Nuts and Buried (3 page)

Jeannie showed a lot of white teeth, and a lot of love in her big blue eyes.

“Bet you'd be interested, Lindy.” Eugene turned back to me. “Got a Browning machine gun, 1919A4 semiautomatic. Really rare. Got a couple of great Colts—1911s. A few of Wesson's own guns. Maybe three hundred guns altogether. Can't put 'em all out. Most stored in my gun safe. If you're interested in guns, come along in a while?”

He looked around at all of us. “I'll be holed up for half
an hour or so. Enjoy the buffet. Looks like they're going to open it soon.”

“When are you gonna eat, honey?” Jeannie caught at his arm.

“Don't worry. There's a tray being sent out.”

With a pat to my back and a buzz to Jeannie's cheek, Eugene made his way around the groups of talkers and cut across the dance floor between couples slow dancing to “You Two-timed Me One Time Too Often.” He went out into the hall and, I supposed, to his gun room.

That left me and Jeannie, Ethelred, and the girls. I'd done my duty. Time to go.

I looked around for Meemaw, to tell her I was leaving, when I spotted Elizabeth Wheatley, Eugene's older sister, looking over at me. Elizabeth is not my kind of people. She's a pretty woman. Maybe thirty-eight. But she does a lot of sticking her nose in the air and letting you know you will never come up to her expectations—at least that's what she does to me. And smiles with tight lips. And blinks her eyes a lot while she's talking. And looks over my shoulder, hunting for somebody better to talk to . . . all those things.

Elizabeth had fire in those big, and very round, eyes of hers. She headed straight toward me. It didn't take much to smell the fight coming, though what she was so mad about was anybody's guess. I should've turned and run. I should've done anything but stand there with a rope hanging around my neck, in a gray burlap shroud, with white flour all over my face and hair. I shouldn't have stuck out my hand and smiled as the woman came at me like a blooming missile.

Elizabeth, in some kind of nineteenth-century getup, had her hands to her cheeks and her eyes blinking at a great rate. She stopped dead in front of me, lifted one long finger, and pointed up and down, then up and down the length of me again.

“Lindy Blanchard. Why on earth'd you come to my party dressed like that?” Her voice was loud and full of outrage. “I mean . . . my dear woman . . . well . . . I hope I'm wrong. But you didn't come as poor Sally Wheatley, did you?”

My turn to be shocked. “Why, Elizabeth. How could—”

“You look dead as a doornail to me. I'd say that wasn't exactly the right thing to wear when all we asked is for everyone to come dressed as some stalwart, famous Texan.”

I turned around, hoping Meemaw or Mama would step up and save me from this awful woman.

I said the first thing that came to me. “Sally Wheatley didn't hang, Elizabeth. She was shot, remember?”

“That's even worse, drawing attention to a violent death
the way you're doing. What on earth was in your head? Thought you were supposed to be a smart college graduate. Two degrees, is what I heard. Looks like they didn't take.”

She was getting louder; drawing attention to us. The music stopped and the band chose that minute to take a break. Dancers turned our way, listening. My face had to be burning bad through what was left of the flour. And I was sorrier than I'd ever been for trying to make some point with Chipita, though I couldn't remember now what exactly that point had been.

“Just imagine what you're doing to poor little Jeannie here.” Elizabeth moved over to put her arm around Jeannie Wheatley, who looked more puzzled than devastated. “Our poor, poor Jeannie. Just awful, you ask me. You okay, dear?” She leaned close to Jeannie, who only looked startled as she nodded and said, yes, sure she was okay.

“How could you come here and hurt my new sister-in-law this way?” Now Elizabeth's voice was deeply hurt, her face a mass of sorrow. She wasn't going to drop it. “Why, Lindy Blanchard, I'm truly surprised at you.”

And then Mama was there and she was mad, demanding, “Elizabeth Wheatley. What on earth are you insinuating about my daughter?”

“Look at her! Came as a dead woman. Why, she even resembles Sally with that pale skin and those big eyes. Terrible. Don't know why Eugene didn't see it and get her out of here.” The woman's face went back to shock and then she went for sympathy, working up a phantom tear she brushed off her cheek.

“We loved Sally a whole lot—the whole Wheatley family. This is such a . . . an attack, you ask me.” She wasn't going to stop.

