Black Cat Crossing (11 page)

“I’m so glad you’re back,” I said, happy that he was protected from Thomas for the time being.

My cell phone rang just as I sat at the computer and started typing.

I’d never make progress at this rate.

Hitchcock darted from the kitchen and jumped up on the fireplace hearth. I grabbed the phone and answered quickly so the ringing wouldn’t disturb him further.

“Sabrina, sweetheart, so good to hear your voice.”

I slouched in my chair. My mother, who hadn’t bothered to contact me in the four months since she’d married Dave Harrison in Fiji. I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the screen. Brenda Harrison. She’d already changed the name on her account.

Of course. Mom was not one to procrastinate except when it came to keeping up with her children. Last I’d talked with my brother, Nick, he hadn’t heard from Mom either. I considered tapping the phone against the desk and claiming a bad connection before losing the call.

“Are you there?” she said.

“Yes, Mom. What do you need?”

“I wanted to be sure you’re all right. I heard about the murder, and I’m hoping you’re back in Houston where it’s safe.”

Houston safer than Lavender? What a hoot.

“I’m at Aunt Rowe’s, Mom, and I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m working on my book as we speak.”

Her exaggerated sigh traveled over the line. “I was hoping you’d gone back to the firm by now. Dave said they’d take you back in a heartbeat. Good paralegals are so hard to find.”

My new stepfather, Dave, was a senior partner at the firm where I’d worked. Mom insisted they met well after my father’s death, but neither my brother nor I was convinced.

“I’m not going back,” I said.

“We’ll be home by the end of next week.” She went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Dad and I would be thrilled to have you stay with us. I mean, Dave and I.”

“No thanks,” I said in what I hoped was a civil tone. Whenever I talked to her I had to keep reminding myself of my age, because I wanted to throw a childish tantrum.

Mom seemed to have blocked the fact that she was the reason I loved the Hill Country. She had sent me to Aunt Rowe’s every summer to get me out of the way. Aunt Rowe was the one who had taken pictures at my college graduation, encouraged my writing, and held my hand when I cried about my divorce. I couldn’t say Aunt Rowe was warm and fuzzy, but she was exactly what I needed her to be, unlike my mother.

“We can set up a writing desk at the window overlooking the gardens,” she continued. “It’s the perfect spot to be creative. You don’t need to stay in the Hill Country to continue your little hobby.”

I wanted to hang up on her so badly I could taste it.

“I’m not leaving Aunt Rowe,” I said, not bothering to temper my angry tone this time.

“I don’t think staying is wise, Sabrina,” she said. “Sounds like Rowe finally did it this time.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s wanted to kill Bobby Joe for years. I’m surprised it took her this long.”

Realization hit me like a brick. “
You
talked to Deputy Rosales.”

“Why yes, I did. She called me.”

“In Fiji or wherever the heck you are?”

“We’re in New Zealand now,” she said. “Yes, the deputy called my cell.”

“And you told her what?”

“The truth, of course. I would never lie to the authorities.”

“You told her Aunt Rowe threatened to kill Bobby Joe Flowers?”

“That’s what happened,” she said, “and that’s what I told her.”

This time I did hang up.

I
COULD HAVE ASKED
my mother a dozen more questions, but I didn’t want to hear another word from her mouth. What on earth was she thinking when she offered Deputy Rosales damning evidence against her own sister-in-law? Or maybe she didn’t consider Aunt Rowe a relative anymore now that Dad was gone.

Her crack about my decision to write fiction came as no surprise, but I could never seem to ignore her jabs. Hitchcock came over and rubbed against my leg as if he knew I needed consoling.

“That was my mother, in case you’re wondering,” I told the cat, “and boy-oh-boy is
she
ever a piece of work.”

I reached for the cat tentatively, unsure whether he’d let me touch him. Apparently he knew how to take advantage of a good situation and allowed me to scratch behind his ears. The cat was a lot more relaxed than I was, judging by his purring.
He
wasn’t worried about how Aunt Rowe would react to questions about the alleged death threat she’d made.

