by Kay Finch
I glanced her way. She was talking to Fred, but she seemed standoffish rather than happy to spend time with him. If she didn’t want to deal with the man, why didn’t she simply walk away? Did they have a reason for sticking together?
I was tapping my foot in time with “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” when arms snaked around my waist. A familiar Luke Griffin move. His breath warmed my ear.
“Don’t panic, it’s me,” Luke said.
I turned, laughing, and he gave me a quick kiss. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
“I was. I’m on a break.”
He took the glass from my hand and placed it on the bar. “Babe, this is the number-one line-dancing hit of all time.”
“I wore myself out on the lessons,” I said.
Luke took my hand and tugged me toward the floor. “Who needs lessons?”
Chapter 28
I woke the next morning with a smile as I remembered the fabulous evening of dancing with Luke at the Wild Pony. He’d told me he knew how to line dance, and he wasn’t joking. The man definitely had the moves down, and I’d enjoyed watching him as I tried to follow along. The night was cut short when he was called out to help the sheriff’s department direct traffic around an accident and keep the nosy onlookers at bay.
I’m admittedly a nosy person, but I never felt drawn to the scene of a traffic accident. I’m generally more nosy about people than events. Case in point, I was still in bed and already wondering about the mysterious interloper Ashley. Did the woman have a purpose for coming to Lavender—besides befriending the Crop Shop Crew and making a scrapbook? I could come up with a dozen possible reasons for her making the trip. Unless looking for a man was her goal, why would she hang around Costello? That was the real question. Had she known him beforehand? If so, why the charade?
I swung my legs over the side of the bed and groaned. Line dancing had worked a gazillion muscles I don’t normally use. I flopped onto my back and stretched, then looked to either side for Hitchcock. Where was he?
“Mrreow.”
I lifted my head to see my cat standing on the windowsill. He stuck a paw between the blinds to create a space to peer through.
I sat up and rested on my elbows. “You bird watching, buddy?”
“Mrrrreeeooowww.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll come see for myself.” I dragged my body off the bed and hobbled over to see what had attracted the cat’s attention. I turned the wand to open the blinds and bent closer to look out. I blinked to clear my vision.
A sheriff’s department car with lights flashing was parked near the Barcelona cottage next to Aunt Rowe’s golf cart. My heart lurched. Now what? I threw on my clothes and shoes and ran across the grass, arriving less than two minutes after I’d looked out the window.
I pulled up short when I saw Aunt Rowe standing near the cottage’s front door with Deputy Rosales and Fred Costello. My nosiness gene kept me from going back the way I came before anyone spotted me.
“What I don’t understand, Deputy Rosales,” Aunt Rowe said, “is why you’re just now responding to Thomas’s report of a break-in last night. The delay is unacceptable.”
“Another break-in?” I blurted, and the three of them looked my way.
“Good morning, Sabrina,” Aunt Rowe said.
Rosales’s gaze flitted to me, then returned to Aunt Rowe. “You’ve had more than one break-in?”
“No,” Aunt Rowe said before turning to me. “Unless Sabrina knows something I don’t.”
“That’s not it.” I shook my head. “Sorry for the confusion. I was thinking about the three other break-ins connected to the murder of Jane Alcott—two at Mrs. Honeycutt’s and one at Jane’s house in Emerald Springs.”
Rosales frowned. “We aren’t talking about the murder.”
“Don’t worry yourself about this break-in on my account,” Costello said. “No harm done. Nothing taken. At least nothing belonging to me.”
“That’s not the point,” Aunt Rowe said.
“Like I already explained, Ms. Flowers,” Deputy Rosales said, “we’re short-handed and working a murder investigation.”
Costello focused on Rosales. “Any closer to solving that case?”
She glared at him. “I don’t discuss our cases with civilians, Mr. Costello. I thought we already had that straight.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll shoot some pictures of the damage, write up a report, and get out of your way.”
Someone had obviously kicked in the cottage door and splintered the jamb in the process. I watched as the deputy snapped pictures from several angles.