“Don't have to worry about that.” Meemaw was next to me in full Lady Bird Johnson mode: hands on her hips, chest
puffed out. “We'll be outta here faster than you can snap your mouth shut, Elizabeth.”

My brother, Justin, came running over, dressed in his best Sam Houston suit. “What's going on?” he demanded.

“Elizabeth Wheatley's lost her mind.” Mama stepped in. “And we're getting outta here.”

Justin knew the family drill. He didn't ask questions, only nodded, ready to give whatever the family needed though he did whine once about wanting to see Eugene's guns, that being the only reason he'd come in the first place.

Then Bethany ran over, face redder than her dress. She didn't ask a single question, just balled her fists at her sides.

Elizabeth was going on. “I have not lost my mind, Emma Blanchard. You allowed your daughter to come here to insult us. I don't know what I, or Eugene, ever did to you, Lindy. But this is an outrage . . .” With no music, and the guests standing around quietly listening to what would be their bit of gossip at The Squirrel restaurant in the morning, the sound of a gun going off was louder than it might have been. It came from somewhere outside the ballroom. Somewhere beyond the open double doors to the hall.

At first everybody held still in place. Then came a startled intake of breath as the crowd went from watching the Blanchards and the Wheatleys going at it, to rigid stillness.

We listened for a second shot.

Nothing happened. The floor creaked. I could hear muted voices coming from out in the kitchen. There was a long moment when everybody looked at one another with startled eyes.

In a few seconds or minutes or however long it took all of us to stop listening for the next shot, there was another huge intake of breath and then a clink of metal as men in the room, just like in an old Western, pulled guns from costume pockets and cocked them.

We were a tableau of frozen people until somebody screamed and Miranda Chauncey, .22 in hand, yelled, “Hit the floor!” from the far side of the buffet table.

*   *   *

“Gunshot!” somebody yelled belatedly and people inched, then pushed in panic toward the hall, while others tried to fade into the walls behind them.

Meemaw put her hands on my back. Mama was beside her, holding on to Bethany. Justin was on the other side of Mama. One thing we Blanchards knew was how to circle the wagons fast.

It crossed my mind that it was some kind of entertainment—fireworks maybe. A few of the women around me still had their party smiles on. Some looked embarrassed, like being caught crouching after hearing a gunshot could be a silly thing.

It didn't take long for everything to change. Me and Meemaw followed the crowd into the hall, where we all stood, milling around, looking one way and then the other, waiting for somebody to tell us what was going on and what we should do.

“Eugene's gun room,” a man's voice shouted. “Down here.”

The crowd shifted and headed to the left. Me and Meemaw were two of the first down there, joining the half circle of men listening at a door, then talking to one another, calling out Eugene's name.

Other people pushed up behind us. “Door's locked,” one said, for something to say, I supposed.

“Can't get in and Eugene's not answering.”

Justin pushed through the crowd. “Gotta break it down,” he said to the men who'd put themselves in charge. There were head shakings, agreement, and then three of them put their shoulders to the door and pushed again and again until the center panel gave way with a loud, ugly crack. Justin,
youngest and strongest, stepped through the broken door into the room beyond as we all held our breath.

I heard my brother say, “What the hell!”

He was back in the doorway. “Call the sheriff,” he shouted to the men. I could tell it had to be bad. Justin's face was whiter than I'd ever seen it, under a deep, outdoor workingman's tan. Meemaw pushed past me to go put her hand on his arm and ask what was going on.

“Bad, Meemaw.” He shook his head. “Real bad.”

And then all hell broke loose as Elizabeth Wheatley and Jeannie came tearing through the crowd blocking the hall. Jeannie was big eyed and scared. Elizabeth moaned.

Meemaw got ahold of Elizabeth and stopped her from going into the gun room. She turned her around and passed her into waiting hands, and then off through the crowd.

Jeannie was faster. I got in the room right behind her, trying to grab ahold of an arm in all that yellow fluff, but she was too quick for me. She stopped where her husband lay slumped across a mahogany desk. You might have missed the hole in his back with only a single stream of blood running from it, but you couldn't miss the huge pool of blood on the desk where he lay facedown, arms stretched wide. A gun lay on the floor beside him, and papers were scattered around as if a huge wind had blown through the room.

