The Black Cat Knocks on Wood

PRAISE FOR

Black Cat Crossing

“
Black Cat Crossing
has everything a cozy mystery could want—intrigue, memorable characters, a small-town setting, and even a few mouthwatering recipes . . . A purr-fectly cozy read.”

—Ellery Adams,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Breach of Crust

“If Charlie and Diesel ever make it to Texas, they’ll be heading straight to Lavender to meet Sabrina and Hitchcock to talk about solving mysteries. I loved every page of
Black Cat Crossing
, and I can’t wait for a return visit to Lavender.”

—Miranda James,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Cat in the Stacks Mysteries

BLACK CAT CROSSING

THE BLACK CAT KNOCKS ON WOOD

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

THE BLACK CAT KNOCKS ON WOOD

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Kay Finch.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 9780698162037

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2016

Cover illustration by Brandon Dorman (Lott Reps).

Cover design by Daniela Medina.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

For Audrey, our sweet little candy
lover

Heartfelt thanks go out to the entire cozy mystery community—the talented and gracious authors, the readers and reviewers, and everyone who takes the time to send kind words to those of us who spend so many hours sitting alone at a keyboard.

Thanks to my delightful editor, Michelle Vega, for her cheerful guidance. I’m grateful to Penguin Random House and all of the Berkley folks for their support of my work and for continuing to bring all of us so many great books. Special thanks to my agent, Jessica Faust, for bringing me to this party.

Hugs to my fabulous critique group. Without y’all I’d be lost. Thanks Amy, Bob, Dean, Julie, Kay 2, and Laura. Thanks also to Susie and family for opening your home to our group every week. We appreciate you so much.

Last but never least, thanks to my Texas and my Pennsylvania families for tons of support, especially to my husband, Benton, who endures a lot of crazy fictional
questions.

My tall black cat perched atop the ink-jet printer like a misplaced hood ornament and supervised as I worked.

“Hitchcock,” I said. “Get down from there. You’re too heavy. Aunt Rowe won’t appreciate it if you break her printer.”

His long tail swished across the paper tray. A couple of months had passed since the cat and I adopted each other. Without a doubt, he understood what I wanted him to do. I was already accustomed to him ignoring me.

I turned to look directly into the cat’s green eyes. “
Please
get down,” I said.

Hitchcock jumped to the floor and promptly began cleaning a paw.

“Thank you.” I grinned and returned my attention to the flyer I’d designed for the Love-a-Black-Cat adoption weekend that Magnolia Jensen, our local vet, and I had planned together. The event was scheduled for late August, well in advance of Halloween, which could be a dangerous holiday for
black felines. Rescue groups from three surrounding counties had opted in, and the event would be held at the Lawton County fairgrounds. We hoped to set a record for bringing homeless cats together with their new forever families. Now was the time to gear up advertising and donation collecting for the big weekend.

My own printer didn’t do color, so I’d come to use Aunt Rowe’s for the flyer. I clicked the button and waited for the page to spit out, then showed the flyer to Hitchcock. “I couldn’t have found a more handsome model for this flyer than you.”

He looked up as if inspecting the page and gave me one of his kitty smirks.

The flyer featured a picture of Hitchcock sprawled on the windowsill of my cottage, one of his favorite lounging spots. “We’ll find a place to make copies so we don’t use up all of Aunt Rowe’s ink.”

“Mrreow,” Hitchcock said, as if he agreed with the plan.

An outburst of laughter drifted into Aunt Rowe’s office from the screened porch. Some of her friends had gathered for brunch, and it sounded like they were having a grand time. I was happy to see her back in her usual routine now that the cast had finally come off the leg she’d broken last spring. She was exercising like a demon—doing Zumba and lifting weights—and looked great. I felt like a slug around her. Devoting long hours to writing at the laptop could do that to a person.

Louder noise that I could only describe as hootin’ and hollerin’ came my way. Hitchcock and I looked at each other.

“Jeez, they’re getting rowdy out there. Let’s go investigate.”

I closed the computer program I’d been using, picked up the flyer, and headed toward the noise. Music began playing, and the laughter grew even louder. No surprise that a group of four women could make a racket, but now they’d piqued my curiosity. What the heck were they up to?

The smell of biscuits and Glenda’s delicious ham-and-cheese casserole baking filled the air as I made my way down
the hall. Aunt Rowe’s tireless housekeeper was an excellent cook, and she kept the house as well as Aunt Rowe’s rental cottages spic-and-span.

