The chief stood behind my seat. “Hey, Imogene.”
“Hey, Chief.” Imogene jerked a thumb toward the door. “Did you see a redhead go out just now?”
Sam Cobb’s heavy face was suddenly alert. “A redhead? No.” He looked at Kay. “Good to see you, Mrs. Clark. Is your assistant here?”
Kay maintained her poise. “Not at the moment.”
“Where did she go? That’s what I want to know?” Imogene had met the inexplicable and she gripped it tighter than a dog with a bone as she automatically cleared the counter.
Kay smiled. “She moves quickly. But it doesn’t matter. I’m paying.” She started to rise.
Chief Cobb blocked her way. “I’d like a moment of your time, Mrs. Clark.” He was polite, but commanding.
Kay sank back onto the stool and the chief slid into my place. “The usual, Imogene.” He turned toward Kay.
Her dark eyes looked apprehensive, but her face was molded in pleasant inquiry. “What can I do for you, Chief Cobb?”
He studied her. “I’ve looked into your background. You are exactly who you claim to be, a successful nonfiction author and a longtime friend of Jack Hume’s.” There the slightest emphasis on friend.
Her expression didn’t change. She said nothing.
His bulldog face was intent. His dark eyes were not so much combative as stern. “You claim to be writing a book about him. I did a little checking. Your publisher never heard of that book. Apparently, the usual procedure would be for you to submit a proposal. You haven’t. According to your editor, you’re writing a book about Meg Whitman.”
The waitress brought iced tea and shot another puzzled look toward the door.
Kay folded her arms. “Jack’s death prompted me to honor his request that I write a book about him. I have every intention of completing the other manuscript. However, I didn’t believe I’d have another opportunity to interview those who spent time with Jack here in Adelaide.”
Imogene slid a plate in front of the chief.
He cut a cheeseburger in half, then gave Kay a level, searching look. “You may be interested to know I wasn’t the first person to ask about the book. Apparently a reporter for the Adelaide Gazette called your publisher yesterday afternoon. I contacted the Gazette. You might be interested to know that no Gazette reporter made that inquiry.”
“A man or a woman?” She stared at him, tense and eager.
“Summer colds are nasty, aren’t they? The caller apologized for hoarseness. Could have been either a man or woman.” He ate part of his hamburger, dipped a french fry in ketchup. “Now, you’re a lot better at asking than answering. I won’t waste your time and mine with questions. Instead, I’ll tell you the way I see it.” His deep voice was matter-of-fact, but he exuded the tough competence of a cop who looked hard and missed little. “You are contacting the people who were at The Castle the night Jack Hume died. Last night you arranged to meet someone in the garden. That cul-de-sac is a nice secluded spot for a quiet chat. I imagine someone left you a note.” His eyes never left her face.
Kay’s gaze dropped to the counter.
“You were a sitting duck when somebody pushed that vase. We got a 911 call, but not from you. If you hadn’t insisted that the vase toppled in an accident, we could have investigated last night. Now we’re blocked. Evelyn Hume won’t file a complaint. Moreover, I’d bet my season tickets to the Sooners that somebody’s been busy on that pedestal, smoothing away any evidence a chisel was used to loosen the vase.” His brown eyes were hard. “My take is that you believe Jack Hume was murdered and you’re stirring up people you suspect. You’ve started down a path and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. However, you can do me a favor. Fill me in on what you’ve learned.”
“Why?” Her question was short and crisp.
“When somebody finds your body, I’ll know what you know.” His dispassionate tone made the words even more chilling.
Kay drew in a quick breath. Slowly, she faced him. “Am I correct that you won’t actively investigate right now?”
He nodded. “I’m blocked. But if something happens to you…”
The unspoken proposition was grim: if someone killed Kay, he would have a head start if he knew what she now knew.
“All right. I get your point.” Her voice was steady, though thin. “I found a note in my room after dinner. She quoted, ‘Be on the terrace at midnight in the cul-de-sac. I know what happened to Jack.’”
He gave a short, hard shake of his head. “What did you think the murderer wanted to do? Confess?”
“I intended to be careful.” She didn’t mention the gun.
“You are”—he bit off the words—“a damn fool, Mrs. Clark. Murder is my job, not yours.”
“Chief Cobb, if I could prove Jack was murdered, I would have come to you first. I don’t have proof. I came to Adelaide because he was angry and upset with several people. If you started an investigation, I would never have a chance to get information from any of those people.”
“I’ve been talking to suspects for a long time. I’ll share a little fact with you.” His tone was sardonic. “People lie.”
She lifted her chin. “They are more likely to tell the truth if they don’t know they are suspects.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound convinced. “Sometimes they squeal like pigs on their way to slaughter to show they are innocent and fall all over themselves to pitch dirt about other people. But one of them may make sure you don’t find out too much.”
Kay slid from the stool.
He looked after her. “Of course, you may be lucky. You said your assistant was with you last night. Your redheaded assistant, Francie de Sales.” Cobb took a bite of cheeseburger, wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “According to your editor, you’ve never had an assistant, always worked alone. We ran some checks in the Dallas area. No luck with Francie de Sales.”
Kay managed a smile. “I don’t know too much about Francie. She seems capable enough.”
It wasn’t what I would call a sterling endorsement.
“Anyway, she was with you last night. I’m betting she pushed you out of the way of the vase. Am I right?”
Now it was Kay who stared with wide eyes. “Yes.”
“You could even say”—his tone was ruminative—“that your being saved was miraculous.”
His gaze held hers and between them passed an understanding.
Kay swallowed. “You’ve seen—”
I pinched Kay, once, hard.
She jumped.
A kind of smile tugged at Chief Cobb’s broad lips. He looked speculatively about. Certainly he couldn’t see me, hovering above and slightly behind Kay. I had no doubt he knew I was near.
“Yeah. Sometimes we can’t explain everything.” He stirred sugar into his coffee, gave her a sober look. “You can’t always count on miracles, Mrs. Clark.”
CHAPTER TEN
I waited until the convertible was well out of sight from downtown before I swirled into the passenger seat. “I’ve been thinking.”
“What an accomplishment.” Kay’s tone didn’t invite me to share. She shot a searching glance at me. “I gather you and Chief Cobb have a history.”
I tried to look modest. “I’ve been honored to assist the department on previous visits.”
Slowly, her lips curved into a smile. “I’ll bet there are some stories behind that sweet modicum of words. Maybe someday the chief and I can let our hair down and trade ghost stories.”
I cleared my throat. “Just in case Wiggins is about, perhaps you might refrain from comments guaranteed to distress him.”
“Oh, boy. Wow. I sure wouldn’t want to distress the head spook—”
The rumble from the backseat sounded like a cross between a water buffalo’s bellow and the strangled gurgle of a suddenly unplugged drain.