The Black Cat Knocks on Wood (14 page)

Ten minutes after leaving the real estate office, I walked into Hot Stuff. I recognized the song coming through the speakers—“Shake Your Groove Thing.” My dad, an avid seventies disco fan, used to quiz me about song titles and artists.
Peaches and Herb
, I thought.
Wonder what became of them?

Jordan Meier didn’t give me the answers I wanted. Now I had new questions. Maybe I could learn something here at the coffee shop. If nothing else, at least I’d get a much-needed caffeine buzz. Though it was steamy outside, the shop’s air-conditioning was set to light-freeze and I was up for my usual hot drink rather than the iced versions they sold. I walked to the bar, and Max Dieter greeted me with a big grin.

“Hey, Sabrina,” he said. “Where have you been? That corner table’s missin’ you and your laptop.”

I glanced toward the spot where I liked to sit and write and noted it was, in fact, empty.

“I’ve been writing at home, Max.”

I ordered my usual. When he placed a steaming mug on the bar in front of me, I said, “What do you know about a place called Manor House?” Neither of us were natives of Lavender, but Max heard a lot more than I did through the grapevine.

“Assisted living home on the highway,” he said. “Few miles out of town.”

“Any idea how much they charge?”

“I hope you’re not thinking of sending Rowe over there.” Max laughed, enjoying his joke for a moment, then sobered. “She’s okay, isn’t she?”

“Aunt Rowe is fine, and no, I wouldn’t send her there. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Don’t blame you.” Max wiped his hands on a towel he had stuck in his belt. “She’s nowhere close to needing a home. I understand she’s gonna be in that senior rodeo.”

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t want to talk about the rodeo either.”

“Okay,” Max said. “About Manor House, then, I’m sure they charge a pretty penny. All those places do. Couple or three hundred a day is what I hear.”

I did a quick mental calculation. “That’s a chunk of change.”

“Lucky I never had to know more,” Max said. “Been to visit some folks over there, though. Why’re you askin’?”

I sipped my coffee. “Guess I’m worrying for Jordan Meier’s sake. I just came from seeing her at the real estate office.”

Max nodded. “Her mother’s at Manor House. Has been for a couple of years.”

“The bill must be eating them alive,” I said.

The next disco hit, “Le Freak,” started playing. Max whipped the towel from his belt and wiped the counter in time with the song. I got the impression he had something to say and was considering whether or not to spit it out. After a few
seconds, he bent to look across the counter. Apparently satisfied with his wipe-down, he came back to me and leaned on the bar.

“I think Jordan’s okay now,” he said. “While back, I heard she might lose the family homestead. Jordan’s living there by herself.”

“Does she have any brothers or sisters to help out?” I said.

“Don’t think so.”

“I’m glad things are better for her.” Not all that good if Manor House was making nasty collection calls.

Max went to take care of other customers, and I was left tapping my foot against the bar rail. Max thought Jordan was “okay now.” Crystal hadn’t been gone long enough to assume her death had caused the improvement in Jordan’s financial condition.

I finished my coffee and headed out, but I barely cleared the door when one of Max’s employees, Lacy Colter, came out behind me.

“Bless your heart, Sabrina,” she said, “Did you really work for that woman? The lawyer?”

“Rita Colletti?” I squinted against the sun. “Unfortunately, yes.”

The young woman blew out a breath. “I swear I don’t know how you did it. I see her for a few minutes every morning, and that’s more than enough.”

“I hear you.”

“I guess the coffee y’all use over at Around the World Cottages doesn’t meet her standards.”

I shook my head. “Doesn’t surprise me.”

The girl leaned closer. “Is she after Mr. Devlin?”

“After?” I said.

“You know, interested, like romantically.”

I studied Lacy’s expression. Her face was wrinkled up like she found the thought disgusting, and I couldn’t disagree.

“I have no idea,” I said. “Rita never discussed her personal life with me, and I’m fine with that. Honestly, I can’t picture
her caring about anyone except herself. I am curious, though, where you got that idea.”

Lacy shrugged. “My boyfriend does some work at the Devlin ranch. Told me the lawyer was here in Lavender before, three weeks or so ago. Now she’s back, the wife is murdered, and they’re together a lot. It’s eerie.”

