“Possible, but then it’s unlikely she would have just happened to stumble across Wes’s pigging string.”
Stephanie sighed. “Okay, so what do you think happened?”
Slowing down again, Clara turned onto her cousin’s street. “I think Paul wrote the note, intending to break it off with Lisa. He got the flat tire, which made him late getting to the meeting place. Diane had already left when he got there. Lisa was also late—Diane said she made a habit of it—and when Paul tried to dump her she threatened to tell his wife. So he had to silence her.”
“But what about the pigging string?”
Clara frowned. “Maybe he intended all along to get rid of Lisa, and stole the pigging string to make it look like Wes killed her.” She pulled up outside Stephanie’s house. “I need time to think about this. My head is spinning with all this stuff. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Stephanie climbed out of the car, then stuck her head back in the door. “Hope you sleep well.”
“You, too.” Clara waited until her cousin had disappeared inside the house before pulling away from the curb. It seemed an eternity until she reached home, though it was only a few blocks away. Tatters was at the door when she put her key in the lock and opened it.
“I know, boy,” Clara said wearily. “You need to go for a walk.”
Tatters wagged his tail. Yeah!
“You’ll have to wait until I talk to Mom.” Walking into the room, Clara smiled at her mother, who sat, as usual, in front of the TV, her nightly glass of wine at her side. She looked anxious when she asked, “So how did your meeting with Diane Eastcott go?”
Clara sank onto the couch and stretched out her feet. “She’s an interesting woman.” Hoping to avoid any more questions, she quickly changed the subject. “By the way, I’ve invited Rick over for dinner on Tuesday.”
Jessie sat up, her eyes sparkling with delight. “You did? That’s wonderful! I’ll have to come up with one of my specialties.”
“Actually,” Clara said carefully, “I was thinking of cooking the dinner myself.” She looked down at Tatters, who was sniffing her knees.
“Oh.” Looking deflated, her mother sank back on her chair. “Well, if you really want to do that . . .” Her voice trailed off with a sigh.
Clara gently pushed the dog away. “I would like to use one of your recipes, though.”
Jessie brightened again at once. “Of course! We’ll have such fun deciding which one. I’ll get them now and we’ll look through them.”
She started to get up, and Clara said quickly, “Tomorrow. I have to take Tatters for a walk now.”
At the word walk, Tatters’ ears pricked up.
“Oh, okay.” Her mother leaned back again. “So did you find out anything about the murder?”
Clara hoped her guilty start hadn’t been too obvious. “What do you mean?”
“Isn’t that why you went to see Diane Eastcott? You told me you were going to interview her for an article, but as far as I know, you’ve never been interested in writing.” Jessie reached for her glass. “On the other hand, you’ve developed a strong and incredibly risky desire to take over Dan’s job as police chief.”
Clara had to laugh. “Don’t tell Dan that.”
Tatters pushed his nose into her hand, and she scratched his ear.
I smell cats.
Clara snatched her hand away.
Her mother gave her a shrewd look before taking a sip from her glass. “I just hope,” she said, as she put the glass down again, “that you’ve learned your lesson from past mistakes. Murderers don’t make the best playmates.”
“Don’t worry.” Clara got up from the couch. “I have no intention of getting that close to a murderer again. I’m just asking a few questions, that’s all.”
“I seem to have heard that before. Right before the cavalry had to come and rescue you.” She leaned forward. “Promise me, Clara, you won’t go chasing after criminals again. I’ve lost one love of my life. I couldn’t bear to lose you, too.”
Clara patted her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll be careful.” With a quick wave of her hand, she left the room, with Tatters following close on her heels.
Once outside in the street, she looked down at the dog, who sat staring at her with an accusing look in his eyes. “All right,” she said softly, “we have a cat in the store now. Since I have no intention of taking you there, you don’t need to worry about it.”
Tatters didn’t even twitch.
“He’s Molly’s cat, not mine.”
Still the dog remained motionless.
Clara sighed. “I still love you best. I always will.”
With that, Tatters stood, shook himself and stalked off down the street.
Hanging on to the leash, Clara hurried to catch up to him. Her mother’s parting shot had made her uneasy, and she tried to put it out of her mind as she followed the dog down the street to the beach. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she should tell Dan what she’d learned from Diane, and let him take care of it from there.
She’d come close to losing her life before when she’d asked the wrong people too many questions. Maybe it was time to butt out.
Her moment of truth came the following afternoon, when Tim strolled into the bookstore and stopped at the counter to ask her which books she would recommend for his uncle’s birthday.
Clara checked through the list of their latest orders, her mind wrestling with the question of whether or not she should tell Tim what she knew. On the one hand, it could help in the investigation. On the other hand, since there was only Diane’s word to go on, she could be getting herself into trouble for no reason.
“Any more news on the murder investigation?” she asked lightly, after she’d given Tim some titles to check out.
Tim gave her a wary look. “Not yet.” He jammed his hands in his pockets. “The rodeo packs up and leaves tomorrow. Looks like this will go down as a cold case.”
