The Black Cat Steps on a Crack

by Kay Finch

  Keith must have been working after all, but I didn’t feel like getting into a conversation with him when I was itching to investigate the flash drive. I slid the door shut as a man came into view. A man on the skinny side, not Keith.

  Maybe Keith had a helper.

  I watched for a few seconds. This man wore a cap with the bill pulled low on his head and the hood of his jacket pulled over the cap. He must have been back there when I arrived, with the truck pulled out of sight the way Keith’s had been the night I came over for dinner. The man glanced around as if he expected someone to jump out at him. Odd.

  I backed away from the glass door. Something about his furtive steps raised the hairs on my neck. He went to the pile of lumber and pulled off the tarp. Strange thing to do in this weather. That might not matter much if the lumber was treated for outdoor use. He pulled half a dozen pieces of wood from the pile and carried them toward his truck. In a minute, he came back and took another load. By the third go-round, I knew something fishy was going on.

  I didn’t want to risk the man hearing me talk, so I sent a text to Luke.

  Does Keith have a guy helping him with your deck?

  The reply came quickly.

  Don’t think so. Why?

  I grabbed Hitchcock and took him with me into the bedroom closet. I closed the door behind me and called Luke. “There’s a man behind your house. I think he’s stealing your lumber.”

  “Are you sure?” he said.

  “He’s carrying pieces away from the stack. I can’t see the truck bed from inside, but I’m pretty sure. He could be the person who’s been stealing from construction sites.”

  “I’m coming over there,” he said. “I’m about twenty minutes out. Where are you?”

  “In the bedroom closet with Hitchcock,” I said. “The house is locked. The truck’s behind the house, and I’m parked in front so he doesn’t realize I’m here. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions.”

  “And maybe you’re not. Stay where you are.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  I took Luke’s advice for about five minutes. Then I couldn’t stand the suspense anymore and went back to the kitchen and peered out. The man was still out there, and his hood had slipped down. He turned to glance at the house and lifted his nose like an animal sniffing the enemy’s scent.

  Cody Flores. The self-appointed heartthrob.

  My pulse pounded as I backtracked to the bedroom. A few long minutes later, I heard the unmistakable sound of a truck engine revving. I crept to a window by Luke’s desk and saw Cody driving away. He’d attached a red flag on the back of the long pieces of lumber in his truck bed. A hardworking construction guy, following all the rules.

  Yeah, right.

  Flores drove away at a steady pace, so maybe he hadn’t noticed my car. When I turned from the window, I was facing Luke’s computer.

  Karma.

  I needed to call Luke back with a report about Flores. In a second, right after I checked the flash drive. Hitchcock jumped up on the desk and sat in front of the monitor.

  “You trying to tell me something?” I said.

  “Mrreow.”

  I touched the keyboard and the screen sprang to life. Hitchcock leapt to the bed, then the floor, and ran from the room as if he wanted no part of my illicit activity.

  Cats.

  I’d quickly pull up the flash drive and check the contents. Maybe I could easily tell what Natalie had saved. Bank statements? Her will? My heart thudded as I unzipped my pocket and took out the flash drive to plug into the computer.

  I opened the drive and was surprised to see only one file. A video.

  Behind me, Hitchcock growled.

  Oh, no. Cody came back.

  I grabbed the flash drive and stuck it back in my pocket, then spun in time to see Anthony Russo appear in the bedroom doorway. He stabbed a manila envelope into the air like a saber.

  “How about you give me the rest of what you stole?” he said. “This was not everything.”

  I stood and put myself between him and the computer. Anthony didn’t look so good today, despite his very expensive shoes and watch. His hair was wet from the rain, his face red.

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “Really?” he said in a snide tone. “Then why was my envelope in your car?”

  “It’s not your envelope,” I said. “You stole it from me.”

  “You had no right to steal confidential information in the first place,” he said. “Do you know what I’ve been through trying to locate this?”