I felt like my eyebrows had raised clear up to my hairline. How the heck had I missed Rita being here weeks ago? I made a conscious attempt to relax my face. Even though I had seen Rita with Lance Devlin, I never considered there was something romantic going on. Could there be?

“Rita handles all kinds of legal work,” I told Lacy. “I’m sure Mr. Devlin’s involved in a lot of business transactions where he needs the help of a lawyer.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Lacy said.

“Has your boyfriend seen anything specific that made him think they were romantic?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Mr. Devlin just lost his wife,” I said, “and he sure doesn’t need to take up with that lady piranha.”

Lacy giggled. “I hope she leaves town soon, so I don’t have to deal with her.”

“I second that.”

*   *   *

The what-if section of my brain jumped into overdrive on the way home. What if the connection between Rita and Lance
was
about something more than legal work? What if they were longtime friends who came together in a plot to rid Lance of a wife he had tired of? What if there
was
a romantic relationship between the rancher and the lawyer?

Yeesh. I’d rather not envision that.

I couldn’t help but wonder what the heck the two were meeting about. If Rita was in Lavender weeks ago, though, she was probably handling a matter totally unconnected to Crystal’s death.

Or was it?

I took note as I drove toward my place that Rita’s car was still parked at the Paris cottage. The woman never took a vacation in the years I worked for her, yet here she was in Lavender, a fun Hill Country vacation spot. For the second time.

But not vacationing.

I went on to my place and parked. Hitchcock came out through the pet door and sat on the deck. I sat on the top step next to him.

“You didn’t know me when I worked for Rita Colletti,” I told the cat. “Took every ounce of patience down to my toenails.”

He looked up at me and blinked.

“Okay, toenails don’t have patience. If they did, dealing with Rita used up a hundred percent.”

A germ of an idea formed as I stroked the cat’s back. I checked my watch. Luke wouldn’t get off work for another two hours.

“I could start getting gussied up for my dinner with Luke,” I said aloud, “or go start a simple conversation with Rita. Find out what’s going on with her and Lance Devlin.” I stood and looked down at Hitchcock. “I’m feeling daring. Want to join me?”

My common sense screamed at me as I walked toward the Paris cottage with Hitchcock on my heels. I went up to the door and knocked.

“Mrreow,” Hitchcock said as we waited.

“It’ll be okay,” I said.

I knocked a second time, and a few seconds later I heard Rita’s loud voice approaching the door from the other side. She was talking to someone. The door wrenched open and there she was, dressed in her standard black slacks with white shirt. Not vacation garb. She wore pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes that were out of place in Lavender. Her head was bent at a painful-looking angle as she held a cell phone pressed between her ear and shoulder.

“Hang on a sec,” she said into the phone, then stared down at my hands. “You bring the ice?”

I frowned and shook my head. Behind Rita, the living room looked like a paper blizzard had blown through. It annoyed me to see she’d moved Aunt Rowe’s Paris mementoes from the coffee table—her Eiffel Tower replica and a lovely white-glazed crock from a Rue Saint-Honoré boutique—and placed them on the floor in a corner.

“I’m out of ice, and I need more,” Rita said. “When’s it coming?”

“I don’t know.” I gave her a palms up. “Your ice maker not working?”

Rita held up an index finger. “Bad idea,” she said into the phone as she walked back into the living room. “Keep your mouth shut for the time being. We want to take him by surprise, right?” A pause. “Why not? Tell me what you’re thinking.”

I looked down at Hitchcock, knowing I ought to turn around and go back the way I’d come. Instead, I said, “Wait here” to the cat and went inside.

I walked into Rita’s kitchen and opened the freezer to take a look at the ice maker. I pulled out the ice container and sure enough, found it empty. Before I got the container pushed back into place, ice fell and hit the shelf where the container would have been had I left well enough alone.

Just my luck.

I turned to look at Rita, who was still on the phone but busy shoving papers from the sofa into her briefcase.

“Hang tight,” she said, “and I’ll call you first thing in the morning for a status update.”

I grabbed a big spoon from a drawer, shoveled the scattered ice into the container, and closed the freezer door.

