by Kay Finch
I looked at the elderly landlady. “Did the intruder have a car?”
She placed an arthritic index finger over her mouth for a moment, then said, “I don’t think so. The woman ran toward the street, but I never saw or heard a car.”
I looked at the apartment door again. The so-called burglar could have been someone Jane sent to pick up some things for her. Or someone who came in and knocked her out, then stole from her. The fact that Jane’s car wasn’t home proved nothing. What if she was in the apartment and unable to communicate?
You’re overreacting, Sabrina. Stay calm.
“Are you sure you called the sheriff’s office?” I asked Mrs. Honeycutt. “Maybe you meant to call and then got sidetracked.”
“I called,” she said. “I spoke with that nice woman. Laurelle.”
I knew Laurelle, the dispatcher, well. “It’s odd that they haven’t sent someone out here.”
“Oh, that deputy came,” Mrs. Honeycutt said. “For all the good she did. Shined her flashlight around for a minute, then said she’d send someone by to check on me. I thought she sent you.”
To my knowledge, Sheriff Crawford had only one female deputy. Patricia Rosales wouldn’t likely send me to deliver a pizza, much less investigate a burglary.
No good would come of me telling this lady what I thought of Rosales, so I said, “Have you been inside the apartment?”
“No, no, no.” She shook her head in time with her words. “My kids made me promise to stay away from those stairs. They’re afraid I’ll break my neck.”
“And the deputy didn’t check inside the apartment?”
Mrs. Honeycutt shook her head. “She couldn’t be bothered.”
“Huh.” That made no sense, even for Rosales. “You mind if I go have a look?”
“I wish you would, dear. Here’s the key.” She pulled a ring from her pocket and showed me which one to use.
I jogged up the stairs and knocked on the door. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity but was probably about fifteen seconds, I used the key and pushed the door open.
“Hello?” I called out. “Jane?”
No answer.
I stepped in and closed the door behind me. Looked around the open-concept living space. Everything was neat and orderly—no signs of an intruder. The air smelled of vanilla. A counter along one wall contained a small sink, a hot plate, and a coffee maker. A mini-fridge sat next to the end of the counter. A shelf mounted to the wall held a few plates and bowls. The furnishings were minimal—a worn sofa, a coffee table, and a bookshelf. I wondered if Mrs. Honeycutt rented the place furnished. This might be temporary living quarters for Jane until she could move her things from Emerald Springs.
I crossed the room. “Jane? You home?”
Nothing.
I scanned the overflowing bookshelf and smiled. This is what personalized the librarian’s home, spare though it was. Jane had books in her collection by Jane Austen and Louisa May Alcott—fitting, given her name.
I moved into the small adjoining bedroom. The bed was made, and I pulled the sage green spread back to see that the pillows had cases on them. Did that negate Mrs. Honeycutt’s story? Not necessarily. The intruder could have brought her own pillowcases for the occasion or found an extra set in the apartment.
The closet door stood open to reveal a short row of clothing hanging inside along with a bunch of unused hangers. A pair of sandals and three empty shoe boxes with the lids flung aside sat on the closet floor. The bathroom held a few bottles of shampoo, lotion, and cleaning products. The toothbrush holder stood empty, and I decided this bathroom looked the way my own would look after I packed for a trip.
That was probably what was going on here. Jane had been unexpectedly called away and left without telling anyone her plans. Maybe she had a family emergency. Which didn’t explain Mrs. Honeycutt’s sighting.
I turned, and my toe kicked something on the floor. I picked up a blue plastic pill organizer strip marked Thursday and placed it on the counter before leaving the bathroom.
If Mrs. Honeycutt hadn’t simply dreamt up the intruder, what could have been in the bundles that woman carried out of here?
Anybody’s guess.
I went down the stairs, reported my findings to the landlady, and told her I would check in with the sheriff about a follow-up visit to discuss the incident.
I climbed into my car, intending to head straight for the sheriff’s office, less than two miles away. My phone rang before I backed out of the driveway, and I shifted into Park before checking the caller ID. An unknown number.
