Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

they got together and compared notes. They told Bayles that they’ve been seeing some hotsy hanging around Kirk’s place, and they’re convinced that she’s the killer. Bayles doesn’t have a name for the woman yet. Says she’s working on it. So far, the description is…” He paused. “Not sure I’m reading this right, but here’s what it says. ‘Tight red/blue suit, high heels, too much red lipstick, black hair, silver foreign car, maybe Hyundai.’ Tell you anything?”
    Too much red lipstick
. “It sure does,” Sheila said.

    T EN minutes later, Sheila and Bartlett were standing in a brick-paved parking lot, adjacent to a two-story frame building, painted a classy gray, with blue shutters. The building, which had once been a house, was located just a block off Pecan Springs’ business section. The parking lot was empty except for a late-model silvery Hyundai. Bartlett phoned for a make on the car. It was registered to Jacqueline Harmon. No outstanding warrants, no priors. Home address same as the business. She must live upstairs, Sheila thought. And she was here, which was a good thing. Maybe they could get this business wrapped up quickly.
    The porch was decorated with Victorian gingerbread, and the small square of front yard was carpeted with green ivy. In the middle of the ivy, a decorative wooden sign was planted. harmon insurance, it said, in an antique script.
Create a little harmon-y in your life
.
    Bartlett regarded the sign quizzically. “You know this part of the story a helluva lot better than I do,” he said. “Why don’t you take the lead?”
    “Works for me,” Sheila replied.
    The two of them went up the neatly painted stairs to the front door, its oval glass pane a stylish addition to the building’s Victorian look. Beside the door, a green Boston fern grew on a white wicker plant stand. come in, please, a small sign invited, with discreet hospitality.
    A bell tinkled as Sheila opened the door onto a wood-floored hallway, spread with Oriental-style rugs. The gold-lettered sign near the telephone on the reception desk said that this was Tina Simpson’s desk, but the chair was vacant. The walls, painted a silvery gray, were hung with gilt-framed paintings of fields of spring bluebonnets, Hill Country vistas, and nostalgic scenes of abandoned barns surrounded by yellow flowers. On the left, a cordoned-off stairway led up to a second floor. An open door to the right gave a view of what had once been a living room orparlor, now furnished as a small but elegant conference room, also carpeted with an Oriental rug. An open doorway at the end of the hall led to a room with a visible bank of filing cabinets—the files where Tina found the premium notices on Kirk’s COLI policy, Sheila thought. Another door appeared to lead to the backyard.
    “I’ll be with you folks in a minute,” a woman called cheerfully from another room on the right. “I’m just finishing something up.”
    “No hurry,” Sheila replied pleasantly. “We’ll wait.”
    A few moments later, the woman came down the hall toward them, striding confidently on three-inch red suede heels. Early forties, Sheila judged, perhaps a little older. She had a competent, in-charge look and wasn’t unattractive. But her firmly angled jaw and peaked dark brows gave her a calculating look that was emphasized by jet-black hair, worn straight, with bangs, and blunt-cut just above her shoulders. Her dark eyes and mouth were dramatically made up. She was wearing a bright red suit with a short red skirt so tight that it looked as if it could be sprayed on. The color exactly matched her bright red lipstick.
    “Hello,” she said, extending a manicured hand, first to Sheila, then to Bartlett. Her long, pointed nails matched her lipstick. “My secretary is out sick today, and my agents are attending a training session in Austin. I’m here all by my lonesome, and the phones just keep ringing.” Her self-deprecating smile revealed teeth so dazzlingly white and improbably even that they might have been made of porcelain. “Now then. I’m Jackie Harmon. We offer a full range of insurance services—life, health, casualty, and property—and as I’m sure you know, our uncertain times call for insurance. How may I help you?”
    “Police,” Sheila said, and held up her badge wallet. “Chief Sheila Dawson, Detective Jack Bartlett. We’re investigating the murder of Lawrence Kirk. We’d like to talk to you about it.”
    Under her