The Black Cat Knocks on Wood (16 page)

“Tell me what you saw.”

I went through the whole story up to and including the arrival of the emergency folks.

“Can you identify the truck that rammed into the lawyer’s car?”

“It was a light color,” I said. “Other than that, no.”

“Could you ID the driver?”

“No way.” I shook my head. “The truck went flying past us, much too fast for me to get a look, even if I’d tried. And we were a good distance away when the ramming started.”

Rosales paused for a moment, then said, “So you originally were in the car that went over the ridge.”

“That’s correct.”

“And the truck purposely rammed the car.”

“Yes. More than once.”

“Do you believe the truck’s driver intended to cause physical harm to Rita Colletti?”

“Yes,” I said. “If you’d been here, you’d have no doubt. That driver tried to kill Rita Colletti.”

Rosales frowned. “I’m curious about one thing.”

Her tone sent a tingle of dread up my spine. I waited for her to accuse me.

After a few seconds, she went on. “You were in that car this evening.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then how do you know the driver wasn’t after you?”

Deputy Rosales’s words stuck with me during the drive home. No way would I repeat them to Aunt Rowe, who had reclined the passenger seat and closed her eyes. The last thing I needed was her worrying that some nut-job killer might be out to get
me
. Much easier to have her assume the pickup driver was after Rita, which was likely the truth. Still, the possibility nagged at me.

And gave me another reason for solving the whole mess.

From the start, I wanted to believe Pearl Hogan innocent of murder. Going with the assumption that Crystal’s killer drove that pickup tonight, Pearl was in the clear. No way could I see her doing that daredevil driving. If I could prove her innocence, two little girls might enjoy their summer vacation together after all. If I pinpointed the villain, I might be saving my own hide as well.

I already knew I couldn’t depend on Deputy Rosales to look out for my best interests. For her, jealousy seemed to overshadow good sense. Maybe others in the sheriff’s
department had better focus when it came to gathering essential clues to solve a case, but would they figure things out anytime soon?

In my mind, everyone who had anything to do with the real estate agent was suspect.

Her assistant.

Her husband.

Her son.

The rodeo guys—Ace, Remy, Hayden.

Maybe an unhappy client or two.

The suspect pool could be huge. Which of them also had a connection to Rita or, if I was the intended target, had a bone to pick with me? Why would they? Maybe someone who thought I asked too many questions. I blew out a breath.

Aunt Rowe said, “Lots of pieces to fit together, huh?”

There she goes, reading my mind again.

“About as many as those huge puzzles you and I used to put together.”

“Fun times,” she said. “We should get one of those.”

“Okay,” I said, but until the mysteries were solved and my book edits finished, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on much else.

I was yawning hard by the time I reached the turnoff to Aunt Rowe’s a little after ten. Crime scene officials had kept us from moving the car for a good while after the ambulance took off for the hospital with Rita. When word came from the authorities that she was conscious and her condition had stabilized, we all heaved a sigh of relief. Rita was still being watched carefully in the intensive care unit. I was betting she’d be back to her aggressive self in no time.

After delivering Aunt Rowe home and using her monitor to make sure her blood pressure was okay, I headed to my place. What should have been a pleasant evening with Luke had turned into a disaster. He would leave for a game warden conference in Austin in the morning, and we’d make up our
missed dinner when he came back. No official date yet, so the memory of him as he applied ointment to my legs would have to hold me for a while. As unromantic a moment as that might be, the gesture made me feel closer to him.

A sliver of moon barely illuminated the Monte Carlo cottage as I dragged myself from the car and up to the porch. I stood still for a moment, listening to the gurgling rush of the river. Then I noticed the outside light had burned out already. Odd. I’d just changed the bulb last week.

An alarm sounded in my head, and I took a step backward. What if the killer was lying here in wait for me after realizing I wasn’t in that car when it went off the road?

“Mrreow,” came out of the darkness.

Hitchcock. He didn’t sound troubled. He meowed a second time, and I found him sitting on the porch railing. His rumbling purr worked its soothing magic on the tension in my shoulders.