“Let’s take a look inside to cover all the bases while I’m here,” she said.
Aunt Rowe and Costello went along with her. I thought about going back to my place, but I didn’t want to miss anything. I guess Hitchcock didn’t either because I noticed him nosing along the side wall of the cottage. I stepped to the doorway and poked my head in. Costello had a laptop on the kitchen table—he used the table as a desk the same way I used mine, except his surface was paper-free, while mine was cluttered with printed manuscript pages and notes.
Aunt Rowe’s voice came from the direction of the bedroom. “Looks like whoever did this tried to jimmy the window, too. See the marks in the wood?”
I took another step into the cottage and looked around. Aunt Rowe kept a guest book on the coffee table of each cottage for guests to jot a note about their stay if they desired. I didn’t see Costello memorializing his thoughts in a book. Next to the guest book a few current magazines were fanned out. The one on the top right captured my attention. Wine Enthusiast. I quickly crossed the room for a closer look. This wasn’t one of Aunt Rowe’s. The issue was marked November/December—several months old. Only a speck of paper remained where the mailing label had been ripped off.
The deputy’s voice came closer. I retraced my steps and returned to the porch. Was that one of the magazines I’d seen in Kylie’s house? I remembered there were several related to wine. They sat with the pile of mail. The mail Kylie reported as stolen. All addressed to Jane—the apparent wine lover—judging by her magazine subscriptions and the regular deliveries of wine that Mrs. Honeycutt spoke of.
Not enough reason to quiz Costello about this magazine. Not yet anyway.
Deputy Rosales marched out ahead of the others holding an evidence bag and looked me in the eye. “Where were you last night while this break-in occurred?”
She had to be kidding me.
“Sabrina was dancing with the rest of us.” Aunt Rowe came out behind Rosales. “I already said we were at the Wild Pony.”
Rosales’s gaze didn’t waver from my face. “Is that your alibi as well?”
I couldn’t believe she thought I needed an alibi. I lived here, and I wouldn’t damage anything that belonged to my aunt unless someone’s life depended on it. Rosales knew that, and I knew she was baiting me.
“Yes, that’s my alibi.” She didn’t need to know any particulars about the night before.
Aunt Rowe moved to stand between me and the deputy. “Sabrina had a grand time last night. She was with me, and Fred, and several of my other guests, so you can check with them if you like. Ask Jimmy Bob or Chester, the owner. Everyone will remember the show Sabrina and Luke Griffin put on.”
I looked at the ground. No, Aunt Rowe. Stop.
“Show?” Rosales said.
“I’m tellin’ you,” Aunt Rowe said. “They were like Patrick Swayze and that girl, what’s-her-name, in Dirty Dancing.”
She was laying it on way too thick. I could practically see steam rising from the deputy’s head.
Aunt Rowe beamed. “The warden is one hot number when it comes to dancing. Did you know that about him, Deputy? Hot-diggity-dog.”
Behind her, Costello snorted. “Are you women finished with me? It’s getting deep out here, and I have some work to do.”
Rosales mumbled something about writing up her report and made a quick getaway. She left with a glare in my direction that I would
n’t soon forget.
Aunt Rowe told Costello that Thomas would be around shortly to fix the door. The man went inside and pushed the cottage door shut as best he could. Aunt Rowe and I climbed into the golf cart and waited for Hitchcock to jump in before we headed to the house.
“Good grief, Aunt Rowe. You shouldn’t have done that.”
Aunt Rowe grinned. “Couldn’t help myself. The opportunity sat right there in front of me, and I grabbed it. That woman had to know sooner or later that your relationship with Luke is serious, and she needs to keep her mitts off.”
“She does, but—”
“No buts,” she said. “Now she knows.”
“She knows Luke’s a good dancer,” I said.
“She can put two and two together from there,” she said. “She’s only slow responding to the report of a break-in.”
Luke had explained our relationship to Rosales several months ago, but she continued to ignore the fact. I didn’t expect Aunt Rowe’s words to change anything.
