The Black Cat Knocks on Wood (10 page)

Mrs. Morales crossed her arms over her chest. “Crystal could be, what is the right word?” She thought a moment then said, “Impatient. Not always nice, but I should not say such things when I have not asked how you knew her.”

“No worries,” I said. “I met Crystal only once, the day before the, um, accident. She was very generous with a donation to a needy cause.”

Mrs. Morales smiled. “Yes, Miss Crystal was always generous. Sharing the wealth, as she said.” She picked up her coffee and relaxed against the sofa back.

“It’s refreshing when the wealthy have that kind of sharing attitude.” I looked out the window across the acres. “It’s beautiful here. I guess Crystal and Lance own quite a bit of land.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Morales said. “Much came to Crystal from her family. She was a fortunate woman.”

“Until recently,” I said.

“You are right.”

“Mrs. Morales, do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt Crystal?”

The woman glanced at the wall where a clock hung. “How long can you stay?”

Her statement took me aback. Was she hoping for a lengthy visit, or did she mean what I thought she meant?

“You have a list?” I said.

“I could have, if I worked at it. Went through all of her sales records. These sales, they did not always go without a hitch.”

“I imagine not,” I said. “Has the sheriff come by to talk to you?”

“I spoke with a deputy,” she said. “For only a few minutes. She did not put much stock in my words.”

Detective Rosales at her finest.

“And did you tell the deputy about the people you suspect?”

“I told her some things,” she said.

I drank more coffee. “Did Crystal and her husband get along well?”

She sipped from her cup. Her gaze darted about the room as she considered my question. “They kept up appearances.”

“I hope you don’t mind my asking about your employer.”

“My employer is gone,” she said. “I do not work for Mr. Devlin.”

“That sounds like you don’t like Mr. Devlin.”

“He is not my favorite person,” she said.

“Are you planning to leave?”

“No, I will stay, but only so long as Miss Crystal’s son is home,” she said. “I expect he will leave soon.”

“For college?”

“Maybe,” she said. “That was Miss Crystal’s greatest wish.”

I imagined that losing his mother might change Cody’s immediate plans.

“Is Mr. Devlin on your list of suspicious people?” I said.

She paused, considering the question, then she shook her head. “I do not believe he would kill his wife.”

“What about his pal Ace McKinney?”

She frowned. “He was old friend of Miss Crystal, not Mr. Devlin’s.”

“But he works at the rodeo, for Lance Devlin.”

“Now, yes,” she said. “He and Miss Crystal met in college. Maybe he was better then. Now, he is, how do you say?” She paused, thinking. After a moment, she said, “Self-destructive.”

“In what way?”

“First it was the bull riding,” she said. “He picked the most fierce till he got thrown off and hurt very bad. Then he turned to alcohol.”

“Some might say that drinking goes with the rodeo cowboy way of life.”

“No,” she said. “This is much more.”

“How did Crystal feel about his behavior?”

“She was very angry with him,” Mrs. Morales said. “She would not tell me why. I do not think it was about the drinking.”

“Were they romantically involved?”

She shook her head. “Oh, no, not like that.”

“Did he come here to the house often?”

“No.” A chiming noise sounded, and Mrs. Morales stood. She walked over to an antique chest and picked up her phone. Checked the screen. “I’m sorry, but I am needed at the main house,” she said.

“No problem.” I placed my cup on a side table and stood.

This woman probably had a lot more information to give, if only I knew the right questions to ask.

She showed me to the door. “Thank you for the basket. I am glad for visitors to talk with. I cannot live with all this silence.”

*   *   *

When I left Mrs. Morales, things still appeared quiet around the big house. I wondered whether Lance and Cody Devlin were home and requesting her presence or if she’d been summoned by the household help to lend a hand with some chore. I assumed the Devlins had live-in help to take care of the big house—there was surely enough room inside to house a full staff.

Looking at situations through a mystery writer’s eyes, I couldn’t stifle my tendency to investigate. Talking with Mrs. Morales had stirred up all sorts of questions. I wanted to talk with Jordan to see what she could tell me about troublesome relationships Crystal might have had with clients. Maybe I’d even continue my pretend research at the rodeo so I could learn what made Ace McKinney tick.

If I could find the time to work on all of this, I
would
solve Crystal Devlin’s murder. If the resolution came quickly, I could get back to concentrating on my writing.