“You’re a good boy.” I stroked his sleek fur. “I’m so glad to see you’re here at home where you belong.”

“He’s glad to see you, too.”

I jumped at the voice coming out of the darkness and spun to look at the bench. Twila, from the antiques store, sat there, almost invisible in her jet-black dress. I picked her out by the eerie glow of her snowy white hair.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“That hardly matters at this point,” she said, waving a hand.

I pulled out the little flashlight Aunt Rowe gave me earlier and flicked it on. “Tell me why you’re here.”

And how you got here, while you’re at it.

There was no car, and I was pretty sure the lady didn’t fly in on a broomstick.

Twila laughed. “Oh, my dear, there’s no need to be frightened. You’re home now, and all is well.”

I smiled slightly but didn’t respond.

“My son Ernie has friends staying in your Barcelona cottage,” Twila said. “He was heading over for a visit, and I asked to come along. To check on you and Hitchcock.”

I had met the guests in Barcelona—Lawrence and Patti Logan, a middle-aged couple from Lubbock. I was pretty sure they didn’t start entertaining this late in the evening.

“So you’ve been here for hours?”

“No. I visited with them and walked over here a little bit ago. Needed a rest before I walk back, but here you are.”

“I hope you didn’t come to report more lies about me and Tyanne,” I said, remembering our last conversation.

“Heavens no.” Twila shook her head. “I was worried about you when I heard about the accident. I knew Hitchcock would be, too, and that he’d need consoling.”

I frowned. “What are you talking about? Who told you I was in an accident?”

“Ernie has one of those police thingies. The news blasts out of that little box. Gives me heartburn.”

“You didn’t hear my name, did you?”

“No, but I made a few calls and learned who was up there in the hills.”

“As you can see, I’m fine and so is Aunt Rowe. In fact, I just dropped her off at home and she’s probably already asleep.”

Hinting about the late hour.

“Oh, dear,” Twila said. “I don’t mean to keep you up. Ernie will be here shortly.”

As if on cue, I saw headlights coming down the lane from the direction of the Barcelona cottage.

Twila stood with a few creaks of her joints, and I guided her toward the tan Suburban that pulled up out front. Hitchcock followed us and plopped into the monkey grass bordering the flower bed. Ernie Baxter got out of the car, leaving the engine running, and came around to help his mother. I thought of Ernie as the good son as opposed to his twin brother, who hung out at the local honky-tonk.

We exchanged greetings, and I said, “How was your visit?”

He smiled. “Good, good.”

“The Logans seem like nice people,” I said.

He gave Twila a hand as she stepped up on the running board and settled in the passenger seat. “They are. They’re planning to buy a place here in Lavender. Matter of fact, they’re shopping for property on this trip.”

Twila said, “I hope they don’t work with that flighty girl.”

Ernie said, “I already recommended they use an agent from Emerald Springs instead of her.”

“Her who?” I said.

“Jordan Meier.” His brow wrinkled. “I hope she’s not a friend.”

“No worries,” I said, “but now I’m curious about why you’re recommending the Logans go elsewhere.”

“Meier has issues,” Ernie said.

“She seemed like a very nice young lady when I met her,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

“She came to us a few months ago, sold us all of her family’s antiques,” he said.

I waited.

“Thought at first she wanted us to take them on consignment, but she insisted we buy them outright, so we did. Good-quality stuff. A week, ten days later, she comes in with cash in hand to buy them back. Fell apart when I told her we couldn’t do that.”

“Why not?” I said.

“We’d already sold them. You know how tourists flock into town lookin’ for a deal.”

I nodded.

“The Meier antiques were snapped up in the first few days after we bought them from her.”

“Jordan’s having a stressful time,” I said. “With her mother’s situation.”

“I know,” Twila said. “That’s why it shocked me to see her with all that cash.”

I perked up. “How much cash?”

Twila looked at Ernie, and he shrugged. “Five thou, maybe.”

