Black Cat Crossing (15 page)

T
HE ORANGE BLOOMS
of Indian paintbrush and the last of the season’s bluebonnets decorated the roadside between Lavender and Riverview, Texas. I easily located the produce stand Twila had mentioned, about an hour into the drive. I parked in front of the long lean-to-like structure where a dozen or more customers browsed the displays of fruits and vegetables. I got out of my car and homed in on the fresh-picked strawberries, my imagination already flitting to thoughts of strawberry cheesecake.

That’s not why you’re here.

I plucked a shopping basket from a stack and hung it over my arm. I’d have to buy
something
so the reason for my visit wouldn’t seem so conspicuous. I placed two cartons of strawberries in the basket before moving toward the vegetables.

As I browsed the lettuce section, I watched the woman at the checkout and guessed her to be about Aunt Rowe’s age. Unlike my aunt, this woman had opted to stick with her hair’s natural gray color. A younger woman with chin-length brown hair and wearing a red gingham-checked apron was discussing the variety of onions with a customer.

In a field next to the market, a man and a couple of helpers loaded filled produce baskets onto a trailer. I made the rounds, admiring the green beans, squash, and new potatoes. When I’d come full circle, I heard the checkout woman say, “Vick, honey, could you bring Mrs. Green another peck of tomatoes?”

The younger woman—Vick—carried a container over to the cash register and spoke a few words to the customer. I wondered if someone in the family had named their daughter Vick after the girl who died, or if the Palmers had coincidentally hired a woman named Vick. When she headed toward the back of the market, I followed and made a show of inspecting the yams.

“Help you with something?” she said.

“Are you Vick?”

She nodded.

“Are you related to the Palmers?”

She smiled. “I’m their daughter.”

Was I acting on rumors about Vicki Palmer’s death that weren’t even true? I didn’t think so. My information about her had come from several different sources.

“You’re Vicki Palmer?”

A shadow passed over the woman’s face. “My name is Vick Sittler. Why do you ask?”

“I, um, I came to talk with Mr. and Mrs. Palmer about their daughter Vicki. Is that you?”

She hesitated for a second before answering. “Yes. Look, I need to get to work.”

“Wait. My name’s Sabrina Tate, and I’ve come all the way from Lavender. There’s been a murder, and I found the body in the river. I heard about Vicki Palmer dying there, too, but you’re obviously not dead.”

So much for acting inconspicuous.

Vick’s eyes widened, and she made a keep-your-voice-down motion with her hand. She whispered, “We can’t talk about this here.”

“When can we talk? This is really important.”

She looked toward the checkout before turning back to me. She kept her voice low. “Whatever you do, don’t discuss Vicki around my parents. That would send them into a tizzy so huge we’d have to close down the market for the day. Maybe all week.”

“
You’re
not Vicki?”

She sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

The woman studied my face for a few seconds before nodding. She called out, “Mom, I’m taking a short break.”

The gray-haired woman waved an acknowledgment, then continued to check out the next customer in line.

Vick headed through a door at the back of the market and motioned for me to follow. We were on a covered cement patio that was open to the field behind the market. Two tables and a refrigerator stood by a door marked Ladies. Three baskets of not-so-fresh tomatoes sat next to one of the tables, along with a tower of empty baskets.

“Let’s sit,” she said. “You care for a bottled water?”

I accepted and she removed two bottles from the refrigerator. We sat at the table nearest the tomato baskets. After taking a long drink, Vick pulled one of the full baskets closer to her chair. She took an empty basket from the stack and set it to her right.

“Shame how thousands of tomatoes come in at the same time,” she said. “Some of these will be good for sauce, some are garbage.” She picked up a tomato and rolled it in her palm. Pressed the fruit with her fingers to test for firmness before placing it in the smaller empty basket.

“My sister Vicki died a very long time ago,” she said. “Why are you asking about her now?”

I summarized Bobby Joe’s death, ending with how and where I’d found his body in the river.

“You found him in the place where Vicki died?” she said.

“That’s what I’m told.”