I climbed back in my car and was bombarded with blips, beeps, and vibrations coming from my phone, which I’d left in the cup holder while I was inside with Mrs. Morales.

Jeez Louise, what’s the big deal? Has someone died?

I immediately regretted that thought and grabbed the phone. A row of text messages had come in—all from my agent.

My heart flew to my throat.

Before I could read the texts, the phone rang.

Kree Vanderpool’s name showed on the screen.

With a shaky finger, I punched “Answer” and squeaked out a hello.

“Sabrina,” Kree said. “Are you sitting down? Now don’t get too excited, but I had to share this news right away. We have a nibble on your book from a very large house.”

My heart pinged. “Oh my goodness,” I managed. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” she said. “There’s one little wrinkle.”

I slumped in the car seat. “What is it?”

“The editor has pretty definite ideas.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“He’s asked for a few revisions,” she said. “All you have to do is rework the subplot. If you have some time, I can go over the changes he wants you to make.”

I don’t know how long I sat in my car with my mind racing after Kree and I ended our call. Long enough for Mrs. Morales to wonder what the heck I was doing and why I didn’t leave. When I saw her peer out the front window at me, I started the car and drove away.

Kree and I planned a phone conference at one o’clock to go over the editor’s suggested changes. My heart rate should be back to normal by then. I’d have time to look over the manuscript and refresh my memory about the story line before our call. I could sit at my desk and take notes.

Going back to edit that book would be a challenge. I had a hard enough time focusing on the story I was currently writing. Now I had to set aside the plot involving my FBI protagonist and immerse myself in the life of Scarlett Olson, my woman in jeopardy. The way I felt lately, with the recent murder and my conflict with Aunt Rowe, I should be able to relate to the character.

I had to leave the real-life murder investigating to the
sheriff’s department. Set aside my concerns about Aunt Rowe and the fact that she was running around town with Rita Colletti. Quit worrying about whose fingers Ace McKinney might want broken, so long as they weren’t mine.

Or Aunt Rowe’s.

Or Pearl’s.

Or—

Stop. Go home. Get to work.

I considered going to the bookstore to share my news with Tyanne. She was my best friend, and she’d be as excited as I was. Her nagging me to spend more time on writing would start—it hadn’t actually ended, just moved on to a different manuscript. She meant well. I might never have finished the book if it weren’t for her. But what if little Abby was there at the store and asked me about investigating the murder again?

Stay on track.

I could call Tyanne after Kree revealed the editor’s comments. At that point, I might be freaked out and overwhelmed. She would give me the logical advice I needed.

There
was
one friend I could share the news with right away.

I’m not sure how I made it to the Monte Carlo cottage, since my mind wasn’t on my driving. I parked quickly and hurried inside, where I found Hitchcock sprawled on a living room chair. He gave me a quizzical look when I rushed over and fell to my knees in front of him.

“We did it.” I placed a hand on either side of the cat’s face. “An editor likes my book, the one I couldn’t have written without you watching over me.”

“Mrreow.” He butted his head against my hands.

“That’s right,” I said. “This
is
big. You need to stay close to help me rev up the suspense in the rewrite.”

Hitchcock’s motor started running. I stroked his sleek black fur for a few minutes, then jumped up and turned my laptop on. As I waited for the computer, I thought about the
prospect of holding my own published book in my hands. I’d have to get up to speed on the best marketing tactics. Set up book signings. Maybe hire a publicist, if I could afford one.

You’re putting the cart before the horse, Sabrina.

I opened my book outline and reviewed the story line. Then I went to the manuscript and read my favorite scenes—the suspenseful passages I felt sure had captured the editor’s attention. In one of them, Scarlett Olson was running from the one man who could help her, her biggest ally. Of course, she didn’t realize that at the time.

The relationship between the two characters made me think about the friendship between Crystal and Ace. Mrs. Morales’s statement that Ace was Crystal’s friend, not Lance’s, had surprised me. Ace looked at least ten years older than Crystal. Exposure to the hot Texas sun had prematurely aged his skin. I had a hard time imagining the two of them as pals. Recently, according to Mrs. Morales, Crystal had been angry with Ace. Why? I wondered if Ace knew Crystal was angry. Did he care? Was her anger a threat to him somehow?

I shook myself and regained my focus on the computer screen.

