Black Cat Crossing (12 page)

T
HE SLIM, SIXTYISH
woman standing on Aunt Rowe’s porch wore designer jeans and a turquoise top, accessorized with tasteful gold jewelry, bronze flats, and a Coach handbag. She was the most well-put-together sobbing wreck I’d ever seen. Just our luck she’d show up now when we were about to sit down for dinner.

“Is there something I can do for you?” I said.

She looked me up and down, then drew a big breath. “I
knew
you’d be younger.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been wondering. And hoping. Praying some, too, for all the good that did.” She sniffled and wiped the balled-up tissues across her mascara-streaked eyes. “So now I know. You’re the one.”

“The one what?”

“The one he left me for.” She lifted her chin. “The other woman.”

I took an involuntary step back. “I am no such thing.” Kind of funny someone would call me that, seeing as I wasn’t even dating.

She blinked rapidly and studied my face. “You
are
pretty, no denying that. And younger,
so
much younger.”

“Ma’am,” I said. “You’re mistaken. I think you have the wrong address.”

“Oh, no.” The woman’s blond-highlighted hair swirled as she shook her head emphatically. Her tone grew self-righteous as she continued. “He told me he lived here, right here, at the Around-the-World Cottages, so there’s no use in denying the truth, little missy.”

I stepped down from the front door stoop, bringing myself to the porch level to stand next to her. I was a good six inches taller than this woman, whoever the heck she was, so enough with the “little missy” talk.

“Look, lady, maybe you should tell me who you are and who you’re looking for, ’cause it’s not me. Perhaps I can point you in the right direction.” I gazed down at her. “Whoever
he
is, I can tell you for a fact
he
does not live here, because there’s only one person living in this house, and that’s my aunt.”

“Oh.” The woman deflated with that one word, and she hung her head.

I’d shut her up, but now what
?

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said after a few seconds of silence. “I’ve got no control over my emotions right now.”

“You’re excused.” Curiosity more than anything kept me from stepping back inside and shutting the door in her face. “If you could tell me what’s going on, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ve had more than my share of loss.” She sighed heavily. “Widowed twice, and I thought I could never hurt so much again.”

I hoped she didn’t intend to go through her whole life story. “I’m sorry to hear it. What happened?”

“He dumped me. Maybe I would have gotten over that eventually, but then he
died
.” She paused. “I can live without him, but I didn’t want him to
die
. Every man I’ve ever loved is dead.” The tears started up again.

Finally, enough information to connect the dots. “You’re talking about Bobby Joe Flowers.”

“Uh-huh.” She wiped her eyes again and sniffed loudly.

“And he told you he lived here?”

She nodded.

A new thought gave me a moment of dread.

“You and Bobby Joe weren’t married, were you?”

She shook her head and sniffed some more. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset. A bitter widow would make a great suspect to take the heat off of Aunt Rowe. On the other hand, she might have come here to take revenge on the woman she thought had killed her beloved, and her tale of getting dumped was a ploy to get inside. Nah. Her tears and body language came across as the genuine article.

This elegant woman didn’t strike me as the type who would give Bobby Joe Flowers a second look. But she had, and I wanted to know what he’d done to hook her.

I put a hand on her arm. “Bobby Joe was my aunt’s and my late father’s cousin. I assure you there was nothing going on between him and me. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She gave me a tentative smile through the tears.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“Marian Kauffman.”

I’d heard the name Kauffman before, but couldn’t place it this second.

“And, Marian, you came here today to—”

“I—” She paused. “I wanted to pay my respects and find out what the arrangements are. You know, for the memorial service.”

I nodded. Jeez, we hadn’t even discussed a service. Did that make us terrible people?

Before I could decide how to handle the situation, I noticed Tyanne’s Volkswagen coming up the drive. She parked quickly and hurried up the walk toward us.

“Marian,” she said, “What are you doing here?” She peered at the other woman’s red eyes and blotchy skin and didn’t wait for a response. “My goodness, are you okay?”

She gave the older woman a hug.

“Sabrina, why didn’t you invite Marian to come in?” she said. “I think she needs to sit down.”

“I was about to do that. How do you two know each other?”

