled back. “Good choice.”
“Oh, as long as you’re here”—she snatched up her purse—“I wonder if you recognize this man?” She dug out the picture she’d cut from the newspaper and held it up for him to see.
The waiter stared at the photo for a long second or two, before murmuring, “I’m sorry. I don’t know him.”
“He’s the project manager at the new Hill Top Resort out on the coast road,” Stephanie said helpfully. “You know, the one with the golf course and everything?”
The waiter gave her a blank look. “The Hill Top? Sorry, I don’t know it. I’ll be back directly with your desserts.” He sailed off to pause at another table with his tray.
Stephanie frowned. “He must have heard of the Hill Top,” she said, staring at the waiter’s back. “It’s been all over the news for months.”
Clara sat back in her seat. “He was lying,” she said quietly.
Stephanie stared at her. “He was? How do you . . . well, of course you know. The Sense told you, right?”
“Right.” She leaned forward again. “What I’d like to know is what he was lying about—Paul being here, or knowing about the Hill Top.”
Stephanie puffed out her breath. “Maybe he just didn’t want to answer what could be awkward questions. In any case, that still doesn’t tell us whether or not Paul was here that night.”
Clara looked around. “We’ll have to ask someone else. The woman who seated us. She’d probably remember him if he was here.”
“Good thinking.” The waiter returned with their selections, and Stephanie dug into her dessert. “Now let’s enjoy these gorgeous treats and forget they’re full of calories.”
The moment they were finished and had signed the bill, Clara stood up. “Come on, let’s go ask that woman if she recognizes Paul.”
Reluctantly, Stephanie followed her, murmuring, “I could get used to living like this.”
Out in the foyer, the woman who had seated them greeted them both. “I hope you enjoyed your meal?”<
br />
“It was great,” Clara assured her. “We’ll be sure to come back again.”
“That’s good to hear.” The woman walked over to the door to open it for them. She wore a tight black skirt that barely covered her thighs and a white blouse. Her dark hair was caught up at the back of her head with a gold comb, and when she turned to them again, her smile revealed dazzling white teeth. “Thank you for coming.”
Clara slipped the newspaper cutting out of her purse and held it out to her. “We were wondering if you’ve ever seen this man in here.”
The woman took the photo and studied it. “I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him.” She turned to another woman who had just entered the foyer, dressed in the same black skirt and white blouse. “Stacey? Have you seen this man in here?”
Stacey sauntered over to look at the photo. “Nope, not that I can remember.”
“Well, thank you,” Clara said, tucking the photo back into her purse. She stepped outside and waited for Stephanie to join her.
“Well, that went well.” Stephanie jerked her head at the door. “Were they lying, too?”
“I don’t know.” Clara headed down the steps and across the parking lot to her car. “They could have a code or something that prevents them from talking about their customers. If that’s so, we still don’t know for sure if Paul was here the night of the murder. If everyone in there was lying to protect him, all they managed to do was prevent him from proving his alibi.”
“Unless they weren’t lying, and Paul was never here.”
“I guess there’s no way we can really know at this point.”
“This is getting very complicated.”
“Tell me about it.” Clara pressed the unlock button on her key chain, and a slight beep answered her. Once she was seated in the car, she waited for Stephanie to climb in next to her before saying, “I know someone who might be able to tell us where Paul was that night.”
Stephanie sounded tired when she answered. “Who?”
“His wife.”
Her cousin’s voice rose a notch. “You’re going to talk to Paul’s wife?”
“Paul did seem nervous when we were talking about Lisa’s murder. I think he’s hiding something. I need to find out what that is.”
“You think his wife will tell us, even if she knows what it is?”
Clara shrugged. “Probably not, but maybe the Sense will.”
Stephanie shook her head. “When has the Sense ever come through when you need it?”
“True, but it’s worth a shot. If we can eliminate Paul, it will be one less suspect to worry about.”
“And we’d still have no idea who did it.”
Clara started the engine, staring gloomily through the windshield. “We’re not very good at this.”
“We’re doing our best. We’re not exactly private eyes, and it might help to remember nobody is paying us to do this. Not only that, the cops aren’t happy with us sticking our noses in where they don’t belong. I’d say we’re pretty much on our own here, so if we mess up, nobody can blame us.”
“Except I feel I’m letting Rick down.”
“He can’t expect you to do any more than you’re doing.”
Clara pulled out onto the road. “He doesn’t. In fact, he told me he doesn’t want us getting too involved. At the same time, he really cares about Wes, and if Wes is innocent, there’s nothing I’d rather do than prove it.”
“Okay, then. Let’s move on to Mrs. Eastcott, and hope the Sense comes through for you this time. Do you know where they live?”
“No, but it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out. You can find just about anything on the Web.”
Stephanie sighed. “I know. It’s scary.” Her voice tightened. “Something just occurred to me. What happens if you have a vision while you’re driving?”
Clara gave her a grim smile. “Let’s hope we never have to find out.”
Sunday was always a short day at the Raven’s Nest, since the bookstore opened at noon and closed at five. It seemed longer to Clara, however, because she worked the day alone. There were fewer tourists in town, as most of them were either leaving or arriving, and the regulars rarely visited the store on a Sunday.
