Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

closer I got, the more possibilities I could conjure up. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to come out here by myself, without letting anyone know where I was. If anything happened—
    My cell phone was on the seat beside me. I picked it up and flipped it open. The signal wasn’t strong, only two bars, which faded to one as I held it in my hand. Then, as the road flattened out ahead, I glimpsed a log house with a green metal roof, ahead through the trees. I slowed for a curve. A good thing, too, because I nearly ran into the rear end of a low, sleek silver Corvette. It bore the vanity plate GTIMMS 1.
    It looked like George Timms was in residence—at least, his Corvette was.
    My mouth was suddenly dry, and I was wishing I hadn’t done this. But I had, and anyway, I knew George Timms. I conjured up a mental picture of him: blond and boyish, crooked grin, white teeth in a bronzed face. A handsome face. Owner of the local Chevy dealership, golfing friend of the mayor, former business associate of Ben Graves. Not somebody I’d normally be afraid of. I wasn’t going to start being afraid now.
    I pulled around the Corvette and parked beside it in a largish graveled parking area, in sight of the front of the cabin. Then I turned off the ignition and sat still for a moment, studying the place. I wouldn’t call it a “cabin.” It was built of logs, yes, and it had a pleasing rustic appearance, with a wooden rocking chair on the front porch and an impressive rack of antlers over the glass-paned front door. But it looked more like an upscale fishing-and-hunting lodge to me, something you’d see in a travel brochure that advertised getaway vacations for world-weary city folk. Off to one side, I could see three cute little octagonal log buildings—guesthouses, no doubt. It was quite a party place.
    I hit the horn three times, fast and light—the Texas equivalent of“Howdy—anybody home? You’ve got company.” I kept my eye on the front door. If Timms was awake, he’d come out to see who had just arrived to disturb his peace.
    He didn’t. Well, okay. I had talked myself out of being afraid. On the other hand, there was an APB out for this man, and it was entirely likely that nobody at PSPD knew about this “secret getaway” place, as McQuaid had called it. I had a responsibility for reporting his whereabouts. I reached for my phone. I’d call 9-1-1 and report that I had found the automobile. The dispatcher would contact the county sheriff and a deputy would come out, take Timms into custody, and notify Sheila. I flipped open my phone.
    Uh-oh, no bars. I tried anyway, but all I got was that frustrating message,
No network coverage
. Which left me with a choice. I could drive back up the road to a place where I could make the call—the top of the hill, near the mailboxes and that cat’s claw vine, probably. Or I could get out and have a look around, then drive back up the road until I got a signal. I was considering the options when it occurred to me that Timms might be in some kind of trouble here, and that I might need to ask for medical assistance. I opted to have a look first.
    A moment later, I was at the front door, ringing the doorbell, which gave a stirring peal of “The Eyes of Texas Are Upon You.” I could hear a voice—radio or television, I thought—from somewhere inside. But there was no answer to the doorbell, and after punching the button and calling Timms’ name a couple of times, I stepped off the front porch and walked around the side of the house.
    It was truly an attractive place, one level in front, two in the back, with a roofed, wooden deck built against the sloping hill and another open deck a little farther down, with the guesthouses off to the left, behind a screen of landscaping shrubs. I stepped up onto the upper-leveldeck, which was furnished with lacquered bamboo furniture with bright-colored cushions. Two large stereo speakers hung against the walls. On a glass-topped table beside a lounge chair was a half-empty mug of stale-looking beer and a plate holding a partly eaten sandwich and a handful of wilted potato chips. A single-serving cup of yogurt still wore its foil lid, a spoon beside it. I felt the yogurt cup. It had been out of the fridge for a while. A thick white terry towel was draped over the back of the lounge and an open book, its pages damp, lay on the seat, beside a pair of binoculars. In an ashtray, a half-smoked cigarette had burned itself out. It was