Jeannie threw her hands to her mouth. For a second—not long enough for me to grab her—she stood frozen, then leaned down, arms wide as if to save him, trying to cover his back with her body. I pulled her away though the yellow dress was already covered with blood. A book was pushed out in front of him, stained terribly with spreading blood and spatter.

More men ran in behind us, one hurrying to open a heavy metal door in the back wall, letting in fresh air and clearing out the awful stench of gunpowder and fresh blood.

I held Jeannie away from Eugene, my hands locked on
her arms. Still she stared at him, eyes wide open as shock froze her face and body. I wanted to get her out of there, but at the same time, I felt her need to be with him.

The pistol lying on the floor near Eugene's feet was odd looking. Accident
,
ran through my head and I was almost relieved. The man was cleaning the gun. So many gun tragedies in Texas.

There wasn't time to be thinking all the things I was thinking. Jeannie was my main concern. Her eyes got huge and glazed, as if she was protecting herself from what was there in front of her. Her hand hovered over Eugene's back, but I stopped her from touching him again. Better we didn't touch anything. I knew enough, because of Hunter, about crime scenes and how mad the sheriff got when things got messed up before the cops got there.

Talking quietly, I pulled at Jeannie's arm. She felt limp now, like the life was going out of her. She came with me easily, back out into the hall. When she stopped and tried to turn, I blocked her from looking back at what was left of Eugene Wheatley.

“Suicide!”

Some jerk was yelling at the top of his lungs. People hushed him as I led Jeannie back through the crowd. Hands reached out to pat her shoulders. People said nothing, or murmured words at her as we moved forward. I hoped I was going in the right direction, toward the main stairs.

“Accident,” another man shot back, trying to make things better. “That's his gun room. Must've been cleaning a gun.”

I don't think Jeannie heard any of it.

“I want to be with him . . .” Jeannie looked around at me as if we were alone. “Are they sure he's dead?”

Justin came up and held her gently—the way my older brother seemed to do in any emergency; this big sturdy farmer with a rough look to him but a heart ten times bigger than he was. He helped me direct her toward the front hall where a woman in a maid's uniform beckoned toward the upstairs.

It seemed only minutes before Sheriff Higsby and Hunter
Austen hurried in, to my great relief. My arms were still around Jeannie, whose whole body felt empty. We stood at the bottom of a wide staircase leading up from the grand foyer. I was never so happy to see Hunter, my tall, broad, buzz-cut friend, in my life. The sheriff ran back toward the crowd and the gun room, ordering the two deputies rushing in behind him to round up the people and take names then get them out of there.

Hunter stood with me for just a minute, his large hand squeezing my arm.

“You all right? Is this Eugene's wife?” He nodded toward Jeannie. “You taking her to her room? Good. She doesn't want to be here with everything going on.”

He hurried off after the sheriff and the others, down the long hall toward the gun room. The investigation would take over now; the routine following a death. The coroner would be there soon. When he was through, the body would be brought out on a stretcher and taken to the morgue. The techs would move in and things in the house would get quiet as routine took over.

Jeannie didn't need to see the aftermath. Hunter or Sheriff Higsby would talk to her, but probably not until morning. The big house already seemed to be echoing—voices coming from around corners; a shout from out in front. There was the black-draped feeling of grief sinking across the front hall. The front door, behind us, was wide open, the darkness beyond the door shot through with bright flashes of strobe lights.

“Let's go upstairs,” I said, prodding Jeannie.

She stood with one hand on the banister, her eyes closed. I put an arm around her waist and looked for Meemaw, a woman a lot better at soothing people than I was.

Jeannie's shoulders bent forward. She lifted one slow foot at a time, then stopped, and put her face down into her hands, crying.

I had her halfway up the stairs when there was a rasping shout from the entrance hall and a woman rushed up toward us. She was in a frenzy—yelling Jeannie's name, hands flopping in the air above her head. The woman seemed to float in a cloud of many-colored scarves, a halo of tight, way-too-blond curls, and a mask of colorful makeup. I stepped in front of Jeannie, protecting her from whatever was coming at us.

