Nuts and Buried (9 page)

“We're going to the Barking Coyote,” Meemaw said on the way back from the Chaunceys'.

“Can't. I've got a dinner date with Peter Franklin. He was out to the greenhouse this afternoon, along with Elizabeth Wheatley. I think I'd better get it over with or he might never go back to Italy or wherever the heck he's from. I don't like people coming to the greenhouse. Seemed, I don't know, like he was invading my space. Best that man left town as soon as possible.”

“I'd say you're right. Get him moving and clear thing's up between you and Hunter.”

I made a disgusted noise. “Me and Hunter! He acts like there is no ‘me and Hunter.' Over something I didn't ask for—that Dr. Franklin coming here. So now he's mad. Let him stay that way. I'm going out to dinner with Peter Franklin and I don't want to mess up again tonight, like I did yesterday.”

Meemaw looked at her watch and then at me. I couldn't read her expression. “You going this early?”

“Not until seven, but I've got to change and—”

“Won't take long. I just want to talk to a couple of people out there at the saloon.”

She used a voice that scurried up and down my spine and told me there was no way out. She was on a mission.

Still, I had to groan and whine a little—because she expected it. This was our way of being with each other and kept the nasty little girl inside of me alive and miserable.

“You got plenty of time. A couple of hours yet. I heard that woman, Wanda Truly, has been hanging out at the Coyote for the last couple of weeks. Morton Shrift will tell us what she's been saying and what they think about her there. You know—that good ole boys' thing isn't all bad. Won't say much, even to one another, but you can bet your boots those people have been judging her and will have a thing or two to say to me. Might know something about Billy, too.”

“You sure took to him. He perked up like nobody's said a kind word to him in a long time.”

She nodded. “Probably nobody has. That mother of his is a piece of work.”

She rolled down her window to let in some real air. I snapped off the air conditioner because I knew she didn't like it much. “Bet that boy hasn't been spoken to kindly in his whole life. Greedy, grasping, evil mother. Bet anything, if you took that boy back and put him in a decent home, with decent God-fearing folks, he wouldn't have been in prison. That's what's wrong with our system. We punish the wrong people. You ask me, if we made a few parents do time with their kids, you'd see a lot nicer group of people raising children. And you'd see a lot fewer children landing up in jail.”

“And a lot fewer children being born if people were made to look after them right.”

“True enough,” was all she said, ending that discussion then starting a new one. “So what are you thinking? I mean, about Wanda Truly?”

“I don't know yet. Just that if she was my mama, I'd run like Jeannie's running to get away from her.”

“Yes, well, bet you would. But I'm talking about what she was saying there at the Chaunceys'.”

“You mean about Jeannie going back home? Wasn't like she cared much what Jeannie wanted.”

“It's the estate. She's been hanging around town like she was waiting for something to happen.”

I thought a minute. “You think she's got something to do with Eugene's death?”

I looked over as she shrugged. “Somebody did it. Got to find out who wanted him dead. That usually starts with ‘who benefits.'”

“That could be Jeannie,” I said.

“Or that awful mother.”

“What if Jeannie's been in it from the beginning? Marrying a wealthy man. Seeing that he died pretty quick. Mother hanging around in the wings 'til it's over. And that brother. Guess we were looking at a man who could kill, all right. Huntsville, he said.” Meemaw was hot on a trail. “Why don't you ask Hunter to look into what Billy really did to land up there?”

“Why don't you ask him?” I said.

“Wish you'd get over this silly business with him.”

“Tell him to get over it . . .”

And we were at the Barking Coyote, parking under the half-lighted sign with a dancing coyote's feet going at a great rate and the rest of him dark.

Not too many trucks there yet. It was early in the day for most of the regulars. Finula Prentiss, who waitressed, should be around. She was a big talker and not one to sit on an opinion. Morton, the owner, would be behind the bar. Roy Friendly, I'd been told, usually came in early in the afternoon and hung around 'til closing. We'd get a lot of information the sheriff, or Hunter, would never get out of these people, who were wary of blue uniforms and stiff hats.

“No line dancing,” I warned Meemaw on the way in. “I'm still living that last time down.”

“Nothing wrong with a dance or two. Good for the circulation,” she said and outmarched me up the dry hill.

The inside of the saloon was the same—day or night. Dark, loud with twangy music, and smelling the way, I suppose, a saloon should smell. The smoke was dense, like a swamp in a horror movie. It took a while for my eyes to adjust from the light outside; people slowly taking shape—all looking at us. But no Roy Friendly.

There weren't too many there. A few of the tiny tables had couples seated at them. A few more had one man with one long-necked bottle of beer in front of him or one short shot of whiskey. Meemaw was waving to people she knew—since they all came for “special” pecan pies on occasion. I waved to a few people I'd graduated Riverville High School with.

