Seven Sisters (21 page)

“She’s joking,” I said, laughing. “I think. Anyway, I’ve basically done nothing except sit on the sidelines and watch. You’re a man of worldly experience. What do you think I should do?”

He took my hands in his. “Benni, all I know is it takes years for a couple to become a ‘we.’ Ultimately, some relationships make it, some don’t. Who knows why?” He rubbed his big thumbs over the tops of my hands.

“In other words, it’s what I suspected. There’s nothing I can do.”

“He has free will. But then, so do you.” He squeezed my hands. “Now let’s talk about your murder case. Who do you think did it? Do you need another investigator?”

I slapped the top of his hands gently. “Did Dove ask you to look after me?”

He laughed and shook his head no. “She’s so busy with this project, she’s barely had time to spoon with me on the porch last night.”

“Spoon? Excuse me, you need to clarify to a concerned granddaughter just exactly what that term entails. In detail, please.”

“Not on your life. Anyway, I’ve photographed this Capitola Brown twice, back in the fifties when she was working the rodeo circuit doing trick riding and later in the eighties when I was doing a book on horse racing. Dove says it’s pretty certain someone in the family did it. Any ideas who?”

I told him everything I knew so far. “It could be any of them, though that note points strongly at Cappy. To be honest, she’s the only one I can picture having the nerve to pull it off. Dove told you the whole thing about the switched guns, right?”

“Yes, so the only lead you have is the grave rubbing. Can I see it?”

“Sure.” I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to him.

He took a pair of tortoise-shell glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the rubbing. He handed it back to me. “I’m assuming you’re going to look for it.”

“How can I? There’s too many cemeteries in San Celina County. There are probably some I don’t even know about. That would take weeks and even then might be a dead end.”

“So you’re going to give up? That doesn’t sound like you. The Benni Harper I know would be lying in bed at night trying to figure out the puzzle.”

“Are you saying I shouldn’t? Thank you, but I’ve already got one man encouraging me to go against my husband’s request to stay out of situations like this.”

“Who’s that? And for the record, I’m not encouraging you, I’m only making an observation concerning your personality.”

“You know, you can be real annoying sometimes.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Sometimes I think my cousin Emory was right, and I should have been a detective. I don’t want to get involved, but something in me won’t rest until Giles’s murderer is caught. And it’s not because of some great humanitarian motivation, either. From what I understand, he was a real jerk.”

“Even jerks don’t deserve to be murdered. I think you’ve got a strong streak of justice running through you, and that’s what compels you to get involved.”

“You make me sound a lot more noble than I feel. How about you running that speech by Gabe the next time he gets upset at me?”

His hearty laugh made me smile. “Not on your life. He has the power to lock me up, not to mention sic the parking ticket patrol on me. So, who’s this other man you say is encouraging you to get involved?”

“A sheriff’s detective assigned to the Brown murder. For some reason, he’s gotten it into his fuzzy little Texas head that I’ll be able to ferret out information from this family that he can’t.”

Isaac peered out from under his thick, white eyebrows, his mouth turned up into a wide grin.

“Oh, shut up,” I said, good-naturedly. “Yes, he’s heard about my other experiences. That doesn’t mean I’m going to jeopardize my relationship with my husband or my stepson to solve his case.”

“So, this detective. Does he wear starched Wranglers, a white cowboy hat, and fancy cowboy boots?”

My eyes widened. “How did you... ?”

He pointed behind me. I turned and saw Detective Hudson strolling across the grass toward us.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said.

“Looks determined,” he said.

When Detective Hudson reached us, Isaac stood up. I swung my legs around so I wasn’t straddling the bench and leaned back on my elbows.

“What do you want?” I said.

“Isaac Lyons,” Isaac said, holding out his big hand.

The detective took his hand. “
The
Isaac Lyons? The photographer?”

Isaac gave his deep laugh. “Depends on who’s asking. I think I may have a speeding ticket in Wyoming I haven’t paid.”

“Ford Hudson. My friends call me Hud. I’m a detective with the San Celina Sheriff’s Department, and as far as I’m concerned, your need for speed is Wyoming’s problem, not mine. I bought your book on state fairs. Great photos of the carnies. My mother was a photographer with
Life
. She owns a studio now in Odessa. Mostly weddings and babies, bread-and-butter photography.”

