The Black Cat Steps on a Crack

by Kay Finch

  “You’ll do fine,” Max said, then nodded toward a man pulling his chair up to a table across the room. “Why don’t you see if you can help that gentleman?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pauline said. “Coming right up. Or going right over. Whatever.”

  Max’s gaze followed the woman as she hurried to the newcomer and stumbled around a chair leg on the way.

  He looked at me. “She’s a little rough around the edges.”

  “First day?” I said.

  “Third.” He grimaced and lowered his voice. “Pauline’s mother guilted me into hiring her. Long story.”

  “Well, give her some time.”

  I slid my laptop back to its original position and hoped Max would take the hint. I didn’t want him to quiz me about Jane Alcott, at least not right now when I was into the writing. I knew it would be a major miracle if he hadn’t heard about the discovery of her body. His attention was still on Pauline, though. I looked that way to see how she was doing.

  The man at the table—in dark dress slacks with a gray checked shirt—had his back to me. When he turned his head and I spotted his beard, I knew he was the man from the Barcelona cottage.

  Max noticed me staring and said, “Do you know Fred?”

  “What?” I turned to him.

  “That’s Fred Costello,” Max said. “You know him?”

  I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Not really. He a friend of yours?”

  “Me? No. He’s a regular here the past few days though. Said he’s staying at the cottages.”

  “Yes, he is, but he’s not with the rest of the group out there.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Max said. “I hear the bucket list gals are over at the archery range today. Maybe learning to shoot apples off each other’s heads.” He chuckled.

  “That’s not even funny. I thought riding a mechanical bull was next on their list.” I frowned, trying to envision Aunt Rowe on an archery range. “Are they really shooting bows and arrows?”

  He shrugged. “That’s what I heard.”

  I sighed and glanced surreptitiously at Costello. He was alone now and tapped on the screen of an iPad. He almost seemed to be tapping in time with “Night Fever,” the song coming over the sound system.

  Max studied my expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “I’m curious about that guy. Any idea what he’s doing here in Lavender?”

  “Some kind of genealogical research is what he told me,” Max said. “Tracking down a family tree or some such.”

  “Sounds interesting.” But not something I would have envisioned this guy doing. “Where’s he from?”

  “Out of state, I believe. I’m not sure if he said.”

  “His car has Texas plates.”

  Max raised his brows. “Why am I surprised at the mystery writer noticing the details? The car could be a rental.”

  “Good point.”

  “Look, I’ll let you get back to your writing.” Max grinned. “If you can focus.”

  “Oh, you. Of course I can.” I straightened in my seat and touched the laptop to wake it up.

  Behind me, I heard Max’s voice. He hadn’t made it very far from my table.

  “Mornin’, Keith,” he said. “How goes it?”

  “Sad day, Max.”

  My curiosity got the better of me, and I glanced over a shoulder to spot Max standing near a table where a man and woman were seated.

  “I sure was sorry to hear about that,” Max said.

  “A tragedy,” the other man said. “Things won’t be the same without her.”

  I looked again and paused. The man was the one Luke had introduced me to at the library site when we went to see Jane. The night she didn’t show up. Keith Barker.

  “I don’t mind the extra time off work,” Keith said to Max, “but that puts us behind schedule. Only good thing is I get to spend more time with this lovely lady.”

  He smiled at the blonde across the table from him. I turned back to my computer, then dug in my tote for my earbuds. If I could plug my ears and start the white noise app on my phone, I might be able to get my head back in my story.

  I found the headphones and busied myself with untangling the wire, then glanced back at Keith’s table. He and the woman were talking to each other now, their voices low. Fred Costello was busy on his iPad. Nothing for nosy me to hear. Good. I plugged my ears anyway and turned on the app that had me listening to the sound of a rushing stream. It reminded me of the Glidden River, which I could hear in real life when I wrote at my cottage. Probably where I should have tried writing today.

  I remembered my brownies and pulled one out, then took a bite as I reread my last sentence. I thought for a moment, put the brownie down, and continued typing.

  Behind me, a voice rose over the peaceful sound of the gurgling water.

  “There she is.”

  With a feeling of dread, I turned and saw Doreen Krenek heading across the room toward me. She marched right past the tables occupied by Barker and Costello. With her serious gaze zeroed in on me, there was little doubt I was her target. The same two women who’d accompanied her to the construction site trailed the woman.

  Ms. Krenek stopped abruptly and pulled out the other chair at my table. She plopped into the chair and stared at me.

  “Sabrina, I don’t believe you’ve been introduced to my fellow library committee members,” she said. “Lori Foster and Floy Anderson.”

  I nodded to the two women—Lori had chin-length brown hair and wore wire-rimmed glasses, and I guessed her age at forty-something. Floy, the committee member Tyanne had mentioned to me the other day, was older with curly gray hair. They stood behind Doreen like Secret Service agents accompanying the president, but I had no idea why the trio had come looking for me.

  “The sheriff needs to find Jane Alcott’s next of kin,” Doreen said.

  I reminded myself that these women could be critical to my book marketing campaign. I needed to be civil. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about Jane’s relatives. I only met her day before yesterday.”

