by Kay Finch
I knew it! He was fishing.
“Sabrina.” The voice came from behind me. “Long time no see.”
I turned. Daisy McKetta of McKetta’s Barbeque crossed the lobby toward me. “When is your book coming out? I can’t wait.”
“Hi, Daisy.” I met her halfway so she wouldn’t come over to where Mr. X could hear our conversation. “In a few months. You can pre-order it online or—even better—from Tyanne at the bookstore.” I positioned myself so I could see Mr. X with a slight glance to my right. He and the clerk were positively chatty now, and I was too far away to hear a word.
“Great,” Daisy said. “I’ll do that. How’s your aunt? I haven’t seen her in weeks. Heard she and some friends are going up in a hot air balloon. I’d be petrified myself, but Rowe has more gumption in her little toe than I have in my whole body.”
Hot air balloon?
Her words had stunned me, and she could probably tell by my expression.
“Was that a secret?” she said. “Lord knows this isn’t the first time I blurted out something I shouldn’t have.”
Daisy was known for spreading rumors and gossip—the reason I didn’t want her to realize I was spying on Mr. X. I waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll hear all about Aunt Rowe’s plans when I get back to the cottages.”
Or after the hot air balloon event had already happened.
“Hey, how about that murder?” Daisy said. “You’re getting to be an old pro at discovering crime scenes, aren’t you?”
“It was an unfortunate coincidence,” I said.
“But that cat of yours has a nose for finding bodies. I’ve heard of cadaver dogs, never a cadaver cat, but it seems like that’s what he is.”
Jeez, the thought had never crossed my mind. Some of the patrons must have heard what Daisy said because they looked our way with curious expressions. If they associated me with Hitchcock and the bad luck cat legend, plus Daisy’s talk of cadaver cats, another wave of black cat protestors might surface. I wanted to separate myself from Daisy pronto, but she wasn’t finished.
She lowered her voice. “You know who I think did it?”
I was still hoping to tune in to Mr. X’s conversation, but her question perked up my interest. I turned to face her, praying that she wouldn’t say Bryan Clark. “Who?”
“Shane Wilson,” she said. “I’ll betcha anything.”
“That’s a serious allegation,” I said, “and I’m not a betting person. What makes you think he’s guilty.”
“He and his pals come into the restaurant every Friday night. End of a hard week, and for some odd reason they like to relive every bit of it. Wilson was always griping about Jane. He couldn’t tolerate one word from that woman. I always wondered if she reminded him of a lifelong enemy or something. I doubt she deserved his verbal abuse.”
The thing was, I realized, we didn’t know what Jane might have done in her past. For all we knew, Wilson had a legitimate complaint about her. And here Daisy was, condemning him as the murderer. Not that his name hadn’t crossed my own suspect list, but still.
“Hey, who’s that with Mrs. Krenek?” Daisy said, interrupting my musing.
I turned to see Doreen Krenek standing outside the cubicle with Mr. X. She wore black slacks with a turquoise tunic and multiple strands of colorful wooden beads. Either I’d missed her coming in or she was already here when I arrived.
I faced Daisy again, edging backward and closer to the two. “I have no idea who he is. Looks like the mayor’s wife does, though.”
“Not necessarily,” Daisy said thoughtfully. “He looks like he has money, and she gravitates toward that type.”
“You sound like you’ve studied her,” I said.
“Nope. I like to watch people. Everybody comes to eat barbeque, and all I do is observe. She’s a type.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“If the man she’s with gives her half a chance, she’ll appoint him to some committee. They might be talking about an appointment as we speak.”
We stood quietly for a moment, not bothering to hide our nosiness as we eavesdropped.
Doreen Krenek’s voice rose dramatically. “She was like a daughter to me. The daughter I never had.”
“She’s talking about Jane,” Daisy said. “Everybody knows how Mrs. Krenek fought to get Jane in that head librarian spot. I can’t imagine what she’s going to do about that now.”