“She’s a customer at the bookstore.” Tyanne turned to the other woman. “Whatever is going on, Marian, it will be all right. You’ll be fine. Come on in.”

“Wait,” I said.

Tyanne didn’t realize my predicament. Bringing in Marian, who was so enamored of Bobby Joe, to meet Aunt Rowe without paving the way first was a disaster waiting to happen.

“Could you possibly stay here for a minute? I’ll be right back, promise.”

“Okay,” Tyanne said, but I knew by her frown she thought I was being incredibly rude.

I rushed into the dining room as Glenda placed a large platter of ribs on the table. Clearly she had made more than enough food to add one guest for dinner, but that wasn’t the issue.

“What took you so long?” Aunt Rowe said.

Glenda chimed in. “Where’s Tyanne?”

“Out on the porch,” I said, “and she’s not alone. There’s another woman here, and I’m going to invite her to join us.”

“Is it the agent?” Glenda said.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Tyanne brought a friend?” Aunt Rowe said.

“No, Tyanne showed up after the other woman arrived, and it turns out she’s one of Ty’s customers.”

“Well, tell ’em to come on in.” Aunt Rowe picked up a roll she’d already buttered. “I take it she’s come to hear your book speech.”

Aunt Rowe wasn’t picking up my nervous vibe, but Glenda was a different story.

“What aren’t you telling us?” she said.

“This lady, Marian, is a former girlfriend of Bobby Joe.” I held up a hand like a stop sign. “And let me finish before you say anything. She’s super upset, brokenhearted because Bobby Joe dumped her, and grief-stricken about his death. We need to play along as if we’re grieving as much as she is.”

“In your dreams.” Aunt Rowe snorted.

I threw up my hands. “In that case, Ty and I will take her elsewhere for dinner.”

“You can’t go out to eat when I have this table full of food,” Glenda said. “Explain. Why do you want us to playact?”

“Because I’ve been trying my darnedest to find someone who knew Bobby Joe well. Who might know where he was living, who he hung out with, where he got the money he’s been throwing around. Most important, who might have wanted him dead.” I lowered my voice and looked at my aunt. “Besides
you
, that is. I’m doing all of this to clear you, because you’re looking mighty suspicious at the moment, and I don’t want to see you arrested. This lady may have the answers I’ve been looking for.”

“She’s right, Rowe,” Glenda said. “There’s a lot of talk about you and Bobby Joe around town.”

Aunt Rowe slumped against the back of her chair.

“So I’m inviting Marian in,” I said. “And if she accepts and joins us, you’ll behave?”

“She will,” Glenda said. “I’ll sit next to her and kick her if she speaks out of turn.”

“You gonna kick my good leg or my cast?” Aunt Rowe said.

“Oh, you.” Glenda waved a hand at Aunt Rowe. “This should be fun, kind of like one of those murder mystery dinners.”

“Right.” I rolled my eyes. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

“I feel a bout of indigestion coming on,” Aunt Rowe said, “and I haven’t even taken one bite.”

“I’ll set another place,” Glenda said.

I went back to the porch and found Tyanne had Marian sitting on a wrought iron bench under the front window. Their heads were close together, and I could hear Tyanne murmuring. She was an expert at smoothing things over, and I was glad she’d shown up when she had.

“Aunt Rowe asked me to invite you ladies to join us for dinner,” I said. “There’s more than enough food.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Marian said.

Tyanne said, “You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this. We won’t take no for an answer.”

They stood, and Tyanne urged Marian along with a hand on the other woman’s back.

“It’s just me, my aunt, and Glenda,” I said. “Glenda works here at the cottages, but she’s more of a friend than an employee.”

“That’s how I feel about the people who work on my late husband’s ranch,” Marian said as we headed for the dining room.

“Marian moved here from Fort Worth a few years ago when she married Farley Kauffman,” Tyanne explained. “She and your Aunt Rowe may know each other.”

Marian shook her head. “Farley and I were such homebodies, I only know a few people in Lavender.”

We entered the dining room, and Tyanne made introductions all around as we settled into our seats.

“I appreciate your hospitality,” Marian said with a catch in her voice, “though I don’t have much of an appetite lately.”