“My baby girl!” the older-than-she-wanted-to-be woman screamed and threw her head back in a wild, theatrical cry, showing teeth that were large at the back and overlapped in the front. “Mama's here. I'll take care of you.”

Then came a tussle as the woman elbowed me aside with one of the sharpest elbows I'd ever felt. She snaked her arms around Jeannie, getting in between us. She began pushing Jeannie up the stairs although she protested, “Mama, don't. You—”

“Hey!” was my only contribution to the nutty scene.

“Mama?”

I looked around the now empty hall. No help. If the woman was her mama, I had no right to interfere. But . . . where the heck had she come from?

*   *   *

I couldn't handle everything at once. Too much going on. I felt useless now. Maybe it would be better to head out to my truck and get on home. Still, there was a dead man back in that room. I knew Hunter would want to talk to all of us. I stepped around, into the long hall, then back where I'd come from, opening another doorway leading out of the foyer and finding myself in a kind of morning room, or something dainty and half lighted where I could sit down a minute on a damask settee standing in front of a dead, stone fireplace and try to figure out what the heck had happened. Somehow I was flashing back to the day I heard that Sally had been shot at a game ranch over near Austen. I had the same feeling
as I'd had then. Sadness and emptiness and thinking how here was another tragedy visited on the Wheatleys.

I was going to go look for Meemaw or Mama, though I figured Meemaw was with Elizabeth and maybe Mama was up there, too. I needed to know what Hunter wanted all of us to do—he'd want names of the guests. Maybe they'd be interviewing some of us yet tonight.

And more than anything, I needed Hunter to tell me what had just happened in this place.

He stuck his head in at the open door. “Looking for you. Thought you went upstairs with the new wife.”

He walked over and patted me on the back—all the sympathy I was going to get from him though, come to think of it, I wasn't the one needing sympathy.

“Awful thing,” he said, not sitting, ready to turn and get back to the crime scene.

“Her mother came in. She took over.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Heard the woman was in town. Thought they weren't exactly close, was what I heard. Surprised, that she'd be at the party.”

“She wasn't. Came running in and took over. Pushed me right out of the way.” I let a little of my pique show.

“Good to know. It looks like an accident, though. Probably cleaning his gun. Should be able to clear everybody out pretty fast. Coroner followed us right in. He's in there now. Techs waiting. Not too much more we can do besides talk to a few folks.”

He shook his head and let out a long sigh. “Just want you to know that your meemaw's upstairs with Elizabeth. Your mama and the rest of 'em are in with the other guests. Staff's staying until they can start cleaning up. Could be a couple of hours yet. You can go on home. Or you can wait for your family. You need a ride back to town?”

“I'll wait,” I said and looked hard into a pair of concerned blue eyes. If anybody could make me melt back into being
a kid, it was Hunter. I kind of teared up for a minute. I never knew why this happened. I can be strong as a general and then, when it's all over, turn into a baby.

“Poor Jeannie,” I said. “I just met her. This is so sad. I mean, Eugene's first wife was shot and now him. What happened in that gun room?”

Hunter ran a hand gently over my hair, brushing it back from my face. He was going to reduce me to a puddle of salt water.

To Hunter's credit, he didn't say a word about the burlap and white powder. I'd ditched the noose.

“Happens. Guy forgets the gun's loaded. It goes off . . . Like I said, you can go. I know where to find you.”

“I'm almost glad to hear it was an accident. Somebody was saying suicide. Can you imagine what Jeannie would feel like if that's what happened? A new bride . . .”

Sheriff Higsby stepped into the doorway and called out to Hunter. He turned to leave. But not without first touching my cheek. For a big cop, he had a very soft touch. “Death's never pretty, Lindy. You should know that by now. And it never gets any easier to take.”

He was gone and I was left alone in a strange house with only the sounds of official voices and rushing footsteps coming from different places.

I sat awhile longer, wondering if I'd done the right thing, letting that woman take over with Jeannie. She didn't seem to welcome her. There was no reaching out to her mother.

“Are you Lindy Blanchard?”

The tall man coming into the room startled me. He was maybe in his mid-thirties, with fine blond hair—a little long at the neck. He was dressed as a doctor, with a stethoscope around his neck and a white jacket with an embroidered name over the pocket:
DR. FRANKLIN
. The name was familiar, but I didn't know him. I was confused—every uniform in the place could be a costume or he could be the real thing.

