Black Cat Crossing by Kay Finch Page A

story—a solid alibi. ’Cause I mean to tell you, Sabrina, if the autopsy proves Bobby Joe Flowers was your aunt’s brother and had any legal claim to this property, she has one doozy of a motive for killing the man.”

10
    A FTER SHERIFF CRAWFORD left my cottage, I was champing at the bit to see Aunt Rowe. I didn’t want anyone to spot me racing over to her place, though. How would that look? Like there was something suspicious going on. Some big secret I had to pass on to my aunt before it was too late.
    I sighed. I spent way too much time living in a fictional, mysterious world. Still, it didn’t seem wise to let my frantic emotions show through to anyone who might be watching. Chances were the sheriff and his deputy would be in the area for a while, until they had crossed everyone they wanted to question off their list.
    Aunt Rowe, Glenda, Thomas, the guests.
    How many people did we expect this weekend? I ticked them off on my fingers. The Hartmans in Barcelona, the as-yet-unidentified man in Venice, and guests checking into Florence and Madrid sometime today. Of course, the people just arriving wouldn’t have anything to tell about last night’s events.
    My growling stomach reminded me of my half-uneaten lunch umpteen hours ago. I looked at the clock hanging on the wall over the table that also served as my desk. Seven. Close enough to the usual dinnertime, a perfect reason for heading to the house. Glenda always cooked a nice meal for Aunt Rowe, and I was famished. There was absolutely nothing suspicious about me joining my aunt for dinner, right?
    I slipped into my flip-flops and rushed out the door, making sure to lock up behind myself. I purposefully slowed to a natural pace and scanned the area. No one was in sight, not that the sheriff would conduct his interviews outdoors. He’d invite himself inside to conduct proper, authoritative interrogations. Worrying about what he might learn made me as jumpy as a cricket.
    The evening was pleasant with a slight breeze and a hint of honeysuckle in the air. I headed diagonally across the common yard between the cottages, which were scattered around the property rather than lined up in rows. The sheriff had probably parked somewhere on the meandering lane that connected the cottages, and I’d be more likely to escape notice by taking this shortcut.
    I passed the Paris cottage, then slipped around a stand of trees behind Venice to avoid the porch-sitting guy. I scanned the property to my right in hopes of spotting Hitchcock, but the cat was nowhere in sight. He might still be somewhere near my place, in hiding for the moment, and I hoped that was the case. He’d be safer if he stayed put instead of gallivanting around the grounds.
    When my gaze tracked back across to the Venice cottage, I spotted the man I had hoped to avoid standing not ten feet in front of me. He was behind the cottage, facing away from me and holding a camera up to his face. As luck would have it, a twig snapped under my foot. The man jumped, startled, and turned around.
    He recovered quickly and grinned. “Well, hello.”
    “Hi.” I cringed inwardly, regretting that I’d left my place without giving one thought to my bedraggled appearance.
    The man was on the tall side, thirtyish, with a couple days of blond beard growth that hadn’t showed up from a distance. He wore a black Rolling Stones T-shirt with his jeans and Top-Siders. Now that he’d recovered from my taking him by surprise, he had a confident, easygoing look about him. His camera was the type my ex-husband had insisted on buying, a newfangled digital with a bunch of buttons and switches. Way too complicated, not to mention expensive, for my liking. I wondered what this guy was taking pictures of—all I saw was grass, trees, cottages, and Aunt Rowe’s house in the distance.
    “Find any interesting subjects?” I said.
    He nodded. “This is a great place. Very peaceful.”
    “Peaceful doesn’t exactly show up on a picture,”