“None of us do,” Aunt Rowe said in a melodramatic tone. “I can’t tell you how many tears I’ve shed the past two days. Rest in peace, my dear, sweet cousin.” She bowed her head and put a hand on her forehead. “Such a tragic loss. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

Tyanne looked at me and raised her eyebrows. I suppressed a smile. Aunt Rowe was laying it on way too thick. The plate she’d piled with food belied her claim of no appetite, but Marian didn’t seem to notice.

“Where did you and Bobby Joe meet?” Glenda asked as she passed the bread basket to Marian.

“He was looking to buy property abutting the ranch,” Marian said. “I was out riding, and I saw him sitting on a rock and looking out over the hills. Enjoying the countryside.” Marian smiled at the fond memory. “He asked me about the area, and he was so pleasant. Such a gentleman.”

She was the only person I’d heard say anything nice about Bobby Joe.

“Our family raises ’em right,” Aunt Rowe said.

As we passed the food around, Marian put one rib and a small scoop of beans on her plate.

“Odd that he didn’t introduce us,” she said, “being that we lived so close. He and I dated for several months.”

Aunt Rowe said, “He probably didn’t want to share you with anyone else. Bobby Joe was
such
a romantic, so loving.”

I thought about pitching a roll at her head.

Marian sighed. “I would have come to pay my respects sooner, but I didn’t hear about his death until last night. Luke likes to keep me sheltered, but he couldn’t keep news like this from me forever.”

Tyanne elbowed me. “Her son is Luke Griffin, the game warden.”

“Oh,” I said. “I saw him in the bookstore the other day.”

Marian nodded. “Yes, he bought me some books. He’s a sweetheart.”

She thought Bobby Joe was a great guy, too, so I wasn’t holding much stock in her complimenting her own son.

“About the services,” Marian said. “Have arrangements been made? Will the memorial be held here in Lavender?”

I looked at Aunt Rowe, who had picked up a rib. She placed the meat back on her plate and said, “We have to wait until the sheriff gives us the go-ahead. Bobby Joe’s brother and sister will have the last word on what happens and when.”

Marian nodded thoughtfully.

Aunt Rowe looked like a powder keg about to explode. I wanted more information before she went off on Marian.

I said, “The sheriff needs all the help he can get to figure this thing out. Do you know if Bobby Joe had any enemies? Had he argued with anyone? Gotten into a disagreement lately that you know of?”

Marian frowned as she shook her head. “I don’t know of any such thing.”

“Was he fond of spending time on the river? I’m wondering why he would have gone out to the river that night.”

“I never saw him on the water,” she said. “The river doesn’t cross the ranch property. We spent most of our time together riding.”

“You say he’d left you,” I said. “How long has it been since you last saw Bobby Joe?”

Marian stirred her beans with the tip of her fork. “A couple weeks, I guess. I really needed to talk to him, too. Even though he broke it off with me, and I believe he already found another woman, we still have our partnership to deal with.”

“What partnership?” Aunt Rowe said, her tone stern.

“We invested together in a car rental business,” Marian said. “It’s in Dallas, and Bobby Joe took the signed documents to have a copy made for me. Since he was living here with y’all, I’m thinking that the paperwork is here, too. We signed everything about a month ago.”

Aunt Rowe slapped the table. “And I’ll bet you gave him some money for the deal.”

“Yes.” Marian eyed Aunt Rowe. “We were partners. Fifty-fifty.”

Aunt Rowe shook her head sadly. “Partners? Girl, were his lips moving when he told you that line of BS?”

Marian looked at me. “What’s she talking about?”

“She doesn’t know anything,” I said. “I’m wondering if you have any idea where Bobby Joe was really living. As I told you, he wasn’t living here. Have you heard him say anything—”

“She deserves to hear the truth,” Aunt Rowe interrupted. “Bobby Joe was a scammer, I’m sorry to say, but that’s what he was. He cozied up to you, Marian, got his grubby paws on your money, then took off. That’s about how it happened, isn’t it?”

“Rowe,” Tyanne said. “Take it easy.”

Marian pushed her chair back. “I’ve heard enough. Maybe Bobby Joe wasn’t what he seemed to be, but I daresay you aren’t either. You don’t know anything about the funeral service because you don’t care. You didn’t care about Bobby Joe at all.”