After seeing her club Bobby Joe with her crutch the other day, I had no problem imagining her making a threat to kill him. I’d bet it had been another heat-of-the-moment reaction. Aunt Rowe was human, and Bobby Joe was a jerk, so she lashed out. Verbally. No crime in that. Lord knew I was angry enough right now with my mother that I couldn’t trust what would have come out of my mouth next if I hadn’t hung up on her.

“I’m not taking Mom’s word on anything,” I told Hitchcock. “I’ll get my facts straight from Aunt Rowe.”

I stroked the cat from tip to tail, and I swear he smiled at me.

“Be a good boy and stay inside while I’m gone, so I don’t have to worry about you, too.” I found a spot in a corner of the bathroom for the new cat box. Hitchcock watched from his perch on my bed as I gave him a quick here’s-how-you-should-scratch-in-the-litter demonstration. The cat probably would have rolled his eyes if he could. Rather than come over to get a closer look for himself, he turned in a circle and settled down on the comforter for a nap.

He seemed so at ease that for a moment I wondered if he had a home elsewhere. I hated to think he might have a family searching for their beloved pet, but I couldn’t very well put up posters announcing I’d found a cat. That would be like hanging a neon arrow above Hitchcock’s head, leading Thomas and his superstitious pal, Wes Krane, straight to their supposed “bad luck cat.”

Grilling Aunt Rowe about her past with Bobby Joe was more pressing, and I had just enough time before dinner to get that done. The sky was overcast and looked like rain, so I threw on jeans and tennis shoes and grabbed a light jacket before leaving the cottage. Eager to put this discussion behind me, I opted to drive up the hill to the house. The appetizing scent of Glenda’s pork ribs with her peppery yet sweet sauce hit me the second I climbed out of my car.

Talk first, food second.

I waved at Glenda as I dashed through the kitchen and headed to Aunt Rowe’s study.

She wasn’t there.

I checked the screened porch.

No luck.

I walked down the hall and saw a light coming from the master bedroom, its door ajar. I knocked lightly and stuck my head into the room.

“Hello?”

No response.

“Aunt Rowe?”

I stepped into the room and saw my aunt dozing in the chaise by the window overlooking her cherished rose garden. She had a Lone Star quilt pulled over her legs, but her cast stuck out on one side. The lamp on the nightstand cast its glow over her, and I couldn’t help but think how much older she looked in sleep than when she was wide awake and talking a mile a minute. Poor thing was probably wiped out from the horseback riding.

“I’m not dead.” Aunt Rowe opened one eye. “Say something.”

She might not be so eager once she knew what I wanted to discuss. “Sorry to interrupt your nap.”

“No biggie.” Aunt Rowe threw off the quilt. “Is it dinnertime yet? A person can only smell those ribs for so long before it’s considered torture.” She struggled to swing her legs around so she could sit upright.

“A few more minutes,” I said. “I have some questions before dinner. Between us.” I pulled the quilt out of her way and began folding it, taking my time with the task.

Aunt Rowe fidgeted on the chaise and looked at me. “Go on and ask. Cat got your tongue?”

I was momentarily startled at the saying she had used often when I was a child. No way she knew about the cat in my cottage. I meant to discuss Hitchcock with her, but later. No sense hemming and hawing, so I spit out what was on my mind.

“Deputy Rosales was told you threatened Bobby Joe’s life in the past,” I said. “What was that about?”

“Wondered how long that would take.” Aunt Rowe frowned. “Who told her?”

“Does it really matter?” I said.

She hesitated as if she couldn’t decide whether to answer yes or no, then said, “Yes, it does.”

“I’ll tell you later. Maybe. After you fess up.”

“Have it your way.” She cleared her throat before going on. “It was a holiday weekend—Thanksgiving. Bobby Joe was thirtysomething, rebellious and loudmouthed. He never did outgrow those traits.”

She paused, and I said, “Was I there?”

Granny and PawPaw had lived in this very house. I remembered large shoulder-to-shoulder family gatherings with enough food to feed the crowd for a week straight.