A considerable amount of cash for anyone to carry around. “Maybe she worried her mother would be upset if she found out the antiques were gone. Felt like she had to get them back no matter what it took.”

“I thought that,” Twila said, “until she showed up a few days ago with more to sell.”

I tipped my head. “Really?”

Twila folded her arms over her chest. “She brought in a valuable set of antique china and some silver serving dishes.”

“Don’t forget the Martha Washington sewing stand,” Ernie added, “and that treadle sewing machine.”

“You bought those things from her, too?”

Ernie nodded. “Tried to turn her away, but the woman insisted she
had
to sell. The sooner the better. She used those words. Promised she wouldn’t come back like she did before.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Day after her boss died,” he said. “She was so wrapped up about selling her stuff. Seemed odd her mind would be on anything besides the murder.”

“Odd indeed,” I said.

“Anyhow,” Ernie said. “I doubt she’ll be back.”

“Poor dear probably doesn’t have much left in the home,” Twila said.

“Speaking of which,” Ernie said. “I need to get you home, Mom. It’s late.”

Twila waved a hand. “It does an old body good to get out every once in a while. And it was wonderful to see my friends, Sabrina and Hitchcock.”

Hitchcock meowed at my feet and rubbed against my legs.

“Be careful driving home,” I said.

“Will do.” Ernie nodded and closed the passenger side door.

He was walking around the vehicle when Twila opened her window a few inches.

“Good luck with the investigation, Sabrina,” she said. “Stay close to Hitchcock. He’ll keep you safe.”

Like the cat has special powers.

I watched them drive away, then looked down at my furry friend. “People are putting some pretty big expectations on our shoulders,” I said. “Think we can handle it?”

“Mrreow.” He turned and ran back to the flower bed where he’d been sitting earlier.

I squinted and walked over to him. He batted at the monkey grass with a paw.

“What is it?” I knelt and made out something white in the grass. A balled-up piece of paper. Hitchcock’s favorite cat toy.

“Are you littering again?” I smiled at the cat as I picked up the scrap paper. “C’mon. Let’s go inside.”

He followed on my heels, meowing all the way to the cottage door. Inside, I flicked on the lights and tossed the ball of paper into a trash can.

“Mrreeeoooowww!” Hitchcock darted over to the can.

I looked down at him. “What’s wrong?”

He stood on his back legs and put a paw on the top of the can to tip it over. An empty water bottle, a used paper plate, and the ball of paper slid out.

Hitchcock sat by the paper. “Mrreow.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “I won’t throw your toy away.”

I righted the can and put the other things back. Threw the balled-up paper toward Hitchcock.

He ran to the makeshift toy and picked it up with his teeth. Trotted to me and dropped the ball in front of me.

“It’s late, buddy,” I said, yawning wide. “I need to get some sleep. We can play more tomorrow.”

He batted the paper toward me, and it landed at my feet. I knelt and beckoned for Hitchcock to come closer.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

He walked over and sat in front of my knees. His piercing green eyes stared into mine.

“Mrreow.”

I picked up the paper and unfolded what turned out to be a portion of a page with a jagged edge as though someone had ripped it in half. I smoothed the paper against my leg to iron out the crinkles and began reading typewritten words on the page. Unless I missed my guess, Rita Colletti had written this. It read like a cover-her-butt letter that I’d seen plenty of times. The kind that outlines her legal conclusion about a given situation, states her advice, and points out why the client should absolutely not do whatever it was he wanted to do, and that it wouldn’t be her fault if he went ahead and did whatever he pleased against her advice.

Adrenaline shot through my veins, and every trace of fatigue vanished when I realized she’d written this letter to Lance Devlin.

Wild horses couldn’t
drag me away . . .

I hummed the tune as I walked at a fast clip toward the Paris cottage with Hitchcock trotting beside me. I needed to read the entire letter Rita wrote to Lance Devlin. I wished Hitchcock could tell me where he’d come up with the scrap in the first place—it wasn’t like Rita to throw confidential client documents in the trash. Usually, she insisted on shredding every tidbit.