One o’clock came quickly, and Kree filled me in on what the editor had to say about my manuscript. He wanted the subplot to have a tighter connection to the rest of the story. To have more facets. He suggested I raise the stakes. Kree relayed his comments in addition to her thoughts on how I could accomplish these things. My hand cramped from taking fast and furious notes. Kree’s voice kept rising in tone and speed until I worried she’d get so excited she’d trigger a stroke. Finally, she said she hoped to get the revised manuscript back from me soon.

As predicted, I felt overwhelmed by the end of the call. I fell back against the chair. The enormity of this project definitely called for a pep talk from Tyanne. I dialed her cell and got voice mail. I put in a call to the bookstore, and Ethan told me Tyanne and her kids were out to lunch with friends.

I sat and stared at the computer screen for a few more minutes. Reread my notes.

Jeez. Where to begin?

Hitchcock jumped up on the table. He sat next to the laptop and stared at me. Those green eyes of his sure were piercing.

“I can’t just jump into this without a plan.” I rolled my head, massaged my neck, then stood. “Let’s go for a walk and loosen up.”

I headed for the door. When I looked back, Hitchcock was still sitting by the computer.

“C’mon or I’m leaving without you.”

“Mrreow.” He leapt to the floor, trotted to me, and we left the cottage together.

A sweltering mid-July afternoon isn’t the smartest time to take a walk. A swim, yes. I could hear people nearby, splashing in the river, but I needed to keep my focus on the project ahead. Best-case scenario, this walk along the shady riverbank would jog my brain and help me decide where to begin the revisions.

Rather than stick with me, Hitchcock opted to jump over fallen limbs and dive into dead leaves alongside the path. I loved to watch him run and play—a nice change from his usual, serious demeanor. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades as I plodded along, doing my best to rearrange plot points in my head.

The next time I glanced along the path for Hitchcock he wasn’t there. I stopped and turned around.

No cat.

I scanned my surroundings and caught sight of him heading back toward the cottages at a fast clip.

Was someone waving a can of tuna fish or what? I had to follow the cat and make sure he wasn’t being lured by someone with less-than-friendly feelings toward black cats.

I cut through the trees to follow him and realized we were coming up closer than I’d like to the Paris cottage, where Rita Colletti was staying.

As I came through the tree line behind the cottage, I noticed a white pickup truck with a Devlin ranch logo on the driver’s side door parked alongside Rita’s BMW. Hitchcock darted across the lawn near the cottage and took a flying leap up to the back deck.

I opened my mouth to call the cat, then closed it again. I wanted to get Hitchcock home without the lawyer spotting us. I couldn’t help wondering, though, who was visiting with Rita. Lance Devlin, maybe, or someone else who worked at the ranch or the rodeo?

Good grief, I hope it’s not Ace McKinney.

I headed toward the cottage, praying Rita and her visitor weren’t in a place where they could see this expanse of lawn. Hitchcock jumped up on a windowsill. I pictured the inside of the Paris cottage and realized he was outside the bedroom window. Was she in
there
with someone?

“Psst, Hitchcock.” I made kitty-calling noises in hopes he’d come my way, but he didn’t acknowledge my presence. He’d suddenly gone deaf. Selectively.

Darn cat.

I walked closer and kept up the noises in hopes he’d pay attention and obey. When I got within a few yards of the cottage, I heard a repetitive thumping sound. I paused for a few seconds before realizing someone was knocking on the cottage’s door.

I walked to the corner and peered around the edge to look at the front porch.

Cody Devlin stood by the door, looking gangly and out of place. He tried again—
thump, thump, thump
—but no one answered. Rita and Aunt Rowe might still be in town.

I took a few steps toward Cody. “Hi there. Help you with something?”

He jerked and spun toward me, then tried to cover his embarrassment at being taken by surprise. “No, ah, I need to talk to the lawyer.”

I smiled. “Ms. Colletti went out with a friend earlier.”

“Her car’s here,” he said.

I shrugged. “They probably took the friend’s car. I guess they’re not back yet. I can leave a message for her if you like.”

He shook his head. “No. This is private.”

“Most things that bring someone to a lawyer are confidential. I worked for Ms. Colletti for many years.” Insinuating I could be trusted to give a private message to the attorney for him.

“Who are you?” he said.

I told him my name and pointed out the Monte Carlo cottage where I lived.