I answered anyway.
“Sabrina, it’s Bryan.” I recognized Tyanne’s husband’s voice, but I didn’t think he’d ever called me before. He sounded agitated.
I tensed. “Bryan, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure, but I got your number from Tyanne ’cause you probably want to get over here.”
“Over where?” I said.
“To the construction site, the library. I’m pretty sure this black cat is yours.”
My breath caught. “I left Hitchcock at home.”
With a supervisor.
Even as the thought crossed my mind, I shifted into Reverse and backed out of the drive. I couldn’t deny Hitchcock’s talent for slipping away unnoticed. “I’ll come over, Bryan, even though it’s probably a different black cat that needs protection. You’re not familiar enough to recognize mine.”
“Don’t be too sure,” he said sharply. “I saw him yesterday at the bookstore. He had a black collar with a bell, like this cat is wearing. The crew’s out here, and some of them are gettin’ worked up over the cat.”
My heart hammered. “I’ll be there, five minutes tops, and Bryan? Tell the crew to back off.”
I practically flew to the construction site and slid my Accord to a stop behind a row of pickups parked along the road. The place was hopping with activity compared to the stillness of the night before. A sheriff’s department car was parked to block traffic, presumably because of the concrete truck backing in from the street.
I jumped out of my car and ran toward the building, scanning for Hitchcock and/or Bryan. The construction workers all wore yellow hard hats and similar-looking work clothes. When I finally spotted Bryan with a roll of electrical wire looped over an arm, I ran to him.
“Where is he, Bryan?” I tried to calm my breathing. “I don’t see a cat anywhere.”
“He’s safe,” Bryan said. “Sheriff Crawford pulled up and came to the same conclusion I did. Right off the bat he said ‘that’s Sabrina’s cat,’ then took him to the car.”
I blew out a breath. “Thank goodness. I’m so grateful you called me.”
“You owe me one,” he said.
I gave him a thumbs-up and hurried over to the sheriff’s car. Hitchcock stood up against the driver’s side door. His mouth moved, but I couldn’t hear his meow over the sound of the concrete mixer.
Sheriff Crawford was in the street, motioning for a car to pass by on the shoulder. He stood tall and handsome in his uniform, reminding me of Tom Selleck as NYPD Commissioner Frances Reagan in Blue Bloods. If the senior ladies of Lavender caught wind of the fact he was out here, they might line up in traffic for a chance to flirt with him.
I walked over to the sheriff. “Thank you so much for rescuing Hitchcock. I thought he was safe at home with Glenda.”
“Cat has a mind of his own.” He pushed his aviator sunglasses up on his nose. “Probably nothing you can do to change him.”
“That’s a scary thought. I have no idea how he could have gotten way over here.”
“Shane Wilson claims he saw the cat slip out of a car.” The sheriff pointed toward a group of workers. “A fella stopped to ask the guys some questions. Opened his door, and the cat slipped out with him none the wiser. Got back in his car and drove away before Shane could stop him.”
“Jeez.” I wondered if Hitchcock came into town with Thomas, Aunt Rowe’s handyman at the cottages, w
hich I knew he did from time to time, then ended up in a stranger’s car. “Did the man stop for directions or what?”
“I didn’t ask,” Sheriff Crawford said. “Important thing is, I got Hitchcock before he ran into trouble. They don’t make hard hats for cats. Even if they did, you’d best keep him safe at home.”
“I plan to, but coincidentally, I was about to come looking for you to ask you something.”
The sheriff checked the concrete truck that had stopped partly in the road. The driver was out and talking to a man holding a clipboard.
“Ask away,” the sheriff said.
“You know Mrs. Honeycutt, lady who lives in that bright yellow house?”
“Better than I’d like to,” he said.
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“She’s a frequent nine-one-one caller.”
“How frequent?”
“Two, three times a week. Lady allegedly witnesses a record number of car thefts, assaults, and break-ins.”