Clara wrestled with her conscience a moment or two longer, than blurted out, “I might have something that could help.”
Tim narrowed his eyes. “So tell me.”
As briefly as possible, she repeated the story Diane had given her. “I know you can’t prove anything without the note,” she said, when she was done, “but it does point you to a strong suspect in the case.”
To her dismay, Tim shook his head. “We’ve already cleared Paul Eastcott. He was having dinner at the Pioneer Inn during the time Lisa was killed. He has a receipt to prove it.”
A receipt. Why hadn’t they thought of that? “So that lets Paul off the hook. What about Diane? She admitted to being behind the concert stage just before Lisa was killed.”
Tim smiled. “Do you really think she’d admit that if she’d killed Lisa?”
Clara wouldn’t have put anything past Diane, but she thought it best not to say so.
“In any case,” Tim added, “we’re pretty sure Carlton is our guy. We just can’t prove it. Yet. He’s been ordered not to leave town, and we’re keeping an eye on him, hoping something breaks. And that’s probably more than I should have told you, so I’m going to take a look at these books now. By the way, you’d better not let Dan find out you’re asking questions again.” With that, he wandered off down one of the aisles.
Clara stared at the list of orders on the computer screen. So it was back to Wes. Much as she hated to admit it, now that Paul was off the list, Wes seemed the likely candidate for the crime. Tim was right. No matter how drunk she was, Diane was too smart to admit she was at the crime scene if she’d killed Lisa. In any case, somehow she just couldn’t see Diane as a cold-blooded murderer.
It didn’t seem as if there was anything else she could do. She hated the thought of Wes getting away with murder. On the other hand, she hated the thought of Rick finding out his longtime buddy was a k
iller even more.
She needed to talk to Stephanie. Even while the thought was forming, she was calling her cousin’s number.
Stephanie answered right away. “What’s up?”
Clara told her everything Tim had said. “It looks like it could be Wes after all,” she said, as Stephanie groaned.
“So what are we going to do now?”
“Nothing.” Clara glanced at the clock. “What can we do? The rodeo’s last show begins in an hour or so, then they’ll pack up and move on. Everyone except Wes, that is. Dan told him he can’t leave town.”
“How long can they keep him here under suspicion?”
“I don’t know. Long enough to ruin his career, I should think. If he is the killer, it’s the least he deserves.”
“What if he isn’t the killer? What if Dan doesn’t solve the case? Someone is going to get away with murder.”
“I know.” Clara gazed miserably out the window. “I hate it as much as you do.” Her eye fell on the poster plastered to the window. “How’s Molly doing? Is she going to the rodeo tonight?”
“Yes, she is. Since it was her day off today, she had plenty of time to rest. She called me a little while ago and said she felt well enough to go. She really doesn’t want to miss it.”
“Well, great. I’m glad someone is having a good day. I’ll call you later.” She hung up and turned back to the computer. The new orders were due to go out, and since Molly had been sick, nothing had been done about contacting any authors about book signings.
After sending out the orders, Clara sent off e-mails to the list of authors Stephanie had given her who might be interested in doing a signing.
The evening dragged by after that, with few customers to relieve the monotony. She passed the time by reading the back blurbs of popular authors’ books, in the hopes that she could answer any questions that might come up. Some customers acted as if they expected her to have read every single book in the store.
Feeling immeasurably tired, she locked up shortly after eight and stepped out onto the street. The lights were already out in Rick’s store, which meant he’d gone home. She felt a fierce urge to see him as she walked down the hill to the parking lot. It took her by surprise, and she shrugged it off. She’d see him tomorrow night. For dinner. At her house.
As usual, every time she thought about that her stomach turned over. She didn’t know if she was worried more about Jessie asking too many personal questions or about having to make dinner for a gourmet cook.
Tomorrow would be her day off, so she had all day to worry about it. Jessie had fished out a few recipes and together they’d settled on a walnut pear salad, honey-glazed salmon with roasted potatoes and brandied peaches for dessert. Simple dishes with a dynamite taste.
Thinking about food made her stomach rumble, and she wasted no time in getting home. Tatters greeted her at the door, as usual, and a familiar heavenly aroma drifted from the kitchen. Oregano, Clara decided, as she crossed the empty living room to the kitchen. Definitely a touch of garlic. Her mother was making chicken Marsala.
Her mother stood at the stove, a wooden spoon in her hand and a pot simmering in front of her. She looked over her shoulder as Clara walked in. “Ah, there you are. I figured since you were cooking dinner tomorrow, I’d make my specialty tonight. I know it’s your favorite.”
“It is, and I’m starving.” Clara walked over to the fridge and opened it. “Chardonnay or pinot?”
“Chardonnay.” Jessie opened the oven and took out the warmed plates. “So how did your day go?”
“Okay. How was yours?” Clara uncorked the bottle of chardonnay and poured wine into two glasses.
Jessie glanced at her. “What’s wrong?”
Clara smiled. “Who says anything is wrong?”
“Your voice does.” Jessie frowned. “Are you having second thoughts about asking Rick over for dinner?”
