Ice collected in the pit of my stomach. “If the killer pushed Fiona, doesn’t that make it seem as though there had been at least a brief struggle?”
“Perhaps.” Spence nodded. “My source agrees this was a crime of passion. The fact the killer kept stabbing Fiona—five times—even after she was on the ground makes it seem like the murder was done in a rage. It wasn’t premeditated. The killer didn’t bring a weapon. They used one that was at the scene.”
“I wonder if the killer was injured.” A memory from the book signing surfaced. “Bobby had several scratches on the back of his right hand Saturday. I noticed them when he was showing Jo his snake tattoo.”
The news seemed to revive Jo. She shared a look between Spence and me. “Maybe he got those scratches in a struggle with Fiona.”
Spence was quiet for a moment, contemplating Jo’s response. “Bobby told me that before the signing, he was home alone, eating lunch and watching a movie. He has no opinion on who killed Fiona, but it wasn’t him or his mama.”
“How did the deputies verify his alibi?” My frustration was showing. “Did they ask him twenty questions about the movie?”
Jo sniffed her disdain. “I’d like an answer to that too.”
I leaned back against my armchair. “Betty wouldn’t tell me why she’d attended Fiona’s book signing. Adrian thinks it was to confront Fiona about her book.”
“Now that right there was payback for all the ugly lies Betty spread about Fiona around town. I’m sure of it.” Jo crossed her right leg over her left knee and tapped her foot against the air in a silent off-rhythm beat.
Spence balanced his left elbow on the sofa’s arm. “Why would Betty risk the exposure of killing her in a public place?”
“Your coroner friend called it a crime of passion. Maybe things got out of hand.” Jo crossed her arms and legs. “But if you ask me, Betty’s ugly gossip should’ve landed her on the deputies’ radar to start with.”
“For now, let’s keep her on our list of people of interest.” I remembered the woman’s hesitation as I asked about Bobby’s relationship with Fiona. And the scratches on the back of Bobby’s hand. “But if Betty isn’t the killer, could she be covering for one?”
“I’m so sorry, Phoenix.” After Jo and Spence left Tuesday night, I gathered the cat into my arms and sat on the floor beside the French doors. He didn’t resist as he had when I’d first returned home. Instead, his soft, warm body curled into me. Progress. “I know you don’t like going to the vet. I don’t like going to the doctor, either, but I need to know what’s wrong. You’re not yourself.”
I pushed myself to my legs and carried Phoenix upstairs to my study, also known as the spare bedroom, at the end of the second-floor hallway. “You’ll be happy to know this vet comes highly recommended by Lonnie. I hope you like her.”
I hope I like her too.
“For now, come help me make a book pendant for Jo. I think that’ll cheer her up. Don’t you?”
Phoenix willingly joined me in my study, but he withheld his opinion on our Pendant Project. The room was comfortably warm. It smelled of vanilla, courtesy of the plug-in air freshener to the left of the threshold. The feel of the warm wood flooring gave way to the textured sensation of the cream-and-gold Berber area rug in the center of the room.
I’d hung several of my wood-framed book cover sketches on the walls. They shared space with my bookcases. I sat on my desk chair and settled Phoenix onto my lap. Powering my laptop, I launched the internet browser and started searching for book cover images. The spark of curiosity I sensed from Phoenix healed my heart.
“Do any of these covers appeal to you?” I paused for Phoenix’s response. Nothing. Not a meow or a purr; not even a yawn. But I’d felt his brief interest, and he seemed relaxed as he remained on my lap. I continued our one-sided conversation. “Jo has a lot of favorite books, which weirdly enough makes it harder for me to pick a cover image for the pendant.” I glanced at the top of Phoenix’s head. “There are just too many choices.”
I did a search for How the García Girls Lost Their Accents by Julia Alvarez. Jo loved this novel. There were several beautiful versions of the cover, some illustrations, others photographs. A couple were text treatments.
I opened another web tab and asked for images of The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros, another book that I recalled had pride of place on Jo’s “keepers” bookshelf. This search also resulted in myriad images—illustrations, photos, and text treatments. But one of the illustrations was a vivid drawing of three women, looking downward. The image used striking colors to convey movement and emotion. The picture drew me in and made me sigh with pleasure.
“We have a winner.” I sent the file to the printer.
As the machine clicked and whirred, I stroked Phoenix from the spot just above his nose to the top of his head. He closed his eyes and kneaded my thigh. I smiled, part pleasure and part relief. Maybe he was getting back to his old self.
Still petting Phoenix with my left hand, I stretched to pluck the printout from the machine with my right. I studied it for a while, then showed it to Phoenix. “I can feel the emotion. Can you?”
My cell phone vibrated in the front right pocket of my turquoise denim shorts. I pulled the device free and checked the identification screen. The caller was my mother, Ciara Bennett-Harris. I’d just spoken with my parents Saturday. My smile faded as I realized why my mother was calling.
Oh, boy.
I took a deep breath and answered the phone. “Hi, Mo—”
“Have they caught the killer yet?” My mother’s sharp question interrupted my greeting as I answered her call.
“I’m sorry,