“I shouldn’t go in there,” I said to the cat. “The cottage isn’t hers, though, it’s Aunt Rowe’s, and I go in the cottages all the time.”

“Mrreow,” said Hitchcock.

“Yes, I know that’s a technicality. I could call Sheriff Crawford and ask him to come straight over, tell him why this letter could be the clue that breaks Crystal Devlin’s murder case.”

I considered and quickly discarded the idea. He’d probably send a deputy, and I wasn’t going to risk that.

“The sheriff wouldn’t let
me
go into the cottage, though,”
I said, continuing my one-sided dialogue with the cat. “The cottage may be considered part of a crime scene given the accident. Don’t worry, I won’t mess up any fingerprints.” I patted a pocket that held disposable gloves I’d plucked from the cleaning supplies under my kitchen sink.

I wasn’t too worried about my prints being found in the Paris cottage. After all, I was with Rita earlier in the evening. If anyone asked, I’d tell them how Rita asked me to do work for her.

I swear that’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Kind of.

We arrived at the cottage, and I pulled on the gloves. Used my master key to open the door. I looked down at Hitchcock.

“Okay, let’s go in. Try not to shed.”

He trilled a response, and we went inside.

I flipped on the lights. Nothing had changed in the last several hours. Haphazard piles of papers sat on the table, sofa, and floor. I went to the table and picked up the paper-clipped documents Rita had wanted me to e-file. A final order in a Houston case and an original petition to file in Lawton County for a woman named Claudia. The chatty lady from Bunny’s Beauty Shop.

I laid those papers aside and sat on the sofa to pick up the nearest pile of documents. I leafed through bank statements, tax returns, pay stubs, phone records—in various names of various clients. Nothing useful. I slowed down when I got to real estate documents with the Devlin name on them. Some property was in both Devlin names, some in Lance’s, some in Crystal’s. Dates ranged all over the place.

I heard scratching and looked down at Hitchcock. He was across the room on the floor, pawing at Rita’s briefcase, where it rested against the side of a living room chair.

“Good idea, boy.” I left the other papers and went to sit cross-legged on the floor by the cat. I pulled the briefcase toward me and paused.

“Feels like I’m crossing a line,” I said, “but this is important.”

“Mrreow,” he said, clearly agreeing with me.

I unlatched the briefcase and rifled through the contents—another assortment of documents from various people and a bunch of office supplies. Tablets, manila folders, mailing envelopes. My pulse quickened when I spotted a document titled “The 1992 Morrison Family Trust, Crystal Eloise Morrison Devlin, Trustee.” I slid that document out of the briefcase and leaned against the chair to read. The legalese was somewhat over my head, but I concluded that Crystal’s parents had set up a trust and put her in charge. They named their grandson, Cody, as sole beneficiary of the trust. He’d receive the entire lump sum sitting in the trust when he turned eighteen. The document didn’t say how much money was involved. I remembered the boy saying he’d turn eighteen soon.

Why did Rita even have this document? Did Cody know she had it? Had Lance given it to her for some reason? After a moment of mulling over possibilities, I set the trust document aside. It had no connection to the letter I was looking for, so I got up and moved to the laptop. I touched the mouse with a gloved finger, and the computer sprang to life. Lucky for me, Rita hadn’t changed her password. When I entered the name of her childhood Chihauhau—Bullet—the lawyer’s electronic calendar filled the screen. I read through her appointments over the past few weeks, noting that she’d had a phone conference with Lance Devlin back in June. No explanation for how or why Devlin hooked up with a Houston attorney. A notation for two days ago interested me even more. Apparently Rita had met with Jordan Meier and Lance Devlin at the Devlin Realty office.

I mulled that over for a minute and wondered if the meeting had thrown Jordan into a tizzy. Or maybe she’d called the meeting herself. Offered to manage the business for him.

I closed the calendar and went into the electronic client
files. Luckily, Rita’s digital files were more orderly than the paper she had strewn about the cottage.