“What’d she have in the bag?” I envisioned wood splinters or a loose nail.
“A button,” Aunt Rowe said.
“Oh. Where’d she find that?”
“On the floor near the sofa. Costello didn’t notice the button until Rosales pointed it out. Said it’s not his.”
“Huh. Does she think it belongs to the person who broke in?”
“If she does, good luck trying to match one little button to a person,” she said.
“I can’t imagine where they’d start. It’s too early, and I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee.”
“Mrreow,” Hitchcock said.
“Or fed my hungry cat.”
Aunt Rowe glanced at me and chuckled. “Or brushed your hair.”
“Oh, stop.” I pulled out the purple elastic band holding my hair, shook my head, and redid the ponytail. “You think Costello lost his key and kicked in the door when he got back from the club last night?”
Aunt Rowe shook her head. “Thomas saw the door standing open when he made his rounds. We were already at the club.”
“What do you think happened?”
“Maybe our shifty guest has shifty friends looking for him.”
“Could be.” I wasn’t ready to mention the copy of Wine Enthusiast or the reasons I found the magazine incriminating. “Hey, did you get any of the pictures from Marge Boyd yet?”
“I don’t think so, but I have the ones Naomi took using my phone. Why?”
“I thought I’d show Fred’s picture around to see if I can piece together what he’s doing here in Lavender. I may as well ask about Ashley, too. They seem tight.”
I glanced over to gauge Aunt Rowe’s reaction. Her expression seemed thoughtful.
“Hate to say this, Aunt Rowe, but I think everything’s connected.”
“You’re often right,” she said. “You want some help with the asking around?”
“I thought you were going zip-lining.”
“That’s this afternoon,” she said. “The others weren’t up last I checked, so I have some time to spare. First, let’s get y’all fed.”
“Okey-dokey.”
Distracting Aunt Rowe from the zip-lining for the time being and having her as my sidekick seemed like a win-win.
• • •
Aunt Rowe favored beginning our mission with a visit to Shane Wilson’s house. She knew his wife, Shirley, an avid gardener, and brought along cuttings from several of her perennials that she knew the woman would appreciate. When we pulled up at Wilson’s house, a white brick one-story, Shirley was outside weeding a flower bed. I’d never met the woman formally, so Aunt Rowe made introductions.
Wilson’s wife wore jeans with a lightweight pink hoodie and had a complexion that bespoke a lifetime spent in the sun. Not hard to imagine since it seemed she had enough trees, plants, and flowers to stock her own nursery. The greenery was accented by rock walls, cement figurines, and garden flags with benches placed here and there along the garden paths. I spotted sprinkler heads sticking up at regular intervals, a must for keeping this oasis green during hot Texas summers.
“Shirley and I met when we worked together on a city council election,” Aunt Rowe said. “How many years has that been?”
“More than ten,” Shirley said. “Long time. Our kids are grown now and doing their own thing. Sadly, not in Texas.”
“That’s too bad,” Aunt Rowe said.
“Shane has a way of driving everyone away,” Shirley said.
I wanted to ask more about him, but not yet. “This place is breathtaking. The flowers are gorgeous. You must spend a lot of time to keep everything so perfect.”
“I have the time to spend,” she said. “Shane works from dusk ’til dawn, if not longer.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Is he home now?”
Shirley appeared startled by my question and took a moment to answer. “He’ll be back soon. Told him we were having chicken noodle soup for lunch—homemade even—and he flew off the handle. Said he wanted beef, and when I told him we didn’t have any in the house he said he’d go see about that, and I said fine, go. Shop. Bring back some extra milk while you’re at it.”
Aunt Rowe and I exchanged a glance.
Shirley seemed embarrassed and lowered her head. “Sorry, but that’s how it is around here lately. I tell myself all the time—don’t poke the bear—but sometimes I don’t know what’s going to bring out the bear, you know?”
I nodded my understanding.
