Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

asked McQuaid to let me know before they crossed the border, but he hasn’t called. I’ve tried to reach him, but I’m not getting any answer. Have you spoken to Blackie?”
    Sheila shivered.
Two Americans shot
. She debated whether to tell China what Helen Berger had said but decided quickly against it. There was nothing she could do at the moment, and the report—if it was true—would just make her more anxious.
    “I haven’t talked to him since last night,” Sheila said. “But let’s not worry. I’m sure they’re both okay. They’re just busy.” She forced herself to put a smile in her voice. “You know how focused the two of them can be.”
    “I do,” China said with a sigh. “I just wish they’d stop to think about
us
. Don’t they realize that we’re worrying?” Then she chuckled wryly. “Listen to me. I’m whining. Sorry. I know you’ve got other things on your plate. Caught any crooks today?”
    Sheila laughed—a real laugh this time, completely unforced. “A killer, a hit-and-run driver, a pair of blackmail artists, and a pornographer.” She paused. “There’s some overlap, but that’s the head count.”
    “You’re telling me that you found out who killed Larry?” China sounded incredulous.
    “Yep,” Sheila said lightly. “Who and why. And we have the killer in custody. Naturally, she’s waiting for her lawyer.”
    “Naturally,” China said. “She? She
who
?”
    Sheila and Bartlett had reached the car. “I’ll tell you the whole gory story later, China. I have to go. If you hear what’s going on with the guys, be sure and let me know, will you?” She closed the phone. She wasn’t smiling.
    Back at the station, Sheila paused at Connie’s desk. “Any calls for me?” she asked eagerly.
    With a grin, Connie handed her the usual bundle of pink slips. “Plenty. And there’s more where those came from.”
    Disappointed, Sheila took the slips. “No, I mean personal calls. Did Blackie phone?”
    Connie shook her head. “Nope, sorry. Are you expecting a call from him?”
    “Just hoping, I guess,” Sheila said. She went into her office, sat downin the oversize chair, and logged on to the Internet. She brought up a search engine and typed in “two Americans shot in Mexico,” with the day’s date. The information flashed on the monitor quickly, and she sat back in her chair, feeling a wave of warm relief wash over her, followed by a quick stab of guilt. It was bad news for somebody’s family, but not for her. The two Americans who had been killed were a pair of truckers in an eighteen-wheeler, ambushed, their rig stolen. The brief story she had clicked on didn’t include names, but the two men were said to be from Oklahoma. Whoever they were, they weren’t Blackie and Mike McQuaid.
    But the relief she felt was only temporary, and she picked up her cell phone. Why hadn’t Blackie returned her calls? Where was he?
    She was flipping the phone open when it pinged in her hand.
    “Hey, hon,” a strong, deep voice said. “It’s me. We’ve got the boy and plane tickets for early tomorrow. Whatever you’ve got going tomorrow night, cancel it. I want you all to myself.”

Chapter Eighteen

    Sheila put the bowl of potato salad on the table and stood back. The kitchen in Blackie’s fishing cabin was bright, with white walls, white vinyl floor, and (her contribution) yellow-checked gingham curtains. And while it was small, there was room for four people around the table, as long as they kept their elbows out of their neighbors’ plates.
    She surveyed the settings, appreciating the colorful Fiestaware plates—genuine antiques, genuinely worn and scratched by decades of forks and knives—and the green pottery bowl of yellow chrysanthemums in the center, a gift from Blackie, delivered with a kiss that made her smile as she remembered it. Behind her, the fridge hummed cheerfully, a pot of Blackie’s favorite Creole-style baked beans bubbled in the oven, and an apple pie (China’s contribution to their evening meal) waited on the counter. A nicely domestic scene, except that she wasn’t wearing an apron. Gingham curtains and Fiestaware, baked beans and potato salad, yes. Aprons, no. Sheila had never seen an apron she liked. They were either ruffled and frilly or totally masculine, with supposed-to-be-funny jokes printed on them. Neither suited.
    “Hey, there they are,” China called from the deck overlookingCanyon Lake. “I can see the boat, just coming into