by Hy Conrad
Callie created a file – “Briana’s Case” – input the little information she had, then closed her laptop, leaned precariously back in her cheap office chair and rubbed her eyes with her fists. Had the Crawleys misunderstood what the trooper said? Maybe. The trauma of the news must have been intense, even disorienting. But what about the person of interest State mentioned? Shouldn’t that name be somewhere in the system? Maybe yes, maybe no. The public data bases didn’t hold everything, since the APD and the D.A.’s office needed privacy in order to develop cases. Still, she couldn’t shake the image of homicide detective State McFee racing off to O’Neil’s, with the girl’s preliminary autopsy report in hand.
“Anita hated when you rubbed your eyes.”
Callie almost fell out of her chair. She recovered and stumbled to her feet. “Uncle Gil.” Was her laptop closed? Yes, it was. Good.
The short, serious man, her father’s longtime accomplice, stood at the mouth of her cubicle. “Your mother said it would cause premature wrinkling. Not that Anita cared about your wrinkly eyes, but she felt it reflected badly. Austin’s premier beauty could not have a daughter who would wind up looking older than her. Wouldn’t do.”
“I was seventeen when she died. I hardly think I looked older.”
“Right. I suppose if she knew she was going to die young, she wouldn’t have worried.” From anyone else, this might have been a caustic example of black humor. But from Gil Morales, it sounded almost like an accusation. Her father’s aide stood his ground, not stepping forward to hug her or to shake her hand. “It’s been ages,” he said, scratching at his short-cropped gray beard.
“I’m sorry,” said Callie, without naming what she was sorry for. She left it for him to choose.
“Forget it. He knows you’re here, by the way.”
“He probably knew the second I drove over the county line.”
“Your father’s disappointed you haven’t been to see him. You’ve been here how long, three days?”
“Did he actually say he wanted to see me?”
Gil lifted a single shoulder and made a face. “Not in so many words.”
“The last time I was at the ranch, he kicked me out.”
“As I recall, you were already stomping out. It was mutual.” Gil eased himself onto the corner of her desk. “Calista, come on. He’s you dad. You’re his baby girl.”
“Sorry. I don’t want to spend an evening rehashing the past. Or worse, pretending it never happened.”
“It doesn’t have to be dinner. Just drop by the ranch.”
“Are you personally inviting me?” she asked. “You?”
“I act in his best interests. His best interest would be for you to take the first step.”
“Maybe I’ll give him a call.”
“That would be nice, but it should be a visit. And soon.” Gil saw her bristle. “I don’t make the laws of nature.”
“No, you just enforce them.” Callie didn’t mean it to sound so petulant. And then an idea occurred. “What’s the old man working on?”
“Not as much as he used to. But you know him. He likes to feel needed.”
“I’m sure he’s needed plenty. It’s the way Texas works.”
“It’s the way the world works.”
“So, he’s got a client? Something in the past week or so?” She had to force herself to look away from the laptop and all the unanswered questions she’d just been asking it.
“He does, as a matter of fact,” said Gil. “But he’ll make the time to see you.”
CHAPTER 5
The moment she turned off Hacienda Road onto the gravel drive, the memory dream came floating back, nibbling at the edges of her mind. Then just as quickly, it was gone.
The old homestead hadn’t changed, in the way that rich, well-maintained places have the luxury of always looking the same. The front door was unlocked. It usually was. Callie stepped into the cool of the main hall. “Hello?” The word was barely out of her mouth when a soft, happy yelp and the skittering scratch of paws on wood alerted her. “Angus? How’s my Angus?” She clapped her hands. “C’mon, boy.”
With his rear end wagging faster than his legs could move, the gray-faced Irish setter clattered his way into the hall. She bent down to greet him, and he nearly fell into her arms. Angus had been her mother’s dog. After her death and State’s departure for college, he had switched allegiance to Callie. Buddy had never been a dog person, preferring to cultivate loyalty in humans instead. “I’ve missed you,” she said, vigorous scratching the dog’s bony rump. His reply was almost a kind of purring. “Are you Daddy’s dog now? I’ll bet you are Daddy’s dog. When did you get to be so old, huh?”
