The Black Cat Sees His Shadow

The Black Cat Sees His Shadow

by Kay Finch
The Black Cat Sees His Shadow

The Black Cat Sees His Shadow

by Kay Finch

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Overview

Mystery novelist Sabrina Tate and her cat, Hitchcock, set out to catch a conniving killer in the next Bad Luck Cat mystery from the author of The Black Cat Knocks on Wood and Black Cat Crossing...

The town of Lavender, Texas is buzzing with tourists, and local businesses are pulling out all the stops for the annual Pumpkin Days Festival. On the eve of opening day, Sabrina comes face-to-face with her doppelgänger, Tia Hartwell, a caricature artist at the festival. The similarities between the two women are striking, including their matching black cats. 

Sabrina learns that her new twin Tia has an enemy: bad-tempered jewelry vendor Calvin Fisher. When Fisher is found slumped over dead in his pickup, Tia tops the suspect list. With the help of her feline sidekick, Sabrina must clear her new look-alike friend before she finds herself in a deadly case of double jeopardy.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780698162044
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 06/06/2017
Series: A Bad Luck Cat Mystery , #3
Sold by: Penguin Group
Format: eBook
Pages: 304
Sales rank: 408,951
File size: 1 MB

About the Author

Kay Finch grew up on a Pennsylvania farm, but she got to Texas as fast as she could and discovered her favorite vacation spot, the Texas Hill Country. Kay is the author of the Bad Luck Cat Mysteries, including The Black Cat Knocks on Wood and Black Cat Crossing, as well as the Corie McKenna Mysteries and the Klutter Killer Mysteries. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the State Bar of Texas Paralegal Division. Kay lives with her husband, a rescue cat, and two wild and crazy rescue dogs in a Houston suburb.

Read an Excerpt

1

The clerk scanned the packet of crunchy tuna treats and tossed it on the conveyor belt to her left. "These are the best, Miss Sabrina. My cat, Oreo, adores them. She eats three every single time, and if I try to stop at two, she won't give me a moment's peace until I hand over that third one."

"Cute." I already knew quite a lot about the personality of Libby's tuxedo kitty, and I learned a new tidbit every time I shopped for groceries. The sixtyish woman lived alone with the cat, and she spoke about the pet the way a mother speaks of a favorite child.

"That Hitchcock is one lucky fella, gettin' all these treats," she said, "even if he is the bad luck cat."

"He's-" I stopped and clamped my lips together. I knew from experience that repeating the words "not bad luck" for the hundredth time would do no good. It annoyed the heck out of me that the people in Lavender continued to judge Hitchcock by some ancient legend and didn't give him credit for all his good deeds.

Libby continued scanning the groceries from my cart. "You stockin' your pantry or gettin' ready for the contest?"

My basket contained two pumpkins, several bags each of flour and sugar, and enough miscellaneous baking supplies to suggest I planned to take part in the annual Pumpkin Days Festival Bake-Off.

"Haven't decided," I said, "but I dreamt about pumpkin pie last night, and I won't sleep again until I have some."

Libby totaled my order and began sacking the groceries. "Did I ever tell you about the time Oreo dropped her catnip mouse in my cake batter when my back was turned?"

More than once.

I nodded and stuck my bank card into the reader to make my payment. "And your cousins freaked when the cake was cut."

"Did they ever. Wouldn't take one bite. I thought it was sweet, like one of those Mardi Gras cakes where you find the little baby inside."

She chuckled and shook her head like she couldn't believe her relatives refused to overlook a minor thing like a catnip mouse imbedded in their dessert.

I took my receipt, wished her a good night, and pushed my cart toward the door. Libby was already chatting about Oreo to the customer behind me as I vowed to keep a closer eye on Hitchcock whenever I baked.

I quickened my step, eager to get home and introduce my cat to the most yummy tuna treats ever. If my evening went according to plan, I'd be baking in Aunt Rowe's kitchen earlier than my usual middle-of-the-night stints. Things were hopping at her Around-the-World cottages. Every unit was rented for the week, most by vendors coming in for the festival. Judging by the forecast, the weather would cooperate with brilliant sunshine over the next week. Walking to my car, I enjoyed the slight nip in the air, which to us Texans meant the temperature had dropped to the seventies.

I was admiring the lovely pinks and yellows that colored the sky around the setting sun when a slamming truck door startled me. Beyond the spot where I'd parked my car, a man in jeans and a fringed suede vest over a white shirt left the pickup and headed for the store. I went back to enjoying the pretty evening sky until his hand shot out and clutched my shopping cart, stopping it short.