  “I don’t know why, Anthony. It appears to be your father’s will, so I’d think you and Celeste would each have your own copy.”

  His eyes registered surprise that I knew their names. He came farther into the room and paused at the foot of the bed. “We do each have a copy. We need this copy and what went with it, too.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He pulled a small revolver from his pocket and aimed it at me. “You’re lying. Give me the flash drive now.”

  “The sheriff has it,” I said.

  “No, he doesn’t. You haven’t been near the sheriff since you got your grimy hands on my property.”

  The flash drive was important enough to murder Natalie over it. They’d do anything. Anthony wouldn’t miss if he shot me at this close range.

  The front door slammed open, and Deputy Patricia Rosales stomped into the room. “I caught your bad guy, Sabrina, and I need a statement—”

  She stopped short when Anthony spun toward her, and she realized he was armed.

  Hitchcock jumped out from behind the bed and startled Anthony into dropping his revolver.

  He and I both dove for the weapon, but I got there first. I jumped up and my arms shook as I fumbled the revolver, until I realized Rosales already had her weapon trained on the man.

  The deputy glared at me. “Sabrina, you want to tell me what the hell is going on here? Luke called me about the dude I have locked up in the cruiser, and now you’re already into more trouble.”

  Chapter 34

  Rosales and the backup deputy who arrived to assist her stowed the handcuffed men, Anthony Russo and Cody Flores, into their squad cars. We didn’t know yet who had killed Natalie, aka Jane. My money was on Anthony, who had a lot at stake, unless his sister Celeste had done the deed. I watched from Luke’s front porch as Rosales dropped the manila envelope holding Lorenzo Russo’s will into an evidence bag. Then she came to me, and I took the flash drive from my pocket and handed it over.

  Ruining my chance to watch the video. Too bad we couldn’t do that now before Rosales took the device away as another—maybe the most important—piece of evidence.

  I explained to the deputies how the envelope had been unearthed during Mrs. Honeycutt’s extreme decluttering project. “I’m guessing Natalie Russo hid the envelope in her landlady’s bedroom thinking no one would ever find it.”

  “But you did,” Rosales said.

  “Not me.” I shook my head. “Hitchcock found the evidence.”

  Rosales glanced at the cat sitting near me on the porch. “He keeps this up, sheriff might make him an honorary deputy.”

  I smiled at her for the first time ever.

  “Is it safe for me to go home now?” I said.

  “Sure,” she said. “Sheriff has Costello at the office. The man’s sticking with his right to remain silent.”

  “How far will that get him given the button evidence?”

  Rosales frowned. “What button evidence?”

  “I heard the button found in Costello’s cottage matches the buttons on the clothing Natalie was wearing when she died.”

  “Guess I’m out of the loop on that.” Rosales turned to the other deputy. “Let’s get a move on.”

  I felt like I’d been away from home for a week and was eager to get back.

  When the deputies drove away, I called Luke and had to speak up because of the
heavy rain on his end. “Hey, everything’s under control now. Hitchcock and I are safe, and two men are in custody.”

  “I heard,” he said. “Rosales called me with the report.”

  “Kind of funny she came, knowing it was me in trouble,” I said.

  “She’s not as bad as you think,” he said, “and I sure am glad she showed up. I’m stuck in traffic with this storm.”

  “I guess Cody knew all about the deck Keith was building for you,” I said. “Glad I was here to catch him in the act.”

  “Even better he didn’t know you were in the house,” Luke said.

  “I don’t want to think about that. What I’d like to do is get home before the storm reaches us. Do you mind?”

  “Not a bit,” he said. “Stay safe, and I’ll see you later.”

  I drove in and out of showers on the way back to the cottages. The worst part of the storm was over by Luke at the moment but predicted to head this way. I caught Thomas as he was driving out the lane, and we each stopped and rolled down our windows.

  “Everything A-okay here?” I said.

  “All quiet. I’m goin’ home for lunch.”