She was therefore happy, though somewhat surprised, to see Tim Rossi in the doorway that Sunday afternoon. “What are you doing here?” she asked, as he strolled over to the counter. “I thought you’d be off fishing in that boat of yours.”
Tim shook his head, his usual smile barely visible. “I didn’t feel like going, after what happened to Seth. He outfitted the boat for me when I bought it. It feels like a sacrilege to be out enjoying myself in it when he’s lying in a funeral home.”
“I’m sorry.” Clara sobered at once. “I know you and Seth were close.”
“We were.” Tim tapped the counter with his fingers. “I just wish we could find the creep who ran him down. I’d fling his ass in jail and let him rot there.”
“Still no clue, huh?”
“None.”
“What about the rodeo murder? Any progress with that?”
Tim shook his head. “It’s tough. We’ve tried talking to the rodeo folk, but they’re a tight-knit group and seem afraid of getting someone in trouble. Nobody’s talking, and without their help, we’re getting nowhere. Dan still thinks Wes Carlton is the perp, but without proof we can’t hold him. The rodeo leaves town on Tuesday morning. We can’t make them stay, and once they’re gone, it seems unlikely we’ll ever solve the murder.”
Clara fought the urge to tell Tim about her conversation with Paul Eastcott. After all, she had nothing much to add to what the police already knew, and Dan would not be happy to hear she’d been snooping again. “So you’re certain someone connected to the rodeo killed Lisa, then?”
Tim shrugged. “It looks that way, considering she was strangled with a pigging string.”
“But anyone could have found it lying on the ground.”
“Not likely. From what the cowboys told me, a calf-roper’s pigging string is as important to him as his saddle. He’s not going to leave it lying around somewhere. No, Dan’s convinced it’s an inside job and Carlton is our man.” He glanced at the clock, as if realizing he’d been saying too much. “I’d better get down to the Nook. I hope there’s still a Danish left?”
“A whole plateful. It’s been quiet this morning.”
Grinning, he gave her a nod and disappeared down the aisle.
She was just thinking about joining him when the door opened, jingling the bell above it. Looking up, Clara saw John Halloran heading her way and smothered a sigh. Whenever John visited the store, things tended to get complicated.
“It’s hot out there,” John grumbled, when he paused at the counter. “It’s not even summer yet.”
“Not far off,” Clara said cheerfully. “What can I do for you, John?”
He glared at Edgar, who was sitting on the counter, cleaning his paw with his tongue. “What’s that doing there?”
“That,” Clara said, holding on to her smile, “is Edgar. He lives here now.”
John sniffed. “Not very hygienic, having a cat lying around on the counter.”
“We’re not serving food up here.” Clara reached out to smooth Edgar’s ruffled fur. “He’s not allowed in the Nook.”
“Good thing too, or I’d be forced to report you.”
Edgar stretched his neck. Jerk.
“Were you looking for something specific?” Clara asked hastily.
“I ordered the first book in the Knights of Wisdom series. Is it in yet?” John stared around the store as if expecting the book to jump out at him.
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
John shot her a look that would have stopped a raging bull in its tracks. “Why not? I’ve waited way too long for it already, thanks to your incompetent cousin losing my
order.”
“We just ordered it again this week. We’re waiting for the next delivery.”
Scowling, John stuck his hands in the pockets of his Dockers.
The pants looked like they needed a washing, and Clara felt a pang of sympathy for the man. He lived alone, having been divorced from his wife after he lost the Sweet Spot, a candy store he used to own farther down the hill.
Clara and Stephanie had visited his store often when they were kids, and were convinced that John was an evil wizard. He was always threatening them with dire consequences if they touched any of his candy without buying it. With his bushy hair and eyebrows, and fierce brown eyes glaring at them through the dark-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, he’d seemed formidable and, at times, downright menacing.
The girls never went into his store alone, and once there had bought their candy and fled before he could change them into frogs—or something much worse.
Even now, when John looked at her a certain way and spoke in his low, creepy voice, Clara got chills and couldn’t wait to get him out of the bookstore.
Trying to think of a book that might interest him, she tapped the keyboard to bring up the latest deliveries on the computer. “We have a couple of new sci-fi thrillers that came in last week. Would you like to see them?”
John gave her one of his drop-dead looks. “Give me the titles. I’ll find them on the shelves.”
She quickly scribbled down the titles and handed them to him. “They’re halfway down the second aisle.”
“I know where to look.” He turned away, then seemed to have a thought. Turning back, he asked abruptly, “I guess you heard about Seth Ferguson.”
Clara nodded. “I did. It’s so sad.”
“Yeah. I just saw him the night before he died. Hard to believe he’s gone.” Shaking his head, he turned away again.
Obeying an impulse, Clara asked quickly, “Where did you see him?”
John paused, his back toward her, as if reluctant to answer. Finally, he looked at her over his shoulder. “He was shutting up shop as I was walking by. It was around six. I asked him why he was closing early. He said he was going to the rodeo.”
Extra Sensory Deception Page 13
