Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

tea and looked around the table. “Well, ladies, is that it?”
    The ladies traded glances, then all four of them nodded. “That’s it,” Mrs. Wauer said, with great satisfaction. “I think we can go home now, girls. China can take it from here.”
    Jane was leaning forward, looking intently at Ruby. “Forgive me, dear. I could be wrong, ’cause I’ve left my glasses at home. But it looks like something is crawling up your neck.”
    “It’s a devil’s claw,” Ruby said, leaning forward to give Jane a better look at her necklace. “It’s made of the dried seedpods of a Southwestern desert plant. It’s for protection against evil. When you’re wearing this, nothing bad can touch you.”
    Mrs. Wauer gave a gusty sigh. “Well, all I can say is, it’s a pity that poor Mr. Kirk didn’t have some devil’s claws. He might have been able to escape from the clutches of that woman.”
    The ladies nodded soberly as they picked up their handbags and trooped out.

Chapter Fifteen

    Sheila was a systematic thinker who habitually made mental lists, constantly fact-checked against her assumptions, and tried to anticipate, rationally, what was likely to come next, since unexpected events could be (and often were) life-threatening. These were habits that she shared with Blackie, a methodical man who thought pretty much the same way. She had often reflected that she would never be able to live with somebody who didn’t operate the way she did. A disorganized and impulsive partner would drive her crazy.
    She had plenty to think about as she drove back to Pecan Springs, moving fast but without lights and siren. But before she let herself think about any of the casework, she picked up her cell phone and speed-dialed Blackie’s number. It rang four times, then went to voice mail. She left a quick “Hope everything’s okay. Call when you can” and turned the phone off. Wherever he was, whatever he was doing, she could only trust that Blackie was okay. His image came up in her mind—strong, competent, always careful—and she took a deep breath. He’d be fine. He was on the move, or out of cell phone range, or so focused on what he was doing that he wasn’t thinking of anything else. He was fine. Of course he was fine.
    She boxed up that thought and put it on the back shelf of her mind,turning to the things that needed immediate attention. Now that Timms was no longer a suspect in the Kirk homicide, she needed to follow up on a couple of things she had found earlier that morning, before she was interrupted with the news of Timms’ death. Top of the list: an interview with Tina Simpson, either at home or at work.
    It was the business about the insurance policies that puzzled her. She could understand the quarter-million-dollar policy that Dana Kirk had mentioned in her interview. It was prudent to insure a family wage-earner, and a high-value life insurance policy on a young man wasn’t very expensive. But who owned the larger policy? It looked as if the premiums were being paid by Harmon Insurance, where Kirk had once worked, which seemed odd. And the total amount of the insurance—a million dollars—was impressive. As Bartlett said, a pretty fair motive. Tina Simpson, who worked at Harmon, had sent the copies of the premium notices to Kirk and seemed to know something about the situation, at least enough to recognize it as an unusual transaction.
    Sheila flipped through her notebook and found the home address she had jotted down for Simpson, on the south side of Pecan Springs, in a quiet neighborhood not far from the high school. The small, ranch-style houses dated from the sixties, and the yards, haphazardly landscaped, were cluttered with soccer balls, bikes, and skateboards. By now, it was midmorning, and Sheila thought Simpson might have already gone to work. But when she pulled up in front of the house, she saw an older model red Volkswagen in the driveway. The front door stood half-open behind the screen, and a sleek black cat was sunning itself on the front steps.
    Carrying her briefcase, Sheila went to the door and knocked on the screen. Inside, a door slammed and from another room, a woman’shoarse voice called, “Janine, is that you? Come on in. I don’t think I’m contagious.”
    “Police,” Sheila replied loudly, through the screen. “I’m looking for Tina Simpson.”
    There was a silence. Then, “What do you want?” The voice was startled.
    “I’d like to talk to you about Lawrence