  “That’s of no matter,” Ms. Krenek said. “You’re the one who can figure out mysteries, so you can solve this one.”

  I forced a smile. “Law enforcement has better resources than I do. Why are you bringing this problem to me?”

  Floy put her hands on her hips and pinned me with a stern glare. “It’s the least you can do, especially since this whole thing is your fault. You and that bad luck cat.”

  Chapter 10

  The library committee woman had practically accused Hitchcock of murder. If she was trying to set me off, she’d done an excellent job. I looked at my laptop and counted silently to keep myself from exploding. All I wanted to do this morning was immerse myself in my fictional world. Now this.

  My face felt hot, and I knew my anger was clearly visible. I met the offensive woman’s gaze.

  I fought to keep my tone level. “I don’t appreciate your blaming my helpless pet for something he most certainly did not cause.”

  “Floy, I told you to leave this to me.” Doreen Krenek gave her friend a back-off hand signal and faced me with a phony smile. “Sabrina, it’s of utmost importance that the library project stay on track. We have many lovely events planned, not the least of which will be placing your new book on the shelf.”

  I pushed my chair back to put more distance between us. “My book isn’t relevant to this discussion. Sounds to me like you’re placing more importance on your precious events than on what happened to Jane.”

  “No, not at all.” The mayor’s wife glanced around uneasily, as if to assure herself that none of the other patrons were tuned in to our conversation. “You must agree that it will be best for everyone, and for the entire town, if the sheriff moves us past this little setback as quickly as possible.”

  Little setback?

  I literally bit my tongue to keep from telling Mrs. Mayor what I thought about her appalling attitude. I looked at my book notes sitting beside the lapto
p.

  What would Carly Pierce do?

  For one, the FBI agent would tell me, a civilian, to stay out of the investigation. Back away. Saying that here wouldn’t satisfy these women.

  I channeled Carly and said, “Let me reach out to my contacts. We’ll call in all resources to track down every last living relative to be found.” I closed my laptop and stuffed it, along with my notes, into my tote. I lowered my voice. “All information will remain secure and reported only to law enforcement officials as necessary. It’s vital that this conversation remain in strictest confidence. Understood?”

  “Of course,” Doreen said, and Floy nodded.

  “Good.” I stood and turned to go. “Thank y’all for bringing this crisis to our attention.”

  The women wore sober expressions, as if they bought my every word. I wondered who they thought I was referring to when I said “our.”

  I hightailed it to my car, jumped in, and stuck the key in the ignition. Then I looked back at the coffee shop to make sure Krenek hadn’t decided to come after me and question me further. Carly Pierce might tell me to back off and forget the investigation existed, but she didn’t have a cat to worry about. Hitchcock would likely be part of the “remember what happened to Jane Alcott?” story for the rest of time unless I did something to convince the locals he had nothing to do with her tragic end.

  I slumped in the car seat and sighed. So why couldn’t the sheriff find Jane’s next of kin? And if he couldn’t find her family, was he making any progress figuring out who had killed her? I could call his cell phone and ask for an update, but that probably wouldn’t work. I was already here in town, and I often paid casual visits to the sheriff’s office. Why not today?

  It took me all of two minutes to reach the building that the sheriff’s department shared with a church. There was one department car parked in the lot, so I was risking a run-in with one of the deputies if I went inside. I was here now, though, and decided to take the chance. At the last second, I remembered the brownies and took them inside with me.

  The place was quiet, and I was glad to see my friend Laurelle at her desk.

  “Mornin’, Sabrina,” she said when she spotted me and half rose from her chair to look over the top of her station. “You have your sweet kitty with you today?”

  “Not this time, but I brought brownies.”

  She took two of the treats from me and grinned. “You know the way to a girl’s heart.”

  “Hey, is the sheriff in?”

  Laurelle already had her teeth sunk in a brownie. She shook her head and mumbled, “Nope.”

  “Too bad,” I said, “I was hoping to pick his brain about something.”

  “Another plot problem?” she said.

  Laurelle knew I sometimes consulted with the sheriff about fictional crime-related questions. I could pretend that’s what I wanted today, but I didn’t want to lie to her.

  “Sort of.” I looked around the empty space and peered down the corridor that led toward the private offices. A woman with a rolling garbage can by her side was busily sweeping the floor. Maria, the building custodian.

  “Deputies aren’t here either,” Laurelle said. “They’re all out on the Alcott case. Sure is a shame what happened to that woman.”

  “Yes, it is. I had just met Jane, and she offered to help me with book marketing.”

  “Doesn’t the publisher take care of all that?” Laurelle said.

  “Not from what I’m told. So now I’ll have to find someone else with experience, and I’m not sure where to start. Maybe Jane had some friends in the publishing business.”

  “Can’t help you there.” Laurelle popped another bite of brownie into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

  “Maybe Sheriff Crawford could give me the names of Jane’s friends.”

  Her brows lifted. “You know he won’t share anything on an open case.”

  “Has he located Jane’s next of kin yet?” I said.

  “Give it a rest, Sabrina. You want me to lose my job?”