I spun to face him. "What the-"

The man stared at me in wide-eyed astonishment. "What in tarnation are you doing here?"

I raised my brows. "Excuse me?"

What does it look like I'm doing?

His ruddy complexion reddened, and he fixed me with a dark-eyed stare. His steely gray hair frizzed around his head like a scouring pad. "I told you to stay away. What part of that did you not understand?"

"I don't know-"

"I meant far away. This is my turf, and you know it."

I'd been walking around Lavender for nearly a year and now this guy wanted to know why I'm here? Why was he here?

"Do I know you?" I said.

"Your bein' here is only gonna cause trouble," he said.

"Look," I said, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. . . . ?"

"Very funny." His voice reminded me of a snarling dog. "You need to slink back to that rock you crawled out from under."

He had made no move toward me besides latching on to my cart like a recalcitrant toddler, but his gruff words set off an adrenaline rush. I tucked a hand inside my purse and rested my fingers on the phone in the side pocket.

"Obviously, you have the wrong person," I said.

"Don't play little miss innocent with me," he said. "I guarantee it won't work this time."

He released my cart and took a step toward me, the small movement raising the threat level several notches. I pulled out the phone, intent on calling Sheriff Jeb Crawford directly on his cell phone.

"Who're you callin'?" The stranger made a swipe toward my phone, but I twisted to keep it out of his reach.

"Whoever I want to," I said.

A man behind me hollered, "Hey!"

Heavy footsteps slapped across the blacktop, and the second man came into view. I recognized this one. Gabe Brenner, one of the festival vendors, had checked into Aunt Rowe's Melbourne cottage earlier in the day. How did he just so happen to be in my personal space-again?

When the stranger made another grab for my phone, Gabe pulled back and let a heavy fist fly. His punch connected with the stranger's chin and caused the older man to stagger back.

"You keep away from her," Gabe said.

"Says who?" the other man said.

"I do." Gabe turned to me. "You know this dude?"

"No," I said. "Never saw him before in my life."

The older man straightened, one hand held to his chin, and glared at me. "You haven't heard the last of this, sweetheart."

"Watch it, mister," Gabe said, "or you'll be sorry. She might even sic her bad luck cat on you."

Outraged, I looked at Gabe. "He is not bad luck." The guy had only met me-and the cat-for the first time less than eight hours ago. How had he already heard that stupid nickname?

"Are you kidding?" said the older man. "You brought the cat, too?"    

I shook my head, trying to make sense of the conversation. I met the stranger's gaze. "I don't know what your deal is, but you've mistaken me for someone else, and I'll thank you both to leave my cat out of this."

All I wanted was to get away from these men and go home to bake a pumpkin pie. Was that too much to ask?

The stranger looked from me to Gabe, who stood by my side with fists clenched, then turned away. Instead of heading into the store, he stalked back to his truck and climbed in. Moments later, the truck roared out of the parking lot.

Gabe put a hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay? You want me to follow him? I will, you know, if you want me to."

"No, you don't need to follow him."

"Then let me help you with the groceries."

"No," I said firmly. "I'm fine, and I can handle this."

"Why was he harassing you?" Gabe persisted.

"Sounded like he mixed me up with someone else."

"How's that?" Gabe said, his voice softening. "There's only one like you, Sabrina."

I ignored the comment.

Now that the bigger problem was gone, I'd have to figure out what to do about Gabe. He'd taken an instant liking to me and Hitchcock when we met and had shadowed us around the cottages to the point that I'd left the premises to get away from him. The lovesick-puppy expression he wore when he looked at me made me nervous, but the stalkerlike vibe he threw off really gave me the heebie-jeebies.

2

I managed to convince Gabe that I was fine to drive home by myself. After I had my groceries in the car and got on the road, I heaved a sigh of relief. Since we were both headed to the same place, though, the guy was tailing me in his food truck. Gabe was going to sell battered and deep-fried bacon, of all things, at the festival, which explained the greasy odor that seemed to hover around him. Seeing him in my rearview mirror made my skin prickle. I hoped to high heaven he'd back off when I got to Aunt Rowe's house.

I tried to relax and enjoy the festival decorations as we headed through town on our way back to the cottages. Strands of orange lights glittered from trees and storefronts. Yellow and scarlet mums filled flower barrels and window boxes. Jack-o'-lantern flags hung from light poles, and banners advertising Lavender's Pumpkin Days hung high over the streets. The festival officially began at noon the next day. Booths were already set up around the town square and along the sidewalks. Food trucks would line up along the mowed field on the edge of town.

