by Kay Finch
If she was going to berate the girl, the least she could do was lower her voice so customers couldn’t hear.
“I’ll do better, Ms. Boyd.” The young woman’s voice was barely audible.
“Oh, brother,” Marge muttered, then turned to me and pasted on a fake smile. “Sabrina. Welcome, and let me help you get crafty.”
I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. “Hi, Marge.”
“I’ll bet you’ve been dreaming up ideas for your scrapbook,” she went on, “and this is your lucky day.” She pulled a fistful of coupons from her apron pocket and plucked them out one at a time. “We have lots of today-only specials. Buy four, get one free. Twenty percent off your purchase of a ‘Starting Your Scrapbook’ kit. That’s an eighty-dollar value, so if this is the first purchase of your scrapbooking journey, then this is the deal for you.” She handed me several coupons, and I accepted them because I didn’t want to set her off.
“Is this the beginning of your journey?” she asked.
I smiled, feeling her gaze drill into me. “Yes, ma’am.” Hitchcock wiggled in the tote under my arm. He’d done fine on our first visit to this store and should be okay so long as I kept the visit short. I held him closer and hoped Marge wouldn’t notice. “Since I’m so new at crafting, I’m going to take baby steps. Also, I’m wondering whether you’ve seen my Aunt Rowe today.”
“Rowe?” Marge said. “Well certainly. The whole Crop Shop Crew is here taking advantage of our great sale. They have their scrapbooks in progress on display in the back so that others can be inspired to make their own.”
“Isn’t that nice?” I tried to match Marge’s tone but my words came out feeling as fake as they were. “I’ll go and find my aunt first, before I begin shopping.”
The store clerk, who stood behind Marge, pointed toward the right of the store, and I smiled my thanks. As I walked away, Marge called after me, “Don’t forget the buy four, get one.”
“Got it,” I said, and walked away swiftly.
I headed down an aisle stocked with more sequins and glitter than I’d ever seen in one place. I hurried by and hoped that no glitter had jumped out and attached itself to me.
I took the first right and scanned aisles as I passed. The heavyset woman named Naomi stood alone in one aisle, and I scooted past before she could notice me. She was in a walking boot and no doubt still blamed Hitchcock for giving her the bad luck to fall.
Aunt Rowe stood in an aisle with more serious crafting tools—hot glue guns, box cutters, knives of various shapes and sizes. She and the woman with her were inspecting a tool in Aunt Rowe’s hand that looked like a pizza cutter.
My aunt looked up. “Sabrina. Whatever are you doing in here? I thought you’d be out chasing down leads on the murder investigation.” She glanced at my tote and chuckled, no doubt noticing the cat-shaped bulge under my arm. Then she turned to her friend. “Ashley, have you met my niece Sabrina?”
“Yes, in passing the other night.” The woman smiled and went down the aisle, browsing.
I looked at the item in Aunt Rowe’s hand. “You having pizza?”
“No, no. We need this rotary cutter for the scrapbooks.” She leaned in to whisper in my ear. “I’m not really into this, you know. I’m going along to appease Marge, support the local business owners, and all that jazz. Even if this owner is a curmudgeon.” Aunt Rowe shifted and tossed the rotary cutter into the shopping basket on her arm.
“Marge wants me to start a scrapbook,” I said, “but that’s not on my agenda.” I glanced over my shoulder and saw that we were now alone. “I just left Tyanne, and we were discussing what happened to Jane Alcott.”
“Imagine my surprise.”
I ignored her teasing sarcasm. “You probably heard Sheriff Crawford suspects Tyanne’s husband of murdering Jane.”
Aunt Rowe’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, but is there any reason for such a thing?”
“He may think so, but I don’t believe he has any worthwhile evidence.” I blew out a breath. “Tyanne is a mess.”
“Bless her heart,” Aunt Rowe said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“Maybe sweet-talk your boyfriend into dropping this ridiculous line of inquiry.” She and Sheriff Crawford might not be officially dating, but there was definitely something between them.