“No, of course not.” She’d said it just a little too quickly, and she hurried to add, “It will be fun. I have all day to get ready for it, so there’s no pressure.”
“Except your boyfriend is getting to meet your mother for the first time,” Jessie said dryly. She started serving the chicken onto the plates.
Clara carried the wine over to the kitchen table and sat down. “Rick told me you’d already met.”
Jessie avoided her gaze. “Hmm, well, I did go into his store a few days ago. I needed some wall hangers for a painting.”
“What painting?”
“I haven’t exactly bought it yet.” She placed the plates on the table. “But I’m going to, soon.”
Clara picked up her fork. “You went in there just to check him out.”
Jessie sat down opposite her. “Okay, so I was curious.” She lifted her glass and sipped the wine. “He’s a very nice young man.”
“Yes, he is.”
They were both silent for a moment or two while they tasted the chicken. Then Jessie said abruptly, “You’re worried I’ll ask him too many personal questions.”
Clara put down her fork. “You do have a tendency to interrogate people.”
“Interrogate?” Jessie looked hurt. “I’m just interested in people, that’s all. I don’t mean to pry into their private lives. If they don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine.”
Clara sighed. “Look, I’ll fill you in on what I know. That way, you won’t have to ask. Then if Rick adds anything of his own accord, it will be new to both of us.”
“All right.” Jessie dug into her chicken again. “So why isn’t he married? He’s good-looking, successful and very well-mannered. A man like that should have a wife and kids.”
“He was married. He has no kids. His wife didn’t want them. He did. He’s now divorced.”
“Oh.” Jessie digested the news while chomping on her chicken. “Well, I can see how that might cause problems in a marriage. Where is she now? His wife, I mean?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Have you met her?”
“No, and I have no desire to do so.”
“Not even a picture of her?”
“Not even a picture.” Clara took a gulp of her wine. “You’ll probably be happy to know that I’ve given up asking questions about Lisa Warren’s murder.”
Jessie’s face lit up with relief. “You have? Oh, I’m so happy to hear that. What made you give up?”
Having steered her mother away from the subject of Rick, Clara phrased her answer with care. “Well, the person I thought was guilty actually has a solid alibi, and since I have no clue who else might be guilty, I figured it was time I let Dan take care of it.”
Jessie looked intrigued. “I figured you were doing more than just asking questions. So who did you think was the killer?”
Clara shrugged. “I thought it might be Paul Eastcott, but I was wrong.”
“Well, I have to tell you, I couldn’t be more pleased. I never did know why you felt so compelled to get involved in such a nasty business. It’s dangerous enough for the police, and much more so for someone like you, who has no experience or training. I think . . .”
Clara sat very still. Her mother’s voice had faded away, and the kitchen walls dissolved into a gray mist. The arena appeared before her. She could feel the hard bench beneath her, and a stiff breeze ruffling her hair. The sun shone full in her eyes, making it hard to see the two figures in the middle of the arena.
She shaded her eyes with her hand, and now she could see that the figures were clowns. One was Marty, in the familiar black and white checkered coat and striped pants. The other clown, in a bright blue suit and red wig, looked familiar, too.
As she watched, a movement caught her eye. Standing in front of the chutes stood a huge bull, pawing at the ground. She cried out, but as usual, could make no sound. The clowns must have heard the bull, however, as they bot
h turned and raced toward him.
Holding her breath, Clara watched as the bull lowered his head and charged. Marty danced around him, and the bull thundered past, missing him by inches with his lethal horns. Then the other clown leapt forward, waving his arms. The bull charged again, and the clown dodged sideways. He wasn’t quite quick enough. The bull caught him with one of his horns and tossed the clown in the air.
Shuddering, Clara shut her eyes. When she opened them again she was no longer in the arena. It was nighttime now, and only a dim glow from a streetlamp penetrated the shadows in the parking lot. The breeze had cooled, chilling her bare arms.
She heard the roar of an engine and the pickup burst into view, heading straight at her. Every instinct urged her to jump out of the way, but she could see a shadowy figure at the wheel, and she desperately wanted to see the face of the driver.
The truck drew closer and closer, and still she stood her ground. Only a few more seconds and she could see—
“You’re having a vision, aren’t you?”
Clara jumped and opened her eyes.
She was back in the kitchen, and her mother sat across from her, studying her with an intent look on her face.
Clara drew a deep breath. “I’m what?”
“You’re having a vision. I’ve seen that look a dozen times or more on your father’s face, and now I’m seeing it on yours. You have the Quinn Sense.”
“That’s crazy. I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. I’m your mother. I know.”
Clara slumped her shoulders. “How long have you known?”
“For a while. Since you came back from New York.” Jessie sipped her wine and set down the glass. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want anyone to know. I still don’t.”
Jessie’s brow cleared. “You especially don’t want Rick to know.”
“Right.”
Jessie stared at her glass for a moment, then said quietly, “I know you care a great deal for this young man. I’m assuming he feels the same way. How long do you think you can keep something like this from him?”
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