Cat's Claw (32 page)

“She was just sitting there, according to Mrs. McNally,” Hazel said. “Just sitting in her car, like she was waiting.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Maybe waiting for him to come home. Mr. Kirk, I mean. So she could kill him.”

“Or sleep with him,” Mrs. Wauer said tartly. At her friends’ frowns, she said, “I have always been one to call a spade a spade.”

I took a comforting drink of my tea. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “You’re telling me that you have seen a stylishly dressed woman in her forties, with long black hair, straight, with bangs, who drives a silver-colored car that might be a Hyundai. She’s been observed in the vicinity of the Kirks’ house several times, in the alley and out on the street. And Mrs. McNally’s daughter Polly knows her name. Correct?”

The ladies burst into a spontaneous round of applause. “Bravo!” cried Hazel Schulz.

“Didn’t I tell you that China is smart?” Ruby asked, beaming at me proudly.

“Sharp as a tack,” Mrs. Wauer agreed. “A regular Agatha Marple.”

Mildred Ewell leaned over and patted the older lady’s hand. “That’s Agatha Christie, dear. Or Jane Marple.”

“That’s what I said,” Mrs. Wauer retorted. “Agatha Marple. She lives in England, although I think she must be dead by now. She’s been solving mysteries ever since I was a girl.”

“If Mrs. McNally’s daughter Polly knows this mystery woman’s name,” I said, “what is it?”

The ladies looked at one another. Finally, Jane said, “We don’t know. Mrs. McNally didn’t tell us.”

“Mrs. McNally herself doesn’t know,” Hazel put in. “Polly was about to tell her who she was, but the phone rang at that moment and Polly had to go pick up her daughter at school because the girl had a terrible earache, and the conversation never got back to her name.”

“Polly’s had so much trouble with that girl’s ears,” Mildred said. “I told her she should take her to a specialist. But Mrs. McNally says that Polly says she’ll grow out of it.”

“I agree,” Mildred said. “People spend too much money on doctors. My grandmother used to put warm olive oil in my ears, with mullein and garlic. Felt real good.” She smiled reminiscently. “And then she’d kiss my ears, and that would make it even better.”

“St. John’s wort, too,” Jane put in wisely. “That’s the very best herb for ear problems.”

“And calendula,” Mrs. Wauer added. “My mother swore by calendula oil for ears. She also used it for cradle cap and diaper rash. She said it was good for both ends.” The ladies chuckled.

I rapped the table with my knuckles. The ladies stopped chuckling and looked at me.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But did any of you see this person yesterday? Around the time that Larry Kirk was killed?”

The ladies interrogated one another with their eyebrows, one after
another shaking her head. Mrs. Wauer turned to me. “No,” she replied regretfully. “We didn’t.”

“Well, then,” I said, “does anybody happen to have Mrs. McNally’s phone number? Would somebody be willing to phone her and get Polly’s phone number, then phone Polly and ask for this person’s name?”

Hazel raised her hand like a little girl in class. “I can do that.”

“Good,” I said. “And would you be willing to telephone me with whatever information you can get?”

“Of course,” Hazel said. “I’ll call you right away.”

“Good,” I said, and gave her my cell phone number. “If you’ll do that, I’ll pass the information along to the police and they can add it to their list of things they need to investigate.” It was possible that the Little Old Ladies League, as I was beginning to think of them, had just identified the stalker that Larry had emailed me about. I had no way of knowing whether this woman was his killer, of course. But identifying the stalker would be a very good thing.

I finished my tea and looked around the table. “Well, ladies, is that it?”

The ladies traded glances, then all four of them nodded. “That’s it,” Mrs. Wauer said, with great satisfaction. “I think we can go home now, girls. China can take it from here.”

Jane was leaning forward, looking intently at Ruby. “Forgive me, dear. I could be wrong, ’cause I’ve left my glasses at home. But it looks like something is crawling up your neck.”

“It’s a devil’s claw,” Ruby said, leaning forward to give Jane a better look at her necklace. “It’s made of the dried seedpods of a Southwestern desert plant. It’s for protection against evil. When you’re wearing this, nothing bad can touch you.”

Mrs. Wauer gave a gusty sigh. “Well, all I can say is, it’s a pity that poor Mr. Kirk didn’t have some devil’s claws. He might have been able to escape from the clutches of that woman.”

The ladies nodded soberly as they picked up their handbags and trooped out.

Chapter Fifteen

Sheila was a systematic thinker who habitually made mental lists, constantly fact-checked against her assumptions, and tried to anticipate, rationally, what was likely to come next, since unexpected events could be (and often were) life-threatening. These were habits that she shared with Blackie, a methodical man who thought pretty much the same way. She had often reflected that she would never be able to live with somebody who didn’t operate the way she did. A disorganized and impulsive partner would drive her crazy.

She had plenty to think about as she drove back to Pecan Springs, moving fast but without lights and siren. But before she let herself think about any of the casework, she picked up her cell phone and speed-dialed Blackie’s number. It rang four times, then went to voice mail. She left a quick “Hope everything’s okay. Call when you can” and turned the phone off. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she could only trust that Blackie was okay. His image came up in her mind—strong, competent, always careful—and she took a deep breath. He’d be fine. He was on the move, or out of cell phone range, or so focused on what he was doing that he wasn’t thinking of anything else. He was fine. Of course he was fine.

She boxed up that thought and put it on the back shelf of her mind,
turning to the things that needed immediate attention. Now that Timms was no longer a suspect in the Kirk homicide, she needed to follow up on a couple of things she had found earlier that morning, before she was interrupted with the news of Timms’ death. Top of the list: an interview with Tina Simpson, either at home or at work.

