Black Cat Crossing (5 page)

“Decades ago?” I said around a mouthful of creamy potato salad.

Daisy nodded. “It’ll be one of those history-repeats-itself pieces. Except the first time it was a girl; now it’s a man.”

I put my fork down. “What in the world are you talking about?”

Daisy sat back in her chair. “Well, I thought surely Rowe would have mentioned this to you now even if you never heard about it way back when ’cause you were a kid. I was in middle school at the time.”

I held out my hands, palms up. “Mentioned what?”

“That girl who was murdered ’bout thirty years ago. Vicki Palmer.”

“I never heard of Vicki Palmer. Who was she?”

“A teenager living here in Lavender. They found her body in the Glidden River right about the spot where you found Bobby Joe Flowers. Dollars to donuts this is right up the alley of whoever writes those news stories I see on Yahoo.com.”

“
W
HO SAYS BOBBY
Joe Flowers was murdered?” I asked Daisy even though I’d been pretty much assuming that someone actually
had
murdered the man.

“Clete Lester’s brother was one of the EMS techs at the scene,” she said. “Told Clete somebody took a chunk out of Flowers’s head, wound was shaped like the edge of a shovel.” She cupped her right hand slightly and ran the index finger of her left along the curved pinkie-finger side. “Like this.”

I winced and pushed my plate away from me. There went my last hope that Bobby Joe accidentally clunked his head on a rock and died.

“You know how head injuries bleed,” Daisy said. “He probably didn’t last long after he got hit.”

I tried to block the image she was painting, but I could feel the color drain from my face. My skin felt clammy.

“Doggone,” Daisy said. “Here I am running my mouth about a murder while you’re trying to eat.” She touched my hand. “You okay?”

“Sure. Fine.” I didn’t want Daisy to realize how bothered I was by what she’d told me. I imagined a shadowy figure creeping outside my cottage and carrying a shovel. Premeditated murder for sure. I mean, no one carries a shovel around in the middle of the night. I took heart in the fact that my imaginary figure was walking normally and not hobbling on crutches. Aunt Rowe was absolutely
not
involved. Even so, I didn’t want to discuss Bobby Joe with Daisy and have my comments come up in her conversations with customers.

I picked up my cup and took a long swallow. “So who killed Vicki Palmer?”

Daisy shrugged. ”From what I recall, they never solved the case.”

“Really? I’d expect the sheriff, whoever it was at the time, would have worked day and night on that one, local girl and all. Did they have any suspects?”

“I’m not sure. Deputies came out to the school. Talked to Vicki’s friends. That’s all I remember. I was thirteen or so at the time.” She glanced toward the kitchen and said, “Better get back to work.”

“Let me ask you one more thing real quick. Have you ever heard some crazy legend about a black cat in town that brings bad luck?”

“One cat?” Daisy laughed. “There’s more like two dozen cats hanging around our back door every night lookin’ for handouts.”

“Two dozen, seriously?” I said.

She nodded. “Come back after dark if you don’t believe me. There must be a kitty billboard somewhere, says ‘C’mon over to McKetta’s for leftover meat.’ Why are you askin’ about a black cat?”

“A couple people have mentioned this town legend to me lately.” I pushed my chair back.

“I don’t have time to fool with that kind of nonsense,” Daisy said.

But plenty of time to gossip about murders.

I didn’t say what I was thinking, though, and told Daisy good-bye after turning down a to-go box for the rest of my sandwich. The thought of food no longer appealed, and I wasn’t going straight home where I could refrigerate the leftovers.

As I made my way back to the bookstore, I hoped Daisy was wrong about Bobby Joe’s death making the Internet news. Aunt Rowe’s rental cottage business would probably suffer if it did—either that or business would pick up because of the types who like to visit tragic scenes.

With all traces of cloud cover gone, the early afternoon sun beat down on me. I was looking forward to stepping into the bookstore’s cool interior when I spotted Tyanne across the oleander hedge from her place. She disappeared into the Taste of Texas Wines shop.

I was glad to see she wasn’t still tied up with the church ladies and decided to follow her. Perhaps the shop would be a better place for us to chat for a minute, with no bookstore customers waiting in the wings.

