The Black Cat Knocks on Wood (9 page)

I drove straight to Sweet Stop and ignored Hitchcock’s glare when I locked him in the car again with the air conditioner running.
This should be quick.

I went inside to find Pearl and couldn’t help but smile at a little girl standing stock-still, mesmerized by a six-foot-tall lollipop tree. There was no one waiting to check out at the moment, so I hurried over to the counter.

“Is Pearl here?” I asked the girl behind the counter.

“Nope.” She smacked her wad of pink bubble gum. “She took off for some rehearsal.”

“You don’t happen to know where I can catch up with her, do you?”

The girl shrugged. “She’ll be back in the morning.”

Drat.

I bought a pound of nonpareils with multicolored sprinkles so this wouldn’t be a completely wasted trip and downed a handful before I got back to my car.

“She’s not here,” I told Hitchcock as I slid into the driver’s seat. “By the time I catch up with the woman, some of this aggravation will have worn off.” I ate more chocolate. “Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“Mrreow.” Hitchcock nosed at the candy bag.

“Sorry, boy.” I put the sack on my lap. “No candy for you, but we’ll go home for dinner now.”

I headed for the cottages, thinking about Pearl. She undoubtedly planted the seed with her granddaughter to have me investigate, but was she behind the rumors Twila heard about me and Tyanne? That was a dirty, underhanded move, and while Pearl was sneaky, she wasn’t normally mean. More likely whoever killed Crystal was busy throwing suspicion every which way to keep it off him or herself.

I hadn’t committed to investigating anything, but I couldn’t keep my brain from trying to fit the puzzle pieces together. No one needed to know what I was doing—unless I uncovered some earth-shattering clue, I could keep any crime-solving steps I might take to myself.

When we reached the Around-the-World cottages, I was relieved to see the empty parking slot at the Paris cottage. Rita Colletti wasn’t around to bother me tonight. Maybe she was off meeting with her new client, the annoying lady from the beauty shop.

At my place, I freed Hitchcock of his harness and gave him a little food to supplement what he’d eaten at the bookstore. Before coming to his dish, the cat flopped down on a throw rug and rolled to and fro on his back. Celebrating his freedom. I had to grin at his exuberance.

While he ate, I made myself a ham-and-Swiss sandwich and took it with me to the bench on the deck. Laughter and voices of guests drifted up to me from the river as I nibbled on my dinner. The people sounded so carefree, and I felt anything but. My imagination swirled with questions.

Was Crystal having an affair for real?

What was her ancient history with Ace McKinney about?

Was her assistant Jordan profiting now that Crystal was gone?

Did the cliché about the husband always being guilty apply here?

I didn’t know enough about the Devlins to get a feel for whether any family member had a motive to do away with Crystal. I could visit the ranch under the guise of expressing condolences and nose around a little, but I probably wouldn’t be welcome out there after the run-in with Lance at the sheriff’s office.

Maybe I could find another source for information about the family. I drummed my fingernails on the bench between bites of the sandwich, and finally the name of a promising lead sprang to mind.

Mrs. Morales—the woman who worked for Crystal. Of course, there could be hundreds of people named Morales in the county. How would I find the right one?

Maybe Aunt Rowe knew Paloma Morales.

I opened the door and stuck my head inside. “Hey, Hitchcock, I’m going up to the house.” He paused over his chicken-and-salmon dinner as if logging in what I’d said, then continued eating.

I walked up to Aunt Rowe’s and went in through the side garage door. Her car was gone. I texted Glenda:
Know where I can find Aunt Rowe?

Her answer came quickly.

At the rodeo. Went to meet the goats.

Good grief.

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, after a change of clothes to jeans and tennis shoes, I was on my way to the rodeo grounds. The story Griffin had told about an angry and drunk Ace
McKinney stuck with me, and I hated the thought of Aunt Rowe being anywhere near him. I had to see for myself that she was okay. I still hoped she and her friends would nix the whole senior rodeo idea. After the to-do with Lance, I didn’t expect Rowe and Pearl to be welcome participants.