She took another swig of water, stared at the field for a minute, then turned back to me.

“Has the sheriff solved my sister’s case?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Then why are you here?”

I heard the pain in her tone and was sorry I’d brought it to the surface.

“From the moment I heard about your sister, I can’t get her off my mind. I live by the river, and it’s a constant reminder.”

“One of the reasons we left,” she said.

“No one knows what happened to Bobby Joe Flowers either, but I’ve learned he knew your sister. Maybe
you
knew him, too.”

“I was eight years younger than Vicki, and she sure didn’t like me tagging along with her—ever. I didn’t really get to know her friends.”

“Maybe you’ve heard your parents mention him.”

She thought for a moment and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Chester Mosley’s comment about the Palmers had brought me here, but his memories of them bad-mouthing Bobby Joe were three decades old and he’d been drunk when he brought up the subject.

Someone knew more about the connection between Vicki and Bobby Joe, if there was one, but I didn’t think Vick was that person. I sure was curious, though, about her name.

“So your sister was Vicki, and you’re Vick?”

“Odd, I know,” she said. “My legal name’s Debbie Sue. Vicki was Vicki Lynn.”

“But you go by Vick?”

She leaned over to pull three more tomatoes from the large basket and began inspecting them. Two went into the sauce pile, one got pitched into a nearby garbage can.

“My folks started calling me Vick shortly after my sister died. At first, they didn’t realize they were doing it. I didn’t object, so they kept it up. Relatives would look at us weird, but after a while they got used to it and now I’m Vick to most everybody.”

“Did you change your name legally?”

“No, I’m Debbie Sue Sittler on paper. Vick Sittler in the flesh.” She shrugged. “Small price to pay for my parents’ peace.”

“Do they touch base with the Lavender sheriff every so often to see if there are any new developments?”

“Heavens no. Most of the time, they think I
am
Vicki. Hell of it is, they don’t seem to realize their daughter Debbie’s been missing for the past thirty years.” She gave me a rueful smile.

Sadness for this woman, for the little girl who’d never gotten a chance to grow up as herself, as Debbie Sue Palmer, washed over me. I didn’t think she wanted my pity, though, so I asked another question.

“After all this time, has anyone in the family come to a conclusion about what they think happened to her?”

Vick shook her head. “Not really. She had trouble with an abusive guy for a while, but he moved away.”

The boy the sheriff had run out of town, according to Twila.

“There was someone new,” Vick went on, “but she hadn’t introduced him to anyone. Her closest girlfriends didn’t even know his name.”

“And there were no clues as to his identity left behind after she died?”

“Only thing I ever saw that might have had a connection to the guy was a velvet necklace box. I hung out in her room all the time after she was gone. She never allowed me in there, and even though I was devastated by her death, I absolutely loved spending time in that special place.”

I smiled. “What was in the box?”

“Oh, it was empty,” she said, “and I never found any necklace of hers that would have come in such a fancy box.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get the chance to grow up with your sister,” I said.

“Thanks,” she said. “I’m okay. Frank, my brother, is the one who won’t let go.”

“What do you mean?”

“We moved out here less than a year after Vicki died. Started the produce business, but Frank wanted nothing to do with it. He left the day after high school graduation and hasn’t come back.”

She continued sorting the tomatoes. Three in the garbage, one for the sauce basket.

“You haven’t seen him in all this time?”

“I’ve seen him, but he won’t come here. Every once in a while my husband and I pack up the kids and go back to Lavender. They love renting tubes from their uncle Frank and floating down the Glidden River.”

“Your brother is Frank of Frank’s Floats?” I said.

“That’s him. The only person who still insists on calling me Debbie. Sure confuses my kids, but they go with the flow.”

“Isn’t it hard for him to live so near to the place where Vicki died?”

“Frank doesn’t want to forget,” she said. “He can’t stand the fact that our parents blocked out the whole thing. My brother’s the angry one in the family, and he’s bound and determined to hang on to that anger for the rest of his life.”

