Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

information, assembling and reassembling the pieces like a complicated jigsaw puzzle, until finally you could see the whole picture come together, you could say,
Yes! Yes, that’s it! That’s the answer!
to the only and obvious conclusion.
    Sheila’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and she took a deep breath. What was stopping her from teaming up with Bartlett on this one? Nothing really, was there? And with Hardin off fishing in the Gulf for the duration, this might be the only chance she’d have. Why not go for it?
    Then she made herself loosen her grip. Not a good idea. Since thiswas likely a suicide, the investigation would be limited. Anyway, it was Bartlett’s investigation. It was her job to make him look good, not steal the limelight or intrude on his turf, the way Hardin often did.
    No. She would put in a brief appearance, take a quick look at the scene (mostly to remind herself of what real, on-the-ground fieldwork was all about), and then let Bartlett get on with his work while she went home and had her supper. But first, she needed to get Rambo settled. So instead of stopping at the scene, she made a right at the next cross street, a left onto Hickory, and another left into her driveway.
    The house where she and Blackie were currently living was an older two-bedroom, two-bath rental that Ruby Wilcox had found for them on Hickory Street, on the other side of the alley and a couple of doors down from Ruby’s house on Pecan. It had a large yard with a dog run and shelter for Rambo, which was what had decided the matter as far as Sheila was concerned. She had loved her little, low-upkeep frame house on the west side of town, but it was too small for two people and a big dog, so she’d put it on the market and (luckily) had sold it within a couple of weeks. Blackie had a big house with a barn and thirty-five acres, and Sheila would have loved to live there. But it was a half-hour drive from town, and her job meant being on call twenty-four-seven. So he had rented the house to a CTSU faculty member and kept the barn and pastures for his horses. The two of them spent time out there when they had it to spend. Sheila was learning to ride, and Rambo loved having plenty of open space to run.
    Sheila let Rambo into the fenced backyard to take care of his business while she went into the kitchen to get his dog food, then put him in his run with his dinner, which he happily attacked. She briefly debated whether to walk across the alley to the crime scene but decided it wouldbe better to use the chief’s car. It would let the neighbors know that PSPD was on the job—another helpful bit of community relations.
    She drove back around the block onto Pecan, checked the street number for 1117, then pulled in to the curb behind two black-and-whites; a paramedic vehicle, lights flashing; and a white van with
Adams County Crime Scene Team
on the side. She regarded the vehicles with raised-eyebrow interest. Bartlett must have found a reason to call out the county crime-scene unit, which was under the authority of the sheriff and shared by PSPD and the smaller municipalities in the county.
    On the other side of the street, she saw Maude Porterfield’s Ford F-150 pickup truck. Adams County operated under the Inquest Law, an old segment of the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure that conferred on justices of the peace the responsibility of determining the cause of death in cases of accident, homicide, or suicide, or where a death occurred under suspicious circumstances. Larger counties were required to operate under the newer medical-examiners law, which—as Judge Porterfield jocularly put it—took the JPs out of the cause-of-death business. Sheila had the feeling that Maude secretly liked being in the cause-of-death business. It kept her abreast of what was going on in Pecan Springs.
    Neighbors were gathered in two or three self-conscious knots on either side of the street, trying not to look too curious as they watched the official comings and goings at the two-story frame house. Whatever had happened here, it was obviously a neighborhood event—one that people would be talking about for quite a while. Sheila took another look. She didn’t see Hark Hibler’s car or anybody from the
Enterprise
. And Pecan Springs was forty-five minutes from both Austin and San Antonio. The TV stations didn’t send a camera unless there was a major disaster. A suicide didn’t qualify.
    Sheila was opening the car door when she