Black Cat Crossing (3 page)

The cat meowed.

“Glad to meet you, too,” I said. “You remind me of a cat I used to have. Smoky went all the way through college with me, but then I married Elliott and he was allergic. Should have made
him
move out instead of the cat. But Dad kept Smoky for me until he passed. Smoky, I mean, not Dad, but Dad’s gone now, too.” My eyes teared.

Get a grip. You’re talking to a cat as if it’s your therapist.

The cat stood and looked at me, then turned and darted down the steps.

“Wait.” I ran to the top of the steps and shone my light in the direction the cat had run.

There, another flash of black.

Where was the danged cat going? I thought cats didn’t like water.

I took the steps a little too quickly and had to stop for a moment to catch my balance on one flat stone that rocked when I put my weight on it. I slowed down, taking care so I wouldn’t slip and fall. When I reached the bottom, the cat’s green eyes appeared in a place that made it seem like the animal was suspended over the water.

No, he was sitting on a fallen tree limb. A rather large limb with one end resting on the riverbank, the other end submerged. The cat was taunting me for some reason, and I was crazy to be out here in the middle of the night following the animal around.

“If you want to be friends, come and visit me tomorrow,” I told the cat, then turned to retrace my steps.

I swear he meowed again, though I couldn’t be sure over the sound of the river. I turned the light back toward him and stopped when I spotted a brown ostrich-skin boot propped on top of the fallen limb near the cat.

What the heck?

I walked as close as I safely could to the riverbank’s edge, three feet or so above the water. The boot was actually lodged in the fork of a branch attached to the limb.

My heart raced. Was there still a foot in that boot?

I changed my position and saw the leg bent at an unnatural angle. A leg clad in khaki pants. A wave of nausea washed over me as I moved the light and discovered the rest of the body submerged in the water.

Earlier today I had wanted Bobby Joe Flowers to go away and leave us alone.

But not this way.

F
OR A FEW
seconds I considered jumping in to rescue Bobby Joe. I had years of experience leaping into the water from this bank. The river pooled here and was about eight feet in the deepest section. There were some large rocks I’d have to avoid, a tricky maneuver to pull in the dark. I slipped off my tennis shoes, but then logic kicked in. Bobby Joe was facedown in the water and looked like he’d been there for a while. I was too late.

With shaking hands, I patted my pockets for my cell phone. No luck. I’d left it on my nightstand. Not very far away, but now that I’d found the body, I felt weird about leaving Bobby Joe. Like I was abandoning a long-lost cousin. What if the river’s current dislodged him and carried him downstream? I told myself he couldn’t be swept off into some large body of water and lost forever, at least I didn’t think so. Still—

Move, Sabrina. Make the call
.

I turned and took the steps with care so I wouldn’t fall and meet the same fate as Bobby Joe. I shone the flashlight around the sparsely wooded area surrounding me, looking for the black cat. He was nowhere in sight. He had led me to the body, then disappeared as though his work was done.

After reaching the top of the steps, I hurried inside and retrieved my phone. I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher about Bobby Joe. The woman took my information and told me the authorities would be on their way and I should stay on the line.

This whole scene seemed surreal, like something out of a book. In the kind of books I read, though, there would typically be a killer on the loose. Thank goodness that wasn’t the case here.

Or was it?

I dropped onto the cedar bench outside my cottage door. My whole life I’d heard nothing but bad things about Bobby Joe Flowers, and now he was dead. In less than twenty-four hours, I’d learned that the man was a thief, witnessed him having an argument, and formed a decidedly bad impression of the guy after finally meeting him for the first time. He seemed like a good murder victim to me, but maybe it was simply my mystery-writer brain conjuring up unlikely possibilities. I had subconsciously been thinking of interesting plot points involving the man ever since Aunt Rowe hit him upside the head.

I stood quickly. Aunt Rowe. She needed to know what happened before sirens woke her. Calling the house at this hour might scare her silly. Without asking permission, I put the dispatcher on hold and dialed the housekeeper’s cell phone. Since Aunt Rowe’s accident, Glenda had been spending the night, though she actually lived a few miles away with her husband, Lloyd, and two teenagers.

She answered on the first ring and said, “Heard the news about Bobby Joe.”

“How? I just found him.”

“Laurelle, the dispatcher, and I are Bingo pals. She called me.”

So the dispatcher had put me on hold, too. I sure hoped she’d notified emergency personnel before calling Glenda.

“Be there in a jiffy,” Glenda said.

“No, you should stay with Aunt Rowe.”

“I’m not with her. Just left my house, and I have the pedal to the metal, so I’ll get there before anyone else.”

“I thought you stayed with my aunt every night.” If she didn’t, I would move into the house myself.

