Black Cat Crossing (13 page)

“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to hurt Bobby Joe?” I said.

“The river took him,” Chester said, “and swallowed him up like it’s done plenty of folks before.”

That wasn’t what happened, but Chester appeared so inebriated that I doubted I could get anything useful from him.

“Eight tourists in the past twenty years,” Chester went on. “River might look like fun, but I say look again, that sucker is danger with a capital
D
.”

He chugged more beer.

“Bobby Joe was murdered with a capital
M
,” I said. “Do you know who might have wanted to do such a thing?”

Chester looked at me with rheumy eyes and said, “Them Palmers been out to get Bobby Joe for thirty years, man.”

“Palmers?” I said. “You mean Vicki Palmer’s family?”

“Shoot, yeah.” He nodded, and the motion sent his body teetering. I prepared to jump back if he toppled off his stool.

“He didn’t do nothin’ to her, but they talk crap about him ever’ chance they get.”

I felt an arm snake around my waist and turned to see Mr. Belt Buckle had come back.

“Hiya, sweetheart.” He brought his face close to mine. “Whaddya say we leave Chester in his misery and have us a little dance. I wiped the table with those bozos.” He glanced over his shoulder at the cleared pool table and the other players clustered at one end.

The band was playing a slow song now, and there was no way I was getting any closer to this guy than I already was.

“You’re Ernie Baxter’s twin brother,” I said, realizing why he looked familiar.

“Guilty,” he said. “I’m Eddie, and you must be Sabrina, the not-so-teenage witch I heard about from Mom. She told me I’d be runnin’ into you sometime soon, and here you are.” He gave me another appraising glance.

I twisted out of his grasp, uncomfortable with him and the eerie suggestion that Twila Baxter knew I’d show up at The Wild Pony before I had any intention of doing so. “I came to speak with Chester.”

“Best wait till he dries out.” Eddie took my arm and started toward the dance floor. “He gets delirious when he’s drunk. We have plenty of time to get to know each other better.”

I tried dodging him, but Eddie moved closer and soon his arm was around my waist again, fingers twisted around one of my belt loops. I grabbed those fingers and said, “Let me go.”

“Aw, sweetheart,” he said, “I’m cool. Give me a chance.”

I writhed and twisted as I tried to disconnect myself from him, but he stuck like glue.

“Why don’t you show me some of your witchy moves,” he said. “Bet you got some—”

Before he finished the thought, Eddie’s knees buckled and his legs were swept out from under him. Someone ripped his hand away from my waistline and took my arm. Then I was hurtled along through the crowd and found myself outside, where light rain was falling.

“C’mon,” the man next to me said. “Let’s take cover.”

I was grateful he’d separated me from Eddie Baxter, but did I want to go anywhere with this guy?

I turned to him and saw in the glare of the lights along the porch that Luke Griffin held my arm.

He pointed across the street to what looked like an abandoned service station with a roof over what used to be the pumping area.

We ran across the street together.

“
I
THINK IT’S
A
bad idea for you to visit this bar by yourself on a Saturday night,” Luke Griffin said.

We sat on a decrepit wooden bench outside the gas station, protected from the wet weather by the narrow roof overhead. Raindrops splattered on the asphalt, and faint thunder rumbled in the distance.

I crossed my arms, feeling defiant. “I came to talk with the owner,
not
because it’s a bar.”

“What business do you have with Chester?” Griffin raised his eyebrows.

“That’s personal, and what’s any different about your coming to this bar alone? Or is Deputy Rosales still with you?”

Griffin frowned. “Still?”

“You were together this morning,” I said.

“No, we weren’t.” He shook his head. “She may have had intentions, she often does, but I worked all day. I’m still working, officially. I’m on the clock.”

“Huh.” He didn’t owe me an explanation, but he’d given me one anyway. I felt stupid for bringing up Rosales. “What kind of work? I didn’t notice any hunting or fishing going on inside.”

“Game wardens enforce the law,” he said, “and doing that takes me to a lot of unexpected places.”

“Oh.” I was digging myself in deeper. I studied Griffin’s face. His skin was tanned from long hours spent outdoors, and his dark whisker stubble only made him more appealing. I averted my eyes. “Thanks for interrupting that Baxter creep.”

“Best steer clear of him,” Griffin said. “He’s the biggest womanizer around.”

“Bigger than Bobby Joe Flowers?”