I didn’t want the woman to spot me any more than I wanted to gain Mr. X’s attention, so I made excuses to Daisy and scooted out the door and back to my car. I expected a bunch of questions from Tyanne, but she didn’t say anything after I got in and shut the door.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Bryan called. He didn’t find the receipt.”
Tyanne wore the distressed expression of a mom who just learned her child broke a bone on the playground, and my heart ached for her. “So, you want to go over to the office and help him look?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s driving back to the store to try and get a duplicate.”
“I’m sorry, Ty, but this is good. He’ll get the receipt, and all will be well.” I tried to block the fact that Rosales was convinced of Bryan’s guilt. If it turned out he couldn’t prove otherwise, then what?
She looked like a change of subject would do her good, so I said, “You’ll never guess who Mr. X was chatting with in there.”
“Who?”
“First he asked a clerk about safe-deposit boxes. Next thing I knew, he and Doreen Krenek were chatting like old friends.”
“Huh,” Ty said.
“Exactly. Let’s go for coffee, and I’ll tell you all about it. Unless you need to get back to the house.”
“No, I’m up for coffee. But please, let me hit the ATM first.”
When we got to Hot Stuff we opted to sit outside with Hitchcock rather than locking him in the car. Not that the weather was too hot today. It was actually a very pleasant sixty-something. We needed to enjoy the reasonable temperature while it lasted. The oppressive summer heat would be here all too soon.
Pauline, the new waitress, emerged from the coffee shop holding a tray with two steaming mugs. She narrowly missed tripping on the sidewalk and managed to catch herself and deliver the drinks to a couple seated near us. Then she approached our table and smiled when she asked what she could get us. The smile didn’t reach her red-rimmed eyes. Either she’d been crying or she suffered from spring allergies.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“I’m making do,” she said. “Please don’t tell Max, but this job simply isn’t me.”
Max already knows, I thought, but kept the words to myself.
“Not everyone is cut out to be a waitress,” Tyanne said, “and that’s okay.”
“Thank you.” Pauline spotted Hitchcock as he came out from under the table and rubbed against my leg. “I’d do a lot better if everyone was as kind as you two and brought their beautiful kitty cats to visit me.” She stooped to pet Hitchcock, then pulled her hand back. “Yikes. Max will have a fit if he sees I’ve touched a cat in between serving customers. I’ll have to run to the ladies’ room and wash up.” She took our orders quickly and hurried inside.
I was mulling over Daisy McKetta’s claim that Shane Wilson was the murderer and was about to bring her comment up to Tyanne when my phone pinged. I pulled it out and saw a text from Luke.
Here’s another idea. Corpus Christi is nice this time of year. Long as we avoid spring break.
I smiled and felt guilty at the same time. Luke was thinking about me, but I was busy thinking about a killer.
“What’s the grin for?” Tyanne said.
I looked up from the phone. “Luke. He invited me to go on a weekend getaway with him.”
Tyanne beamed. “Just now? By text?”
“No. Last night. Over dinner at his place.”
“And you didn’t call me immediately? This is big, Sabrina.”
&
nbsp; I shrugged. “I didn’t want to share happy news when you’re in the middle of a crisis.”
“Okay, I get it. But this is wonderful, and I’m happy for you. You’re going, right?”
“Yes, even though we don’t know exactly when or where yet.” I shared the two ideas Luke had presented so far.
“You know,” she said, “your relationship is beginning to sound serious.”
“That’s how it feels, too.” I smiled. “I’ll be ready to take off and relax as soon as the murder case is solved.”
“Hold that crazy thought,” Tyanne said. “Here’s our coffee.”
Pauline placed our mugs on the table. She tipped her tray too much and a spoon slid off and hit the concrete. She stooped under the table to retrieve the spoon, then hit her head on the underside of the table on her way up. I caught the sides of the table to hold it still and keep our mugs from toppling.