“I usually do,” Glenda said, “but last night, Rowe was worked up after what happened with her cousin. We watched
North by Northwest
, but I could tell she wasn’t paying attention to the movie. Afterward, she told me in no uncertain terms to go home for a change and hug my kids, so I did. She was out like a light before dark, and I made sure she had her cell phone charged and within reach before I left.”

After a few seconds of my silence, Glenda said, “You okay, honey?”

“I’m fine.”

“Guess I should say I’m sorry to hear what happened to that man, but I can’t lie. I’ve seen him in action a couple times.”

“I totally understand.”

“Be there in two minutes,” Glenda said. “I’ll break the news to Rowe. EMS has a pretty fast response time around here. Stay by your cottage to flag them down.”

“Will do.” I disconnected from Glenda and went back to the dispatcher call, then flipped on all the cottage lights to make it easier for the first responders to find me.

About ten minutes later, the EMS van crawled down the narrow winding lane toward my cottage. Thankfully they weren’t running the siren. I hoped the guests in the other cottages were sound sleepers and didn’t notice the flashing lights. Maybe no one would realize what was going on outside. I couldn’t see the spot where Glenda usually parked from where I stood, but she had sent me a text to let me know she’d arrived at the house and that I shouldn’t worry about Aunt Rowe.

When the van reached me, the dispatcher disconnected our call. Two men jumped out and took a backboard from the van. They put on hats with spotlights mounted over the brims and grabbed a duffel along with some other supplies. I pointed them in the right direction, and they double-timed down the steps to the river.

My mouth felt as dry as peanut shells, and I wished I’d thought to bring a bottle of water with me. Before I could go inside to grab one, another set of headlights coming down the lane claimed my attention. A sheriff’s department car pulled up behind the van, and a woman climbed out. Deputy Patricia Rosales. I would have rather seen the kindly, older Sheriff Jeb Crawford, a longtime friend of my aunt, but I wasn’t surprised that one of his deputies had night duty.

I’d met Rosales a couple of times at Sheriff Crawford’s office when I visited to ask him about crime scene details to use in my book. She always seemed annoyed with me for taking up her boss’s time, and she didn’t look any happier to see me tonight.

Rosales was slim, but the legs of her heavily starched uniform pants swished together and practically crackled when she walked. Her sleek black hair was drawn into a bun so tight it had to hurt. The woman was tall, a good five foot ten, and I looked up slightly as she got closer.

“So, Miss Mystery Writer,” she said, “you got a real body this time. You find that pretty exciting?”

“I—no—what an odd thing to say.”

She smirked, then turned and looked toward the river. “I’m going to speak with the EMS folks.” She signaled me with her palm out. “You stay.”

I didn’t appreciate her talking to me like I was a dog.
Stay, Sabrina. Be a good girl.

No matter how much I wanted to talk back to Rosales, the woman’s manner intimidated me enough that I didn’t dare move. When she was out of sight, though, I edged closer to the river to see if I could overhear her conversation with the EMTs. The noise of the rushing water plus the chirping of night creatures drowned out any words, but I saw a spotlight moving across the area. I sighed and moved back to the place where she’d left me. A long ten minutes later, she returned clutching a notebook and pen.

I swallowed and asked an obvious question. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” She poised her pen over the notebook and asked me to spell my name for her, which I did even though she should already know the answer. She made me sign the visitor’s log every time I showed up at her office, and how hard is it to remember Sabrina Tate? I wondered if she was purposely trying to annoy me.

“Do you know the identity of the man you saw in the river?”

“Yes. It’s Bobby Joe Flowers. I—”

She silenced me with a look. “Was he drinking this evening?”

I frowned. “I have no idea.”

“Did the two of you have an argument?”

“No, we barely spoke earlier—”

She cut me off with, “How long have you two been here?”

“
We
haven’t been here. I mean, I moved here six weeks ago. He arrived yesterday afternoon.”

“Where do y’all live?”

“
We
don’t live together.” My voice grew unintentionally louder, and I took a few seconds to compose myself before going on to explain about Bobby Joe’s arrival at Aunt Rowe’s house. I stressed the fact that I had never met him before and left out the part about Aunt Rowe hitting the man.

When I finished, Rosales said, “Do you have any idea why Flowers was at the river tonight?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Perhaps he and your aunt were visiting.”

“Out here? No way. For one thing, Aunt Rowe’s an early-to-bed person.”

“Maybe they met earlier in the evening,” Rosales said.

I hesitated. Was she trying to say Aunt Rowe had something to do with his death? I felt heat rise up to my cheeks and took a deep breath before continuing.

“Deputy Rosales, my aunt has a broken leg and is on crutches. She’s barely able to leave the house, and she certainly can’t traipse around the place or navigate on such uneven ground.”