Griffin leaned forward and planted his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands and looked at the ground. “Second thought, Flowers was a lot worse.”

“You won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

Griffin turned his head to look at me. “What are you saying?”

“I met your mother earlier this evening. She’s distraught about Bobby Joe’s death.”

“I know that,” he said sharply. “And I’m sorry for her feelings, but I’m even sorrier he came into her life in the first place.”

I nodded, but he must have seen my not-quite-satisfied expression.

“What?”

“Why were you on my aunt’s property the night Bobby Joe died?”

He straightened and met my gaze directly. “I was patrolling the river. People fish without a license. I write citations.”

“You always go out at night?”

“That’s when criminals get busy.” He paused. “You think
I
killed Flowers?”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to think that.”

“But you’re not sure.”

“How could I be?”

Griffin nodded and resumed his elbows-on-knees position.

We sat there for a few minutes, thinking our own thoughts, watching the rain, and watching patrons coming and going from The Wild Pony. I thought about Bobby Joe’s death, Aunt Rowe’s attitude, and the fact that people believed she was guilty. She was getting a bad rap. I disliked how easily gossip swayed people.

Aunt Rowe was innocent, and the killer was totally free.

And here I sat next to Luke Griffin. If he was a killer, sitting with him was infinitely more dangerous than going into The Wild Pony alone. Yet I didn’t feel one teensy speck of danger as I sat here next to this man.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you’re glad Bobby Joe is gone,” I said.

“Good,” Griffin said, “because I
am
glad.”

“So is my aunt Rowe.”

“Then she and I have something in common.” His eyes met mine, and he smiled slightly. “Maybe more than one thing.”

My heart lurched, and I looked away. “Hey, when you’re out on your patrols, have you ever come across small traps set up to catch animals?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Before I explain, tell me you’re not superstitious.”

“I’m not superstitious.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Yes, I’m serious. I’m
not
superstitious. Why?”

“There’s this cat,” I said, “and some people—”

He began nodding before I finished. “The bad luck cat?”

“Yes. I mean no. He’s
not
bad luck.”

“Definitely not.” Griffin grinned.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are.” He put on an exaggerated somber face, which made me laugh. “Go on. Tell me. I’ll behave.”

“It’s just, I don’t want anyone trying to trap him, the black cat. He’s a sweetheart, and he doesn’t deserve—”

“Uh-oh, she’s bonded with the cat,” he said, as if talking to an unseen observer.

“Stop it.” I slapped at his leg, and my face heated at the too-familiar gesture.

He looked down at the spot I’d touched, then over to the hand I’d quickly moved to my lap. His gaze moved up to meet my eyes, and his lips curved into what might be the sexiest smile I’d ever seen.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m a cat lover myself from way back. My dog even loves cats, and I sure don’t condone trapping them.”

“I wish everyone felt the same. Thomas Cortez, who works for my aunt, and don’t get me wrong, he’s a good guy, honestly he is, but he’s afraid of black cats. He has this thing about ‘El Gato Diablo.’” I made imaginary quote marks in the air. “He means to trap the cat and take him away. Is there some law to stop him?”

Griffin shrugged. “I’m afraid not. People set traps for various reasons, often to keep raccoons from invading their homes, ripping the shingles off their house, things like that. And cats get into those traps at times. No way to prevent that.”

I blew out a breath.

“I
could
spring any cat I ever come across in a trap.”

I grinned. “Would you?”

“Might get me into trouble with the spay-neuter-release group in town. Maybe I’ll only set jet-black cats free.”

“I’d appreciate that
so much
.”

He smiled, and I smiled back, and I restrained myself from throwing my arms around Luke Griffin’s neck to show him how much appreciation I felt.

While driving home a few minutes later, my face heated again as I thought about sitting so close to the good-looking game warden.

Keep your distance, Sabrina. He might be the most accomplished liar on the planet.

I forced my thoughts back to the book proposal. Dinner with Kree Vanderpool was set for six tomorrow night, cocktails at five. I was surprised Tyanne hadn’t asked what I planned to wear. Not that I owned much of a wardrobe since all my old law-firm clothes went to Goodwill before I moved to Lavender. They always made me look older, and that’s the last thing I wanted at this stage of my life. Tyanne had dragged me along on one Austin shopping spree where I’d purchased a few things she’d described as “young and hip.” I was pretty sure the term “hip” dated us.