Maybe Frank was the Palmer that Chester remembered hearing talk about Bobby Joe. I wondered if something had happened recently to bring the brother’s anger to the surface, but I’d rather question the man himself than take up more of Vick’s time. Besides, I had the dinner at Tyanne’s tonight, and I was already cutting it close.

I thanked Vick for talking to me, and paid Mrs. Palmer for my strawberries with her none the wiser about the real reason I’d come.

On the way home I mulled over the new information. Sheriff Crawford, I felt sure, would know that Frank Palmer, Vicki’s brother, lived close to the site of Bobby Joe’s death. I wondered if he or Rosales had talked to Frank, and how the man had responded. If he was generally an angry person, any type of discussion about his deceased sister might have set him off. If they hadn’t talked to him, then I wanted to be the one to bring up the subject and see Frank’s reaction firsthand.

•   •   •

I
PULLED
in at the cottages with the perfect amount of time left for reviewing my proposal, printing a fresh copy, and changing my outfit. It was hard to believe I’d soon be meeting with Kree Vanderpool, the agent I’d heard good things about from the time I began writing fiction. Butterflies danced in my stomach at the thought. If she liked my work and agreed to represent me, my writing career might finally take off.

I was considering what it would feel like to hold the first copy of my published book as I rolled past Aunt Rowe’s house and noticed her golf cart parked in the driveway next to an older-model Lexus. A woman in skinny jeans and high-heeled sandals stood between the vehicles, talking with Aunt Rowe, who was seated in her cart. The stranger flailed her arms as she talked, and I got the impression she presented a problem.

Aunt Rowe noticed me and waved. Not a frantic I-need-your-help wave, but I pulled in behind the Lexus and jumped out of my car just the same.

As the other woman dropped her arms and turned to me, I realized she looked familiar.

“Sabrina,” Aunt Rowe said, “You remember Bobby Joe’s sister?”

I might not have connected this bleached-blonde with the attractive brunette cousin I’d met years ago, but I smiled and said, “Of course. Becky, right?”

“That’s me, the broke baby sister,” she said.

I glanced at Aunt Rowe, who said, “Why don’t we go inside and make ourselves comfortable. You’ve been on the road all day, Becky. I’m sure you could use a bite to eat, maybe some tea.”

“What I could use,” Becky said, “is for someone to tell me where Bobby Joe stashed his money.”

“What money?” I said.

She cocked her head toward me and said, “The money my brother said he’d be depositin’ into the bank account. If that doesn’t happen right quick, I’ll have checks bouncin’ all over hell and back.”

I wondered how she expected us to solve that little problem for her now that Bobby Joe was gone. It wasn’t like he’d shared details about his finances with us.

“We’ll help however we can,” Aunt Rowe said.

That sounded like a nice safe promise, but if Becky wanted help, she’d have to give us a lot more information.

“Did Bobby Joe deposit money into your account on a regular basis?” I said.

“It wasn’t exactly my account,” Becky said, “but he gave me some of the money.”

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Becky sighed. “Bobby Joe didn’t want an account in his own name, so he came to me. ‘Do me a favor, sis,’ he says. ‘Keep the money in your name and you can have a cut.’ So I opened an account for him to use.”

“When was this?” I said.

“Nine months? A year? I don’t know what he’s hidin’ but I decided I’m better off not knowin’ so I didn’t ask.”

Aunt Rowe said, “There’s quite a bit of money in this account?”

“Used to be,” Becky said, “before he went out and paid cash for a brand-new Jeep SUV. That was a fool move.”

“What makes you think he’d be making a deposit soon?” I said.

“He told me the account would be up twenty thousand by the first of the week.” She raised her eyebrows. “Then he goes and dies, so I had no choice but to come see if he left a check layin’ around, ’cause I gotta get that sucker deposited by Monday morning or else.”

A
UNT ROWE GRABBED
her crutches and climbed out of the golf cart.

“Becky,” she said in the no-nonsense tone she’d used on me when I was a kid, “come inside and we’ll figure this out. Grab your luggage. You can spend the night here.”

Aunt Rowe started for the back door. Becky scowled and folded her arms over her chest.