The bell over the door sounded like crystal wind chimes. I stepped inside to a cool and serene atmosphere with classical piano music playing at low volume. Shelves lined with wine bottles took up the left side of the space. A corner cabinet held a selection of gifts—fancy napkins, corkscrews, liqueur-centered chocolates, wine-bottle stoppers. Tyanne stood by a bar, nearly shoulder high to her, made of burled walnut. No one else was in sight.

“Hey,” I said.

She turned and smiled. “Great, you’re back. Boy, do I have big news for you.”

A crashing that sounded like breaking glassware came from the back, followed by a woman’s voice. “Oh, dear, now look what you made me do.”

“Go ahead, blame me,” a man responded. “I’m used to it.”

Tyanne looked at me and whispered, “I haven’t seen a man in here before, and that doesn’t sound like Claire.”

I shrugged and said, “What’s your big news?”

Tyanne held up an index finger, her head cocked as she listened to the people in the other room.

The woman said, “Leo, please, I know you’re upset, but why don’t you go on back? I can handle the store by myself.”

“For how long?” The man spoke in a loud voice like a person who’s hard of hearing and doesn’t realize he’s shouting. “Did she ever give that a thought? Did she ever for once in her life think about anyone other than herself?”

Tyanne and I exchanged a glance. She knocked on the bar and said, “Hello?”

“You have a customer,” the man said.

“Be right there,” the woman called. Then, “If you would get out of my way, Leo, I could tend to business. And clean up that glass.”

An elderly woman with wavy white hair emerged through swinging saloon-style louvered doors. She carried a wooden tray that held empty wineglasses, and her wide smile gave away nothing of the bickering we’d overheard.

“Good day, ladies.” She placed her tray on the bar. “What can I help you with on this lovely afternoon? Would you care to sample our new cabernet?”

She was an attractive woman, closer to eighty than seventy I’d say, and her face was expertly made up. She wore an elegant burgundy sheath dress with layered beaded necklaces that drew my attention.

“Not today, but thanks.” Tyanne introduced us and mentioned that she owned the bookstore next door. “Is Claire in?”

The woman’s smile dimmed a watt. “Not at the moment. I can leave her a message if you like.”

Tyanne shook her head. “That’s okay. I believe I know which wines she would recommend. I’m having a gathering this weekend, and I need to place an order.”

“I can help you with that.” The woman walked over to the sales counter and pulled out a pad and pen.

The louvered doors swung open a second time, and a portly man approached us. He wore olive slacks that had seen better days and a green plaid shirt. His bald head contrasted with bushy gray eyebrows that drew together as he looked from me to Tyanne. “Which one of you is from next door?”

Tyanne raised her hand. “I am.”

Before the man could say more, the woman turned to him and put a hand on one hip. “Leo, please, I’m in the middle of taking an order.”

He ignored her and addressed Tyanne. “Claire is our daughter,” he said, “and I’m sure my wife is about to kick me in the shins to shut me up, but I’m not gonna listen to her with our girl missing.”

The woman looked up at the ceiling. “Heaven help me. I told you, Leo, she’s not missing.”

She turned to us and smiled. “I’m Felice Dubois, Claire’s mother, and don’t be alarmed. She’s not missing.”

“Then where is she?” Leo yelled, throwing his arms out. “She’s not here, is she?”

Felice rolled her eyes. “Claire is an adult, and she asked me to take care of the store today. We don’t need to know every little detail. I’m sure she’ll be back to work soon. In the meantime . . .” She picked up the pen and smiled at Tyanne.

Leo looked like he wanted to shove his wife out of the way. He stared at us. “Are you two friends of our daughter or not?”

“I don’t know Claire very well,” Tyanne said.

He focused on me. “How about you?”

I felt uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “Um, I’m pretty new around here.” I thought of Aunt Rowe’s mention that Claire had come by to see her the day before, but I didn’t intend to bring that up. “Claire and I have waved to each other a few times, that’s about it.”

“Is there cause for concern?” Tyanne said.

Felice shook her head.

Leo said, “A father’s always concerned, especially when his daughter hangs out with a no-good—”

Felice cut off his words by grasping his forearm tightly. “Stop now, and let me proceed with this young lady’s order.”

If looks could kill, Leo might be on the floor and burnt to a crisp. Instead of continuing the discussion, he stomped out of the room.