When I’d first heard about the senior rodeo, I thought the event sounded too dangerous for someone Aunt Rowe’s age. Now I worried that people associated with the event were possible murder suspects. I wished Aunt Rowe would stay far away from the lot of them. Lord only knew what might be going on out there this very minute.

The faster I drove, the more my mind conjured up the worst possible scenarios. When I reached the Hill Country Rodeo sign I took the corner too quickly and skidded on the gravel.

Get a grip, Sabrina. This isn’t the climax of a novel.

I forced myself to drive a reasonable speed until I reached the rodeo buildings and pulled into the closest parking spot. As I reminded myself to breathe, I saw Aunt Rowe’s car parked amidst a dozen other vehicles.

Rehearsal night. Light crowd.

I went in through the front gate, relieved to find it unlocked. The area around the concession stands was deserted except for a couple of cats nosing around a trash barrel. I heard shouting in the distance and walked toward the voices. I circled the main arena and approached a smaller gated corral. The sound of women giggling reached me, and I took tentative steps toward the noise.

Aunt Rowe and Pearl stood inside the corral with their two friends. My aggravation with Pearl had eased a bit. Even if it hadn’t, this wasn’t the time to confront her. Each of the women held one end of a rope, the other end looped around a goat’s neck. The goats were smaller than I would have expected, some white, some brown and white. Never in a hundred years would I have expected to see Aunt Rowe in this setting, and I almost laughed aloud.

“Okay, ladies,” said a friendly-sounding man. “Take a
minute and get to know your goat. Don’t worry. They’re gentle.”

Yeah, so why are you going to torture them in the rodeo?

The guy sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place the voice and moved a few feet to my left to get a better look. Hayden Birch balanced on top of the fence and grinned as the women patted and talked to the animals. I wondered if this was part of his job description or if he’d volunteered to help the seniors with goat tying.

Whatever the case, there wasn’t anything nefarious going on. My shoulders relaxed, and I let out the breath I’d been subconsciously holding. Ace McKinney was probably at home in his recliner guzzling a beer. My imagination had gone off on a tangent—a good thing in fiction writing, but too over-the-top for real life. I could leave before anyone spotted me, but why not check the place out while I had the chance.

I walked away from the goat meeting and rounded the building Hayden identified the other day as the horse barn. From this vantage point I could see the Devlin ranch house, maybe better described as a mansion, across the fields in the distance. I was so intent on surveying the property that I almost walked up on Mimi Trevino, her back against the side of the barn while she held her head in her hands.

The girl looked up at the same moment I noticed her, and swiped at her damp eyes. “What are you doing here?” she said.

I felt my face redden. Maybe she’d think the heat had gotten to me. “I came to check on my aunt. She’s over—” I turned slightly to point back the way I’d come. “With the goats.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Sorry for the intrusion. I’m mindlessly wandering.”

She nodded, but I got the feeling she didn’t like it that I was here. Then again, why was
she
here?

“Are you okay?” I said.

She smiled, but it looked forced. “Better than Cody. He’s messed up.”

Now it was my turn to nod. “He’ll be okay with time.”

“Yeah, sure he will.” Trying to convince herself.

“Is he here?”

She pointed toward the fields beyond the barn. “He’s out there somewhere, riding.”

“He didn’t invite you?” Maybe that’s why she’d been crying.

“I’m not that into animals,” she said. “I don’t mind waiting.”

“The rodeo isn’t your gig?”

“Hardly,” she said. “Cody’s either, but now he’s suddenly into bonding with his mother’s favorite horse. Like that’s gonna change anything.”

“He’s hurting,” I said. “Time will help.”

“Yeah, you already said that.”

“Sorry. Has the family made arrangements yet for a service?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

I had a lot of questions I’d like to ask this girl about the Devlin family, but this was a bad time. She was being polite, but I could tell she wanted to be left alone.

“Well, take care.” I walked back a couple of steps and paused.

Maybe one question.

“Hey, Mimi, do you know Mrs. Morales?”

“Sure.”

