The Black Cat Steps on a Crack

by Kay Finch

  His frown deepened. “Yeah. With that cat.”

  I nodded eagerly. “That was Hitchcock, my cat, and the sheriff told me you saw the black cat getting out of a car. Is that right?”

  “Lady, you’re not a damn cop, and I don’t see how any of that’s your business. I don’t care if your cat is the King of England.”

  He was really aggravating me now. I put on my Carly Pierce FBI voice.

  “Mr. Wilson, my cat stows away in cars often. I’m going to show you a picture, and I need verification from you. Did you see the driver of the car that brought the cat to the site? That’s it.”

  I fumbled my phone out of my back pocket, zoomed in on Fred Costello’s face, and turned the phone to Wilson. “Was this or was this not the driver of that car?”

  He leaned in to study Costello’s face for a moment. “Yeah, that’s him.”

  “Are you one hundred percent positive?”

  “I told you that’s the guy, and I’m sure, all right?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Wilson. You’ve been a huge help. Now, after the cat left the car, what did the man do?”

  Wilson heaved an exaggerated sigh. “He asked if I’d seen Jane Alcott lately. I said no and that it would be fine with me if I never saw that danged woman again in my life.”

  Chapter 29

  Aunt Rowe rescued me from the uncomfortable scene with Shane Wilson by saying she had an appointment for zip-lining that she couldn’t miss. Wilson looked skeptical, but the excuse got us out of there with minimal fuss.

  She drove about a mile away from the Wilsons’ house, then pulled off the road and studied me. “Care to tell me why you look like you found another dead body?”

  I swallowed. “It wasn’t a body, Aunt Rowe, but I’m worried just the same.”

  “Explain,” she said.

  I told her what I saw and about my fear that the pile of lumber in Wilson’s building could be connected to thefts at construction sites. “What if he’s the one who’s been stealing, Jane caught him in the act, and he killed her to shut her up?”

  “Would you put that many what-ifs in a book plot?” Aunt Rowe said.

  “Probably not.”

  “Because the reader wouldn’t believe the story.”

  “That may be the case, but unbelievable things happen every day.”

  “And sometimes there’s another explanation. Like Shane brought lumber home to make sure no one stole it from a site. Or he bought supplies for a side project. Or he caught a sale he couldn’t pass up, or—”

  I waved my hands for her to stop. “You’re absolutely right.”

  “I wouldn’t store stolen materials in my own building,” she said.

  “Neither would I. Especially if I’d killed someone to keep them from spilling the beans that I was a thief.”

  Aunt Rowe nodded in agreement. “Right.”

  “And thieves are always the most logical thinkers who make the best decisions,” I said.

  “Wrong,” Aunt Rowe said.

  “I rest my case.”

  “When will you tell the sheriff what you saw?”

  “Soon,” I said.

  “How about now? Before Wilson starts worrying about you spilling the beans.”

  I nodded. “Good idea.”

  We drove to the sheriff’s department and saw Deputy Rosales walking into the building. Neither of us wanted to deal with her a second time in one day. Instead, Aunt Rowe called the sheriff and invited him to join her for coffee at Hot Stuff. If I had called, he would be far too busy for the distraction. We thought he’d accept an invitation if it came from Aunt Rowe, and he did not disappoint.

  Fifteen minutes later, we sat sipping our coffee and tapping the table in time to “Rock the Boat” as we waited for the sheriff to arrive.

  I decided to use the time to ask Max about Ashley and caught him in between taking orders. When I showed him Ashley’s picture and asked if he knew her, he said he’d never seen the woman before. He hadn’t seen Fred either, not since the one time they discussed genealogy.

  Amos Whittle, a geriatric coffee shop regular, asked what Max and I were chatting about so I showed him the pictures, too. He leaned in close to inspect Ashley’s picture and nodded excitedly.

  “Yes, yes. I know her.” He pulled out his handkerchief to wipe sweat that popped up on his forehead. “That’s Izzy, my Izzy.”