I had visited Aunt Rowe during Pumpkin Days as a kid, but I never realized what a huge undertaking it was to put on an event of this size. With the arrival of so many vendors, Lavender's peaceful atmosphere had already changed. I couldn't even imagine how many tourists would flood our small town over the next week. I expected to have my fill of the crowd in the first day or two. After that, I would take advantage of some quiet time at home to work on my novel in progress while everyone else was off at the festival.

Fifteen minutes later, Gabe pulled into the Around-the-World Cottages driveway right behind me. I blew out a breath of relief when he veered off toward the Melbourne cottage. Then my thoughts turned to baking. If all went according to plan, I'd be eating fresh pumpkin pie in a couple of hours.

That thought fled when Aunt Rowe's house came into view. Things were usually quiet on the home front by eight, but not tonight. In the twilight, I could see dozens of people clustered on the lawn, drinks in hand, talking and laughing. I caught a glimpse of Thomas, my aunt's grounds manager, scanning the back lawn like a nightclub bouncer.

My cat was watching over the festivities, too. I smiled at the sight of Hitchcock's outline in the window over the kitchen sink. He gravitated toward action, so it was no surprise that he was hanging at Aunt Rowe's instead of waiting for me in the Monte Carlo cottage, where we lived.

I looped grocery sacks over my arms and grabbed one of the pumpkins, then went in through the back door and walked through the utility room toward the kitchen. Country music-the Oak Ridge Boys, if I had to guess-came from the living room. The house smelled of coffee and cinnamon.

"Hi, Hitchcock," I said, then stopped short when I realized there wasn't one square inch of open counter space to deposit my purchases. "What's all this?"

The cat jumped from the sill to the edge of the sink, then to the floor. He came over to rub against my legs. "Mrreow."

Jumbo packages of paper products, chips, and baked goods, along with trays of fruits, veggies, cheeses, and cold cuts filled every available space. Stacks of canned soft drink cases sat on the floor. The breakfast table held desserts, including stacks of boxed store-bought pies.

Aunt Rowe had mentioned something about a hospitality suite for the vendors. I must have missed the fact that she planned to play hostess herself. Glenda, Aunt Rowe's housekeeper and cook, was nowhere in sight, and I didn't blame her. The ordinarily neat-as-a-pin kitchen had a claustrophobic feel. I elbowed a stack of potato chip cartons over a few inches so I could deposit my sacks on the counter.

I left the pumpkin in the sink, then knelt beside Hitchcock and ran a hand down his back. "Obviously, I won't be baking here tonight. Maybe not for a while."

He trilled a response.

"I'll be lucky to find room to store anything in the pantry. Might have to lug my stuff back to our place." I had prepared a few no-bake desserts at my cottage, but the small kitchenette didn't have an oven to support my serious baking habit. I checked the pies, counted three pumpkins, and wondered how fresh they were.

A chorus of female voices and laughter came from the living room, piquing my curiosity. I stood. "What does Aunt Rowe have going on in there?"

"Mrrreooow," Hitchcock said, and the sound came out like a warning as I headed toward the laughter.

I checked the living room, surprised to see four card tables set up in the center. Each held a pedestal mirror and a basin of water along with various sizes of tubes and bottles. The scent of eucalyptus filled the air. Three women sat, one per table, with hair held back by fuzzy mint green headbands that matched the goop smeared on their faces. Their attention was on a woman who stood in front of them like a teacher at the head of a class.

"The clarification-processing phase takes six minutes," she said, "then we'll move on to the freshening phase. Sit back, close your eyes, and let the rejuvenation begin."

As the green-faced women closed their eyes, the leader pulled a compact from the pocket of her royal blue dress and checked the mirror. She had big hair, blond and curly, in a style Dolly Parton might admire. She took a swig from a can of Diet Coke and cleared her throat.

"Feel the transformation, ladies," she said. "After your treatment, you'll look five years younger. That's the Pure Velvet promise."

Hitchcock, who had joined me at the doorway, looked up with a can-you-believe-this-baloney expression. "Mrreow."

The group leader turned at hearing the cat's voice and saw me.

"Hi there." She approached me with a hand out, and we shook. "I'm Britt Cramer, with Pure Velvet Facial Transformation Systems. Care to join us?"

"No thanks." I introduced myself. "Is my aunt here?"

"In her office," said one of the green-faced women. "With Herr Schmidt."

The others giggled.

"Herr Schmidt?" I said.

"Henry Schmidt," she said. "The festival chair. Used to teach high school German. Likes when people call him Herr instead of Mister."

"I may have heard about him," I said.

The woman laughed. "If you're related to Rowe, I'll bet you have. I'm Maybelle."

"Nice to meet you," I said. "I guess all of you are here for the festival."

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