Color rose in Aunt Rowe’s cheeks. “If it comes to that, tell me, and I’ll see what I can do. Now, let me round up these Crop Shop gals so we can get out of here and into the fresh air.”
She hurried down the aisle with me on her heels. “I hope to high heaven y’all aren’t going up in a hot air balloon,” I blurted.
Aunt Rowe stopped walking and turned to look at me. Naomi and a woman with a messy ponytail came around the corner to join my aunt.
“What’s wrong with that idea?” Ponytail Woman said in a tone that sounded like I’d personally offended her. “You’re like my daughter, trying to keep me from being adventurous for once in my life.”
“I’d like to hear your problem, too.” Naomi glared at me. “I can manage getting into a balloon, even though I can’t do much else ever since your cat jinxed me.”
Hitchcock wriggled in the tote. I squeezed my arm into him and turned to put my body between the women and the cat. He was not a happy camper, and I’d have to get him out of here soon.
“Now, girls,” Aunt Rowe said. “Sabrina can be a worrywart, but she’s watching out for our best interests.”
“That’s right,” I said. “I’m all in favor of the scrapbooking activities, though.”
Marge, coming up behind me, had heard the comment. “I agree one hundred percent.” She eyed the shopping baskets looped over the other women’s arms, then at my empty hands. “You haven’t chosen anything yet? I can help you, unless your friends here want to make some suggestions. Have you chosen your scrapbook pages?” Her gaze landed on my tote. “Oh, are your selections in the bag?”
“Um, no.” My face felt hot. “That’s just my—”
Hitchcock squirmed, and his head poked out of the tote.
“It’s the cat,” Naomi shouted. She took something from her basket and threw it toward Hitchcock.
“Stop that,” I said. “He’s not hurting anything.”
“I don’t allow animals inside the store,” Marge said.
“Okay, okay. We’re going.”
“The cat’s harmless,” Aunt Rowe said.
With those words, Hitchcock leapt out of the tote and landed on a shelf. Cards holding buttons and sequins and Lord knew what else flew in all directions. Naomi screamed as Hitchcock raced past her in the direction of the door. I froze in place for an instant.
Aunt Rowe touched my arm. “You go on. Take care of Hitchcock, and I’ll handle this mess.”
She didn’t have to tell me twice.
Chapter 19
I drove home faster than usual, regretting my bad decision to take Hitchcock into the craft store. What had I been thinking? Lord knew the cat got himself into enough scrapes on his own. This one was on me. I should have walked out the moment I spotted the superstitious Naomi inside. But no, I kept right on going and ignored the potential for disaster. And then I left Aunt Rowe behind to clean up after us. I knew she could handle the situation, but I felt like such a coward.
Stop beating yourself up, Sabrina.
I glanced over at Hitchcock on the passenger seat. The cat looked unperturbed, as if nothing had happened. Of course, my need to get him away from any possible danger overruled everything else. Aunt Rowe understood that. And now I was headed back home—to the very place where Naomi, unfortunately, was staying.
You’d think the woman would have chosen to cut her trip short after she injured herself. Was her bucket list so all-fired important she had to stay until every last item was crossed off? I toyed with the idea of suggesting a new bucket list activity for the Crop Shop Crew—face your fears and embrace a black cat. The idea made me laugh.
We arrived at home, and I jerked the car to
a stop in the driveway beside the Monte Carlo cottage. I shifted in my seat to look at Hitchcock. “You need to go into hiding for a while—at least until Naomi leaves. You know that, right?”
“Mrreow,” he said.
“Let’s go grab a bite to eat before they get back.” I opened my car door, and he bolted across me and jumped to the ground. I’m not sure how the cat knew I meant to get my lunch at Aunt Rowe’s house, but he headed in that direction straightaway. I caught up with him at the back door and we went inside.
The kitchen was quiet. Nothing cooking at this time of day—Glenda often went home to join her husband for lunch and stayed until it was time to come back and begin preparing dinner. I refreshed the water in Hitchcock’s bowl, then checked the refrigerator. I pulled out leftover sliced roast beef, a package of Swiss cheese, and the mustard to make myself a sandwich. Between bites, I cut beef into bite-size pieces for Hitchcock. He attacked the treat with gusto.