Rosales stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “One thing especially puzzles me. What brought you outside in the dead of night to find this body?”

As I launched into my explanation about my insomnia and love of baking, I noticed a group of people congregating near a stand of live oaks between my cottage and the next one. Aunt Rowe’s guests had awakened after all. The EMS van’s headlights illuminated the area enough for me to identify one onlooker who towered above the others. Tim Hartman, the man who’d witnessed the scene with Aunt Rowe and Bobby Joe. I sure hoped Rosales wouldn’t talk to him. I quickly looked away, not wanting to draw her attention to Hartman.

Rosales watched me closely through narrowed eyes, and my stomach clenched.

“So you headed off to bake pecan tarts,” she said, “but then you went down to the river. Why?”

I didn’t want to discuss the black cat leading me to the body. First of all, I realized that sounded crazy—though maybe no more crazy than walking through the woods to bake at two in the morning—and I didn’t want to give anyone fodder for more stories about the cat bringing bad luck. I could already hear the superstitious townspeople accusing the cat of crossing Bobby Joe’s path and causing his death.

I forced myself to smile at the deputy. “The river is soothing. Some people buy those little machines that play sounds to help them sleep. There’s a phone app, too. But I have the real thing within walking distance.”

She looked skeptical but flipped her notebook closed.

A relieved sigh escaped my lips. Fortunately for me, Rosales’s attention was drawn to voices coming from the riverside.

“Excuse me,” she said and headed that way.

While she was out of sight, another set of headlights came down the drive. When the vehicle veered across the grass to where the guests had congregated, I realized it was Aunt Rowe’s golf cart. Next thing I knew, Aunt Rowe climbed off the cart with the aid of her crutches to approach the guests.

What a bad idea. I had told the deputy that Aunt Rowe would never come out here in her present condition. And where the heck was Glenda?

I started in my aunt’s direction, but then noticed Rosales coming up from the river, followed by the EMTs who carted the backboard holding Bobby Joe’s sheet-draped body. At the top of the steps, the men placed the backboard on the ground. One of them folded the sheet back. The other illuminated the body with his flashlight while Deputy Rosales stooped down and took a couple of close-up pictures with her phone. Then she turned away from them and made a call.

From what I could tell, Aunt Rowe and the others had stopped talking among themselves to watch the action. I looked at the ground, feeling sick to my stomach, and wished once again that Sheriff Crawford had responded to the emergency himself. There was something about his presence that comforted me, not that anything would seem comforting at the moment.

The deputy’s voice carried in the slight breeze. She had ended her call and was talking with the medical personnel. I heard the words “head injury” as the three of them leaned over the body. After a minute, Rosales turned away from the EMTs and headed toward the group where Aunt Rowe stood. Tim Hartman separated himself from the others and walked in her direction.

Uh-oh. No doubt he would share with the deputy the argument he’d witnessed when he arrived. Aunt Rowe was going to need all the support she could get after Rosales grilled her about what she did to Bobby Joe.

No one was looking at me, so I ducked around the side of my cottage and pulled out my phone. I scrolled through some old e-mails until I found the one I’d saved from Sheriff Crawford that listed his cell number in case I had more questions for him while writing my book. I paused for a moment and checked the time. Nearly dawn. The sheriff would be up soon if he wasn’t already, so I quickly punched in the number to call him.

“Hear you have some trouble over there, Sabrina,” he said after we’d exchanged greetings. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” I kept my voice low. “But I’m getting a bad feeling about what’s going on. Have you talked to Deputy Rosales lately?”

“Ten seconds ago,” he said. “You must have ESP.”

I didn’t feel like joking. “Have you ever met Aunt Rowe’s cousin Bobby Joe?”

“Not that I recall,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “I want to be sure that if there’s anything suspicious about his death, your department will investigate thoroughly. Bobby Joe Flowers was not a likable person.”

“I would say not,” the sheriff said. “The man has two distinct head injuries. Now don’t tell Deputy Pat I mentioned that little detail.”

“Two injuries?” My mind raced. “He must have hit his head on a rock or maybe on one of the stone steps when he fell.”

“We’ll know more after the autopsy,” the sheriff said, “but I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.”

I took a deep breath, then filled him in on what had happened upon Bobby Joe’s arrival at Aunt Rowe’s house.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said in a somber tone when I’d finished.

I paced alongside the cottage in an effort to tamp down my rising panic. “Bobby Joe laughed after it was all said and done, and he walked out of there on his own two feet.”

“That may be true, but head injuries can affect people in various ways,” the sheriff said. “We have to—”

“You have to figure out what happened,” I blurted, “and it will
not
be that Aunt Rowe caused him to die.”