Aunt Rowe stopped and gave her cousin the eye. “You
did
bring luggage?”

Becky wore the expression of someone who wanted to pick a fight, but the person she most likely wanted to fight with was dead. After a second, she went around to the driver’s side of the car and popped the trunk.

I went to Aunt Rowe and asked in a low voice, “What are we going to do?”

“
I’m
going to collect some facts,” Aunt Rowe said. “
You’re
going to meet that agent.”

“But—”

“No excuses,” she said. “Tyanne’s dinner is still on, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but—”

“This is a big night for you,” she interrupted. “And Becky’s surprise visit isn’t going to ruin it.”

I looked back at Becky, who had a tote slung over her shoulder. She pulled a small suitcase from the trunk. I turned back to Aunt Rowe.

“The money might be the missing link to figuring out who killed Bobby Joe,” I said.

“Sure as shootin’,” Aunt Rowe said. “Another thing I learned from watching cop shows. Follow the money.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with her,” I said.

“I won’t be alone when Jeb gets here.” Aunt Rowe grinned. “He’ll ask the right questions, and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“You’re going to call the sheriff?” I said.

“Already texted him.” Aunt Rowe patted her shirt pocket, and I could see the tip of her phone sticking out. “Should be here soon, so you go on. I’ll fill you in when you get back. Deal?”

I wanted to hear what Becky had to say firsthand, but chances were the sheriff wouldn’t let me stay in the same room while he questioned her. Aunt Rowe seemed to have everything under control, and Tyanne was expecting me.

“Okay, deal.”

“Some might say break a leg.” Aunt Rowe repositioned her crutches. “Or is that only used in theater? Whatever. I wouldn’t wish this on anybody.”

•   •   •

H
ITCHCOCK
supervised as I booted up my laptop and queued it to print my proposal. While the printer hummed, I hurriedly changed into one of my Tyanne-approved outfits. Khaki ankle-length pants and a cream-colored tunic with a wide brown belt. I yanked an orange print scarf from a dresser drawer. Hitchcock pounced on the scarf and pawed the fringed end.

“Sorry. No time to play.” I gently removed the cat from the fabric and looped the scarf around my neck. “I’m switching out of investigator mode and into writer mode. Send some of your good luck with me to the meeting.”

Hitchcock attempted to rub some luck onto my light slacks, but I dodged his black fur as I placed my printed pages into a crisp new folder. I patted the cat on the head, grabbed my keys and the Texas toffee cake, and took off for town.

On the way there I couldn’t keep my mind from racing. I should have asked Becky if she knew where Bobby Joe planned to get twenty thousand dollars. Whether he customarily made deposits of that size. If the money came from legitimate business dealings. What kind of business he was in. Surely the sheriff would cover all of that.

I needed to concentrate on my own business—the business of writing, of becoming a published author. That thought pleased me, and I worked at putting myself in the proper frame of mind by the time I pulled up in front of the bookstore.

The second I turned off the car, I remembered I was supposed to pick up the wine.

Not a problem with the wine shop right next door. Couldn’t be more handy. Except that when I rushed up to the entrance, I spotted the Closed sign hanging prominently in the front window.

My watch read 5:01.

Jeez. I shaded my eyes with my hands to peer inside. The store was dark. I hurried around the building to the back. Forgetting the wine was not the first impression I wanted to make on Kree Vanderpool.

A Cadillac Escalade was parked in the back lot, and I took that as a good sign. Even better, the back door to the building stood ajar.

Yes.

I approached the door and lifted my hand to knock. My fist froze in midair when I heard a woman’s voice coming from inside.

“Your father is having an absolute fit,” she said. “He’s liable to give himself a stroke and end up in the hospital. Then we’d be in a real pickle.”

She’s talking to Claire.

I listened to silence for half a minute and decided I was hearing a phone conversation rather than an in-person talk.

Felice said, “Roommates, yeah. I have a big picture of that.”

A pause.

“I know you’re doing what you have to do. Call me again in the morning. Don’t worry about the store. We’re handling it fine, and the books are locked up where he won’t see a thing. You take care of you.”