I would read that synopsis one more time when I got back to the cottage. Then I’d ad-lib my pitch. Hitchcock would be happy to listen to me, I felt sure. I had to make a great first impression on Kree Vanderpool—my spoken and written words as well as my appearance all needed to shine. I felt giddy thinking that tomorrow’s meeting might be a giant step to my becoming a published mystery author.

I drove slowly along the stretch where deer often crossed the highway at night, and watched the trees alongside the road for any eyes glaring in the night. As I followed one hairpin curve in the road, my lights spanned the woods, and I saw something flash.

Not eyes.

I checked the rearview and saw no one coming, so I braked and backed up a bit.

Drove forward and saw the same glint.

I was about two football fields away from my cottage as the crow flies. I could go on home, then try to walk back and find this spot.

Nah. That would take too long.

I pulled as far off the road as I could and parked next to the woods. The rain clouds had already passed through, and I suspected the drips I saw came from the trees rather than another shower. I rustled in my glove box until I found a flashlight and flicked it on, glad to see the batteries had a good charge.

If that was a cat trap Thomas had set up in the woods, I was going to spring that sucker. Maybe even pick up the trap, if it wasn’t too heavy, and take it back home to hide it from Thomas.

I turned on my hazard lights and left the car to tromp through the trees and find the mysterious, glinting object. Wet droplets hit me as I went. My nose itched from the moldy smell of wet leaves. There hadn’t been enough rain to make the ground muddy, and for that I was grateful.

A commotion in the brush sounded off to my right and sent me into a panic until my light landed on three white-tailed deer crashing through the woods. One of them stopped and stared at me for a few seconds before following the others. I waited for my heart rate to slow down before proceeding.

I aimed my light through the trees ahead of me, and before long I spied the object straight ahead. It
was
a trap, no doubt about that. I squinted to make out the details. I was no expert, but it appeared to me that the door was open. I wouldn’t find an animal trapped inside, thank goodness.

There was an animal nearby, though. I could see its eyes. Something small appeared to be sitting on top of the trap. It looked like—

That’s not possible.

I rushed forward as the cat watched me approach. For goodness’ sake, it
was
Hitchcock. How on earth did he get out of my cottage? I’d double-checked the locked door before I left. Then again, I wasn’t the only one who had a key.

Worry about it later.

The important thing now was to reach Hitchcock and get him home before something happened to him. When I got close enough for him to hear me, I began scolding.

“Hitchcock, what are you doing out here? Get away from that trap.”

Before I reached him, I tripped over something and fell face-first toward the leaf-covered ground. My arms shot out in the nick of time for my hands to break my fall.

I groaned, rolled onto my back, and brushed my hands together to get the dirt off. Hitchcock ran over and circled me, butting me with his head.

“I’m okay, buddy, I’m okay.” I straightened my arms and tested my elbows. “I don’t think anything’s broken.”

He meowed and sat beside me until I rolled over and pulled myself to a sitting position.

I had dropped the flashlight, but luckily it still shone and lay within arm’s reach. I picked it up to illuminate the area behind me, looking for the cause of my fall.

“There,” I said. “It’s a—”

Pole?

I stood and went back a few steps to brush leaves away from the object with my boot. An old wooden handle—the type I’d seen on brooms, hoes, shovels. I shone the flashlight down the three-foot-long piece to a splintered, jagged end.

I remembered all too well hearing about Bobby Joe’s wound that could well have been made by a shovel. What if this was part of the murder weapon?

I knelt to get a closer look, not wanting to touch anything. Judging by the worn wood, this handle was very old. It might have been left out here long ago. On the other hand, if it
was
connected to the murder, that was good news for Aunt Rowe. No way could she have driven her golf cart to this spot in the midst of all these trees to ditch a murder weapon. I needed to call the sheriff.

I patted my jeans, relieved that my cell phone had stayed put in my back pocket. I pulled it out and with shaking fingers turned the phone on.

Hitchcock was still going crazy over something in those dang leaves. What the heck was he doing?

I punched in Sheriff Crawford’s personal cell number and walked over to the cat.

The phone rang once, twice.

Hitchcock was meowing nonstop now and pawing at the leaves.

“Shush, please.” I toed the leaves he was concentrating on.

And uncovered the business end of a broken shovel—the blade marred by a rust-colored stain that could be dried blood.