“Liar,” I blurted out.

Isaac gave me a puzzled, then reprimanding look. “Forgive my young friend’s rudeness.”

I shot Isaac a hard look. Sometimes he could be just a little
too
paternal.

Detective Hudson grinned. “That’s okay, I’m gettin’ used to it. She’s like one of those snarly little terriers. Kinda grows on you after a while.”

Isaac gave a small chuckle. “Yes, she does.” Then he turned to me. “Dove instructed me to ask you to dinner tonight. She’s making pot roast.”

“I’ll be there.”

He kissed me on top of the head and whispered in my ear, “Play nice, Ms. Benni Harper.”

Giving him my sweetest smile, I replied, “Suck eggs, Mr. Isaac Lyons.”

He gave a great booming laugh and ruffled my hair. “Oh, Lordy, I’ve missed you.”

“Shoot,” Detective Hudson said as we watched Isaac stride across the grass. “Didn’t know you ran in such fancy circles. Is he a relative or something?”

“What do you want?”

“For you to come to my office at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Like I said so politely this morning, I have some ideas I need to discuss with you about our case.”

“It’s. . . not. . . our. . . case,” I said. “Shall I say it slower? Write it in lipstick on your forehead? Send a telegram?”

“Do people still send telegrams in this computer age? What with E-mail and all. I’ve wondered about that.”

Not answering, I stood up and brushed past him.

“Tomorrow,” he called after me. “Ten o’clock. I’m the third office on the right. Just tell the receptionist I’m expecting you.”

Back in the tent, the crowds were still thick and noisy. I waited for Emory at our assigned place, but as usual he was late. He meandered by ten minutes later.

“I have one more person to interview,” he said. “Give me another half hour.”

“Oh, Emory,” I moaned, wishing I’d driven myself so I could leave. Knowing my cousin, it would be more like another hour.

“Go amuse yourself, sweetcakes. Don’t be a whiny-baby.”

I went back into the artists’ tent, hoping to find a chair. Next to some potted trees, near the stage where Cappy had spoken, there were a couple of white folding chairs. I grabbed one and sat down, heaving a big sigh.

“Too much wine?” an older woman’s voice inquired.

I turned and looked behind the potted trees and saw Rose Brown sitting alone in her wheelchair.

“Uh, not really,” I said, standing up and going over to her. “I don’t really like wine.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I came with my cousin. He’s a journalist and he’s writing an article for the
Tribune
. ”

Her eyes opened and closed slowly, like some kind of ancient, slow-moving animal. “I was beautiful once,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

“He was a judge and a horseman. His horses were in demand all over the country. He required perfection in his horses, his law, and his women.”

I nodded, thinking,
He sounds like a real prize.

“Women adored him. Many nights he didn’t come home at all.”

Suddenly uncomfortable with the awkward personal turn to our conversation, I looked around, trying to find a polite way of escape. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Do you have a husband?” she asked.

I nodded.

“You’d better fix yourself up. He’ll leave you for someone prettier.”

In deference to her age and, I was assuming, her slight senility, I held back the temptation to tell her to mind her own dang business. “Excuse me, I need to meet my cousin . . .”

The next moment, Cappy walked around the corner and saw me walking away from her mother.

She hurried up to me. “What are you doing?” she snapped.

“Nothing,” I stammered. “Your mother . . .”

A panicked look passed over Cappy’s face. A few feet away, her mother sat smiling serenely in her wheelchair, her cloudy eyes focused on something behind me. “She’s very elderly,” Cappy said.

I looked back down at her mother who still wore that spooky, disengaged smile. Was she senile? She certainly didn’t sound as if she was when she was insulting my looks. Maybe she was just mean.

“I have to find my cousin,” I said, turning and walking quickly out of the tent.

Cappy caught up with me outside. “Benni, wait.”

I turned and faced her, shielding my eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “Yes?”

“Sometimes she gets confused. Very confused.” Her gray eyes bore into my squinting ones.

“I understand,” I said.

She stared at me for a long, searching moment. Both her hands were curled in tight fists. “Do you?”