“That explains a lot.” I told him about my conversation with the landlady and that I also happened to be looking for Jane Alcott, the renter who had allegedly been burglarized. “I don’t know if there’s any truth to Mrs. Honeycutt’s account, but she won’t forget about the incident until you have someone go over there and take a formal statement.”
“I plan to do that, soon as I finish here. Mrs. H makes a great pound cake.” He winked, and I laughed. “Now, get your cat. Car’s open.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
I went to the car and opened the door a couple of inches to reach my arm inside until I could get a hand on Hitchcock’s collar. Then I bumped the door open all the way with my hip and gathered the cat in my arms.
“You stinker,” I said. “This place is way too dangerous for a kitty cat.”
“Mrreow,” he said.
I closed the car door and with a firm grip on the cat turned to scan the site. Things looked much different here in the light of day. Work was going full steam ahead with one man on a backhoe moving a heap of dirt and several others working on what looked like forms for a new sidewalk. The driver had gotten back into the concrete truck, and beeping sounded as the truck backed in toward the building.
“Let’s skedaddle,” I said to Hitchcock. “We don’t want to hold up progress.”
I headed for my car and noticed a few workers had stopped to stare. One of them called out to me and said something about a bad luck cat. I pretended deafness and kept walking. Hitchcock squirmed in my arms.
“C’mon, boy. Please behave.”
He twisted hard and slipped out of my grasp, then ran toward the backhoe.
“Hitchcock, stop.” I ran after him, but that only caused him to run faster. “Help,” I hollered and waved to the Hispanic backhoe operator. “Stop. Turn it off.”
He looked at me, then appeared to notice the cat. Thankfully, he got the message and the machine stopped. The man climbed down and approached me.
“Lady, this is no place for El Gato Diablo.”
I stared at him. “He is Hitchcock, my cat, not El Gato Diablo, if there ever was such a cat.”
“Whatever,” he said, “you should get him away from here. I need to work.”
“I’m trying, but that’s not as easy as it might look.”
“He stops now.” The man lifted his hard hat and wiped his brow with a shirt sleeve. “There is something about this spot he likes.”
“Mrrrreeeeoooowww,” Hitchcock screeched.
I turned to watch the cat clawing at the ground like there was no tomorrow. Loose dirt flew out behind him as he dug.
“What in the world?” I said.
“He was here before,” the backhoe operator said. “Some smell got his attention.” He hurriedly turned from me when he spotted the man with the clipboard striding in our direction.
“Hey, what’s the holdup?” Clipboard Man yelled. “You break down?”
“No, no. I’m good.” The other man jumped on the backhoe and looked at me.
“Lady,” Clipboard Man said, “you wanna cozy up with the help, do it later. You’re holding up progress.”
“That is not what I want. I came to get my cat.”
“And I have a schedule to keep,” he said. “Not my fault somebody dumped your cat here.”
“Nobody dumped him. Please, have everybody sit still for a minute while I get my cat.” The concrete truck was between me and the sheriff, so I couldn’t count on him noticing my predicament and calling a halt to progress.
“Okay, a minute.” Clipboard Man pushed back a shirtsleeve to look at his watch. “Clock’s ticking.”
What a jerk.
I went after Hitchcock, praying he wouldn’t run before I could nab him. Thankfully, the cat was so intent on digging he paid no attention to my approach. I got a hand on his collar and caught a glimpse of something blue in the dirt. Why did that seem familiar?
I looped an arm under Hitchcock and lifted him. “Okay, boy. Let me help.”
I used my free hand to brush ground aside and saw something made of cloth embedded with dirt. I wiggled the blue object until I could get a grip and yank it out. A plastic strip designed for pills. This one was marked Monday. My heart raced. I pulled on the cloth and managed to unearth enough to identify a pillowcase. Unless I missed my guess, Hitchcock had found things that not so long ago had come from Jane Alcott’s apartment. My blood ran cold at the thought of what else might lie beneath the dirt.