“I apologize for my husband’s behavior,” Felice said. “Would either of you care to taste-test some wine while you’re here?” She reached under the counter and came out with a bottle that had already been opened, a silver filigreed topper stuck where the cork would have been. “I could use some myself.”

We declined, but that didn’t stop Felice from pouring herself a glass and drinking half of it before she took down Tyanne’s order.

After paying for her purchase, Tyanne said she’d pick up the wine on Sunday afternoon. We left before the bickering could start up again.

Outside the door we stopped, and I looked at my friend. “Now there’s a happy couple.”

“Giving them the benefit of the doubt,” Tyanne said, “maybe they’re not always this way. Sounds like Claire has done something unusual that’s rocked their world.”

“Claire’s like fifty years old, isn’t she?” I said. “Maybe she wanted to have time off from the parents. Are they the Dubois Vineyards owners?”

“I think so, though I imagine they’ve retired from running the operation themselves.” Tyanne shrugged. “Claire’s dad is really worried about her.”

“I’ll bet Mom knows something about why Claire’s not at work and doesn’t want to tell Dad.”

“That was my take,” Tyanne said. “And now I’d better get back to work myself. I only meant to leave for five minutes.”

“What about the big news?” I asked again.

“Oh, right.” Tyanne’s eyes sparkled. “You won’t believe this.”

“Does it have anything to do with Bobby Joe Flowers’s death?” I said.

“No, but I’m so sorry I forgot to mention that before now. Is everyone holding up okay?”

“Pretty well under the circumstances.” Earlier, I had wanted to know what she’d heard, but I could catch up on that later. For now I was more interested in her news.

Tyanne grinned. “Brace yourself.”

“Enough with the suspense,” I said. “Out with it.”

“Kree Vanderpool is in town this weekend.” She paused and watched me expectantly.

“Kree Vanderpool, as in the literary agent Kree Vanderpool?”

“The very same.”

“Doesn’t she live in New York City?”

“Yes, but her sister in Austin had a baby. Kree came to visit the family.”

Tyanne had met Kree at a conference a few years ago and sang her praises after listening to Kree’s keynote speech. I was in awe of several mystery authors represented by the woman, and Tyanne had told me more than once that Kree would be the perfect agent for my work. If I ever got my work ready to send to an agent, that is.

“Austin is hours away,” I said. “So what’s the big deal?”

“She told me way back she’d look me up whenever she was in the area, but I didn’t think it would ever happen.” Tyanne waved a hand dismissively. “But then Kree called late yesterday and said she’d love to come over and see my store.”

“Well you
can
be a pleasant person when you try,” I teased. “So she liked you. It’s awesome that she called.”

“What’s super awesome,” Tyanne said, “is that she’s interested in talking with
you
about
your
book.”

My lower jaw dropped. “She what?”

“I told her about your book,” she said, “then on the spur of the moment I decided to have a small dinner party Sunday afternoon after the store closes at five so the two of you can meet. Kree goes back to New York on Monday. Hope you’re free on Sunday. You are, aren’t you?”

Kree Vanderpool wanted to talk to me? Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine a personal audience with an agent the caliber of Kree Vanderpool. This was a writer’s dream come true, so why did it seem like my heart had quit beating?

“Well?” Tyanne said. “What do you say?”

“I don’t have plans for Sunday, but, but—”

“But what?”

“I can’t pitch my book. I’m nowhere near ready.”

“Then get ready, Sabrina, ’cause she invited you to bring your proposal along to dinner.”

I gulped. “I could get the first three chapters fixed up,” I said, “maybe. But I don’t even have a synopsis written.”

“Then write one,” she said. “That shouldn’t be a problem. You have two days.”

Tyanne was super familiar with the book world, but even she didn’t realize that to many authors, completing a coherent synopsis was the equivalent of a rodeo cowboy staying atop a bucking bull for thirty minutes.

I
DROVE FASTER THAN
usual on the way home. As butterflies swarmed my stomach, I couldn’t decide if I was more excited or scared about the prospect of meeting with Kree Vanderpool. This opportunity was more than I could ever have hoped for, but a black cloud marred my elation. A synopsis by Sunday.

Holy moly.

Writing a synopsis might not be a huge hurdle for every writer. For me, who changed my mind about the plot every two paragraphs, it was a problem. If I wanted to succeed as an author, I had to focus and make concrete decisions for once in my life.