“Could you tell me where she lives? I’d like to pay my respects.”

“Over there.” She cocked her head toward the ranch. “In the guest house out back.”

I thanked her and walked away. When I was close enough to the corral to hear the excited voices of Aunt Rowe’s gang, I made a detour. Seeing Mimi and thinking about Cody’s loss had put me in a funk, and I didn’t want to join in the fun and laughter. I didn’t necessarily want Aunt Rowe to see me either, lest she think I was checking up on her.

Which I am, but that doesn’t mean she has to know.

I made a turn, expecting to be on the parking lot side of
the arena. Instead, I stood facing four small wooden cabins lined up in a row. Could be the rodeo equivalent of trailers for the stars on a movie set. My internal GPS was apparently out of whack.

Before I could backtrack I heard a man’s deep drawl. Ace McKinney.

Ugh.

I turned in a circle but didn’t spot the man. I pulled out my phone and put it to my ear so I could pretend to be concentrating on an important call if McKinney saw me.

His voice, a low drone coming from somewhere nearby, didn’t seem to move and grew more menacing in tone. Who was he talking to? I wondered if Lance Devlin was here, acting like this was any ordinary day in spite of his wife’s murder. That would tell me something about the man.

I stepped tentatively toward the voice, listening for a second person.

“You tell ’im this is his last chance,” McKinney said. “He doesn’t come up with the payment by this time tomorrow, we start breaking fingers.”

Dear Lord, was he serious? Was he drunk? Was he on the phone? I envisioned the man sending a pair of linebacker-sized thugs after somebody.

I needed to get away from the voice—and the rodeo—as fast as possible. Maybe Ace McKinney didn’t literally mean fingers would get broken. Or maybe he meant exactly that. Whatever, that wasn’t my business. I only wanted to get myself and Aunt Rowe away from here pronto.

Before I could move, though, McKinney walked out from between the cabins and looked straight at me. A chill crawled up my spine.

“You again,” he said.

“H-hi.” I attempted a smile.

“What’re you doin’ on that phone?”

I’d forgotten about the darn phone clenched in my fingers, and let my hand drop to my shoulder.

“Nothing, I mean, I was trying to find a spot with a good signal.”

“Why are you here?”

Thinking fast, I said, “Actually, I’m a mystery writer, and I’m doing some research on rodeos.”

He looked skeptical, and his scowl deepened.

“See, I’m writing this book.” I lowered my arm and slipped my phone into my jeans pocket. “My agent thought it would be a nice touch to add some Texas flavor, and what better way to do that than a rodeo? Except I’m from the city, and don’t know much about them, so I really need to spend some time—”

“Enough,” he said, then called, “Remy, get out here.”

A small man in cowboy garb approached from the same direction McKinney had come. Not one of my imagined thugs—this little guy wouldn’t scare a fly.

“You wanna know the real deal about the rodeo, set something up with him.” McKinney pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the other man. “I don’t have time for this bull.”

“
Could be a false threat,” Glenda said the next morning after I shared Ace McKinney’s statement about breaking fingers. In her pink gingham sundress, perfect for the predicted ninety-something-degree day, Glenda looked more cheery than she sounded. “What do you really know about this fella?”

“Not enough.” I ran a damp cloth along Aunt Rowe’s kitchen counter, sweeping up excess crumbs that had scattered during last night’s insomnia-driven bake-a-thon. “Maybe he only acts like a jerk when I’m around, and he’s a pillar of the community the rest of the time.”

“I doubt that,” Glenda said. “He didn’t even know you were there when he made the threat.”

“True. The point is, I don’t like the idea of Aunt Rowe spending time near the man.”

“I agree with you there.” Glenda cracked eggs into a mixing bowl as butter melted in the skillet on the stove top beside her. “You want an omelet?”

“No thanks, I’ll stick with fruit.” Glenda rolled her eyes as I lifted the yellow plaid tea towel I’d used to cover a basket of fresh-baked goods and snagged a blueberry muffin.