I turned to face Rita, who was gathering piles she’d arranged on the floor into one messy heap. Not the first time I’d seen her sorry attempts at getting organized.

“You now have ice,” I said.

Rita set her phone on the small kitchen table she’d dragged over beside the sofa.

“Won’t last long,” she said. “I asked for a full bag.”

“You didn’t ask me.”

“No, it wasn’t you,” she said in a snippy tone. “It was the maid.”

“You mean Glenda,” I said.

“Whatever. I need ice.”

I’d heard this complaint maybe a thousand times back in the office, and each time I’d obediently taken her superhuge water cup and traipsed down the hall to the kitchen to fill the cup with ice. A co-worker always joked that the habit of eating ice was caused by lack of a sex life. Rita was apparently still eating a big quota of ice, so maybe there was nothing to this rumor about her and Lance Devlin.

“I’ll see about the ice in just a minute,” I said. “You sure look busy.”

“I am.”

Rita continued shoving papers around, turning them facedown as if concealing some deep, dark secret from me.

Maybe she was.

“How’s your friend Lance Devlin?”

Rita straightened and looked at me. “He’s hanging in there,” she said. “Tough blow.”

“Have you known him long?”

“Not very,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m making conversation. Aunt Rowe’s usually the one who gets to know the guests. She’s always telling me I should do the same.”

“You already know me,” Rita said.

Boy, do I ever
.

I forced a smile. “Yes, I do, but it’s been a while.”

“Your aunt’s a gem,” Rita said. “Has nothing but good things to say about this town and her friends. And you.”

Was it my imagination, or had her tone changed with the word “you”?

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you the other day.” Watching the way Rita turned over the papers was making me curious as all get-out. “If you still need a hand, I could—”

“Fetch that ice,” Rita said. “And you could check on dinner while you’re at it.”

I paused a second, dumbfounded. “Dinner from where?”

“Up at the house,” she said. “Rowe told me there’s chicken-fried chicken tonight. Best in the county, according to her.”

Glenda
did
make fabulous chicken-fried chicken, but I couldn’t imagine she’d agreed to cook for Rita. I might faint if I saw Glenda carrying the food down here for this particular guest. Wasn’t going to happen.

“Did Aunt Rowe invite you to join her for dinner again tonight?” I said.

Rita sat on the sofa and pulled some papers into her lap. “Nope. She’s out at the rodeo doing a practice run. Isn’t she a hoot and a half, playing cowgirl in that rodeo at her age?”

“She sure is.”

“Told me dinner would be brought down when it’s ready,” Rita said.

“Oh, she
did
?”

When hell freezes over
was on the tip of my tongue, when someone knocked on the door.

No way.

“Could you get that?” Rita said.

Shaking my head, I went to the door and pulled it open. My jaw dropped.

Thomas stood there, holding a room-service-type tray in one hand and carrying a bag of ice in the other. I wondered if he used his head to knock on the door.

Hitchcock leapt to the bench beside the door, and Thomas jumped. “Could you keep that cat away from me?”

“He’s not hurting anything,” I said. “You’re delivering dinners now?”

“Flipped for it with Glenda,” he said in a low voice, “and I lost.”

That made me grin.

“Let me take the tray,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“Here’s your dinner, Rita. Have you met Thomas?”

Rita barely glanced up from her documents. “Who? Oh, yeah.”

Thomas threw the ice bag into the freezer. “Enjoy the meal. I have to run.”

“What’s the rush?” I said.

“Girls’ night out for the wife,” he said. “I get to stay with the kids.”

That might be easier than my self-imposed task of getting information out of Rita. I told him good-bye and turned back to her. “So, what kind of work are you doing for Lance Devlin?”

“This and that.” She’d already uncovered the food and was cutting the chicken into bite-sized pieces.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Rita popped a piece of chicken into her mouth and nodded. “Mm-hmm, yes there is. Wait.”

She pushed her plate aside, paged through papers sitting by her computer, and pulled out some documents paper-clipped together.

She finished chewing and swallowed. “These things need to be e-filed. You can use my log-on.”

This was more than I’d bargained for. “I don’t know, Rita. It’s been too long—”

My cell phone sounded off.