“We’re all getting old, honey.” It was Sarah, coming from the direction of the kitchen, wiping her hands on the apron draped over her gray and white uniform. “Welcome home. Mr. Buddy will be so glad. He’s been talking about nothing else.”
“Cursing all the way, I imagine.”
“Nah, I can tell when he’s excited. C’mon, bring me some sugar.” After a long, warm hug, the older woman held out a hand to take Callie’s jacket. Callie ignored the gesture and crossed to the coat closet half-hidden in the dark paneling by the staircase. “I made brisket, your favorite. Mr. Buddy already started it on the grill when I got here. I’m finishing it in the oven, which probably goes against Texas state law. But it’s just as tasty, between you and me.”
“When you got here?” Callie closed the closet door. “What does that mean? You don’t live here anymore?”
“Honey, where have you been?” Sarah shook her head. “Nobody lives here. Just your daddy and Mr. Gil. They bring me in now and then for dinners. And, of course, for tonight. Just for you.”
“When did this happen?” Callie glanced around the entry hall. It seemed just as neat and polished as ever.
“Maybe a year. Oh, they have a cleaning service twice a week, and a gardener on weekdays, but even he doesn’t live on the property. I guess with just the two of them, they thought it might be wasteful.”
“What about cooking?”
“I asked Mr. Gil about that. He says they do some cooking and grilling themselves. And I saw some delivery menus in one of the kitchen drawers. The bachelor’s best friend.”
Callie had once asked her mother what the difference was between comfortably off, the term that almost everyone in their world used to describe themselves, and rich. “Live-in help,” her mother had replied rather proudly. The McFees had always had live-in help; Sarah in the kitchen and a full-time maid, a series of full-time maids, changing out every few years to get married or move back home. There had also been a handyman and a gardener sharing the gatehouse quarters, since her mother never thought it proper for a male servant to live in the main house. Gil wasn’t a servant, of course. He had his own suite of rooms facing the pond in the back. “Are there money problems?” she leaned in to ask, her voice lowered to a whisper. “Not that you would know.”
“That was my first thought,” Sarah whispered back with a hint of scandalous glee. “But your daddy’s still buying stuff. He had a whole new patio put in with a built-in grill and lots of fancy stonework. Must have cost fifty thou, maybe a hundred.”
Callie’s father was halfway down the curving staircase before she saw him. He was dressed for dinner, wearing a red tie and the same style of charcoal gray suit she recalled from all the wonderful and not so wonderful dinners of yore. She was glad that she’d changed her outfit at the last minute, opting for a summery dress, not a skirt, gathered at the waist and coming, when she remembered to pull it down, just an inch above her knees. “Daddy,” she said. His emergence from the shadows had taken her by surprise. “Hello.”
“Callie, honey,” said Buddy McFee casually, as if father and daughter had last seen each other this morning instead of nearly three years ago. “Did you have a good day? Tell me all about it over cocktails.” Before she could even think of a response, he had disappeared through the doorway leadin
g to the rest of the house. Angus abandoned her to follow him.
By the time dinner rolled around, her father had reverted into the man Callie had expected. She didn’t know if this was a result of the whisky he’d imbibed during the sacred rite of cocktail hour, or if he’d just decided to take a different tact, but the sarcasm and resentment were now on full display. At least the big subject hadn’t come up. It was as if they both realized it was off-limits, their family’s electrified third rail, the one topic there would be no walking away from.
“About time you came to see the old man.” Buddy was smiling his broad, almost threatening non-smile. “Your brother tells me you’re writing for the Pennysaver.”
Callie remained poised. “I’m surprised you’re so badly informed. That’s not like you.”
“Free Press. Same thing.” Buddy stuffed an oversized hunk of brisket into his mouth and let his teeth do the work. It was a habit Anita McFee had labeled disgusting but had been unable to change. “I’m shocked it’s still in business,” he muttered between chews. “Course you got your used car ads and the cents-off coupons.”