I yawned so hard that my eyes watered, reminding me how little sleep I’d had the night before. Of all the times for my big chance to arrive. I was the world’s worst at blocking distractions. I had to set aside the questions running through my brain—everything from who killed Bobby Joe and what had happened to Vicki Palmer so many years ago to why Claire Dubois wasn’t at work today—and concentrate on my novel. Could I do that? Good Lord, I hoped so.

I took a deep, calming breath as I turned onto Traveler’s Lane, determined to head straight to my cottage and immerse myself in writing. For two days, I would put everything else out of my head. A mere two days.

Approaching the Venice cottage, I noticed a gray Tundra pickup in the parking slot. Venice had been marked as vacant when I scanned the schedule earlier, but we had walk-ins from time to time.

A blond man sat on the Adirondack chair out front, his long, denim-clad legs propped on the porch railing. I slowed the car to a crawl, succumbing to the distraction. I couldn’t get as good a look at the man as I would have liked, but then he probably had a cute little wife or girlfriend inside.

Irrelevant information, Sabrina. You need to write.

I watched the man, surreptitiously I hoped, as I drove by. He tipped a bottle to his lips, then looked straight at me and toasted me with it. I gave him a little wave and nudged the gas, embarrassed that he’d caught me watching.

I rounded the next bend, surprised to see Thomas standing alongside the road. His Wrangler was parked at an angle near the pump house that kept water flowing through a decorative man-made waterfall. He motioned for me to stop, so I pulled in behind his vehicle and put the car in park. I lowered my side window as he approached.

“What’s up?” I said. “You need help?”

He leaned down to look at me, his face shaded by his straw hat. “You seen a black cat around here?”

My heart skipped a beat as I remembered his attitude about the legendary black cat. “Uh, no. Why do you ask?”

“Heard the girl in Barcelona talking to Rowena about a cat,” he said. “If El Gato Diablo is here at the cottages, I need to do something.”

“Something like what?” My pulse kicked up. “It’s a harmless cat who happens to be black.”

“So you
have
seen it?”

“There’s no cat around here.” I shook my head, then felt like a traitor for not taking a more aggressive stance. “And so what if there
is
a cat, Thomas? This is a lovely place for a cat to live. In fact, we could stand to adopt several cats. I’m sure the guests would—”

“
Not
El Gato Diablo,” he said. “People come here to relax and unwind. We need to keep them safe.”

Good grief.

I wanted to voice my frustration, but decided I’d be wasting my breath with him. Better to discuss the topic with Aunt Rowe. She liked animals, and I was pretty sure the only reason she didn’t have pets of her own was because she used to travel a lot. She could convince Thomas to back off.

“What exactly do you plan to do?” I said.

“I’m gettin’ me a big net,” he said.

The thought of Thomas trying to catch a cat in a net made me stifle a grin.

“And a couple traps,” he added.

“You can’t do that,” I shrieked.

He motioned with his hand for me to keep it down. “I’m not planning to hurt the cat, if that’s what you’re worried about. I just want that thing far away from Lavender.”

I didn’t want to think about any kind of trap. I could only hope the cat I’d met would lay low and never show himself in Thomas’s presence.

“Why not find the poor thing a good home instead?” I said.

“No one would want that critter.”

I already felt a kinship with the black cat who seemed to have the odds stacked against him. Thomas would never understand how I felt, so I changed the subject.

“I see someone’s in the Venice cottage.”

“Yeah, fella checked in alone and spent hours doing nothin’ but sitting on the porch.” He shrugged. “Something strange about the dude.”

“The fact that he’s sitting there doing nothing doesn’t mean he’s strange,” I said.

Thomas didn’t argue the fact. He took a step back. “I’ll keep looking for the gosh-darned cat. Let you know if I get him.”

I cringed at the thought. “If you do, please tell me before you make any rash decisions.”

He stared at me for a few seconds, maybe reminding himself that I was the boss’s niece, which would be silly given that Aunt Rowe helped raise him and he was practically as close to her as I was. Finally, he answered, “If you say so.”

I drove the rest of the way to my cottage, praying that the black cat had found a nice and unobtrusive place to hang out in town—a place where superstitious people like Thomas would never be able to get their hands on him.