“I’m sure you came to town with your folks for the holiday.” She smiled briefly. “You youngsters loved to race around the property, hootin’ and hollerin’.”

“Yes, we did, but I don’t remember ever seeing Bobby Joe.”

Aunt Rowe waved a hand. “He wasn’t interested in spending time with family.”

“Then how did this threat come about?”

“Happened at my house, the Friday night after Thanksgiving.” Aunt Rowe clucked her tongue. “Earlier that fall, Bobby Joe came up with some brainstorm to start a business. Said he needed a cash infusion. My husband—you remember Uncle Trace, right?”

I nodded. The uncle with the easy smile, perhaps due to the ever-present glass of Scotch in his hand.

“Trace was doing well,” Aunt Rowe continued, “and he was willing to help Bobby Joe out. I should have known better, but we went ahead and loaned him some money.”

Aunt Rowe stretched her arms overhead, twisted one way, then the other before placing her hands in her lap. “We opened an account for Bobby Joe. Later, we learned he’d drained the account in two days. There was no business, and he never intended to pay back a dime.”

I wasn’t yet hearing any good reason to threaten death, but Aunt Rowe was building up her steam to tell the rest of the story, so I waited. She tipped her head toward one shoulder and used a hand to pull it into a deeper stretch. My neck ached, so I perched on the corner of the bed and did what she was doing.

“Fast-forward to Thanksgiving week.” Aunt Rowe took a deep breath and stretched her neck to the other side. “Bobby Joe came over to the house trying to weasel more money, but Trace wasn’t falling for his shenanigans a second time. Then my jewelry went missing. Every last piece.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“I accused Bobby Joe, and he denied having anything to do with the theft. He’d ticked me off by pissing away that money, so I kept after him. Your granny’s wedding ring was stolen along with everything else.”

“That’s terrible.” I straightened. “Did you ever get it back?”

Aunt Rowe shook her head. “Breaks my heart to this day. Should have kept it in a safe-deposit box, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“What did you do?”

“Trace and I went around to pawnshops from here to Austin,” she said. “Tracked down some of the pieces at a place over near Blackjack Creek.”

“Did they tell you where they got the jewelry?”

She shook her head. “Didn’t matter. I knew it was Bobby Joe.”

“That’s really low,” I said.

She nodded. “Keep in mind, this was shortly after Thomas came to live with us.”

“Poor little guy,” I said. “He always looked so sad.”

“That he was,” Aunt Rowe said. “I know he hated to leave home, but fourteen is too young to live alone. His daddy was working out in the Gulf for weeks at a time, his mama battling that brain tumor, God rest her soul. I’m glad we were able to help him out.”

Aunt Rowe grabbed the crutches that leaned against the dresser. “Got to wash off some of this grit from the horseback riding before we eat.”

“Need any help?” I said.

“Nope.”

I waited in suspense while Aunt Rowe hobbled into the bathroom. From where I sat I could see her bend over the sink to splash water on her face. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair before coming back into the bedroom and standing in front of me.

“Long story short,” she said, “I caught Bobby Joe planting the pawnshop ticket in Thomas’s bedroom. I knew right then he planned to sic the sheriff on Thomas and that he didn’t give a rat’s you-know-what about what happened to the boy.”

I gasped. “What a horrible thing to do.”

“Exactly,” Aunt Rowe said. “
That’s
when I said I would kill his ass if I
ever
found out he did something so despicable again.”

“I can’t say I blame you.”

“And I’ll bet it was your mama who told the deputy this little story.”

I grimaced and nodded.

“I’m not surprised,” Aunt Rowe said. “Brenda was always a nervous Nellie. The gunshot about scared the pants right off her.”

After a few seconds, I closed my gaping mouth and said, “What gunshot?”

“When I saw Bobby Joe go into Thomas’s bedroom, I pulled my pistol and followed. I knew he was up to no good. I shot a hole through the wall right next to Bobby Joe’s head. He needed to be taught a lesson.”

Good Lord, this was worse than I could have imagined.

