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Conrad gave her a funny look. “I’m going to ask some questions, and you’re going to answer,” he told Lucy. “Or we can go to the station and have an attorney present.”
“I’ll answer your questions here and now.” Lucy slowly lowered her arms, then motioned to a small round table with the perfect number of chairs and several stacks of folders. “Please, get comfortable.”
“Beau,” he said. That was it. Just the war vet’s name.
“On it,” Beau replied, launching into a slow, thorough search of the room, taking photos with his phone.
Their understanding of each other and what needed to be done was wow.
Lucy, Jane and Conrad sat. Jane noticed the carvings on the table. Oh! One of her ancestors had engraved his name. Silas Ladling. She traced her fingertip over the letters, grounding her thoughts.
“Tell me what happened,” Conrad commanded. “Start from the beginning.”
“My half-sister was sick. She had an operation but died anyway, and I was lost,” Lucy said with a sniffle. “Every action I took, all my thoughts for the last year and a half, centered on getting the money for her surgery.” Her voice thickened as she continued. “Now I have no job, no home, and no savings. I mentioned my financial tie to Hannah to Jane, but our connection goes deeper. Before that, I dated one of Hannah’s sons. When I reached out, she offered me a lifeline and a top secret place to stay.”
“Oh, Lucy,” Jane said, giving her friend’s hand a pat. Stealing that fifty thousand dollars made so much sense now. And was it really stealing if the murderer brought the money in a briefcase, intending to buy a murderer’s silence? “You’ve been through so much.”
“I only arrived two days before the killer struck.”
“Well, our number one priority is rescuing Cartier. Right Conrad?” she asked.
“One priority,” he echoed.
No wonder Jane had agreed to marry him. Or proposed. Whatever. “I don’t think Jacob was the nabber. I didn’t notice any cat supplies at his home or hair on his clothing.” Didn’t mean he hadn’t taken the feline, though. He could’ve kept the sweetie at a remote location. Which meant Cartier needed to be found ASAP. Who was feeding her?
Lucy pulled a stack of those folders closer and rifled through the contents. One by one, she tossed photos and printed papers across the table for Jane and Conrad to examine. The images showed the bank assistant’s beautiful calico cat—Rolex’s first girlfriend—dirty, with matted fur, locked in a crate.
Horror bombarded Jane. The papers showcased messages from the killer, too. She focused on the worst one.
DO WHAT I SAY OR THE CAT DIES
Beau rapped his knuckles over a section of the wall, stating, “You could’ve sent that threat to yourself.”
He wasn’t even at the table. How had he read the note?
“As if she would ever willingly allow Cartier to reach this condition,” Jane said at the same time Lucy spat, “How dare you!”
Conrad canted his head. “How were these messages delivered?”
Lucy hiccuped. “I received texts, which I printed out to create a transcript of our interactions for easier reading, but I’ll show you the originals too.” She reached in her pocket, withdrew her phone, and handed it to Conrad before sliding over a folder with more printouts. “I was told to attend Hannah’s memorial and inform Jane about the paperwork Maggie might have. I don’t know if it’s real or not.”
“It is.” Maggie had basically confirmed it. Abigail would’ve known. Christopher and probably Jacob, too.
“The next set of instructions, which I received this morning, directed me to print and mail chapter three of a manuscript titled Grave Actually to Jane. Which I did. I had to go to that office center in Willowbrook to avoid detection.”
Wait. “This morning?”
Jane met Conrad’s gaze. Jacob had been too dead to make contact with Lucy. Could Abigail or even Maggie herself have the cat? One of the firemen? Mason?
“I made two copies and kept one for myself.” The loan officer pushed another folder Conrad’s way, but Jane snatched it up. As the writer of the group, she should read it first.
She skimmed paragraphs, her muscles growing stiffer and stiffer. When she got to the last line, she glanced at her beloved, distressed. “You die. In this chapter, the haggard detective dies and clues about the killer’s identity are planted at his funeral.” Fear punched her. Did the killer plan to strike again? Was the medication that nearly felled Conrad a warning shot?
Tremors plagued her as she handed him the chapter.
“I tried to help you guys as much as I could,” Lucy said. “I spied on Maggie, since that’s who the killer implicated, which led me to Abigail and Jacob, but other than clocking the three of them together at Maggie’s house, I found nothing.”
All easily explained by being members of the writing club and co-authors. “What about Christopher Wellington and Donnie Eggerson?”