Inside my cottage, I did my best to put the issue out of my mind. My first instinct was to rush to Aunt Rowe and discuss the cat with her, but she’d be smack in the middle of her physical therapy session now. Besides, I’d promised myself that I would focus on work. I changed into my most comfy and probably least flattering knit shorts and T-shirt, then pulled my hair back and used the neon green band to secure it into a tight ponytail.

I started a pot of coffee, then opened the window overlooking the back porch a few inches to enjoy the river air before the stifling heat of summer set in. I booted up my laptop and pulled out my collection of flash drives. Everything from my first attempt at writing a short story to prior drafts of the current work in progress lurked somewhere on these gadgets. I flexed my fingers and stuck in the flash drive that I hoped held my early attempts at writing a synopsis for this book. The first file I opened was only two paragraphs long—a failed attempt.

For the next several minutes, I opened and rejected drafts that weren’t worth using as a starting point. It didn’t help that worry for the cat was foremost on my mind. Maybe I could wage some sort of campaign to support the love of black cats. According to Daisy, Lavender had a population of strays. Odds were plenty of those homeless cats were black, not only the one that I’d seen. Could I convince people to jump on my bandwagon? Maybe. I needed to write a mission statement and enlist volunteers who thought superstitions were ridiculous.

Save that thought. Write the synopsis.

I stared at the laptop screen and sighed. Went to the kitchen and poured myself a cup of coffee. Returned to the computer and plopped into my chair. I decided to wing it with the synopsis and started typing from scratch.

Hours later, I had three pages of an extremely sketchy first draft, nowhere near the length I’d need to tell the whole story. What I’d written seemed hopelessly out of order, similar to the thoughts running through my head. I also had a seriously numb butt from sitting far too long.

I stood, stretched, and checked the clock. I could take a short break, go talk with Aunt Rowe about the cat, among other things, and pray that some epiphany would come over me before I got back to writing.

Sounded like a great idea, but I knew leaving the cottage now would destroy my focus for the day. Better to grab a quick snack and plug away for a couple more hours. I scarfed down a banana and a scoop of peanut butter straight from the jar and was back at the computer a few minutes later.

I leaned back in my chair to review what I’d written and picked up my cup for a sip of coffee. That’s when I noticed the black cat stretched out on the sill by the open window.

I set my cup down carefully so I wouldn’t startle him and spoke in a low voice. “Hi there, you handsome boy.”

The cat’s ears wiggled. I doubted that he’d look so calm if Thomas was nearby—he’d sense it if a man was skulking around in search of him, wouldn’t he?

“You doing okay out there? You’ll take off if you see any bad guys, right?” I’d feel better if he’d come inside where I wouldn’t have to worry about Thomas spotting him, but that wasn’t likely to happen.

He bent his head and calmly began washing a paw. I smiled, pushed aside my worries for his safety, and continued working.

My snack had perked me up, and I was able to edit what I’d written, giving it a more logical flow. My fingers flew over the keyboard as I added details to tie my plot points together. Every few minutes, I checked the windowsill and saw my friend was still with me, overseeing my work. I came up with a more interesting twist for the ending, and when I’d written the final sentence of the draft I sat back with a sigh. Granted, this was rough, but at least I now had something to work with.

I looked at the cat, who watched me through slitted eyes, and felt an overwhelming urge to cuddle him. He probably wouldn’t sit still for that, though. It occurred to me that my writing had improved after the cat showed up. Was it possible that this black cat—the one Thomas was so paranoid about—had brought me
good
luck? Or inspiration, to say the least.

“Make sure you stay out of sight whenever Thomas is around,” I told the cat. “I for one am glad you’re here. You added some much-needed suspense to my writing.”

The cat stood and stretched.

“Suspense,” I mused. “And I know the perfect name for you. How’d you like the name Hitchcock?”

He blinked slowly and answered, “Mrreow.”

I smiled. “Molly was right. You’re a cutie.”

He turned swiftly and jumped off the sill. I ran to the window, feeling panicky with him out of sight. A knock at the door startled me, and I realized that Hitchcock had heard someone approach.

My heart thudded as I walked over to the door. I called out. “Who is it?”

“Sheriff Crawford. I need to talk to you about the murder.”