“I’ve worked with elderly people, Cappy.”

Her lips tightened. “You always did learn quickly, Benni Harper. You knew how to focus. I liked that about you.”

“Thank you,” I said. She was definitely her mother’s daughter. The sudden conversation switch confused me.

“But your one fatal flaw was never knowing when something was too much for you. You always wanted to ride the horses that were too big or too wild or try some trick beyond your capabilities. Sometimes recognizing your own limitations is the smartest thing a person can do.”

“I . . . ”

Before I could say any more, she added, “Be smart this time. Ignore whatever my mother said. Don’t get in over your head.”

I watched her walk back toward the artists’ tent, frustrated that she didn’t let me speak, didn’t let me tell her that all her mother did was insult my looks and, ironically, give me advice on how to keep my husband.

But without realizing it, Cappy had pointed me in another direction. It was obvious by Cappy’s overreaction that Rose Brown knew something about the blackmail or Giles’s death. The thousand-dollar question was What exactly did Cappy think her mother had told me? And how would I find out what Rose Brown knew?

11

I FOUND EMORY deep in conversation with a new wine maker who was waxing poetic about the quality of grapes this harvest season and the possibilities for San Celina County’s growth as a major wine-producing region. I tugged on my cousin’s sleeve and demanded his car keys. “I’ll wait for you there.”

“Fifteen more minutes,” Emory said. “I swear.”

Inside Emory’s luxurious Cadillac Seville, I reclined the cushy leather seat, rolled down the electric windows for a cross breeze, and turned on the CD player, letting the butter-smooth sounds of George Strait soothe my irritated soul. I settled back, closed my eyes, and tried to forget the Brown family, wine, racehorses, my looks, my husband, and his beautiful ex-wife.

I was floating in a soft drowsy state, down a long, slow Southern river, just me and George, when a man’s voice growled near my ear, “Dangerous practice . . .” I simultaneously jumped, screamed, and swung my hand out in defense, my heart racing like one of Cappy’s horses.

“Dang it all!” Detective Hudson exclaimed, backing up and grabbing his mouth.

“You idiot! You scared the crap out of me!” I screamed. “Don’t ever, ever, ever sneak up on me like that! Ever!”

“I was just trying to tell you it’s dangerous to nap in an open car where anyone can accost you. Oh, dang, I’m bleeding,” he moaned, still holding his mouth.

I climbed out of the car and went over to him. “For Pete’s sake, quit your bellyaching. You’re lucky it wasn’t pepper spray in my hand.”

He felt his rapidly swelling lip gingerly, then stared at the blood staining his fingertips. “Criminy, what do you do, sharpen your claws on a whetstone?”

“I don’t even have nails.” I held up my hands in illustration. Clutched in my right one was the plastic case from George’s CD. The sharp plastic edge was obviously what I’d struck him with.

“Assaulted by a CD cover,” he said, moaning again. “How will I explain that one at the office?”

“You wouldn’t have to if you’d
stop following me
,” I said, reaching back into the car and handing him a tissue. “Here, clean up your mouth and shut up.”

He brushed away the tissue, pulled a pure white monogrammed handkerchief from inside his jacket, and brought it to his swollen lip.

I stared at it. “A handkerchief? I didn’t know men still used those.”

He gave a sick smile. “I don’t blow my nose with it. I use it to pick up women.”

“What?”

“You’d be surprised how many heartbroken women there are in bars. I give them the handkerchief to dry their tears, listen to their sad story, offer a little sympathy, a strong Texas shoulder to lean on, a drink or two, then slip them my card. I always get my handkerchief back clean and ironed and a very grateful first date.”

“That pathetic line actually works?”

“Never fails.”

“It’s despicable.”

Unperturbed by my opinion, he dabbed at his mouth again, flinching at the pain.

“What a lightweight. I’d sure hate to have you for a partner.”

“The only blood that bothers me is my own,” he protested.

I gave him a withering look.

“You know, you are the least maternal woman I’ve ever met,” he said.

His remark hit me straight in the heart, and thanks to my expressive face, he immediately noticed.

“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry, Benni,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean that how it sounded.”