“You got that right, sister,” Aunt Rowe said.

A
N HOUR LATER,
Tyanne and I slouched on my sofa with bowls of peach cobbler, the dessert we’d brought with us from the disastrous dinner gathering. Marian Kauffman had left without hers. Aunt Rowe stalked off to her room, as best she could on crutches. After eating our fill of the juicy ribs, Tyanne and I had helped Glenda clear the table before heading to my place.

The printed pages of my book and synopsis lay on the coffee table before us, but the chances of my focusing on them right now were slim to none. Hitchcock moved from his napping spot on the bed and crept to the doorway to peer out at us, then folded his legs under himself and assumed his meatloaf pose.

“There he is,” I said quietly. “My new friend, Hitchcock. The cat Thomas calls El Gato Diablo. Isn’t it crazy that anyone would call such a sweet kitty a bad luck cat?”

“He sure is handsome.” Tyanne placed her bowl on the end table and studied Hitchcock. “Where do you think he came from?”

“I don’t know, and I’m worried that he has an owner who’s searching for him.”

“Let’s find out,” she said, and within seconds she had used her phone to log onto a website for missing and adoptable pets. “You know Magnolia Jensen, the vet?”

“I don’t,” I said and shrugged. “No reason till now.”

“Doc Jensen runs the rescue group,” Tyanne said, “and she keeps this list of every animal within a couple hundred miles reported missing or available for adoption. Complete with pictures.”

“
If
they’ve been reported missing,” I said.

“Well, yeah, but—” She scrolled down the screen. “No black cats on this missing list.”

“You’re assuming that every owner whose cat goes missing knows about that site.”

“Regardless, I think Hitchcock needed a home, and now he has one. Think he’ll let me pet him?”

“Give him a minute. He’ll probably come over to check you out.”

“About the luck thing.” She looked over at me. “You know I’m not superstitious, but y’all haven’t exactly had the best luck around here lately.”

“That’s not the cat’s fault.” I took a bite of cobbler and licked the spoon.

“I’m sure it’s not,” Tyanne agreed. “Your Aunt Rowe might be causing some of her own bad luck.”

“She
was
a little too gruff with Marian. It’s like she forgets her manners whenever it comes to discussing Bobby Joe.”

“That’s not good.” Ty picked up her bowl. “If Deputy Rosales hears the talk around town—”

I put up a hand. “Don’t say it. I already know Aunt Rowe’s in trouble, but Bobby Joe was not a nice guy. If I can find out whose bad side he got on this time, I might find the killer. Seems to me Marian Kauffman belongs on the suspect list.”

“Get real,” Ty said. “Marian is a gentle soul. Her only fault is she’s way too naive.”

“That’s for sure,” I said. “She believes there’s a business she needs to take over now that her partner is dead.”

“Maybe there
is
a business.” Tyanne shrugged.

I started to laugh that off, but realized this was something to investigate further.

“You’re right. I could do a web search, but I’ll bet Bobby Joe wouldn’t put his real name on anything. If he
was
telling the truth about a business, he could have still been lying about the fifty-fifty partnership. There may be another person out there, or maybe even a different business deal with a different partner, who realized Bobby Joe was screwing him over and decided to do him in.”

“That’s a lot of speculating,” Tyanne said, “and the sheriff’s department’s in charge of investigating, not you, and not now. You have a book proposal to finish.”

“I’ll get to that.” I stuffed another spoonful of cobbler in my mouth.

“Show, don’t tell,” Tyanne said. “You keep saying you’ll do it, but I’m not seeing any progress. It won’t be my fault if the meeting with Kree Vanderpool is a bust.”

“But it
will
be my fault if Aunt Rowe ends up in jail because I didn’t research all these suspicious people who might have killed Bobby Joe.”

Tyanne sighed. “I hate to say it, but I understand how you feel. So who are
all these
suspects, and what kind of evidence have you collected?”

Now it was my turn to sigh. My list was sketchy at best, evidence sadly lacking. I launched into what I’d learned about Alvin Ledwosinski, aka Adam Lee, the fake photographer, who was in reality a private eye investigating God knows what. “He was in town the night Bobby Joe died,” I said, “even though he didn’t check in here at the cottages until the next day.”