  My pulse quickened at his words, and I encouraged him to explain. “Who is Izzy?”

  “My late wife,” he said. “I haven’t seen her in near thirty years. She was such a pretty thing. Where did you find her picture?”

  “I’m sorry, Amos. This isn’t Izzy.” I felt deflated, but maybe not as disappointed as he felt. “She’s a visitor staying at Around-the-World Cottages. I’m glad her picture brought some good memories for you, though.” I patted his hand and saw Sheriff Crawford coming in.

  The sheriff’s smile widened when he spotted Aunt Rowe. He saw my mug at the table when he slid into the booth across from her, then turned and saw me crossing the room.

  “Sabrina.” The sheriff nodded hello, then looked at my aunt.

  “Rowe, I’m crushed,” he said. “I didn’t expect anyone to horn in on our coffee date.”

  Aunt Rowe laughed. “Now, Jeb, that’s disrespectful to Sabrina. You know how I favor her.”

  “Yes, of course.” He faced me. “How good of you to join us, honored niece.”

  They chuckled over their corny behavior. I felt uneasy about the information I had to share. Would he think I was jumping to ridiculous conclusions?

  The sheriff must have sensed my apprehension. His expression sobered. “I hope y’all don’t plan to put pressure on us to solve your break-in at the cottages. The murder case takes top priority, but we’re not disregarding what happened on your property. Trust me.”

  “I understand,” Aunt Rowe said, “but we learned something that might help you solve the murder. Sabrina can tell you the details about what she saw.”

  He shifted his attention to me.

  “You may want to check this out, even though the situation could be completely innocent.” I mentioned our visit with Shirley Wilson and how I’d spotted the pile of lumber through the shed window. “Shane wasn’t home when we got there. He caught me snooping. He gets scary when he’s ticked off.”

  “Did you ask him where the lumber came from?” the sheriff said.

  “Are you kidding? I wanted out of there.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  “You could check today, Jeb,” Aunt Rowe said. “Don’t want to give him a chance to move the evidence.”

  “If it’s evidence,” he said, “but you’re right. I’ll get an investigator over there.”

  “There’s something else,” I said. “Not related to Wilson, but this morning when Deputy Rosales was at the Barcelona cottage, I spotted something suspicious.”

  “The surprises keep coming,” he said.

  “What did you see?” Aunt Rowe said.

  “A magazine called Wine Enthusiast. I don’t think it’s one of yours, Aunt Rowe. It’s a November/December issue.”

  “If it’s that old, you’re right,” she said, “and I don’t subscribe to that one.”

  “I saw several wine magazines at Kylie Renfrow’s house in the pile of mail addressed to Jane,” I said. “Now that mail has been stolen.”

  Aunt Rowe said, “You think Fred Costello stole the mail?”

  “I don’t know what to think. Maybe he did.”

  “You ladies are a wealth of information.” The sheriff slid toward the edge of his bench and stopped. “What made you go out to Wilson’s in the first place?”

  Aunt Rowe clicked her phone on and showed him cropped pictures of Costello and Ashley. “We wondered if Shane or Shirley had seen these people in town lately and, if so, what they’d been doing.”

  “Wilson identified Costello as the person driving the car that brought Hitchcock out to the library site the day Jane’s body was discovered
,” I said.

  “Why would he do that?” the sheriff said.

  “I’m sure he didn’t see Hitchcock get into his car,” I said. “He drove there, Hitchcock scooted out, and Costello went on to ask his questions, never the wiser about the cat.”

  “What did he ask?” the sheriff said.

  “Wilson told me Costello asked questions about Jane.”

  The sheriff thought about that for a few seconds, then looked at each of us in turn. “You two have any more bombshells for me?”

  “I think that’s all for today,” Aunt Rowe said.

  “Now it’s my turn.” He pointed at Aunt Rowe’s phone. “The woman in the picture. I’ve seen her in town.”

  “Doing what?” I said.

