Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

were calf-roping and bull-riding. Clarke said she liked it when somebody was stupid enough to resist arrest. Gave her an excuse to practice her skills.
    “This is Detective Bartlett’s investigation,” Sheila replied. “He’ll let you know what he wants.” She ignored the look of surprise that crossed Clarke’s face. It was natural for an officer to think that when the chief showed up, she was there to kick butt or claim the case. “Kidder’s first body, was it?”
    Clarke nodded. “She’s gonna be okay, ma’am. A little bit of a flinch, didn’t want to look, but after that she was fine.”
    “Good.” Sheila knew from her own experience that the first dead body wasn’t necessarily the hardest—that was likely still to come. But it sounded like Kidder was off to a strong start. She nodded in the direction of the weeping woman. “Did somebody call Mrs. Kirk or did she just show up?”
    “Don’t believe notifications have started yet, ma’am,” Clarke said diffidently. Sheila nodded. People expected the police to get on the phone immediately when a family member was found dead. But it was a rare death where a please-notify list was taped beside the phone. Bartlett would be going through the victim’s wallet and scrolling through his smart phone.
    Clarke went on: “Mrs. Kirk said she’d just got off work at the library.She came over to talk to her husband about some personal business. Detective Bartlett asked her to ID the victim, which she did. I was just kinda keepin’ her comp’ny while she’s waitin’ for him to interview her.” She nodded in the direction of the house. “He’s been in there with the judge and the crime-scene photographer.”
    Sheila nodded. First the JP, for a ruling. Then the photographer, for videos, digital stills, and Polaroids. After that, the forensic specialist would get to work. “It was called in as a suicide, I understand,” she said.
    “Yep.” Clarke squinted at her. “I made sure he was dead, did a quick search of the house to be sure there were no other victims or shooters, and secured the scene. The gun’s in his hand,” she added. “Looks like suicide.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Sheila frowned slightly. The recoil of the weapon on firing or the act of falling could have (perhaps should have) dislodged the gun and sent it flying. But where guns were concerned, anything could happen and often did. “Thanks, Clarke.”
    Sheila looked up to see Maude Porterfield limping across the yard toward her, leaning on her cane. The old judge’s arthritis had been bothering her for a while. Getting around was difficult—which had nothing to do with her eyesight or judgment, of course. The judge was as sharp as ever.
    “I’m finished in there, Chief Dawson,” she said in her cracked voice. “Got my grandkids comin’ for supper and we’re cookin’ up a big pot of chili and a pan of cornbread.” She looked around. “Where’s Captain Hardin?”
    “On his way to Rockport. He’s got some vacation time coming.”
    Judge Porterfield snorted. “Gone fishin, huh? Then it’s all yours, Chief. This one might be interestin’.”
    Interesting? Sheila raised an eyebrow but said only, “Have you ruled yet?”
    “Leavin’ it open for now,” the judge replied. “Body’s on the floor. Gunshot wound to the head, right temple.” She lifted her blue eyes to Sheila’s. “Thirty-two automatic—Llama—in his hand.
In
his hand,” she repeated. “Wallet on the table, two fifties and a couple of credit cards. Didn’t see a note.”
    Sheila considered the implications of this. There weren’t too many Llamas around—the gun was Spanish and hadn’t been manufactured since the fifties. It wasn’t big and didn’t have a lot of recoil, so maybe he could have held on to it. The wallet and credit cards would seem to rule out robbery. And no suicide note. “Powder burns?”
    “Not so’s I noticed right off. I’ll wait for the autopsy report before I rule. Let me know if you turn up a note somewhere.” Judge Porterfield pursed her lips. “Messy in there, Chief. A small space to work in. Not easy to tell exactly what happened, just lookin’ at things.” She added, “I’ll start the paperwork in the mornin’. Gotta feed those grandkids tonight.”
    “You bet,” Sheila said with a smile. “Can’t let the kids go hungry. We’ll get back to you if we uncover anything. You have a nice evening, Judge.”
    “You, too,” the judge said. She paused and looked