Morton Shrift was behind the scarred mahogany bar, wiping away, then crouching down to admire the shine he was getting. He smiled as we walked down to him.

“What'll it be, ladies? Ain't laid eyes on you since that last time you come in. Still talking about your dancing, Miss Amelia,” he said.

“Thank you, Morton.” She settled herself on a high stool. “You could get me a Coke-Cola, if you don't mind.”

“Sure thing. What kinda Coke you want?”

“Dr Pepper, I guess.”

I had the same and we sat and looked around, drinking our sodas until Morton was free again to lean on the bar and pass the time of day.

“Morton . . .” Meemaw began, sitting up and squinting through the smoke at the man.

“Here it comes.” He chuckled. “Knew you came in for a reason.”

“Since I'm not a drinker . . .”

“Except all that Garrison's in your pies.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. Shame on you, Morton Shrift, implying I push alcohol on—”

“So,” he interrupted. “What can I help you with today? And before you start in, Miss Amelia, I'm betting anything it's about what happened to Eugene Wheatley.”

“I heard his mother-in-law was hanging out here ever since she got to town.”

“Got to be a regular fast.”

“Can you tell me what you think of her?”

He smiled and shook his head. “If I went around telling what I thought about any of my customers, the Barking Coyote would be closed in a week.”

“She's no regular, Morton. And this is a murder we're talking about. I just met the woman.”

“Where? Wondered why she ain't here yet.”

“Never mind where. I'm telling you I got very bad feelings about her.”

“You should talk to Finula, you want to talk about bad feelings. Never once tipped her. Finula won't wait on her anymore. Says only the devil thinks he's hot enough not to tip a hardworking woman.”

“She here?” I looked around but didn't see her walking through the tables, or passing the time of day with an old cowboy.

“In the back. I'll get her.”

“I'm asking you first.” Meemaw drew him back to what she was after.

“Well, I'll tell you, Miss Amelia, I've seen worse. But not much worse. From the first time she came in, she started bragging how rich she was going to be. Daughter married into the Wheatley family, she said. Soon her daughter was going to buy her a house and a building so she could start up a beauty parlor in Dallas. She'd go on and on for hours. The
more she drank, the bigger that house got. The beauty parlor got to be a spa in one of the swankiest parts of town. By midnight she was mumbling and nobody was listening.”

“Did you meet her son, Billy?”

He nodded. “Came in only the last couple of days. I could smell prison on him, but he turned out not to be so bad. He didn't drink and he'd pull his mother out before she got stumbling drunk.”

“Have they been in since Eugene died?”

He nodded again. “Last night.”

“They talk about it?”

“Not him. But you couldn't shut her up, how her daughter was a rich woman now. Just that kind of thing. Nobody was listening. They left pretty quick.”

“Was she saying anything about who killed Eugene?”

“Tried to. Said the police would find out that Elizabeth, that sister of his, had something to do with the murder.”

“She say why?”

“Only that she bet anything Elizabeth had some kind of different will to spring on everybody and that's why her kid, Jeannie, was going to fight her right from the beginning.”

Morton motioned us to turn around. Finula was standing behind us, listening.

I've heard men say a certain kind of woman looked like she'd been rode hard and put away wet. That was Finula. Early in the afternoon, but Finula was already looking smudged and sleepy.

“You and Hunter working together on this?” she said, her black eyes burrowing into me. “Heard you two aren't getting along so well. Surprise to see you here. You know he called me the other night.”

“Bet he wanted you to watch his dog.”

Finula looked flustered. I would have bet anything she was going to come up with some other story. “Well, yeah.
But I was working. I told him how much I love dogs and am willing anytime he needs me . . .”

Right then I was wishing I'd had a shot of bourbon or two and that I had the nerve to reach out and pop the lady right in her nose. I knew Finula'd always been kind of sweet on Hunter, but if she thought she had a chance with him, with me out of the way, she was barking up the wrong cop.

“They're asking about Wanda Truly, Jeannie Wheatley's mother,” Morton told her.

Finula flicked her hair, as dark and dyed as a cheap fur coat, back over her shoulder and sniggered. “That one. Thinks she's gonna be rich now that Eugene's dead. I hear she's in for a surprise. Somebody found an old trust or something leaving everything to Elizabeth. Not that I like that one either.”

That was about all Finula had except for calling Wanda Truly tighter than the bark on a tree. Meemaw was off her stool, telling Morton to let Roy Friendly know she'd like to talk to him if he had the time to drop in at the Nut House. We thanked Morton and Finula for their time and were out of there, back to town with my cell ringing and Peter Franklin's name coming up as the caller.