“I saw you somewhere,” he said. “The other day.”

I nodded. “Yes, I saw you in town. Twice, in fact.”

He pointed at me. “You were with that woman. The one who killed my mom.”

I shook my head vigorously. “No, that’s wrong.”

“Yeah, you were with her. The candy-store lady.”

“She didn’t do anything to your mother,” I said. “The phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty’ was invented for circumstances like this.”

The kid was beginning to look like he wanted to put a fist through the door. “That’s bull,” he said. “She sent my mom a text to meet her at that building, then she waited there and—”

“Hold it, hold it.” I put up a hand. “What text?”

He stopped talking, and his brows drew together. After a moment he said, “Never mind.”

“Are you saying Pearl Hogan sent your mother a text the morning of the incident?”

He nodded slightly.

“Huh. I didn’t hear anything about a text message.”

“Why would you?” he said.

My mind raced. Pearl said she happened to look out the window that morning and saw Crystal entering the building, then rushed out on the spur of the moment to confront her. Was she lying all along? Had she sent a text message to Crystal?

“The sheriff knows about the text message, right?” I said.

More foot shuffling. The kid wouldn’t look at me. I waited him out, and finally Cody looked up at me. He didn’t speak.

“Where’s your mom’s phone now?” I said.

“At the house.”

“What’s on the phone that you don’t want anyone to see?” I said, voicing a suspicion.

“We fought.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “A lot. In texts.”

“Kids and moms fight. That’s a fact of life.”

“Not like us.”

He didn’t know me and my mother.

“You don’t want anybody to know about the fighting,” I said.

I watched him. After a few seconds, the kid shook his head. Funny, he was quick to accuse Pearl, yet he held back evidence that might help to convict her.

“You didn’t threaten to kill your mom or anything like that in the texts, did you?”

“No.”

“Okay, good.”

I didn’t think the boy was guilty of anything except wanting to keep his less-than-ideal relationship with his dead mother a secret.

He ought to turn over the phone. If he did, what would happen to Pearl? Had the woman committed premeditated murder? Lured the victim to the scene of her death by sending a text message?

I didn’t think so.

“What does your dad have to say about all this?”

“I didn’t tell him,” Cody said.

I cocked my head and inspected the kid’s face. He was hurting. According to Ethan, this boy’s parents didn’t give him the attention he needed. Now one of them was gone forever.

“Why do you need to see the lawyer?” I asked.

“Personal business. I’ll come back.” He turned to leave, then jumped. “What was that?”

I caught a streak of black out of the corner of my eye. “Oh, that’s my cat. Hitchcock.”

The cat had gone through the porch railing into the ligustrum bushes. Cody leaned over the railing to look in the shrubbery. “Is he pure black?”

I nodded. “Why? Are you superstitious about black cats?”

“No.” He shook his head. “They’re cool.”

“Yes, they are. Hitchcock is my good luck charm.”

He snorted. “I could use some of that.”

My feelings about the kid softened a bit. “Things will be tough for a while, but you’ll come out okay on the other side.”

He rolled his eyes and dipped his head.

I leaned over to look for the cat and noticed a white car heading down the drive, coming from the main entrance.

A sheriff’s department car.

Cody lifted his head, saw the car, and seemed to stiffen.

“I won’t say anything about your mom’s phone or the text message if you don’t,” I said.

The sheriff needed to have this information, but I didn’t necessarily want to be the person to turn over the evidence. I wanted to talk with Pearl and see what she had to say for herself.

“Deal,” he said.

As the car grew closer, I closed my eyes and made a wish that Sheriff Crawford would be inside and not one of his unlikeable deputies. When the crawl of tires over gravel grew closer, I opened my eyes.

Luck wasn’t with me. Deputy Rosales climbed out of the car and came straight toward me. She had a piece of paper in her hand and held it out.

“I have a warrant here,” she said.

My heart rate sped up. “A warrant for what?”

“I need to collect a hair sample to match hair found at the
murder scene.” Her eyes glittered as she clearly enjoyed delivering this news.

They found my hair at the scene?
Rosales was looking straight at me, but maybe she was talking about collecting hair from Cody. Except she wouldn’t have known to come here looking for the kid.

“Hair from me or from him?” I pointed at Cody.

“Neither,” Rosales said. “I need the hair of the cat.”