As I reached the doorway to the porch, I recognized the song—“Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)”—at the same moment I saw Aunt Rowe dancing an unusual two-step while flinging one arm in a circular motion above her head. She wore a red cowboy hat with a purple feather plume and a matching purple button-down shirt. Her three friends clapped hands and stomped their feet in time with the music.

Behind me, Hitchcock had opted to stop a few feet shy of the door, where he sat watching me. Smart cat.

“I’m going in,” I told him and placed my flyer on a console table in the hallway. “Wish me luck.”

Aunt Rowe kept up her performance for a bit, then slowed and took off her hat before wiping her damp forehead with a shirt sleeve. She caught sight of me.

“Turn that off, Helen,” she told the woman nearest her, who punched her cell phone. The song cut off. “What d’ya think, Sabrina?”

I shrugged. “I’m speechless, Aunt Rowe. What are you doing?”

“Practicing my lasso skills,” she said.

Lasso? What the heck?

“She’s gonna need a lot more practice before she’s ready,” said Pearl Hogan, whom I knew well from frequent visits to her candy store in town, Sweet Stop. “We all will.”

“Practice for what?”

“Lavender’s Senior Pro Rodeo,” Helen said. “Which color shirt do you like better, Sabrina? Purple like Rowe’s or this red one?” She picked up a red long-sleeved shirt from the table, stood, and slipped it on over her floral blouse. “I’m partial to the red.” She turned to the left, the right, then twirled to show off the shirt.

I prided myself on my cognitive ability, but they had lost me back at “lasso
.
”

“What on God’s green earth are you ladies talking about?” I said. “What rodeo?”

The fourth member of the group, quiet until now, spoke up. Adele Davis had attended high school with Aunt Rowe, and they’d been friends ever since. I had only recently met the woman after she returned from touring Europe with her husband. “You’ve never been to the Lavender rodeo?” she said.

I shook my head. Not only had I never been, but I was generally opposed to any event that mistreated animals in any way, shape, or form. I couldn’t imagine a rodeo as an animal-friendly place.

“Sabrina’s a writer,” Pearl said. “Literary types don’t hang out at rodeos. They prefer bookstores, libraries, candy stores.” She winked at me.

I turned to my aunt, who was busy unbuttoning the purple shirt she’d tried on over her clothes.

“There’s a rodeo for seniors in Lavender?” I said.

“Not exactly,” Adele answered. “The rodeo has been going on for twenty years or more—first Friday of the month—but they’re holding the first senior night three weeks from now.”

“And we’re going to perform,” Aunt Rowe said. “You’re looking at Team Flowers.”

Helen, who ran a tailoring business out of her home, said, “I’m going to embroider the team name on the shirt pocket and the name of our sponsor on back. Around-the-World Cottages.”

“You’re doing this for the publicity, Aunt Rowe?” I said. “Wouldn’t it be cheaper, not to mention safer, to buy an ad in the rodeo program?”

“Program schmogram,” Aunt Rowe said. “We’re in this for the fun and the excitement. Right, girls?”

“Right,” her friends said in unison.

I didn’t want to be a spoilsport, but these women ranged in age from midsixties to early seventies and would fit in better at the Red Hat Society. I couldn’t imagine them
performing in any capacity at a rodeo. I glanced at a near-empty pitcher on a side table and surveyed the women’s drinking glasses. It was a little early in the day for Aunt Rowe’s legendary Texas Tea—a potent beverage containing several types of alcohol. I decided not to ask about their drinking at the moment. I had another question on my mind.

“Are you sure the Senior Pro Rodeo isn’t for seniors who performed as rodeo professionals at some point in their lives?” I said.

Pearl said, “I did some barrel racing back in high school.”

What was that, like fifty years ago?

I wanted to say more, but I clamped my mouth shut. Sounded like this senior rodeo fell at the end of July—a scorching-hot Texas July, with temperatures dropping to ninety at night if we were lucky. Who in their right mind would want to ride in a dusty rodeo arena under those circumstances? I’d learned enough about my aunt in the months since moving to Lavender from Houston to realize it was best to ignore the whole thing and hope she came to her senses before the date arrived.

“I need to get back to my writing, ladies,” I said. “Good luck with your practice. Oh, and by the way, I’m with Aunt Rowe. I prefer the purple shirt.”