I got into my tiny shower and let the water run as long as I dared. Even after I shampooed three times and rubbed my head dry, I could smell booze and smoke in my hair, but I was running out of time. When we got back to the ranch, Bethany and Justin and Mama, whom I hadn't seen since the party, wanted to talk. Everybody had a different idea of what happened at the Wheatleys with Justin standing firmly behind “an accidental shooting” despite everything the police knew to the contrary. Mama wanted to know if I'd talked to Hunter about it and I said “yes,” I had. Then she said that was a good thing, considering what she'd heard in town.

“Anything new?” Justin asked.

I shrugged.

“You're not talkin' to him, are you?” This was Mama, probing as hard as she could.

“Got other things to do.”

“What other things?” Mama demanded, giving me that
arms behind her head stretching thing that only meant she wasn't believing me.

“Things like my work, Mama.”

“You ask me, I'd say there's something wrong between you and Hunter, like people are sayin'.”

I was too tired to take on all three of them so I hurried back to my old room and found a good enough outfit in the closet. I spent most of the time in the shower talking to myself. I was mad at every one of them.

“Enough is enough,” as Meemaw liked to say.

*   *   *

I decided I didn't want to go anywhere in Riverville with Peter Franklin, especially not to The Squirrel, where Cecil would start in with the snide remarks and be telling everybody who I came in with so it would get back to Hunter. I didn't want that, not now that I'd decided me and Hunter were going to make up and be friends again—or whatever we were to each other.

There was a little barbecue place over in Schulenberg. Everybody who comes to Texas wants Bar-B-Q so I knew I couldn't miss, though once we got there and settled in, Peter wrinkled his nose at the menu and picked at his plate of ribs as if he were going through dirty laundry.

“I still hope I can at least get a look at your test grove, or even take a look at your records. We are working on similar problems, as you know.” He sat back and wiped his mouth so hard the paper napkin stuck and I had to point out places where he had dots of white paper around his mouth. I finished my plate of ribs and slaw and even gave a greedy glance over at the last of the ribs Peter had left on his plate. I reminded myself—as Meemaw often told me—to act like a lady. So I delicately wiped sauce off my chin and smiled, thanking him for the wonderful meal.

There wasn't a whole lot to talk about. He didn't seem
interested in discussing things I'd read that other scientists were doing, nor saying much about his own work, so I figured I'd jump right in. “You know what Elizabeth's up to? You seem to know her pretty well.”

He shook his head, seeming to be startled. “Hardly at all. I'm afraid I used her to meet you and now she's taking a proprietorial interest in me. I'm very sorry about bringing her out to your greenhouse without your permission this afternoon. Not my idea, I can assure you. But she seemed so worried about Eugene's wife and where she'd gotten to . . .”

“You call that worry? More like a posse after a bank robber.” I shook my head. “I'm not giving Jeannie up until she's got a lawyer of her own. Melody Chauncey told her to go see Ben Fordyce. He's been our family lawyer since before my daddy died.”

“If she thinks that's necessary. I don't think Elizabeth's that bad a person.”

I shrugged and pulled my feet back from under the table. That was enough of that. I was ready to head home.

“What I meant was . . .” Peter leaned toward me from the other side of the table. He reached over and laid one of his hands on top of mine. I pulled my hand away slowly, getting a creepy feeling. His smile didn't help any. Smarmy, I'd say. Nice-looking man, but he could sure ruin it with his trying too hard.

I was leaning down to pick up my shoulder bag when the restaurant door opened across the low-ceilinged room from where we sat. I wasn't ready for who walked in and wasn't ready for him to look at me, register who I was there with, then turn right around, put his big hand on the back of the pretty blonde he'd come in with, and almost push her out the door.

Any idea I'd had about making up with Hunter washed right out of my head. Didn't take him long, I was thinking, as I sat kind of open-mouthed, not knowing what to tell myself I should be feeling.

“Wasn't that the deputy I met the other night after Eugene's death?”

I didn't look at Peter. I nodded.

“Didn't seem so friendly now.”

“Wasn't then. He didn't like you.”

“Didn't like me? He doesn't know me. If you mean he thinks I had anything to do with Eugene Wheatley's death—why, that's insane.”

“No,” I said and felt mean enough to add, “he wasn't thinking that. He just said he didn't like you.”

Peter made a kind of disbelieving noise and got up, pushing his chair back under the table. “Not exactly a wonderful example of Texas hospitality.”

I followed him out to his car and sat in miserable silence. All the way back to town, and my apartment, where I hopped out of the car and didn't ask him in, Peter was lost in his own thoughts, repeating again and again, “Doesn't like me,” as if he found such a conclusion impossible to believe.