  “She interviewed with Doreen Krenek for the librarian position,” he said. “Seems she’s after Jane Alcott’s job.”

  Chapter 30

  By the time Aunt Rowe and I got back to the cottages, the Crop Shop Crew ladies were out on the deck behind her house with a karaoke machine. One of them was screeching along to “Mama He’s Crazy” by the Judds.

  I held my hands over my ears and looked at Aunt Rowe. “Forgive me for not sticking around for the show.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” she said. “I have to live here.”

  “Did you forget about the zip-lining?” I said hopefully.

  “We’re leaving shortly,” she said, “but I’ll watch for a while before I decide to fly through midair on a string.”

  “I vote no.” I gave her a wave, then hurried to my place in search of Hitchcock.

  The cat had kept his distance from the singing. I found him snoring in the middle of my bed.

  “You want to go to town?” I said.

  A dog would respond eagerly to such a question from its master, but Hitchcock pretended nonchalance. He lifted his head and squinted at me. I grabbed his harness and leash.

  “C’mon, you’re playacting. Doreen Krenek isn’t one of my favorite people, but she has information I want and I want it now.”

  The cat got up and stretched, accepted me putting on his harness, and we headed out.

  Twenty minutes later, we walked down a corridor in City Hall toward the conference room Doreen Krenek had claimed as her office. I heard what sounded like a meeting room full of people. When I reached the door, I stopped short and leaned forward to peer inside. Doreen, dressed in a striking leopard-print dress, chatted with one of a dozen women in the room. The conference table was filled with laptops, pads of paper, and myriad other office supplies along with what looked like stacks of printed forms.

  I spotted Floy, the woman who had blamed Hitchcock for what happened to Jane, and wondered about the wisdom of bringing the cat with me. Of course, when it came to leaving him near Naomi back at the cottage or having him with me, Hitchcock was safer here. I backed away from the door and considered my options.

  Footsteps sounded behind me and I turned to see Lori, Doreen’s other fellow committee member, approaching.

  “Hi there, Sabrina.” She spotted Hitchcock and knelt to pet him. “You’re a handsome boy. What’s his name again?”

  “Hitchcock,” I said.

  “Perfect name for the cat of a mystery writer,” she said.

  “Thank you. I’m happy to meet a fellow cat lover.”

  She said, “Don’t let Floy bother you. She tried to cozy up to a feral cat that scratched her to pieces a year or so ago. Gave her a nasty infection.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I looked toward the conference room. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Tons of work.” She stood and shook her head. “We had to pull in reinforcements to help with the book orders. Jane had already done some of the work, but we weren’t sure exactly what she had done or not done. We’re making calls to distributors and trying to get organized. You wouldn’t believe all the work that goes into a library before the doors open.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “When the books come in, they’ll all need security tags, and spine labels, and to be input into the computer system, but this isn’t what you came to hear, is it?”

  I smiled. “No, but I don’t mind.”

  “I’ll bet you came for a report on the Mr. X mystery,” she said.

  With everything else going on, the question about Mr. X had slipped my mind. “Do you know who Mr. X is?”

  “Not exactly. Doreen described him to us, and we’ve been asking everyone. My friend Elaine saw him at the gas station. She was right there on the other side of the pump from him.”

  “Did she speak to him?”

  “She said hello. He looked at her but didn’t reply. Seemed full of himself.”

  “I wish she’d asked his name.”

  Hitchcock was doing figure eights around Lori’s legs and leaving a path of black hair on her tan slacks.

  Lori, caught up in the conversation, didn’t seem to notice. I stooped to pull the cat away from her.

  “Elaine’s too shy to start up a conversation with a stranger,” she said, “but she can identify the man down to his Stefano Ricci calfskin loafers and his Paul Newman Daytona Rolex.” Lori paused to gauge my reaction.

  “Sorry, those things don’t mean much to me.”

  “Me neither, but they tell me he’s not on a budget.”

  “Anyone else see the man?”

  “Not that I know of,” Lori said, “but Elaine thinks his first name is Anthony.”