Preoccupied with my thoughts, I ate standing up. I would lock Hitchcock inside our cottage—with prayers that he wouldn’t find a way to break free and get himself into more trouble—and then go in search of Sheriff Crawford. I’d show him Jane’s comment about feeling threatened. See if I could worm any new information out of him. Did he have other suspects on his list besides Bryan? Maybe by now Bryan had turned over evidence to support his alibi. Lord, I hoped so.
As I cleaned up after myself, Hitchcock stood by the back door, probably itching to go out and roam. “Okay,” I told him, “we’ll go for a walk. Use up some of your energy before those ladies get back. But I’m keeping a close eye on you. After that, sir, you are going into lockup.”
“Mrreow.”
We headed out and walked along the path near the river’s edge. The rush of the water usually soothed me—not today, when I had so much on my mind. I ticked off things that I could do.
Have a talk with Shane Wilson and ask him what kind of issues he had with Jane.
Find out if Cody Flores was an angry rejected suitor.
Follow up on Mr. X’s license plate number, and ask Doreen Krenek what the man talked to her about at the bank.
I paused and sighed.
Turn over all of the above to the sheriff when I talk to him about Jane’s text message. The smarter path.
One thing I could take care of myself was to check on Tyanne. I hoped she was holding up okay. If she was back to her usual self she’d ask me about my writing. That brought up a whole different list of tasks.
Check for emails from my agent or editor.
Set up book signing dates.
Work on my social media presence.
Review the plot of my novel in progress.
Write some new pages.
Yeah, right. I had next to no ability to focus at the moment. As I scanned the trees ahead and the river, my thoughts turned to Luke. He was waiting for a response from me about the proposed weekend getaway. Had I given him a clear answer that his invitation was exciting, a welcome surprise, and that I definitely was interested? I hoped I hadn’t acted wishy-washy about the idea, because I absolutely wanted to go. And where would I most like to go with him?
Anywhere at all—the place didn’t matter.
Hitchcock scampered along the riverbank, jumped at leaves, and walked on fallen tree trunks. I could see why Luke enjoyed his job—spending the majority of his time outdoors, especially on pretty days like this one. High sixties. Partly sunny. Fluffy white clouds.
A perfectly glorious day—one of the things Jane Alcott would never again enjoy.
The thought sobered me.
I wondered if Jane had done something in particular on the last day of her life that led to her death. Had she shown up in the wrong place at the wrong time? Seen something she shouldn’t have seen? Said the wrong thing to the wrong person? A person who snapped in a moment or planned Jane’s death in advance?
I glanced toward Hitchcock, but he wasn’t in sight. My breath caught for a moment until I spotted him leaving the path to walk through the wooded area near the cottages. He was into his wandering mode—time to cut the walk short before I lost track of him completely.
I hurried after the cat. His steps seemed purposeful as he reached the lawn behind the Athens cottage. I couldn’t remember which of the ladies was staying there, but I hoped she was in town with Aunt Rowe and not looking out a window. I didn’t need any of the guests reporting bouts of bad luck tied to a Hitchcock sighting.
The cat passed Athens and headed for Barcelona.
I didn’t want to attract attention, but I wanted the cat to stop.
“Psst, Hitchcock, come back here.” I stuffed my hand in a pocket and felt around for the tuna treats I sometimes carried but came up empty.
Maybe the man in Barcelona—Fred Costello—was in town again today, working on the genealogy project he’d mentioned to Max. I couldn’t really picture a man like him sitting around and working on family tree diagrams, though I supposed the task was easier these days with computers. For all I knew he might be out conducting interviews of family members related to his project. Whatever the case, I didn’t want the man to see me skulking around and hoped he wasn’t here. I needed to get my hands on Hitchcock and carry him back home.
The cat took a turn toward the rear of the cottage. I jogged in that direction and stopped short when I heard Costello’s voice.