“I’m going to have a serious talk with Aunt Rowe about the danger of hanging out over there at the rodeo.”

Glenda watched as I took a seat on a barstool and peeled the paper from the muffin. “When she jumps into something like this goat thing, you know she’s not gonna back out, right?”

I nodded, my mouth full of muffin.

“The harder you try to talk her out of it, the deeper she’ll dig her heels in.” Glenda took out a fork and started beating the eggs.

“I’ve known that since I was five years old,” I said. “Don’t worry, I know how to handle this.”

“Whatever you say.” Glenda poured the eggs into the sizzling butter.

“I’m curious about McKinney’s little cowboy friend Remy, too. The fifteen minutes he spent showing me around the rodeo last night didn’t tell me much of anything. I need to figure out whether the men are harmless, seriously scary, or something in between.”

“Just how do you plan to learn the truth about these characters?”

I was contemplating my answer when Aunt Rowe walked into the kitchen in full makeup and dressed in a nice skirt and top, which usually meant she was going into town. I was glad to see she wasn’t in her rodeo gear. Hitchcock trailed her into the room.

“Good morning,” I said with forced cheer. “Hitchcock, were you Aunt Rowe’s alarm clock this morning?” I hadn’t even noticed when he left the kitchen in search of her.

“He came to my bedroom to tell me something,” Aunt Rowe said. “Meowing all over the place until I headed this way. Don’t know what was so all-fired important.”

Hitchcock jumped up on the barstool next to me and
perused the goodies I’d baked. Aunt Rowe looked down the length of the counter, taking in the muffin basket, a tray of assorted cookies, and a cake.

“So this is what he was trying to tell me,” she said. “There must be a bake sale in town today that I didn’t know about.”

I smiled. “I made some of your favorites, Aunt Rowe. Applesauce cake, for one.” I took the lid off the cake saver and waved it for her to get a whiff of apples and cinnamon.

“Tryin’ to butter me up, I see,” she said. “Let me get a cup of coffee goin’ so I can be alert.”

“Mrreow,” Hitchcock said.

Aunt Rowe headed for the coffeepot. “Don’t worry, boy, I’m onto her tricks.”

Glenda and I exchanged a look.

Aunt Rowe filled the mug that Glenda had waiting by the coffeepot. “Sorry to interrupt your talk about characters,” she said. “Discussing your book plot?”

I wadded up the paper from my muffin. “Uh, right. It’s hard to keep those fictional people straight sometimes.”

She turned toward me and took a tentative sip of the hot coffee. “Get a lot more done if you’d write when you can’t sleep instead of baking. What do you hear from your agent?”

“Nothing yet.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d checked my e-mail for word from Kree Vanderpool. “She’s sending the book to one publisher at a time. It’s a long process.”

When it sells, you need to have the next one ready,” Aunt Rowe said. “Tyanne tells me you’re not very far along.”

“When have you been talking with Tyanne?”

“Last night,” she said. “After I heard the two of you are murder suspects.”

Glenda turned away from the eggs, holding her spatula in midair. “Why on earth would Tyanne or Sabrina be suspected?”

“Don’t have the answer to that one,” Aunt Rowe said. “Asinine rumor going around.”

“Who did you hear the rumor from?” I said. “One of your rodeo cronies?”

She frowned at the reference. “Helen’s husband heard it at McKetta’s. You can bet everyone and their brother who ate there last night heard the same thing.”

I shook my head. I considered Daisy McKetta a friend, but I knew she was a world-class gossip.

Glenda slid an omelet onto a plate, added a piece of toast, and handed the plate to Aunt Rowe.

Aunt Rowe began to eat the eggs standing up and glanced at the clock.

“You have somewhere you need to be?” I snagged a peanut butter cookie and bit into it.

“I’m goin’ to talk with Jeb,” she said. “Find out who is and who is definitely
not
considered suspects by the sheriff’s department. Hopefully get you, Tyanne, and Pearl off the hook.”

She hadn’t considered, as I had, that her friend Pearl just might be the person who started the rumor about me and Tyanne in order to convince me to investigate the case. I hadn’t gotten the chance to confront Pearl. Maybe that was for the best since I didn’t have any evidence.