  “No, but I don’t understand how it could be so hard for law enforcement people to find a woman’s relatives.”

  “He’s working the case hard. They all are.” Her phone rang, and she turned away from me to answer. “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  I wasn’t getting anything here, so I headed for the door. Maria had made her way to the front and dumped a dustpan of debris into her can. She appeared to be headed out, so I held the door for her and she maneuvered her trash can over the threshold.

  Outside on the covered walkway, Maria thanked me, then said, “The woman who died, she is a mystery.”

  “Sounds that way. Hey, you want a brownie?” I held the bag out and she took one, then checked the parking lot as if to reassure herself we were alone.

  “They find no family, no car, no phone,” Maria said. “Miss Laurelle would not tell you, but they find not one thing.”

  “And you know this how?” I said.

  “The deputies, they argue. I listen.”

  “You heard them arguing about Jane Alcott?”

  “Sí. Early this morning. One deputy is ready to make an arrest. She says talking to more people is only wasted time.”

  “Are you saying Deputy Rosales thinks she knows who killed Jane Alcott?”

  Maria nodded. “Sí, but she is wrong.”

  My heart rate quickened. “How do you know that? Do you know something about what really happened?”

  “Only that Mr. Bryan is not the one.”

  “You mean Bryan Clark?”

  She nodded. “I could not believe my eyes when I saw him here last night. He is a good man. Very kind to me and my family.” Worry creased her expression, and she glanced around again. “I should not be talking about this.”

  “Don’t worry, Maria,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone what you said, and the sheriff will get to the bottom of this. All they have against Bryan Clark is a small bit of circumstantial evidence that’s not going to do them a bit of good.”

  “I hope you are right,” she said, “but Deputy Rosales, she says she has enough. She has a plan.”

  “Do you know what her plan is?

  “I hear only a little bit,” Maria said. “She told the other deputy ‘let’s go get what we need to nail Clark to the wall.’ Then they left together.”

  I got into my car and ran through a whole list of things that I might do after listening to Maria. Running back to Laurelle and demanding to know the sheriff’s whereabouts was a bad idea. I couldn’t very well broach the subject with him unless I threw Maria under the bus—something I was unwilling to do.

  Somebody had to find a way to stop Rosales and Ainsley from pinning a murder on Bryan, but no good could come from me goading Rosales at this point. And I sure wasn’t going to Tyanne with this new and scary development. I wanted to steer the whole investigation in a different direction—away from Bryan.

  Back to the question of motive. The people Jane knew in Emerald Springs had to have more information about her private life than people here in Lavender, who had only known her for the past few months. I wouldn’t find answers by sitting around. Emerald Springs wasn’t that far, and I could spare a half a day.

  I stuck my key in the ignition and paused.

  Your day was all planned, Sabrina. You have a deadline to meet.

  True, but my curiosity was already turned to high alert.

  • • •

  A little after noon, I passed the decorative Welcome to Emerald Springs sign and stopped at a fast-food hamburger place for a quick bite. My brain cells didn’t work well on empty, and I hoped protein would give me a much-needed energy boost before I started nosing around.

  The logical place to begin my quest for information about Jane was the public library where she had worked, so I headed there. Emerald Springs had five times the population of Lavender, so I wasn’t surprised to find a much larger library than the one going up back home. I walked into the welcoming cool air and b
reathed in the scent of books. I spotted inviting armchairs placed along the balcony on the second floor. The kind of place where I would love to while away an afternoon—if I ever found myself with extra time on my hands. Not likely to happen anytime soon.

  Three people stood behind the checkout desk near the entrance. I placed two of them in their early twenties—one male, one female—both wearing sober expressions as they handled their duties. A fifty-something woman in a navy shirtdress stood at the other end of the counter. Clearly, not one movement made by the younger folks escaped her attention. I knew libraries were supposed to be quiet, but this place had a pin-drop-silent quality to it. I had a hard time imagining Jane, with her effusive bubbling-over personality, working here.

  There was no line, so I approached the older woman.

  “Excuse me.”

  Her head jerked up as if I were the first person to address her in weeks. She pushed her glasses up on her nose.

  I introduced myself and said, “I need to speak with the person in charge. Is that you?”

  She nodded curtly. “I’m Grace Weston, the library manager.”

  “Then you knew Jane Alcott when she worked here.”

  “I did. Yes.”

  Nothing about Grace’s expression told me whether she knew about Jane’s death or not. Then she glanced at the others and motioned for me to move farther away from them. I guessed yes, she knew.

  “It doesn’t take much to distract them from work,” she whispered. “No sense tempting them.”

  “I don’t mean to take anyone from their duties. If you can spare a few minutes, I was hoping you might have some facts that will help me. I take it you know about Jane.”

  “I do.”

  None of the usual “How simply awful” or “Oh, I am so sorry” from this woman. What was her deal?

  “Have you already spoken with the sheriff from Lavender or someone from his department?”

  She nodded. “On the phone. Sheriff Crawford called me himself. I wasn’t much help.”

  “You didn’t have any information about Jane’s family?”

  Grace shook her head. “She always claimed to be all alone in the world.”