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
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
“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.