I walked out before my true opinion about their crazy plan could slip from my lips. Hitchcock was nowhere in sight as I grabbed my flyer from the table. I went to the kitchen in hopes of finding Glenda, but she wasn’t there. The oven timer indicated another ten minutes for the casserole to bake.

I opened the kitchen door and caught a glimpse of black streaking past me. Hitchcock was an expert at slipping out unnoticed, but I was getting better at catching him in the act.

I was halfway out myself when someone said, “Sabrina, wait.”

I turned to see Pearl hurrying across the room toward me. Maybe she felt the same way I did about the rodeo and wanted my advice on how to nix the whole deal.

“What is it, Pearl?” I closed the door and stepped back into the kitchen.

The older woman’s pale complexion was flushed. She twisted the hem of her shirt into a tight coil. “I need a favor.”

“Okay.”

“How’s your cat doing?”

“Fine,” I answered slowly. “Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to borrow him.”

I showed her the flyer. “If you’d like to adopt a cat, I can get you fixed up.”

“No, I need
your
cat. He’s the bad luck cat, and that’s the whole point.”

I started to laugh, but noted Pearl’s dead-serious expression and sobered quickly. “Are you kidding me?”

“Seriously. I need Hitchcock, just for a little while.”

“Have you been talking to Thomas?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t have to. Everyone knows you have the bad luck cat.”

“You’re dead wrong,” I said. “The fact that there’s some ancient legend about a black cat has no relation to my cat. Ask Thomas. Even he doesn’t call Hitchcock El Gato Diablo anymore.”

At least not in my presence.

Pearl looked over her shoulder as though to make sure we were alone, then continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “See, there’s a person who deserves a ton of bad luck right about now, and I’m ready to deliver some.”

By using my cat? I couldn’t believe the sweet candy-store lady would say such a thing.

“What’s going on, Pearl?” I said. “This doesn’t sound like you.”

“Ordinarily, such an idea would never cross my mind.” She chewed on her lower lip. “You know I’ve had my heart set on buying the property next door to expand my store.”

“Right,” I said. “I met that woman who drew up the blueprints, your designer.”

Pearl nodded. “She’s just as put out as I am about this. I made a deal to buy the place, signed the earnest money contract, and paid a thousand down. The property should be mine, fair and square.”

“What went wrong?”

“Crystal Devlin, that’s what. She’s a liar and a cheat. Claims she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Says there was no earnest money contract, as if the paper I signed disappeared into thin air. My check hasn’t been cashed.”

The Devlin woman was the go-to real estate agent in Lavender and surrounding Texas Hill Country towns. “Crystal Devlin has a reputation to uphold. Why would she lie?”

“Rumor has it she’s in cahoots with a bigwig investor from Austin, someone who wants to buy up a bunch of properties in town. He has deep pockets, and she thinks she can kick me to the curb. That’s why I want to borrow the cat. I wouldn’t need him for very long. Maybe a few hours.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, my voice rising. “I’m sorry for what happened with Crystal Devlin, but I won’t agree to any such thing. Hitchcock is my pet. You can get your own cat if you like.”

“He’s the
bad luck cat
,” she said. “No other cat will do.”

“If he
was
bad luck, which he
isn’t
, then why would you want to take him anywhere and risk having bad luck yourself? That doesn’t make any sense, Pearl.”

“Hitchcock’s my friend,” she said. “He wouldn’t let anything bad happen to
me
. Knock on wood.”

I rolled my eyes. There she went with another crazy superstition.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. “Sabrina, Pearl, everything all right?”

“We’re good, Rowe,” Pearl yelled. “I’m checking on the casserole.”

I moved closer to the woman and met her gaze. “I’m not lending you my cat. First of all, I find the suggestion that my sweet boy would cause any sort of bad luck offensive. Second,
I think it’s a better idea for you to hire a lawyer to look into this. Either that or turn the other cheek. No good will come out of a plan for vengeance.”

“I can’t stand that woman flat-out lying, tryin’ to cheat me out of the deal I made,” Pearl said heatedly. “She’s going to pay, cat or no cat.”

“I’m sorry, Pearl,” I said again. “
No cat
, and that’s final.”

I turned and left the house. I might never again experience the happy, childlike feeling of purchasing a sack of my favorite malted milk balls at Pearl Hogan’s candy store.