Chapter 6
I cast a glance heavenward and prayed that my worst fear would not come true. Clouds drifted to block the bright sun, giving me an even worse sense of foreboding. Clipboard Man stood over me, obviously unhappy with my holding up progress. His thin, whiskered face had turned an unhealthy shade of red.
“Lady,” he repeated, “take your cat and go. Time is money in this business.”
“My name is Sabrina Tate.” I stood on shaky legs, my fingers wrapped tightly around Hitchcock’s collar. “I understand your predicament, Mr.— what was your name again?”
“I never told you, and why does that—” My expression must have convinced him to answer the question. “I’m Shane Wilson, the foreman of this job, so that’s why—”
I held up a hand to stop him. “Okay. I understand. I’m sorry.” I looked toward the spot where I’d last seen Sheriff Crawford, but the rumbling concrete truck still sat between us. I had to get him over here to see what Hitchcock and I had found before Wilson had me hauled away bodily. I wondered if the sheriff would hear his phone ring over the truck noise. I pulled out mine and looked at the screen. How I would love to see a new string of texts coming in from Jane Alcott, but I didn’t think that would happen. Ever again.
Stop jumping to conclusions, Sabrina.
Hitchcock squirmed, and I dropped the phone.
“Shoot.” I bent to pick it up, and the cat slipped from my grasp. I grabbed at him and managed to snag his collar again.
“What’s the matter with you?” Wilson said. “You want to play with the phone and the cat, least you could do is get out of our way so we can go about our business.”
I met his gaze head-on. “I can’t leave before I talk to the sheriff.”
“He’s right over there.” He pointed. “Go. Talk away.”
“No. I need him here.” I indicated the loose earth near my feet. “Would you mind terribly asking him to come and take a look?”
The man stared at the spot where I’d left the pill container. “People bury garbage, lady. Happens all the time. We’ll clean it up before we pour concrete. That make you feel better?”
Maybe he was right and this was only about some random junk buried in the ground. I forced a smile. “I see the sheriff first, before I leave. Right here. Now.” To make my point, I sat cross-legged on the ground and urged Hitchcock into my lap.
The cat looked up at me as if questioning this new game we were playing. “Mrreow.”
“Oh, for the love of Pete,” Wilson said.
“If we don’t get the concrete poured for that gazebo it’s my butt on the line. You get that?”
Gazebo? What did a library need with a gazebo?
I shelved the thought when I noticed the sheriff striding toward us. Our conversation had captured his attention.
“Sabrina,” he said when he got closer, “what’s going on? Are you hurt?”
I shook my head and stood, holding Hitchcock. I pointed at the dirt. “I’m fine, but there’s something suspicious here.”
The sheriff glanced at Wilson, then leaned forward to peer more closely at the dirt. He lifted his sunglasses to get a better look. “Looks like trash.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said. “That’s what I told her.”
“Remember Mrs. Honeycutt’s report of the intruder?” I said.
The sheriff’s bushy eyebrows drew together. “Sure.”
I moved closer to him, keeping my back to Wilson. “This might need to be for your ears only.”
The sheriff nodded his understanding and looked at the foreman. “You mind giving us a minute?”
Wilson’s complexion turned an even deeper shade of red. “C’mon, Sheriff, who’s gonna chip that concrete out of the truck when we don’t get it poured in time?”
The sheriff’s expression hardened. “A minute.”
Thirty minutes later, Hitchcock was in my car and standing up against the side window. I leaned against the outside of the car and watched as a burly man argued with the sheriff. He’d arrived on the scene within minutes of my explaining why the items in the dirt concerned me. I assumed Wilson had called in his superior.
The big guy was in Sheriff Crawford’s face, yelling and throwing his arms in the air like a baseball coach arguing a bad call with the umpire. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I knew the man wasn’t happy about the fact that the concrete delivery had been fouled up.
Two construction workers had shovels and worked nearby, cautiously exploring the spot where Hitchcock had made his discovery. I had the sensation of watching a movie—one where the next scene could end with a gruesome discovery or a big sigh of relief when everyone realized the whole mess had been one big false alarm. As I waited, I prayed for the latter.