Felice Dubois had said from the beginning that Claire wasn’t missing, and now I knew why. They were in touch all along. So where was she? Why had she left? Did it have anything to do with Bobby Joe’s death?

I didn’t figure it would work if I rushed inside and demanded Felice tell me her daughter’s whereabouts, so I waited until she said good-bye before I rapped on the door.

I’d be a bit late, yes, but I
had
to get that wine. And if I happened to get information about Claire, too, all the better.

“Hello, anyone here?” I pushed the door in as I spoke and stepped inside. “Mrs. Dubois? Felice?”

“Who’s there?” The woman crossed the back storage room and spotted me. She appeared more casual today in a shimmery white blouse over black trousers. I glanced at the cell phone she placed on a table that held packaging materials I presumed were used for mail orders.

“It’s Sabrina,” I said. “We met the other day.”

“I remember you,” she said, “but I’m afraid the store is closed.”

“I’m running late, but I promised my friend I’d pick up the wine she ordered.”

“Tyanne, yes.” Felice smiled as she came over to me. “No worries. I took the wine to the bookstore. I knew she wanted it for a dinner meeting tonight with a writer friend of hers and an agent.”

“I’m the writer, so thank you for delivering the wine. That was thoughtful.” I smiled.

“You’re welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to close the shop. My husband likes his dinner served promptly at six.”

I glanced at my watch. It read 5:07. Not so bad. I might not get another opportunity this good to ask questions.

“I ran into your husband last night,” I said. “I’m surprised he can think about food at a time like this.”

“What do you mean?” Her scowl deepened the groove between her brows.

“He’s beside himself worrying about Claire,” I said. “I’d be surprised if he sleeps. You’re probably just as worried, aren’t you?”

Felice’s back stiffened visibly. “I’m sure our daughter is fine,” she said. “Leo is a control freak, and that gets so tiresome.”

“He’s afraid for Claire’s safety,” I said, “and I don’t blame him.”

“What are you talking about?” Felice said.

I pasted on a wide-eyed innocent expression. “Her boyfriend died, and the sheriff doesn’t know who murdered him. Claire may be in danger.”

Felice trilled a laugh. “Claire is not in any danger, and to call that Flowers character her boyfriend is a gross misstatement of facts.”

I had the distinct impression she wanted to slam the door, but I stood in her way. My lateness weighed heavily, and it wasn’t like back in Houston where I could blame the traffic.

I said, “What
are
the facts?”

“Unlike my husband, I don’t discuss my daughter’s personal life with strangers. Please leave now so I can go about my business.”

“Okay, but first might I ask for one itsy-bitsy favor?” I was pressing my luck with this woman, but I had to try.

“What is it?” she snapped.

“I would
love
to give something special to the agent I’m meeting tonight.” I racked my brain to think of something that would take her into the store for a minute. Long enough for me to peek at her phone. “May I buy two boxes of those liqueur-centered chocolates? I hate to be a burden, but this meeting is really important. I can pay you in cash now, or give you a check, or—”

Felice held up a hand and shook her head. “Spare me. I’ll be right back.”

The moment she disappeared, I rushed to the table and picked up her phone. Punched it on. Good, no password. I scanned the list of most recent calls. Tried to memorize numbers, but then had a better idea and pulled my phone out with shaking hands and snapped a picture of her screen.

I glanced at the doorway she’d gone through, my heart slamming against my chest. I scrolled to “Contacts” and found the entry for Claire that confirmed several of the recent calls were to and from her. Flipped over to texts and saw numerous messages from Claire. They didn’t pinpoint her location, but they piqued my curiosity.

A few moments later, Felice’s footsteps headed my way. I put the phone down and returned to the doorway. Sweat dampened my forehead, and I could barely hold my quaking knees still.

Felice handed me a gold gift bag stuffed with deep purple tissue and an invoice.

“Take this and go,” she said. “Pay me later.”

I thanked her and went back to the car for my proposal and the cake. At quarter past five, I burst through the bookshop’s entrance, startling the cats, who had been lounging in the front window.