“I appreciate that, Aunt Rowe, but I doubt the sheriff is ready to draw any conclusions. And he’s probably not going to share his thoughts with you.”

“Don’t you worry. Rita can advise me on how to handle the situation.”

“Rita?” Cookie crumbs caught in my throat, and I began coughing.

Glenda filled a glass with water and handed it to me. I gulped the water, trying to dislodge the crumbs stuck in my throat. The last thing I wanted was for Aunt Rowe to befriend the attorney. That woman needed to head back to Houston, the sooner the better.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to involve
her
in anything,” I said when my coughing subsided.

“Don’t be silly.” Aunt Rowe finished her eggs and placed
her plate in the sink. “Rita and I are going to town together. I’m not gonna lock her in the trunk while I talk to the sheriff.”

“Why’s she going with you?” I looked at Glenda, who was busying herself making a fresh pitcher of tea. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was biting her tongue to keep from adding her own criticisms about the lawyer.

Aunt Rowe eyed the applesauce cake with a wistful expression, then said, “We’re going to meet with Jordan at the real estate office.”

I turned my palms up. “For what?”

“If you must know, to discuss Pearl’s purchase of the property next to her store.”

“I thought someone else was buying the place.”

“Hasn’t bought it yet,” Aunt Rowe said. “Pearl put her money down in good faith and she signed a contract. She sure as heck doesn’t want a cigar shop next to her candy store. Bunch of men standing around out front puffing on those nasty things could drive Pearl’s customers away.” She wrinkled her nose. “Rita’s going with me to discuss the legal mumbo jumbo, see if we can salvage Pearl’s deal.”

“If Pearl presses the issue of buying that property, she reinforces her motive for wanting Crystal gone,” I said. “This is a bad idea.”

“So Pearl should just give up on her dream?” Aunt Rowe said. “I think not.”

“You could send Rita to handle the problem,” I said. “Steer clear so it won’t look like you’re in cahoots with Pearl.”

“You don’t think I can take care of myself?” Aunt Rowe said.

I cleared my throat. “Of course you can. I’m just pointing out that others may see things differently.”

“That’s nothing new.”

My stomach knotted. “I worry about you, Aunt Rowe.”

“No need,” she said. “My friend needs help. The time to strike is now, before a sale goes through on the property. Somebody has to take action.”

This line of conversation was wearing on my last nerve.

“That action should include steering clear of danger,” I said, “not hanging out with shady characters, of which Rita is one, I might add.”

Glenda tsk-tsked and muttered, “Dangerous ground.”

“Go ahead and bad-mouth the rodeo,” Aunt Rowe said. “I know you want to, so don’t bother trying to hide it.”

“Okay. I don’t like the rodeo or anything it stands for. I’m particularly concerned about Ace McKinney. There’s something shady about the man, and I’d feel a lot better if you’d stay far away from him.”

“You done now?” Aunt Rowe said.

“Let’s just say my writer’s intuition is telling me he’s a villain. What if he had something to do with Crystal’s murder?”

“What if the man in the moon killed her?” Aunt Rowe said. “You’re talking nonsense.”

“I hope you’re right. I’d rather you didn’t take chances.”

Hitchcock was looking from me to Aunt Rowe, following our conversation like a Ping-Pong match.

“Another thing,” I said. “Rita is doing work for Lance Devlin, who I’m pretty sure is a member of the suspect list himself.”

“And how do you know what your archenemy is doing?” she said.

“Rita asked me to work for her, an offer I wisely turned down.”

“I don’t care who else she’s working for,” Aunt Rowe said. “Today, I need her help. If I find out she’s an accomplice in a murder plot, I’ll turn her over to Jeb and be done with her.”

“I wish you’d keep Rita out of it altogether,” I said.

“You mind your business,” Aunt Rowe said, “I’ll mind mine.” She stalked to the counter, where she kept her purse and car keys, picked them up, and left.

