I.
Chapter 9
INSIDE, JACK EXCUSED HIMSELF LONG ENOUGH to wash up. Bootsie, exhausted from all the house-to-house visiting, settled herself into the corner of one of the parlor’s wing chairs. I sat across from her, watching her eyes blink at regular intervals, then ever more slowly until Jack came in and picked her up. “So who is this?”
“A stray,” I said. “Bootsie. At least, that’s her name until I find out who she belongs to. Found her Friday. Do you know anyone who’s missing a cat?”
He cradled her in his arms and stroked under her chin. Even I could hear the purring. “Nope. She looks pretty young. I bet she’s just recently weaned from her mother.”
“Poor little thing.”
He turned her to face him. “She’s trouble.”
“What?”
“Look at her. This one’s a troublemaker. I’d bet on it.”
Wasn’t that exactly what Frances had told me about Jack?
He settled her back onto his lap and turned to me. “No luck finding her owners?”
“She seems to have appeared out of nowhere.”
“Someone might have dropped her off to fend for herself.”
Appalled, I said, “That’s terrible.”
“Plenty of people don’t get their cats spayed or neutered, and the next thing you know they have a litter of kittens they don’t know what to do with. Happens all the time.”
Bootsie’s eyes started to close again. At least somebody here was relaxed.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Fussing like a hostess helped me buy time. As much as I wanted to just come out and ask, “So did you kill Zachary Kincade’s brother?” I couldn’t make myself do it. As I searched for a good segue, I stood up, babbling, “We have Pepsi, lemonade, and, uh, wine, if you want it . . . I know it’s kind of early, but . . .”
Jack had been gazing down at the cat in his arms. Now he looked up and gave me a sad smile. He had a defined jawline and a handsome face, marred only by the white line of his scar. Usually his eyes were bright and alert, but it looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Grace,” he began. “You’re uncomfortable. I am, too.”
No use denying it. I sat. “Just tell me,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
My house was old and it made noise almost all the time. But right now the room was perfectly still and I heard nothing but the sound of my own breathing. Bootsie had stopped purring the moment she fell asleep, and Jack stared down at her, continuing to stroke her fur.
“Thirteen years ago,” he began in a soft voice, still not looking up, “Zachary’s younger brother, Lyle Kincade, was murdered in his home. There was a big police investigation. I was questioned.” His shoulders moved up and down. If his expression wasn’t so morose, I’d have thought he laughed. “More times than I can count.”
“They thought you did it?”
Jack looked up. “I was suspect number one.”
“Why?”
“Because the guy deserved it,” Jack said, his eyes hard. “And everybody knew I thought so.”
Scenarios tumbled before my eyes. No one deserved to be murdered. Not even the lowest of the low. Confused, I couldn’t prioritize the questions pounding in my brain, so I started with, “Were you arrested?”
“I was never charged. Not enough evidence against me. I had an alibi.” He shrugged as though it was nothing. “But if I ever find out who really killed Lyle, I’ll shake the guy’s hand.”
This was a side of Jack I’d never seen. I didn’t know what to make of it. There had to be more—much more—to this story. “What was wrong with him? What did he do?”
“Thirteen years ago,” Jack said again, getting a faraway look in his eyes as though he was watching a story play out before him, “my sister, Calla, was sixteen years old.”
Jack had never mentioned much about his family before. Until I’d met Davey, whom Jack referred to as “one of my brothers,” I hadn’t even known he had siblings. I did the math. Calla would be younger than Jack by a few years. I
Chapter 9
INSIDE, JACK EXCUSED HIMSELF LONG ENOUGH to wash up. Bootsie, exhausted from all the house-to-house visiting, settled herself into the corner of one of the parlor’s wing chairs. I sat across from her, watching her eyes blink at regular intervals, then ever more slowly until Jack came in and picked her up. “So who is this?”
“A stray,” I said. “Bootsie. At least, that’s her name until I find out who she belongs to. Found her Friday. Do you know anyone who’s missing a cat?”
He cradled her in his arms and stroked under her chin. Even I could hear the purring. “Nope. She looks pretty young. I bet she’s just recently weaned from her mother.”
“Poor little thing.”
He turned her to face him. “She’s trouble.”
“What?”
“Look at her. This one’s a troublemaker. I’d bet on it.”
Wasn’t that exactly what Frances had told me about Jack?
He settled her back onto his lap and turned to me. “No luck finding her owners?”
“She seems to have appeared out of nowhere.”
“Someone might have dropped her off to fend for herself.”
Appalled, I said, “That’s terrible.”
“Plenty of people don’t get their cats spayed or neutered, and the next thing you know they have a litter of kittens they don’t know what to do with. Happens all the time.”
Bootsie’s eyes started to close again. At least somebody here was relaxed.
“Do you want anything to drink?” Fussing like a hostess helped me buy time. As much as I wanted to just come out and ask, “So did you kill Zachary Kincade’s brother?” I couldn’t make myself do it. As I searched for a good segue, I stood up, babbling, “We have Pepsi, lemonade, and, uh, wine, if you want it . . . I know it’s kind of early, but . . .”
Jack had been gazing down at the cat in his arms. Now he looked up and gave me a sad smile. He had a defined jawline and a handsome face, marred only by the white line of his scar. Usually his eyes were bright and alert, but it looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“Grace,” he began. “You’re uncomfortable. I am, too.”
No use denying it. I sat. “Just tell me,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
My house was old and it made noise almost all the time. But right now the room was perfectly still and I heard nothing but the sound of my own breathing. Bootsie had stopped purring the moment she fell asleep, and Jack stared down at her, continuing to stroke her fur.
“Thirteen years ago,” he began in a soft voice, still not looking up, “Zachary’s younger brother, Lyle Kincade, was murdered in his home. There was a big police investigation. I was questioned.” His shoulders moved up and down. If his expression wasn’t so morose, I’d have thought he laughed. “More times than I can count.”
“They thought you did it?”
Jack looked up. “I was suspect number one.”
“Why?”
“Because the guy deserved it,” Jack said, his eyes hard. “And everybody knew I thought so.”
Scenarios tumbled before my eyes. No one deserved to be murdered. Not even the lowest of the low. Confused, I couldn’t prioritize the questions pounding in my brain, so I started with, “Were you arrested?”
“I was never charged. Not enough evidence against me. I had an alibi.” He shrugged as though it was nothing. “But if I ever find out who really killed Lyle, I’ll shake the guy’s hand.”
This was a side of Jack I’d never seen. I didn’t know what to make of it. There had to be more—much more—to this story. “What was wrong with him? What did he do?”
“Thirteen years ago,” Jack said again, getting a faraway look in his eyes as though he was watching a story play out before him, “my sister, Calla, was sixteen years old.”
Jack had never mentioned much about his family before. Until I’d met Davey, whom Jack referred to as “one of my brothers,” I hadn’t even known he had siblings. I did the math. Calla would be younger than Jack by a few years. I
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