It was the business about the insurance policies that puzzled her. She could understand the quarter-million-dollar policy that Dana Kirk had mentioned in her interview. It was prudent to insure a family wage-earner, and a high-value life insurance policy on a young man wasn’t very expensive. But who owned the larger policy? It looked as if the premiums were being paid by Harmon Insurance, where Kirk had once worked, which seemed odd. And the total amount of the insurance—a million dollars—was impressive. As Bartlett said, a pretty fair motive. Tina Simpson, who worked at Harmon, had sent the copies of the premium notices to Kirk and seemed to know something about the situation, at least enough to recognize it as an unusual transaction.

Sheila flipped through her notebook and found the home address she had jotted down for Simpson, on the south side of Pecan Springs, in a quiet neighborhood not far from the high school. The small, ranch-style houses dated from the sixties, and the yards, haphazardly landscaped, were cluttered with soccer balls, bikes, and skateboards. By now, it was midmorning, and Sheila thought Simpson might have already gone to work. But when she pulled up in front of the house, she saw an older model red Volkswagen in the driveway. The front door stood half-open behind the screen, and a sleek black cat was sunning itself on the front steps.

Carrying her briefcase, Sheila went to the door and knocked on the screen. Inside, a door slammed and from another room, a woman’s
hoarse voice called, “Janine, is that you? Come on in. I don’t think I’m contagious.”

“Police,” Sheila replied loudly, through the screen. “I’m looking for Tina Simpson.”

There was a silence. Then, “What do you want?” The voice was startled.

“I’d like to talk to you about Lawrence Kirk,” Sheila said. She heard the sound of flip-flops, and someone pushed the front door nearly
shut.

The woman spoke cautiously, through the opening. “Do you have identification?”

Sheila held up her open badge wallet. “Sheila Dawson.”

The woman who opened the door was in her early thirties, a head shorter than Sheila. She wore a flower-print quilted housecoat that zipped up the front and flip-flops. Under other circumstances, she might have been pretty, but her brown hair was uncombed and disheveled, her nose was red, her face splotchy. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. “What about… about Larry?”

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” Sheila said sympathetically. “But I’m afraid that Mr. Kirk is—”

“I know,” Tina Simpson said miserably. “I know he’s dead. I heard it on the radio this morning.” She pulled a used tissue out of a pocket and blew her nose. “Excuse me. I’ve had a very bad cold. Couldn’t go to work yesterday. And now this. Larry, I mean. It’s a shock. I just don’t understand—” She paused and tried again. “The radio said something about a gunshot wound, apparently self-inflicted. Is that true?”

Sheila nodded. “May I come in? I’m hoping you can clear up a few things for me.”

The woman looked uncertain and wary. “I don’t… I really don’t think I can—”

“I think you can,” Sheila said firmly. “May I come in?”

She stepped back. “Well, I suppose,” she said in a grudging tone. She looked past Sheila at the cat. “No, not you, Blackjack.” To Sheila, she added, “If I don’t make him stay on the porch, he’ll be in your lap the minute you sit down.”

The door opened directly onto the living room. It was comfortable and homey, with white-painted bookshelves along a wall under a flower-filled window. The furniture—an upholstered love seat, a couple of plump chairs covered with crocheted granny afghans, and a coffee table made from a wooden crate with books stacked underneath—filled the small room.

“Have a seat,” Tina said. “I can at least comb my hair.”

Sheila took one of the chairs, putting her briefcase on the floor. After a few moments, Tina returned, her brown hair combed back and secured by a stretchy headband, and sat down on the love seat.

“Are you going to tell me how it happened?” she asked.

Sheila took out her notebook and pen. “You and Mr. Kirk were friends?”

Tina crossed her arms and hugged herself. “Well, sort of. I thought he was a very nice guy who got a very raw deal from his sweet little wifey, who had fallen for some sleazy jerk she works with at the library. I felt I could maybe help him get over it. You know, mend that broken heart. But he…” She shrugged and tried for a smile. It didn’t work. “Once bitten, twice shy, he said. Or maybe it was just me.”

Sheila didn’t answer. She waited, letting the silence build. After a moment, Tina sighed.

“So no, we weren’t friends, if by that you mean that we went out together and had a good time. For a while, I thought he was still hung up on Dana. But then I found out that he and Jackie were—” She looked at Sheila, her eyes defiant. “We weren’t close. But I knew him well enough to know that he didn’t shoot himself, the way the radio said. That guy
hated
guns. I mean, with a passion.”

“We don’t have a definitive ruling on the cause of death,” Sheila said quietly. She met the other woman’s eyes. “But personally, I agree with you.”

“You mean, you… you think Larry was
murdered
?” Tina took a deep breath and let it out, raggedly. “Well, I guess if he didn’t do it himself, it stands to reason that somebody else did it.” She narrowed her eyes. “Who? Do you have any leads?”

“That’s where I’m hoping you can help me,” Sheila replied. “Not long ago, you sent Larry a note about some premium notices you found in the files at Harmon Insurance.”

Tina frowned. “How did you know about that? That’s confidential, between me and Larry. What right do you—”

Sheila interrupted. “We’re investigating a suspicious death that is likely to be ruled a homicide before the day is over. We’re looking into everything that might help us learn what happened and why. I hope you’ll cooperate.” She gave Tina a moment to digest that, then opened her briefcase and took out the plastic evidence bag that held the note written on lined yellow paper. She put it on the coffee table. “This is the note you wrote?”