“Oh, Lordy. Told you I wasn’t cut out for this job.”
“No harm done,” I said.
“What I really wanted,” Pauline said, “was the librarian job, but that’s not happening.”
Tyanne looked at her. “How do you know? The job is open now.”
Pauline shook her head. “I wouldn’t want it under the circumstances. I prefer living in the city anyway. My mother claimed Lavender was so much safer, but I can see that’s not true.”
“It is most of the time,” I said.
Pauline shrugged. “She wanted me close so she could keep me under her thumb, and I’ve already had more than enough of that.”
“I understand.” I thought of my own mother and how much better it was to have a few hundred miles between us.
Pauline’s expression grew wistful. “If only I were talented like you, Sabrina, I’d write books. You’re so lucky.” Belatedly, she said, “Oh, I need to fetch you a clean spoon.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “We’ll share.”
After Pauline left us, Tyanne looked at me. “You are lucky, you know.”
“Yes, I realize that.” I took a tentative sip of my steaming coffee.
“And taking that trip with Luke should not be dependent on what happens with the murder case.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear excuses,” Ty said. “I’m right about this.”
“Okay.” I held my tongue, thinking that Tyanne was taking the place of my mother on some level.
“Another thing,” she said.
I rolled my eyes. “What is it?”
“You wanted this writing career for a long time, but now you’re ignoring it.”
A wave of well-deserved guilt washed over me. “I don’t mean to.”
“Hasn’t your agent been bugging you about publicity?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Have you heard from her lately?”
“Uh, no.”
“When have you checked your email?” She paused for a drink of coffee and to wait for me to look at my email account.
I picked up my phone and spotted the number of unread messages. More than three hundred. “I guess it’s been a while.”
“How about those good publicity ideas Jane sent you? Have you read them?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s check them now.” Ty placed her mug on the table. “I can help you summarize her advice.”
With faint strains of “Ladies Night” coming from inside, we read through Jane’s texts. Hitchcock curled up on my lap while Tyanne made notes for me about blogs, giveaway ideas, and social media tips. She jotted down names of mystery bookstores for me to contact, then we went back to the last of Jane’s texts.
I read aloud. “Post daily and at the same time every day. Readers want to know more about you.”
I looked at Ty. “What would I say every day?”
“I can show you some writers who post daily,” Ty said. “You’ll get in a groove.”
“If you say so.”
I went on to the next text. “Enjoy the ride. Not everyone gets to take it. This is depressing given what happened to Jane,” I said.
Ty nodded.
I read the next message, then reread the words a second time. Gooseflesh prickled my arm.
Ty must have sensed my concern. “What is it?”
“Listen to this one.”
“I appreciate people like you, Sabrina—a rose among the threatening thorns in this town.”
Chapter 18
The coffee shop, the music, and even my cat milling around under the table faded to the background as I stared at Jane’s message. The woman had felt threatened by someone in Lavender. Who? Was it one of the men at the construction site? Maybe more than one of them? Or someone who had yet to cross my mind? I thought back to our conversation with Mrs. Honeycutt. What story did Jane want to tell in the book she talked of writing? Was it related to the threat she felt?
Hitchcock rubbed against my leg, and the sound of his purr brought me back to reality. Tyanne was speaking, but I hadn’t picked up a single word she’d said.
I placed my phone on the table and faced my friend. “Sorry. I got lost there for a minute.”
Tyanne took a sip of her coffee and put her mug down. “What I said was I think Jane’s text message sounds like a quote from some book she read.”
“Possibly,” I said, “but her words struck me as real. She seemed frightened. As if she knew someone was out to get her.”
“A threat doesn’t have to be physical,” Ty said, “and we didn’t know Jane well enough or for a long enough time to pick up on her emotional fears. Don’t forget, Jane had a tendency to be overly dramatic.” She paused, and her eyes misted. “Kids would have loved that about her at library story time.”
