Black Cat Crossing Read Free

Rowena’s place?”
    “Yes,” I said, “Thomas sent me for them.”
    “Having trouble out there?” He turned to me, and his brows drew together.
    “No trouble.” I wasn’t about to give either of these people something else to blame on an innocent cat.
    “Huh.” He picked up four identical packages. “I’ll take these to the checkout for you. Need anything else?”
    “Not today.”
    I followed him to the front of the store, where he recorded the purchase on Aunt Rowe’s account. He bagged the locks and handed them to me.
    “Thanks, Mr. Krane. Have a good day.”
    “Yeah,” he muttered. “You, too.”
    I left the store and found myself disappointed that Luke Griffin and the angry stranger were gone. The brief conflict I’d seen between the two men was interesting and mysterious. Maybe I could use a confrontation like theirs somewhere in my book. I tucked the thought into the overstuffed “ideas” section of my brain, the section that could stand to have its files better organized.
    I climbed in my car, backtracked into town, and hung a left on Gazebo Street. The short drive from there to Aunt Rowe’s property took me over rolling hills and past sparkling spring-fed creeks. My shoulders relaxed, and I sank back into my seat as I enjoyed the scenic drive. Two miles out of town, I turned again on Traveler’s Lane, the driveway to Aunt Rowe’s house and her Around-the-World cottages. I headed for my place first, the Monte Carlo cottage.
    Guests who valued beauty over practicality chose to stay here rather than rent a typical Hill Country wood-sided, tin-roofed cabin. Aunt Rowe had designed each cottage in a style reminiscent of her trip to a particular city. In Monte Carlo, she had avoided overpriced lodging along the coastline and opted to rent a charming Tudor cottage.
    I walked up the stone walkway, entered the cottage, and set my laptop on the small table in the combination kitchen/dining/living room. I opened the blinds on the window next to the stone fireplace to give myself a view of the steps leading down the steep incline to the river. Maybe creativity would flow better here today than it had at the coffee shop. I’d give the writing another try after checking in with my aunt. Thomas hadn’t said whether she knew about Bobby Joe Flowers’s impending visit, and I decided I wouldn’t bring him up unless she did.
    I grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge in the kitchenette and took a long swig as I walked into the living area. Even though I’d never met Flowers, I wondered why he usually stayed in this cottage with its decidedly feminine decor, all pastels and lace. Aunt Rowe had decorated the Monte Carlo with posters and photographs of the French Riviera, casinos, and palaces. A framed photograph of her on a sailboat with one of the James Bond actors who had lived there when she visited stood on the mantel. A picture book from the Princess Grace Gardens sat on the coffee table next to a photo album of Aunt Rowe’s shots from her trip, alongside a journal she kept there for all guests in the Monte Carlo cottage to record thoughts about their stay if they so desired.
    I pulled off my ponytail holder and ran my fingers through my hair, then retrieved the new locks from my car and walked the short distance up a gravel lane to Aunt Rowe’s house. I went in through the back door of her rambling one-story and left the locks in the utility room for Thomas.
    Salsa music was playing, way too loud. I followed the music to the screened porch and found my aunt sitting on an oversized wicker chair surrounded by blue-striped pillows, her leg cast propped on a matching pillow atop a wicker ottoman. She wore a bright red off-one-shoulder top and a big yellow flower clipped in her dyed auburn hair.
    “Wow,” I shouted for her to hear me over the music. “What’s the occasion?”
    She looked up and gave me a big smile, then grabbed a remote and lowered the volume on her Bose sound system. “Sabrina,