“Huh.” Tyanne stirred her cobbler absently. “Let’s say he
is
an investigator. You don’t know he’s here on a job. He might actually be here to take pictures and watch birds like he says.”

“And for that he needs to use a fake name?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he’s sick and tired of having to sign the name Ledwosinski on the guest register.”

I rolled my eyes. “So how are you going to excuse Claire Dubois, dating Bobby Joe one day, then fleeing the scene the next?”

“I have no explanation for her,” Tyanne said, “and you don’t know that she fled.”

“I
do
know she isn’t around. She vanished for some reason, and that in itself is suspicious.”

“What motive would Claire have for killing the guy?”

“Maybe the same as Marian,” I said. “A woman scorned and all that.”

Hitchcock had come closer to us while I wasn’t paying attention to him. He leapt onto the coffee table, scattering some of the manuscript pages, then sprawled across the remaining papers.

Tyanne laughed. “Yep, he’s a normal cat.” She held her hand out for Hitchcock to sniff. After he did, she stroked his head. “I don’t suppose you have any mystical feline powers to help Sabrina solve this case so she can get back to writing.”

“Mrreow,” Hitchcock said.

I got down on the floor to gather the fallen papers. My movement startled the cat, and he took off for the bedroom, sending more pages flying.

Tyanne helped me put them back in order. “You know, Luke Griffin is a better suspect for your list than his mother is.” She paused and watched me.

I kept my attention on the paper and didn’t meet her eyes until everything was organized. “I guess.”

I realized Griffin might have the best motive of all. His mother was in love with Bobby Joe Flowers, who had likely swindled her out of a bundle of money. If Bobby Joe had convinced Marian to marry him, heaven forbid, he might have taken everything. But he’d left Marian for another woman. Claire Dubois? I would have loved to drag more information out of Marian. Aunt Rowe’s outburst had squelched my interrogation. I wasn’t out of people to interview, though. Chester Mosley might know about Bobby Joe’s business dealings.

Tonight was the perfect time to visit The Wild Pony Saloon and talk to Bobby Joe’s old friend.

Tyanne wouldn’t see it that way because she, unlike me, was focused on tomorrow’s meeting with Kree Vanderpool. I’d have to make the visit by myself. Fortunately, the night was still young.

“I need to take a break from real-life murder,” I said. “Let’s work on my book pitch and the make-believe kind.”

Once I’d made up my mind to visit The Wild Pony later, I was miraculously able to focus on my fiction, much to Ty’s delight. She gave me her oral critique of the synopsis, and I pulled the document up on my laptop to make edits as we discussed tightening the plot points and strengthening my protagonist’s motivation.

When she left a little before ten, I finally had a synopsis I could use. I had skillfully avoided mentioning that the first three chapters of my book were still marked-up with red-pen edits yet to be made, but I did promise to massage my short pitch to make it as strong as possible. She planned to call me the moment she woke in the morning to hear the final version. Even though Sunday was another big day for tourist sales at the bookstore and she would have business on her mind, I knew I could count on that call.

After Tyanne’s car pulled away, I dressed for my visit to The Wild Pony. I switched tennis shoes for Ropers, chose a white shirt, fastened turquoise multistrand beads at my neck, brushed out my scruffy ponytail, and added a pair of silver hoop earrings.

“No critiquing,” I told Hitchcock, who watched me with interest. “The bar will be dim.”

I swiped on a touch of blush, added lip gloss, said bye to the cat, and locked him in.

•   •   •

T
HE
Wild Pony Saloon sat about two miles from the center of town. I loved reaching anywhere I needed to go within minutes, a huge contrast from Houston, where every destination seemed at least an hour away because of congested traffic.

Judging by the large number of cars lining the streets, The Wild Pony was Lavender’s Saturday night hot spot. I found a parking space in a grassy lot near the water tower, and when I got out of the car, noticed that the metal bars bracing the structure were lined with buzzards roosting for the night.

Loud strains of “That’s My Kind of Night” drifted on the breeze, live music that didn’t do justice to Luke Bryan’s original version, but was a decent attempt. White lights outlined the front porch, maybe to detract from the fact that the place could use a new coat of paint. The front railing allowed customers who arrived on horseback to hitch their rides. It was unused tonight, but it added a nice nostalgic touch. The windows and front door were covered with bumper stickers advertising everything from Miller beer to “Kinky Friedman for Governor.”