Hitchcock let out a low howling sound. I patted him on the head. “It’ll be okay, boy. Settle down.”

Glenda turned to look at me and raised her eyebrows. “That went well. I swear, if your characters get in half the trouble you do, your books will be bestsellers.”

*   *   *

In the aftermath of my conversation with Aunt Rowe, my stomach cramped something awful. Maybe it was the three muffins and half a dozen cookies I’d eaten. Clearly, Aunt Rowe wasn’t going to take my advice. The only way to rid myself of all this worry was to figure out what really happened and make sure Aunt Rowe stayed far away from the villain.

A good first step would be to learn more about Crystal herself. Paloma Morales might shed some light on Crystal’s life, enough to give me information I could use to unravel the facts surrounding her death.

It was midmorning when I pulled into the drive leading to the Devlin ranch house. I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of family members or, worse, Lance’s pal Ace McKinney. I’d been told that Mrs. Morales lived in a smaller building behind the main house, which didn’t mean she’d be there now. Crystal was no longer here to hand out assignments, so her personal assistant may have up and left.

I felt sad for the woman, but I had no way of knowing whether she and Crystal had a good working relationship or if it was more like the tense one Jordan had with Crystal at the real estate office. There was no sign of life at the main house. I followed the curving drive to the property in back.

The smaller structure was a one-story tan brick house with a Mexican tile roof shaded by huge oak trees. A row of flower planters hung from the roof over a covered veranda with a sitting area of white wicker furniture on a sisal rug. I pulled up in front, and noticed through the screen door that the inner door stood open.

Many people bring casseroles when making condolence calls, but I wasn’t a main dish kind of person. I’d brought an
assortment of my fresh-baked goods arranged in a basket over a floral napkin. I walked up to the entrance and knocked on the screen door.

Seconds later, a woman in a bright yellow Mexican Puebla dress embroidered with multicolored flowers approached the door. Her shoulder-length gray hair was held back on each side with clips. She spoke to me through the screen. “May I help you?”

I smiled at her. “Are you Paloma Morales?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I came to pay my respects. I’m so sorry for your loss.” I introduced myself, and Mrs. Morales stared at me hesitantly.

“I know you worked closely with Crystal. I can imagine how you feel because I once had a co-worker who died. It was so hard for me to believe she was gone.” I lifted my basket. “A small token I brought for you.”

The older woman pushed the screen door open and invited me in.

I stepped into the close air, moved slightly by three lazily spinning ceiling fans. I handed my basket to her.

“Gracias,”
she said.

“I hope there’s something you like. When I start baking I can’t seem to stop myself.”

“I used to bake all the time,” she said with a smile. “Crystal, though, she stayed on a strict diet. ‘Stop the baking, Paloma,’ she would say, ‘or I will blow up.’” The woman chuckled, looked pensive for a moment, then turned to me. “Sit, please. May I bring you something to drink? I have a fresh pot of coffee.”

“I’d love some, with cream, if you have it.”

“Certainly.”

I walked around the simply furnished living room while she was gone and came across a collection of framed photographs on a built-in shelf. There were several photos of Crystal Devlin, some of them with Paloma, some with Cody. None of Lance Devlin.

Mrs. Morales came back with a tray and placed it on the coffee table. She invited me to sit with her on the sofa. “Thank you for coming to see me,” she said. “It is very quiet without Crystal. I feel like my ears, they quit working. The silence, it is not normal.”

I leaned forward and added cream to my coffee. “You must have spent a lot of time together.”

“Ah, yes, for more than fifteen years.” She nodded slowly.

“Crystal was very vocal, I take it, and talked a lot?”

“Talking, shouting, criticizing,” she said. “That was Miss Crystal’s way.”

“What did she criticize?” I said.

She eyed me warily. “Why do you ask that?”

“Just making conversation,” I said. “I popped into the real estate office the other day. Crystal didn’t seem very fond of that young woman who works for her. They had a bit of a situation and Crystal sounded, well, critical of Jordan.” I sipped my coffee, an enjoyable mellow roast.