I thought about what the whole town may have missed with Jane’s passing. A lot of good came from vivacious people like her. I felt awful for being annoyed with the woman when she was only trying to help me. Now it was my turn to help her, if I could.
A trio of women passed our table on their way into Hot Stuff. I leaned across our table to get closer to Tyanne and lowered my voice. “We can’t discount the fact that Jane said she felt threatened. Truth or fiction, the text message is real. And Jane was murdered. That’s real, too. Way too real.”
Tyanne stared into her coffee mug as if she wished she could crawl inside.
I waited a few seconds before dipping my head to peer at her face. Her expression told me she was back to worrying about her husband and the fact that he could be falsely arrested for the murder. I reached across and placed my palm on the table in front of her.
“I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about this.”
She raised her head slowly. Tears inched down her cheeks. “Sheriff Crawford needs to know about the text. I can’t imagine him believing Bryan threatened Jane, but—”
“Ty, no. He won’t think that.” I wondered if the sheriff’s department had Jane’s phone and had already reviewed her texts. Would the sheriff tell me if they had?
Tyanne sighed. “I have to believe he’ll find the person who did this.”
“He will,” I said.
She pushed her chair back and stood. “I have to get back. If I don’t hit the grocery store today, we’re having saltines for dinner.”
“Want me to take you?”
“Drop me at home. I’ll be fine.” She looked down at Hitchcock, who had curled up alongside her feet. My cat always knew when people needed comfort.
After leaving Tyanne at her house, I put in a call to the sheriff’s office. I wanted to talk to him in person, but he wasn’t in and they didn’t expect him until late afternoon. Even if he had Jane’s phone and had seen her texts to me, I wanted to explain what had led up to her sending me so many messages. Okay, so maybe I wanted a face-to-face to squeeze him for information about the investigation. I’d probably be wasting my breath, but that had never stopped me from nosing into police business before.
I’d ping in with him later. For now I headed home, b
acktracking down the main drag of Lavender. It would be well past lunchtime when I arrived at the cottages, but I could always scrounge up something yummy in the refrigerator at Aunt Rowe’s.
Partway through town, though, I spotted my aunt with some of her bucket list friends walking down the sidewalk. Aunt Rowe was dressed in jeans with boots and her plaid flannel jacket. A bit warm for this sunny day, but possibly well suited for a ride in a hot air balloon. I had heard about disasters happening in those balloons. If going up in one was on her mind, I had to take a crack at talking her out of the idea.
“Emergency stop,” I said to Hitchcock and pulled into a parking spot on the street. I got out of the car and stood on tiptoe to get a fix on Aunt Rowe’s destination, then bent down to snatch my tote and pick up Hitchcock. “I think she’s in the craft store, so you’ll have to ride in the tote. Okay?”
“Mrreow.”
Usually, he’d go willingly. This time, his body seemed to turn to jelly as he thrashed from side to side in his attempt to avoid being confined.
“What’s wrong, buddy?” I said gently. “We’re going to catch up with Aunt Rowe for a minute. Then we’ll go home, and you can do whatever you want for the rest of the day. Within reason.” The cat stopped wiggling and looked up at me with earnest eyes. Sometimes, I swore he understood English. “I promise.”
“Mrr,” he said half-heartedly. I urged him toward the tote, and he slid in. Apparently, we had struck a deal. I slipped the tote straps over my shoulder, and we were off.
Three minutes later, when I walked into Get Crafty, a young brunette woman thrust a flyer at me. In a monotone, she said, “Welcome, and let’s get crafty.”
I accepted the piece of paper and glanced around for Aunt Rowe. She wasn’t in my line of vision, but Marge Boyd was. She came bearing down like a grizzly, focused on the girl who’d given me the ad.
“That’s what you call gusto?” Marge said to the clerk. “We’ve been over this. If sales are down today, it’s going to reflect poorly on you.”