  “And Aunt Rowe?”

  “She’s still out with the group. Don’t know what they’re up to.”

  “They have more energy than I do,” I said.

  He laughed. “You and me both.”

  He drove away, and I continued to the Monte Carlo cottage. I was about to lead Hitchcock inside but stopped short when I saw another note tacked to my door.

  Hiking the Comanche Trail. 2 PM. Join us.

  It was half past two now. I checked the sky and saw dark storm clouds in the distance. The wind was already gusting. Surely the women wouldn’t go up Comanche Trail with the storm coming. The thought of Aunt Rowe up there would be scary in perfect weather. Why hadn’t I heard about this before now?

  Jeez Louise.

  I took out my phone and dialed Aunt Rowe’s number. The call went straight to voice mail. There were plenty of pockets with bad cell service in the hills, even if she had the danged thing turned on. Comanche Trail wasn’t far away, so I thought I’d better head over there with some towels in case the ladies came out drenched. I grabbed an armload of them from my bathroom closet and took my extra umbrella from the coat closet.

  After I loaded everything into my car, I pulled on a raincoat and stuck a baseball cap on my head. Then I turned to Hitchcock.

  “Sorry, boy, you need to sit this one out.”

  He didn’t bother to respond.

  I left the cottage and ran to the car, my head ducked against the wind. At least it wasn’t raining yet. Wind buffeted my vehicle on the way to the trail, a five-mile drive. Hiking in the hill country can’t exactly compare to the mountains of Colorado or Montana, but the trails have plenty of treacherous spots. Not to mention the flooding during heavy downpours. Maybe we’d get lucky and the storm would veer off in another direction.

  I drove up the last incline that would take me to the parking area at the trail head. I prayed I’d find no cars there and that this journey had been unnecessary. When I turned in, though, I saw a van, one big enough to easily hold the Crop Shop Crew members and my aunt.

  I didn’t recognize the van or remember seeing one at the cottages, but I hadn’t paid much attention. The whole San Antonio group might have arrived together in this one for all I knew. I pulled in beside the van and parked, then looked around for a few seconds in the vain hope that I’d see the group returning because they’d spotted the storm’s approach.

  I took out my phone to try Aunt Rowe again.

  No service.

  Forget that idea. I put the phone away and got out of the car. Raindrops sprinkled as I started up the trail. The wind didn’t affect me as much now that I was down in the depths of many layers of trees and vines, and Lord knew what else. Something darted in my peripheral vision, and I looked down.

  Hitchcock!

  I couldn’t believe my eyes, but there he was, big as life. He must have stowed away in my car. I knew it happened, but I’d never been a firsthand witness.

  “You’re not supposed to be here, you bad boy!”

  He skittered ahead on the path as if he did this every other week. Lord, maybe he did.

  It’d be great if he could help me out like a search and rescue dog. I’d give him a piece of Aunt Rowe’s clothing and he’d go find her. Except I hadn’t brought anything that belonged to her. Only these two umbrellas, and I didn’t know if they’d do us a bit of good while we tried to scoot along the narrow path in between all of these tree trunks and vines.

  I was beginning to feel claustrophobic when I spotted Marge Boyd on the path up ahead. Hitchcock ran through the trees to my right, apparently unaffected by the rain.

  “Hey, Marge,” I yelled. “Is the rest of the group with you?”

  “They’re up ahead,” she hollered back. “C’mon this way.”

  She walked at a fast clip ahead of me. I breathed hard as I hurried to catch up to her and vowed to start working out. The rain pelted me. I cinched my coat tighter and pulled up the collar.

  I had a hard time believing the rest of the women had gotten a big lead on Marge. Not to mention, why would they keep going with the dark skies overhead? Weren’t they getting wet?

  I stopped walking and watched the trooper ahead of me. Why was Marge even here? Who was minding her store? The woman must have sensed that I wasn’t behind her anymore. She spun, spotted me, and hurried back down the path.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  I pulled my cap lower to block raindrops and the weird expression on Marge’s face.