“Doctor?” I looked up. “For real?”

“Not medical.” He leaned down and stuck his hand out. I shook it. “Dr. Peter Franklin,” he said, bowing his head in a formal gesture. “Guest. I sent you a letter. Did you get it?”

“Oh, yes. You're with that biogenetics group in Italy, right? You want to see my work.”

He smiled and nodded.

“Global Plant Initiative. I've been hoping to talk to you all evening. And then this . . . terrible . . . thing.” The rather thin man shook his head. He had the look of a professor—hair a little too long by Texas standards, wire-framed glasses sliding down his nose.

“May I?” He indicated the sofa, beside me.

I nodded. He sat, sinking into the overstuffed cushions.

“I met Elizabeth in town. We got to talking and I told her I'd made a stop in Riverville to visit you, take a look at your work.”

“I don't really let people into my greenhouse. Everything's still too tentative. You understand.” I wrinkled my nose. “Maybe after I finish the article I'm working on. If I'm right, there could be significant changes coming to pecan agriculture.”

He gave a light laugh. “Don't worry, Lindy. I didn't come to steal your work. I wanted to meet you. Elizabeth said you'd be here tonight and invited me to the party. She pointed you out, but before I could get over . . . well . . . you know what happened. I didn't know what to do. Stay or go. I don't want to impose on anyone. It's not like I'm an old friend or anything.”

“If you give the sheriff your name and a way to get ahold of you, I think that's all they'll need tonight.”

“Lord, Lord, what a truly awful thing for the new bride.”

I agreed.

“Still, it would be good if we got to talk a little. I'm in the same line of work. Drought resistance. I'm staying a few
days more. I suppose I should go to the memorial. I mean, I did accept Elizabeth's hospitality.” He looked sadly at his hands and, with a deep sigh, stood. “I know this isn't the time, but could I take you to dinner? Maybe tomorrow night? I don't often find people in my field to talk to.”

I had to smile. I knew what he meant. Not too many of us nutty scientists around to talk trees. He'd been nervous up until then. I guessed I'd be pretty nervous, too, in a strange state, with a lot of strange people, dressed up in a strange costume, then a man getting shot. I almost felt sorry for him.

“If you don't mind . . . I mean, I overheard Elizabeth going on about your costume. What was that all about? She surprised me. I wouldn't have identified her as an emotional woman, but she certainly did light into you. Actually, I think a lot of us were embarrassed. And right at that moment—a gunshot. At first I thought it was just something Texans did at weddings—shooting guns off.”

Peter threw up a hand, stopping himself. “Ah well, I can see by your face this isn't something you want to discuss right now. Eh . . . could I give you a ride home?” he asked.

“I'm waiting for my grandmother. I've got my truck.”

He nodded. “I'll call tomorrow, if that's all right. I don't mean to be pushy, but I'd really like to discuss what you're doing. I've been hearing some very good things. And I have such a short time in Riverville.”

I was saying “yes” just as Hunter walked back in, striding into the room and stopping near us, looking hard at Peter Franklin.

The men nodded to one another, then shook hands as they exchanged names.

“Officer, I assume it's all right for us to leave. I've given one of your men my name. I'm staying in town, the Columbus Inn.” Peter gave Hunter a slightly arrogant smirk. I watched Hunter bristle. The one thing you didn't do to Hunter Austen was act like you were better than he was.
Hunter wasn't the kind of person who looks down on anyone, and being a cop led him to discover, he told me, it wasn't the clothes people wore, it wasn't how much money they had, it wasn't where they lived or who they came from that made good people. It was what was inside and how they treated everybody around them. “Real simple,” he'd told me many times. “Golden Rule's all it takes.”

Hunter's voice was coldly professional when he answered. “You might as well go. We probably won't be contacting you. Pretty straightforward thing, what happened to Mr. Wheatley. Can't say it's a rare occurrence here in Riverville.”

Hunter avoided looking straight at Peter Franklin.

“And Miss Blanchard? I've offered to take her home. This has been a very rough night for all of us.”

“'Specially Eugene Wheatley.” Hunter's response was sharp and out of character. I could hear the anger stuffed into his words.

“Was it really an accident? So unfortunate.”