“It’s worse now,” Shirley said, “since he can’t finish that library job after all the flack he took from the mayor’s wife to get it done quickly.”
“Doreen Krenek?” I said.
“Yes, her,” Shirley said. “She pushed Shane’s buttons every day. She’s in such a big hurry, and now Shane isn’t even allowed to go over there.”
“Because it’s a crime scene,” I said.
She nodded. “So he’s angry, and I’m having trouble dealing with him. Mainly because I’m so danged depressed over what happened to Jane.”
“You knew her?” I said.
I must have sounded surprised because Shirley answered, “Why, yes, didn’t everyone? She wouldn’t have been able to make the rounds the way she did once the library was finished. Until then, she took advantage of her spare time to visit people and help when she could. She came here often.” Shirley turned and pointed. “See that row of rosebushes? She helped me plant them.”
“That’s a nice memory,” Aunt Rowe said. “You’ll always think of her when you see them.”
Shirley nodded. “I will.”
I wondered if Jane came to visit Shirley when Shane was home or if she had her fill of him at the construction site and avoided him elsewhere. I didn’t want to ask now, when Shirley seemed to be working hard to calm herself.
Aunt Rowe pulled out her phone to open a picture of Fred and Ashley and zoomed in on Fred’s face. She thrust her phone at Shirley. “Could you tell me if you know this man?”
Shirley leaned close to study the screen and did so for a good ten seconds before shaking her head. “No, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him.”
Aunt Rowe switched the view to a close-up of Ashley. “How about her?”
“Who are they?” Shirley said.
“Guests at the cottages,” Aunt Rowe said. “We’re interested in knowing whether you’ve ever seen them in town.”
Shirley took a look at Ashley’s picture. “Hmmm. I don’t believe I know her either, but something seems familiar. I’m sure I haven’t seen her in town. Why, I rarely go to town anymore. I’m always here working with my plants.”
“Of course.” Aunt Rowe handed her phone to me. “Speaking of plants, come and see what I brought you.” She pushed a button on her key fob to pop the trunk. They walked to the car, and Shirley reacted to the cuttings the way a child reacts to gifts on Christmas morning.
While the two women chatted about perennials, I wandered through the garden paths and a
dmired Shirley’s flowers. I couldn’t imagine Shane Wilson living in this lovely setting. Unfortunately, I had a clear picture of him yelling at his wife about the lunch menu.
Several outbuildings sat behind a hedge of oleander bushes. My nosiness kicked in, and I strolled over to the first shed to peer through a window. Inside sat a green tractor—bigger than the usual lawn tractor. The shed also held garden tools, wheelbarrows, bags of fertilizer, extension cords, hose reels, lawn spreaders, hedge trimmers, empty pots, you name it. I figured Shirley herself had stocked the place.
I strolled to the second of the buildings. This one had dirtier windows, but my curiosity drew me closer to get a look.
I peered inside and did a double take when I realized I was looking at a big pile of stacked lumber. Maybe enough to build a third shed. A huge tarp covered the majority of the wood, but one end had slipped off like a tablecloth not quite big enough to reach both ends of a table.
Huh.
“What in the sam hill are you doing out here?” a man hollered.
I jumped back from the window and saw Shane Wilson headed toward me.
Shirley had warned us. Don’t poke the bear.
Too late.
“Hi, Shane,” I said, trying the friendly gal-next-door approach. “I saw a cat running in this direction. Do you have a cat?”
You could have come up with a more plausible excuse, Sabrina.
“No, we don’t have a danged cat,” he said, “and you better not have brought your bad luck cat over here with you.”
“My cat’s at home.” I resisted the urge to lecture the man about his use of the horrid nickname.
“He’d better be, but you didn’t answer my question about what you’re doing.”
“I told you, I was after a cat. I love cats.”
He continued to scowl at me. “Well, I don’t.”
Thank goodness we hadn’t brought Hitchcock along on this trip. I forced myself to keep smiling. “By the way, I’m glad I ran into you. Remember the other day when I was out at the library site?”