Ethan Brady glanced up from the money he was counting at the cash register. “Breathe, man,” he said. “You look crazed.”

“There’s a lot going on.” I walked over to pet Zelda and Willis, always a calming activity, and took several deep breaths for good measure.

Ethan came out from behind the counter to lock the front door behind me. “Kree Vanderpool is dope, man. You’ll like her. She knows some of my favorite authors, like personally. They’re having wine back there, so they might not notice you’re late.”

Tyanne would notice.

I pushed thoughts of Becky’s surprise visit and the elusive Claire Dubois aside. All that existed here and now was this meeting and my fictional world. I conjured up a smile, crossed the store, and walked into the back room, where Tyanne had set a lovely table with a yellow-and-blue theme. She and the woman who must be Kree Vanderpool stood near the table, each with a wineglass.

“Hi, ladies. I brought cake.”

Tyanne’s gaze flicked to the wall clock and back to me. If it had been just the two of us, she would have said something. In front of Kree, she was the perfect hostess and introduced me to the other woman.

“Sabrina writes by day and bakes by night,” she said.

I put my things down on a side table and took Kree’s outstretched hand. The agent was tall and slim, fortyish, with shoulder-length auburn hair and dark-framed glasses. She wore a black-and-white geometric print sundress with a lime green shrug.

“Writing and baking—a fun combination,” the agent said, “and this small town is the perfect setting. Is your novel set in a small town?”

I accepted a glass of wine from Tyanne. “No, it’s actually set closer to your home. My protagonist lives in Niagara Falls and then flees into Canada.”

“I see,” Kree said. “It’s a fem-jep?”

“That’s not how I would describe it.” I took a sip of wine. “Though I’ve felt a bit like a woman in jeopardy myself these past few days.”

Tyanne gave me a look that clearly said,
Whatever you do, don’t bring up the murder.

Kree said, “I have plenty of those days myself, especially around my kids.” She had an unusually loud and contagious laugh, and once she got going, we all laughed.

“Mine put themselves in jeopardy at times,” Tyanne said.

“Children can be challenging,” Kree said and looked at me. “Are you a mom, Sabrina?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Unless you count my cat.”

“I
love
cats,” Kree said. “Is there a cat in your book?”

“Afraid not. There is a child, though, and she’s quite a challenge in the story.”

I congratulated Kree on the new addition in her sister’s family—Kree’s first nephew who, she joked, had the bad fortune of looking just like his father. We segued into a lively discussion about best-selling novels and well-known authors over an elegant dinner of herb-roasted pork, creamy baked Parmesan polenta that I recognized because I’d eaten it at Tyanne’s once before, and asparagus.

When Tyanne excused herself to get the coffee to serve with our dessert, Kree asked me about my own book, and I presented my pitch. She took my proposal and scanned the pages as I finished my dinner. I’d been talking nonstop and hadn’t eaten much. The food tasted delicious, and I didn’t want to waste a bite.

Over cake and coffee, Kree looked from me to Tyanne. “You were right, Ty, this girl really can write. Right?” She giggled long and loud, and I attributed her rowdy laughter to the wine she’d consumed. Then she quieted and looked at me. “I love what you’ve put together.”

“You do?” I said.

Kree grinned. “I do, and I’d love to represent you.”

“That’s great.” I felt shaky with a case of sudden nerves. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

“I have a publisher in mind that’s specifically interested in stories like yours,” she said. “One of their newer editors is actively looking for authors. I’d like to send your book out to him no later than June first. The timing is critical. We need to hit them with it before everyone takes off on summer vacation.”

“You mean you’ll send the editor this proposal?” I took a sip of wine.

Kree shook her head. “The whole book. I want you to send me the manuscript in two weeks, no later. If the rest of the book is as well written as this proposal, there’s a good chance they’ll make you an offer.”

Two weeks? I nearly choked on the wine, but somehow managed to swallow, and smiled. My chest constricted. I couldn’t seem to get a full breath, like an asthmatic who needed a hit from an inhaler.