  “How’d she come up with that?”

  Lori shrugged. “She said the name popped into her head as soon as she saw his face. She doesn’t know why.”

  “Okay,” I said. “A first name is better than nothing.” Though this woman’s random thought had about a one percent chance of accuracy.

  “Why do we care about Mr. X?” Lori said. “Is he connected to the library business?”

  “No, but speaking of business, what’s the status of filling Jane’s position?”

  “Do you have a candidate for us to consider?” she said.

  “No, though I met a young woman who’d absolutely love to work at the library. Her name’s Pauline.”

  Lori backed away from me and made an X with her index fingers. “Uh-uh, not Pauline. Doreen would never—”

  “Doreen would never what?”

  We hadn’t noticed Doreen Krenek coming out into the hallway. She looked from me to Lori and back, then glanced down at Hitchcock without commenting one way or the other about the cat’s presence.

  Lori darted into the conference room while Doreen’s attention was diverted.

  Rather than answer Doreen’s question, I asked one of my own. “I understand you interviewed a woman named Ashley recently.”

  Doreen nodded. “Ashley Cantrell.”

  “She’s staying at Around-the-World Cottages. How did the interview go?”

  “It was—” She paused, then said, “Interesting.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Santa Fe, according to her application,” Doreen said.

  I stopped short. “New Mexico?”

  She gave me a smile one might give a less-than-bright child. “Santa Fe, Texas,” she said. “A suburb south of Houston.”

  I couldn’t picture Ashley living in the small town. She seemed more like the Daytona Rolex type.

  “I thought she was charming at first,” Doreen said. “As it turns out, she’s a liar.”

  “Really?”

  “She was in an awful hurry to have the interview, so I rearranged my schedule to speak with her the same day she applied. She led me to believe she would only be in town briefly. Now, two days later, she’s still here.”

  “Her plans could have changed.”

  “She also said she was oh, so interested in the librarian position. A lie.”

  Hitchcock had been watching our conversation the way he might watch a Ping-Pong match. Apparently bored with us, he wandered around as far as his leash would allow.

  “How do you know she wasn�
��t truly interested in the job?” I said.

  “She asked me what type of person we wanted for the position. Of course, I didn’t want to tell her that the person we originally hired had been murdered.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “Turned out she already knew what had happened to Jane, though she didn’t know much about Jane personally. Those were the details she wanted.”

  I frowned. “What kind of details?”

  “She asked about Jane’s hobbies, her family, her likes and dislikes.”

  “That’s odd,” I said.

  “I thought so,” Doreen said. “Almost as if she thought we wanted to hire a certain type of person rather than a person with certain qualifications for the position. She asked about Jane’s friends as well. I didn’t have names to give her.”

  “Did she say why she wanted those names?”

  “No. I began to wonder if she wanted to adopt Jane’s friends as her own. Maybe she felt lonely.”

  I said, “Did you deduce that Ashley cared about getting the job at all?”

  “I’m sure she didn’t.”

  “She came mainly to learn more about Jane,” I said.

  Doreen nodded. “That’s what I think. She came digging for information about Jane, but I have no idea why she would care. I found the whole experience strange, not to mention frightening.”

  “You know what I think is really weird?” I said.

  Doreen looked at me. “What?”

  “She’s not the only random stranger in Lavender digging for Jane’s secrets.”

  Chapter 31

  Hitchcock and I were about to leave City Hall when the women working on the library acquisitions took a break and spotted Hitchcock. Many of them were cat lovers and insisted on coddling him. They soon had Hitchcock up on the conference room table, where he alternately strutted and rolled with his motor running on high volume.

  Floy Anderson had disappeared the second Hitchcock came into view. Doreen Krenek kept her distance. She probably didn’t want to get any real animal hair on that leopard-print dress. As we prepared to leave, I caught Lori bending over the table to blow the loose cat hair onto the floor. I imagined someone—the building janitor, maybe—would be hearing complaints from Doreen about the hair issue.