“Oh my,” I said aloud when I found the Devlin file. Rita had two subfiles under Devlin—“Divorce” and “Trust.”

Hitchcock came over and jumped onto my lap, partially blocking my view of the screen.

“He doesn’t need a divorce anymore, now does he?”

I found the letter I was interested in and noted the date—two weeks ago. I quickly scanned what Rita had written.

“Holy cow, Hitchcock,” I said. “Crystal Devlin had the money in the family.”

Hitchcock looked up at me and blinked. My thoughts raced as I ran a hand down the cat’s back. If Lance had divorced Crystal, she’d have a fortune in separate property. Lance might still own plenty of land, but he’d be cash poor.

Which gave the rancher a powerful motive for avoiding the divorce route.

*   *   *

After a fitful night spent tossing and turning, morning came way too quickly. Sunshine streamed through the crack in the bedroom curtains and hit me in the eye. Hitchcock must have felt the late night, too, because he was still curled up on top of the covers.

I thought about Luke and wondered what he was doing this morning at the game warden conference. Hoped he’d hurry back so we could make up our missed dinner date. I’d never forget how he rushed to help me and Aunt Rowe the night before or his relieved expression when he saw that we were okay. That I was okay.

Details of the accident—that wasn’t an accident at all, but a purposeful crime—flitted through my head like frames of a movie played back in slow motion. Rita passing us on the road, fine one minute, then forced off the road the next. The memory gave me chills.

I rolled over carefully onto my back, and the cat kept right
on snoozing. I stared at the ceiling and remembered what I’d found in the Paris cottage.

Lance Devlin had a definite motive for wanting his wife gone. I couldn’t know what Crystal’s will said, but most wives left their estate to the husband. She might have specified that her separate property went to someone other than Lance. If so, the beneficiary of her substantial separate property estate could be Cody—who was also coming into a pot of money from his grandparents’ trust.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Hitchcock squirmed, then resettled. I padded out to the kitchen and the coffeepot. My stomach rumbled, and I wished I’d have used my sleepless hours to bake something for breakfast as I often did. Instead I settled for a breakfast bar from my pantry, peeled back the wrapper, and took a bite. I looked at my laptop and the manuscript pages sitting on the table. With everything that happened and all the unanswered questions, the circuits in my brain were fully loaded. Today wouldn’t be a good day for writing even if I tried.

I wanted the crimes solved in the worst way for many reasons.

Keep Aunt Rowe safe.

Clear Pearl’s name, not to mention my own.

Get back to my book writing.

None of those things would come true until the killer was identified and put away so no one else would get hurt. I reviewed the facts I knew and the documents I’d read the night before. It looked like Lance and Cody Devlin both profited in a very big way from Crystal’s death. The sheriff needed to know the information I’d uncovered. Realistically, though, none of it proved wrongdoing.

Rita could shed some light on the subject.

Assuming she was recovering well in the hospital.

Snippets of story plots flashed through my head—those where a person recovering in the hospital is attacked by the villain. Murdered by a lethal injection into the IV tubing.

Stop it, Sabrina.

I poured a cup of coffee and sipped thoughtfully as I came up with a game plan.

*   *   *

After checking in with Aunt Rowe and finding her up and about, chipper as ever and working in her office, I headed out to see Rita. A young lady at the information desk of Lavender Memorial Hospital cheerfully reported that Rita Colletti had been moved from intensive care to a private room.

“I hope your sister has a speedy recovery,” she said after directing me to Rita’s assigned room.

“Thanks.” I hurried to the elevator feeling guilty about the lie. I’d decided to go with the sister angle just in case Rita wasn’t allowed to have anyone except family in to visit her. It struck me as I took the elevator up to the fourth floor that I didn’t even know if Rita had any siblings. Odd, but then I may not have ever mentioned my brother to her. She could never be bothered with trivial information, and she’d have filed any personal information about me under “useless.”