“You’re dead wrong,” he said in a gruff tone. “Situation’s bad enough without you showing your face.” I tiptoed in the grass—like he could have heard me walking through grass—and peeked quickly around the corner of the building. Costello stood on the cottage’s small rectangular deck. He wore khaki trousers with a black golf shirt—no suit today.
“I said stay away, and I meant it,” he continued. “I got this.”
I hadn’t seen a phone in his hand, but maybe he was using earbuds I couldn’t see. I wondered if Hitchcock was walking in plain sight of the man. I could round the cottage casually with a wave and a question—have you seen my cat? The tenor of his conversation held me back. He sounded—what? More than aggravated. He was seriously ticked.
His voice raised. “I need results. Now.” A fist pounded what I guessed was the side of the cottage for emphasis.
My heart skipped. Wait. That was a different voice. A second man. Costello had a visitor. I chanced another quick peek. The second guy was smaller and thin in comparison to Costello’s bulky, muscular frame. This man wore a black suit. I caught his profile before taking cover. Was that Mr. X?
“You’ll get your results,” Costello said. “I know what I’m doing.”
“You’re not getting the job done. I can help.” The tone raised gooseflesh on my arms. “You know I’m not a patient man.”
“I need more time,” Costello said. “Circumstances have changed.”
“You think?”
“Don’t be a wiseass,” Costello said. “Go home before you get us in a jam. I’ll be in touch.”
His words seemed to grow closer. Was he coming in my direction? Oh, jeez, I didn’t want them to see me. I didn’t know where Hitchcock had gotten off to. Knowing the cat, he probably walked right into the middle of their conversation without giving his actions a second thought.
Of course not. He’s a cat.
I had to move. Hitchcock would catch up with me. I whirled and hurried alongside the cottage. Around the corner.
And bumped straight into a man.
I yelped, and the man caught my arms.
“Sabrina. Quiet.”
I blinked, and Thomas came into focus.
“C’mon,” he said. Still holding my arm, he led me around the Athens cottage to a spot where the men couldn’t see us.
I peered around the corner and saw a gray car parked in front of the Barcelona cottage, next to Costello’s black one.
“It is Mr. X,” I said.
“Who?” Thomas said.
“Long story. I’ll tell you in a minute.” I continued to watch. Would either man sho
w himself?
Behind me, Thomas said, “How much did you hear?”
“Enough to get the gist. One guy sent the other to do a job that’s not done yet, and he’s not happy.”
“Not one bit,” Thomas said. “Costello works for the second guy. Worked for his father, too.”
“What? Wait. How do you know?”
“Little guy said he didn’t know what his father ever saw in Costello. Said he’s due the same respect since he’s the one who writes the checks.”
“And what did Costello say?”
“He won’t stop until the job’s done.”
“What’s the job?”
“Don’t know.” Thomas shrugged. “I spotted the new guy when he drove in. Thought he took a wrong turn at first and kept an eye on him. Then I realized Costello knows the guy.”
“They don’t like each other much.”
“Nope,” Thomas said.
A car door slammed, and an engine revved. We watched as the gray sedan, with Mr. X behind the wheel, took off in a spray of gravel.
“Impatient dude,” Thomas said. “You called him Mr. X. Why?”
“My nickname. I saw him in Emerald Springs. He was watching a house—one that Jane Alcott had owned. A friend of hers lives there. I didn’t know if he had his eye on the woman or the house.”
“Maybe both,” Thomas said. “He’s lookin’ for something and checking out every possibility.”
“Not only in Emerald Springs. I saw him at the bank here in Lavender earlier today. He was asking about safe-deposit boxes. Then he chatted with Doreen Krenek.”
Thomas frowned. “I don’t see the mayor’s wife knowing this guy.”
“Maybe she didn’t, but they discussed Jane Alcott. It’s not much, but there could be a connection between Jane and Mr. X, who’s connected to Costello, and maybe these men are connected to her murder.”
Thomas looked at me. “That’s a long shot.”
“Maybe.”
“I thought you leaned toward guys on the construction crew.”
“We can’t rule anyone out.”