A group of young women stood near the entrance, smoking cigarettes as if they’d never get another chance. I averted my gaze, but felt them check me out as I passed by and pulled open the door. Inside, the place was standing-room only. I managed to wind my way around the filled-to-capacity tables and chairs to reach the bar.

“Is Chester here tonight?” I asked when I finally had the attention of the bartender and had turned down a drink.

“Chester hangs by the pool tables,” he replied.

I nodded my thanks and continued fighting the crowd until I heard the sound of balls clacking together. Before I could make any more progress in that direction, however, I spotted a man a couple of decades older than anyone else in the place. I recognized him, and he saw me at the same time.

Leo Dubois turned away, as if he didn’t want me to notice him, but it was too late. When he looked over his shoulder a minute later, he found me standing next to him.

“Hi, Mr. Dubois,” I said. “What brings you here?”

He wasn’t holding a drink, and I couldn’t imagine he came to hear the band, now doing a weak imitation of Kenny Chesney’s “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy.”

“Looking for Claire.” Mr. Dubois practically screamed in my ear to be heard over the music. “You seen her around?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, no.”

His wife had insisted Claire wasn’t missing. Mr. Dubois didn’t believe her any more than I did.

I leaned close and said, “You have a reason for looking here?”

“Looked everywhere else I can think of,” he said. “She’s come here before, I’m told.”

“With her boyfriend? I said.

“Maybe.” He continued to scan the room, his expression very much that of the concerned father.

“What do you think happened to her?” I said.

He looked me in the eye. “Girl has a habit of doing things she shouldn’t, then she’s ashamed of herself and takes off. Like this her whole life. Should be over it by now.”

“What do you think she’s done?”

“No clue,” he said. “Let me know if you see her before I do.”

Leo Dubois headed away from me, steadily scanning the room. I didn’t buy it for a second that he had no clue about Claire’s disappearance, but I wasn’t surprised he wouldn’t admit anything to me, certainly not in this place where he had to shout to be heard.

Did he think she murdered Bobby Joe?

Something to pursue later, I decided as I watched Leo disappear into the crowd. Back to my original goal.

Toward the rear of the building, I found a room with four pool tables. I peeked into the larger space next to the poolroom, where the live band played onstage before spectators seated at long picnic tables. Dancers swarmed a small hardwood dance floor.

I turned my attention to the pool players, male but for a couple of women who leaned seductively over the table to take their shots. I surveyed the room and, remembering what Aunt Rowe said about Chester’s eating habits, zeroed in on a fiftysomething guy who weighed upwards of three hundred pounds. He sat on a high stool against the wall and held a supersized beer mug.

The big man watched me approach and took a healthy swallow of his drink. He had buzz-cut gray hair and wore a neon green T-shirt that said Wild Pony on the front.

“Hi,” I said when I reached him. “Are you by chance the owner?”

“’At’s me,” he said with a slurred voice. “Hope you ain’t another broad from the health department.”

“I’m not,” I said quickly, then jumped when billiard balls clacked loudly behind me as someone broke them.

Chester frowned and looked down at me from his perch. His chin fell into multiple layers resting on his upper chest. “Told the last one to take her list of requirements, with a capital
R
, and shove it up her capital
A
—”

A man’s tattooed arm shot between us, making a chopping gesture. “Cut it out, Chester. Be nice to the pretty lady.”

The man connected to the arm was another older guy, but slim and in good shape. He wore too-tight jeans with a brown belt that had a buckle nearly the size of a pie plate. The grin he wore as he gave me a once-over made me look down to make sure my shirt was buttoned.

I gave the man a tight smile and wondered why he seemed familiar. “I’m
not
from the health department.”

Someone hollered from the pool table, “Eddie, you’re up,” and Mr. Belt Buckle sauntered to the table and picked up a cue stick.

I turned to Chester. “I’m a relative of Bobby Joe Flowers, and I came to talk to you about him.”

“Bobby Joe,” Chester moaned, then took another swig of his beer. “That river’s wicked, man. He shoulda never gone out there.”