Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

scenario,” he added, “Timms isn’t involved in the shooting. He decided to blow off the surrender for his own reasons.”
    “Yeah,” Sheila said quietly. “And then there’s the wife and her boyfriend, Glen Vance. She says that she was back at the library by one forty-five—which we can check out—but that he had errands to run. Shedoesn’t know what time he got back. Vance could have dropped her off, then driven over to Kirk’s and shot him.”
    Bartlett nodded. “Vance could easily have written the email, both to reinforce the appearance of suicide and to exonerate his girlfriend. Classic piece of misdirection.”
    “And that stalker that Kirk emailed China Bayles about,” Sheila said. “Did you happen to notice the five yellow sticky notes on the calendar?
Saw JH?
I wonder if the notes refer to the stalker.”
    “Yeah, I saw them,” Bartlett replied. “It’s certainly possible.” He began ticking off the possibilities on his fingers. “So far, what we’ve got is shot by robber, which we don’t like, and shot by self, which we doubt but it’s still a maybe. Shot by Timms, which seems likely. Then, shot by blackmailing employee, shot by wife’s boyfriend, and shot by stalker with or without the initials
JH
. That’s six—five if you count out robbery. Anything else off the top of your head?”
    “Could be none of the above,” Sheila said, liking Bartlett’s succinct summing up. “Something else, maybe. Something we haven’t picked up on yet.” Orlando had always reminded her of the importance of keeping an open mind. The evidence might seem to point them in one direction when the truth lay somewhere else entirely, somewhere they hadn’t looked yet. She turned at the sound of the front door opening and closing and a high-pitched male voice.
    “Who’s there?” the voice called. “Hey, Larry, is that you? Who’s back there?”
    “Police,” Bartlett stepped around the cash register counter as the rest of the store lights came on. “Hello, Henry,” he said. “Chief Dawson, this is the shop’s assistant manager. Henry Palmer. Henry, Chief Dawson.”
    The young man was tall and gangly, with narrow plastic-rimmed glasses and dark hair parted on one side and plastered to his head likeshiny patent-leather. He wore a neon-striped bicycler’s vest, wet from the drizzle, and had a white helmet under one arm. He had pushed a bicycle through the front door and leaned it against one of the displays.
    “Have we had another break-in, Detective?” He blinked at Sheila. “The chief of police? Why are you—”
    “We have a warrant,” Bartlett said, and took it out for Palmer to see.
    Sheila spoke. “What are you doing here after hours, Mr. Palmer?”
    Palmer put the helmet down. “Well, Larry and me, we really don’t keep hours. We just come in whenever—” The young man swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping in his skinny neck. “You know, like whenever there’s work.” Shrugging out of his bicycling vest, he pointed toward the bench at the back of the work area. “I started a job this afternoon. Pulling data off a hard drive that was in a house fire. Thought I’d come in for a couple of hours tonight and see if I could get it done.” His glance darted between Sheila and Bartlett. “Don’t tell me there was another break-in? I made sure to set the alarm this time.”
    Bartlett glanced at Sheila and she gave him an imperceptible nod. “No break-in.” His voice was gruff, his expression grave. “We’re very sorry to be the bearers of bad news, Mr. Palmer. Lawrence Kirk is dead.”
    “Dead?” Palmer put out a hand as if to steady himself, hit a monitor on the desk beside him, and had to grab it to keep it from tumbling onto the floor. “Omigod! Dead? Oh, no! What was it? A bike accident? I keep telling Larry that he needs to wear some sort of reflective gear when he’s riding that bicycle after dark, especially when it’s rainy. Leg bands, a jacket, something. But does he listen?” His voice rose. “No, of course he doesn’t. He never listens! Larry always knows better than anybody else.”
    “It wasn’t a bicycle accident,” Bartlett said. “He was shot.”
    “Shot?” Palmer gasped. “You’re— No!”
    Sheila watched the young man closely. His eyes were round, huge, and he was suddenly pale, struggling to make sense of what he had just heard. Some people are good actors. They can mime shock, surprise, astonishment. But not this guy. Clearly, the news