I reached the door to her room and looked around. No one was in sight. No officer had been sent to guard Rita’s door. Had it not occurred to the authorities that a killer might come back to finish the job? I raised my fist and paused. I felt awkward about invading the woman’s personal space, but swallowed back my trepidation, knocked, and pushed the door open.

Rita lay against the raised back of the hospital bed with her eyes closed, her hair disheveled, her skin unnaturally pale. Purple bruises covered the left side of her face, and lacerations decorated her forehead. My gaze followed the tubing that trailed from an IV bag to a needle taped to her arm. The bedside monitors appeared to show her vital signs, and I was glad to see them. No villain had come in during the night to do her in. It struck me that I had tried to burn this bridge, but now I needed Rita and I really didn’t want her to be hurt.

As I approached the hospital bed slowly, Rita opened her eyes.

“A visitor,” she said through dry lips. “Lucky me.”

“You
are
lucky,” I said. “How are you feeling, Rita?”

“Bad question.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“Feel like hell. Monster headache. Fractured rib. Separated shoulder. Hurts like a bitch.”

I cringed at the thought. “I’m sorry.”

“They say I’ll live.”

“I’m glad you’re out of intensive care.”

“Lucky me,” she said again.

“Any idea who did this to you?”

“None. Cops came. Asked the same thing.”

“I’m sure they did.”

“Didn’t have anything to tell ’em.”

“Did they ask about your clients?” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why would they?”

Instead of answering, I said, “Did they question you about Crystal Devlin’s death?”

“With me practically on my own deathbed?” The words came out more forcefully. “No.”

Having this conversation with Rita in this condition might be taking an unfair advantage, but it was a heck of a lot easier than facing her when she was at a hundred percent.

“I’m trying to find out who hurt you, Rita, so bear with me.”

She considered me for a moment before replying. “Okay.”

I swallowed, got up my nerve. “Was Lance Devlin planning to divorce Crystal?”

I waited while she thought about my question, and I could almost see the wheels turning behind the cuts and bruises. “That is none of your concern.”

“There was a murder here in Lavender, too close for comfort. I’m making it my concern.”

“Too bad. I claim the attorney-client privilege.”

I blew out a breath. “I used to work for you. You asked me
to work for you again, so let’s pretend I said yes and I’m bound by the same rules. Lance Devlin asked you for an opinion—about the separate property.”

Rita cocked her head. “How do you know this?”

“My cat brought me some evidence,” I said.

“Right.”

“We’ve worked on plenty of cases involving separate property, and I know how it works in a divorce. If Crystal Devlin had a chunk of separate assets, they’d be off the table in the divorce settlement.”

Rita stayed silent but her eyes never left my face.

“But if Crystal died, then it’s possible that Lance keeps everything.”

“You haven’t read her will,” Rita said.

“Have you?”

She hesitated for a moment before shaking her head.

“He didn’t have a copy.”

“Do you think Lance would have killed Crystal rather than lose out in a divorce?”

“No,” she said.

A monitor started beeping. I scanned the buttons, then studied Rita’s face. She didn’t appear to be in any sort of physical distress. Maybe mental distress had set something off.

A nurse came into the room and fiddled with the IV. She looked at us. “How are things going in here? Glad to see you looking alert, Rita. How’s the pain? Need me to raise the dose a bit?”

Rita shook her head. “I’m tough.”

I smiled at the nurse. “She’s not lying.”

After hanging a new bag of fluid, the nurse told Rita to ring if she needed anything and left the room.

“Lance is innocent,” she said after the door closed.

“What if someone else did it for him?” I said, thinking about Ace.

“I don’t believe that.”

“So if Lance consulted you about a divorce and his wife died, why are you still so busy with him?”

“He needs counsel.”

“For criminal reasons?”

Rita squirmed in the bed. “No.”

“Why do you have a copy of the family trust? Was Lance doing something with that?”

Rita fumbled at the sheets, then pressed a button to raise her bed. With a soft whir, the back of the mattress brought her into more of a sitting position. She cringed with the effort of moving. The sheet slid down, and I saw her left arm was bound against her body. To keep the shoulder still, I guessed.