“I was hoping it’d scare him straight,” she said, “but that didn’t happen.”

“Does Thomas know what Bobby Joe did?”

Aunt Rowe shook her head. “Better if he didn’t.”

That may be true, but I had a feeling Thomas had heard the whole story at some point in his life. Probably from my mother.

I wondered if Rosales would get corroborating reports from other witnesses. “Who else knows about this?”

“Chester Mosley,” she said without hesitation, “Unless he’s drunk so much over the years that he’s pickled his brain.”

“Who is he?”

“Chester was Bobby Joe’s best friend,” she said. “He was in the house that day. In the kitchen, no doubt. Kid was always stuffing his face and had the weight to prove it.”

“What happened when he heard the gunshot?”

“He was at my side in a split second, looking from the pistol to the hole in the wall. Then he backed away with his hands in the air as if he thought I meant to shoot him right then and there.” Aunt Rowe chuckled. “Claimed he wasn’t in on the jewelry theft, though, and I believed him.”

When I’d asked her about Bobby Joe’s friends the other day, she claimed no knowledge. Had she purposely avoided discussing this episode? My stomach churned.

“Did Bobby Joe and Chester keep up with each other all these years?” I said.

Aunt Rowe shrugged. “Don’t know. Why’s it matter?”

“Chester might talk to Deputy Rosales and repeat the story Mom already told her.”

“So what?” Aunt Rowe said. “That’s ancient history.”

“We’re talking about a murder. It doesn’t matter how long ago you threatened him. Aunt Rowe, you know I hate telling you what to do, but you need to hire a criminal attorney, like right now.”

“What I need to do now is eat dinner, and you can bet your britches I’m not hiring any lawyer.” She lined up her crutches and headed for the door.

“Does this guy Chester still live around here?” I said.

“Sure does.”

“Where can I find him?”

“The Wild Pony Saloon,” she said. “He owns the place. But for Pete’s sake, Sabrina, why bother with that old coot?”

“He may know something that would lead us to Bobby Joe’s killer, which would keep you out of a boatload of trouble.”

Aunt Rowe turned to look at me. “Relax and go back to your book writing. The sheriff will take care of everything. No way he’s going to arrest me. He knows better.” She left the room, her crutches thumping on hardwood as she walked toward the kitchen.

The sheriff might want to take care of Aunt Rowe, but he wouldn’t overlook evidence. I wasn’t so sure he could control his deputy. A smidgen of doubt crossed my mind. What if Aunt Rowe really
was
guilty and counting on her relationship with Jeb Crawford to get away with murder? I hadn’t heard a denial from her. What if Bobby Joe had pulled some new scam that sent my aunt over the edge?

I wanted to leave right then and drive out to The Wild Pony Saloon to interview Chester. Two things stopped me.

I’d heard The Wild Pony didn’t open until seven in the evening.

Plus, I didn’t want to irritate Tyanne any more than I already had, and she was coming to dinner primarily to talk to me.

Those ribs sure smelled great.

Okay, three things
.

I found Glenda in the kitchen, ladling steaming pinto beans from the Crock-Pot into a serving dish. I could hear Aunt Rowe scuffling around in the dining room, probably trying to get herself and the cast situated in her chair.

“Hope you brought your appetite,” Glenda said.

“Some people can’t eat when they’re worried to death,” I said. “Guess that doesn’t apply to me ’cause I’m starving.”

“Nervous about that agent meeting?” she said.

“For one thing.” I wanted to share my concerns with Glenda, but not while Aunt Rowe was in earshot.

The doorbell rang.

Glenda said, “Could you get that? It’s probably Tyanne.”

I went to the front door, steeling myself. I could always pray for my brain to miraculously kick into creative gear when she asked me to give my book pitch, but that was a long shot. I’d have to admit to Ty that my book proposal was far from finished.

I pasted on a big smile as I opened the door, but Tyanne wasn’t the one standing there on the front stoop. Another woman, red faced and puffy eyed, held a wad of tissues in her hand, and before I could say a word she burst into tears.