Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

“Or her suit?”
    “Her lipstick,” Jane said. She gave me a withering look, as if I hadn’t been paying the right kind of attention. “Her suit was blue. Her car was sort of silver colored. I don’t know whether it was a Hyundai. It might have been something else.”
    “A Corvette?” I asked sharply, thinking of Timms’ car.
    “No, no. Nothing like that.” She waved her hand. “If it had been a motorcycle, I could probably tell you what make. My nearest and dearest used to ride Harleys, when he was alive.”
    “She was just sitting there, according to Mrs. McNally,” Hazel said. “Just sitting in her car, like she was waiting.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Maybe waiting for him to come home. Mr. Kirk, I mean. So she could kill him.”
    “Or sleep with him,” Mrs. Wauer said tartly. At her friends’ frowns, she said, “I have always been one to call a spade a spade.”
    I took a comforting drink of my tea. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight,” I said. “You’re telling me that you have seen a stylishly dressed woman in her forties, with long black hair, straight, with bangs, who drives a silver-colored car that might be a Hyundai. She’s been observed in the vicinity of the Kirks’ house several times, in the alley and out on the street. And Mrs. McNally’s daughter Polly knows her name. Correct?”
    The ladies burst into a spontaneous round of applause. “Bravo!” cried Hazel Schulz.
    “Didn’t I tell you that China is smart?” Ruby asked, beaming at me proudly.
    “Sharp as a tack,” Mrs. Wauer agreed. “A regular Agatha Marple.”
    Mildred Ewell leaned over and patted the older lady’s hand. “That’s Agatha Christie, dear. Or Jane Marple.”
    “That’s what I said,” Mrs. Wauer retorted. “Agatha Marple. She lives in England, although I think she must be dead by now. She’s been solving mysteries ever since I was a girl.”
    “If Mrs. McNally’s daughter Polly knows this mystery woman’s name,” I said, “what is it?”
    The ladies looked at one another. Finally, Jane said, “We don’t know. Mrs. McNally didn’t tell us.”
    “Mrs. McNally herself doesn’t know,” Hazel put in. “Polly was about to tell her who she was, but the phone rang at that moment and Polly had to go pick up her daughter at school because the girl had a terrible earache, and the conversation never got back to her name.”
    “Polly’s had so much trouble with that girl’s ears,” Mildred said. “I told her she should take her to a specialist. But Mrs. McNally says that Polly says she’ll grow out of it.”
    “I agree,” Mildred said. “People spend too much money on doctors. My grandmother used to put warm olive oil in my ears, with mullein and garlic. Felt real good.” She smiled reminiscently. “And then she’d kiss my ears, and that would make it even better.”
    “St. John’s wort, too,” Jane put in wisely. “That’s the very best herb for ear problems.”
    “And calendula,” Mrs. Wauer added. “My mother swore by calendula oil for ears. She also used it for cradle cap and diaper rash. She said it was good for both ends.” The ladies chuckled.
    I rapped the table with my knuckles. The ladies stopped chuckling and looked at me.
    “Excuse me,” I said. “But did any of you see this person yesterday? Around the time that Larry Kirk was killed?”
    The ladies interrogated one another with their eyebrows, one afteranother shaking her head. Mrs. Wauer turned to me. “No,” she replied regretfully. “We didn’t.”
    “Well, then,” I said, “does anybody happen to have Mrs. McNally’s phone number? Would somebody be willing to phone her and get Polly’s phone number, then phone Polly and ask for this person’s name?”
    Hazel raised her hand like a little girl in class. “I can do that.”
    “Good,” I said. “And would you be willing to telephone me with whatever information you can get?”
    “Of course,” Hazel said. “I’ll call you right away.”
    “Good,” I said, and gave her my cell phone number. “If you’ll do that, I’ll pass the information along to the police and they can add it to their list of things they need to investigate.” It was possible that the Little Old Ladies League, as I was beginning to think of them, had just identified the stalker that Larry had emailed me about. I had no way of knowing whether this woman was his killer, of course. But identifying the stalker would be a very good thing.
    I finished my