Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

but the person doesn’t know or doesn’t remember this—and presses the dead man’s fingers over it. Backs away, then pauses, looks at the computer. Considers for an instant, decides. Pops up an email form, types in Dana’s name on the “To” line, confident that she’s in the address book. Then types the message, fast, and hits the Send button. Then out the door and safely away. The whole thing, the whole terrible thing, could have happened in a matter of minutes. Two minutes, three, four. It doesn’t take long to end a life. The space of a breath, and it’s done.
    She stared for a moment at the empty chalk-lined shape on the floor. Kirk hadn’t shot himself, she was confident of that, and the assurance would come with the autopsy report. Not suicide, homicide. So, then. Had the shooter been George Timms, compelled to kill because Kirk had discovered an ugly secret and was blackmailing him? Or an employee or contract worker—Hatch, or even Palmer or Martin or Potts—fearful of being exposed as a blackmailer? Or the wife or her lover—or both of them together? Or the stalker Kirk had mentioned to China, who was or perhaps was not the JH whose initials Kirk had noted on the wall calendar?
    Or none of the above. Someone from Kirk’s past, someone from the neighborhood (who would know what time the garbage truck alwayscame), someone with a grudge. Right now, there wasn’t enough information to know, only enough to speculate.
    She turned and went into the small dining room, where she stood for a moment, surveying the computer parts laid out on the table, the project Kirk was working on. Nothing caught her attention there, and she knew that Bartlett had looked it over carefully. He would have spotted anything unusual.
    Kirk’s living room contained a large leather sofa, a matching recliner, a wide-screen television and other equipment in an entertainment center. Behind the sofa, in one corner, was a small green-painted wooden desk, a computer tower and a printer on the floor beneath it, and a desktop keyboard and monitor. The message light was blinking on the answering machine that sat beside the monitor.
    She sat down at the desk and booted the computer, which was probably only a secondary machine. Kirk likely did most of his work on his laptop. As it came on, she played back the messages on the answering machine, listening as she began going through the drawers. There were four calls, all from the previous afternoon and evening.
    Time, two fifteen.
Larry, Henry. Listen, we’ve got a guy here at the shop who says he’s looking for contract work. He’s been working at a couple of shops in San Antonio. You interested? Let me know and I’ll tell him to come in for an interview when you’re going to be here
. It was the message that Palmer had mentioned the evening before.
    Time, two forty. A woman’s voice, light and cheerful, casual.
Hey, Larry, it’s Tina. I was just wondering—like, well, maybe you’d like to take in a movie this weekend—Dutch treat?
A little giggle, half-embarrassed.
You’ll probably think I’m pushy, but I figure it won’t hurt to ask. You might even say yes. But if you don’t want to do a movie, let’s just have coffee. I’vegot a few things to tell you. About Jackie, I mean. I think it’s getting serious. I’m worried
. Then, hastily:
But don’t call me at work. You know how she feels about… well, just don’t, please. Okay? I’ll be home after six
.
    Time, four thirty. Sheila recognized the voice.
Larry, it’s Dana. I’ve got some numbers for you from my lawyer. I’m sorry that you haven’t seen fit to reply to her letters, so I guess I’ll have to bring you these papers and make sure you’ve seen them and understand the amount of money that we’re talking about. When I’m there, I want to pick up a few linens and some kitchen things. Look for me in about an hour. Okay?
    Time, seven twelve. A man.
Hey, Larry. Just a reminder that we’re climbing at Reimer’s Ranch on Saturday. Please bring that extra rope we talked about—got a couple of newbies coming along, and we’ll need all the rope we can lay our hands on. See ya then, buddy
.
    Sheila sighed. Messages on an answering machine, ghost voices, sent to a ghost, to a dead man who would never hear them, who would never again climb the cliffs along the Pedernales River. She got her briefcase, opened it, and took out a small tape recorder. She set it to record, then played the messages back one at a