  “I’m heading back,” I said. “It makes no sense to go up there when the sky is so threatening.”

  “Makes good sense to me.” Marge’s hand shot out, and she grabbed my arm.

  I hollered and tried to pull back, but Marge had a strong grip. I kicked out and aimed for her knees, but she easily dodged me. I thrashed and twisted, but her hold didn’t slip.

  “Why are you doing this?” I yelled.

  I saw her expression darken with rage, then she twisted my arm around my back and pressed me forward. “Get moving. Up the trail. I should have taken care of you days ago. Before you talked to my daughter and put everything together.”

  Her daughter?

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said. “Who’s your daughter?”

  Marge didn’t answer. I’d only talked to one person recently who’d mentioned her mother. Pauline. Did she have something to do with this?

  I tried to dig the toes of my shoes into the dirt and leaves to slow things down, but Marge bulldozed me ahead. I still had the umbrellas hanging from straps on my free wrist. I tried to swing them around to hit Marge in the face, but she yanked them off and flung them away. Pain shot through my arm. Rain dripped off the bill of my cap.

  I fought rising hysteria and forced myself to be logical. Why was she so angry?

  “Tell me about your daughter, Marge,” I said. “What’s her name? Is it Pauline?”

  She hesitated for a split second before barging ahead. She was past talking. I remembered how Pauline would have loved a job in the new library. She worked for Max because her mother guilted Max into hiring her. So Marge spent her time paving the road for Pauline’s success? I could picture her doing such a thing, and a lot worse.

  Could Marge have believed killing Jane meant her daughter would get Jane’s job? Suddenly, I didn’t see Anthony and Celeste as frontrunners in the who-killed-Jane race.

  My heart thudded as I twisted to look Marge in the eye. “The Russos didn’t kill Jane Alcott, did they?” I said.

  “Who the hell are the Russos?” Marge pulled a heavy-duty box cutter from her pocket and flicked the blade out. “Turn around and move it.”

  She faced me forward and pushed me with one hand while the other held the box cutter out where I could see the sharp blade and feel the threat.

  Now I knew with
certainty that the others weren’t even here. Marge knew I worried about Aunt Rowe and had set me up, using my own fears against me.

  I stumbled ahead, up the path. “Why did you do it, Marge? Jane didn’t deserve to die.”

  “You don’t know anything.” Marge kept one hand on my back, shoving. “My Pauline would have been a great asset. She loved books more than anything. More than me. But they refused to give her a chance, and Jane was no better. She told me to shut up, she didn’t want to hear anything from me. I couldn’t listen to her insults for one more second.”

  “Okay, maybe Jane didn’t listen,” I said, “but why me? I’m listening to you, Marge. I’m not a member of the unreasonable library committee.”

  “No, but you can figure out every little clue,” she snarled. “All the who, what, when, and why, can’t you?”

  “I write mysteries. I should be good at figuring things out.”

  “And don’t bother telling me that you’ll keep my secret,” she said, “’cause I know you’d run to your buddy the sheriff first chance you got. The only way to avoid that is you taking this secret to your grave. Right now. Today.”

  Dear Lord, she sounded like killing me was a chore to check off her to-do list, like washing clothes. She was ready to get it over with so she could get home to handle more important tasks.

  As if to prove her readiness, Marge forced me off the path into thicker vegetation. Thorns grabbed at my face and clothes. They had to be attacking her, too, but she kept going. How would she explain the scratches on her face? Marge was obviously focused on her mission and not thinking clearly.

  She was clear enough, though, to remember the scenic outlook up ahead. I knew we were close. If she shoved me over the cliff, I’d come out on the other side blood-soaked and broken. Dead, if she intended to slit my throat first. What could I say to the woman to make her see reason?

  “The sheriff is a smart man,” I said. “He figured out someone planted that cigarette butt to try and frame Bryan Clark.”