“A bit more than that,” she replied evenly. “We were shortlisted for a Pulitzer.”
“Was that for the car ads or the coupons?” Buddy covered his mouth and chortled. The chortle turned into a full-blown choke. It was loud enough to make Angus look up from the dog bed that Sarah had moved in from the study.
The choking fit didn’t worry Callie. Gil was right there, looking prepared, ready to provide his boss with a pat on the back or the Heimlich maneuver or perhaps a tracheotomy, to be performed with a wiped-off steak knife. The piece of brisket found its way into a napkin before any of them was needed. Angus snorted softly and lowered his head.
It was just the daughter, the father and Gil, at a mahogany table that could comfortably seat two dozen. She and her brother used to treasure their family dinners, at least the ones that Buddy showed up for, which happened once or twice a week. He would be in an expansive mood, eager to hear about their day and to lead discussions about school subjects or current events. He encouraged his children to express their opinions in complete, coherent sentences, a discipline that had served them well in life. By the time Sarah brought in the peach crumble or apple pie, they would be feeling smarter and magically more confident. Their mother was notably quiet on the evenings Buddy was at the table. Only years later did Callie guess what it must have been like for her, to have to deal with two normal, misbehaving kids day after day, and then to see her husband swoop in and mesmerize them with his concentrated doses of attention.
“Not exactly the career I would have predicted for our golden girl,” said Buddy. “What happened up in Dallas, if you don’t mind saying?”
“There were cutbacks.”
“You want me to talk to someone?” Buddy asked. “Is Bill Carlisle still the big man up there?”
“He is,” said Gil between his own mouthfuls. “What do you say, Callie? We can make the call. No problem.”
There was something about Gil’s tone that made Callie even more resolute. “No, I’m fine. Are you really so anxious for me to move back to Dallas?”
“I really don’t care where you are, honey,” Buddy said. “I just want you to be fulfilled. I can’t control your happiness, Lord knows. That’s your own doing. But if I can help you be fulfilled…” He paused, as if realizing he’d gone down the wrong path. “Course, it’s none of my business, is it? If it’s your ambition to write for tomorrow’s trash and mooch off your brother, what can I do?”
“Nothing you can do,” Callie agreed. “What about you, Dad? What are your ambitions?”
“My ambitions? Ha! What a word.”
“I mean, what are you up to these days?”
Not the smoothest of transitions, she thought, not the one she had rehearsed, but her father’s little snap of cruelty had emboldened her. “Are you going to travel?” she asked. “Spend more time on the golf course?”
“Golf course. What are you talking about?”
“Now that you’re retired.”
“I am not retired,” her father growled. “What the hell gave you that idea? I still keep my hand in.”
“Sorry,” Callie said. “Semi-retired.”
“Not semi-retired, either. I work all the time.”
Callie remained focused. She even added a touch of condescension. “I understand. Arranging access to the governor, getting people 50-yard-line seats at the Longhorn games. But it’s really just a few phone calls, right?”
“Not right.” Buddy was almost bellowing. “I still have my license, no thanks to you. And I work big cases. Just because I’m working behind the scenes doesn’t mean…”
“Most of the heavy lifting happens behind the scenes,” Gil piped in.
Buddy pointed with his steak knife. “You’re talking Buddy McFee, little lady. No one knows the system better than me.”
“There’s a lot of confidentiality,” said Gil, trying to be the voice of reason.
“Stuff you can’t talk about. I understand.” Callie nodded but looked unconvinced. “Change of subject. Sarah tells me you’re into cooking these days.”
“Cooking?” Buddy pronounced it like a foreign word. “I do no such thing.”
“I think it’s great having new hobbies, now that you have the time.”
“Jeez. Why the hell are you needling me?”
“Dad,” she purred. “Dad, there’s nothing wrong with slowing down.”
Gil eyed her suspiciously, while Buddy’s eyes narrowed to wrinkly little slits. “I’ll have you know I have a case right now. And it’s life and death, not some lousy traffic violation or football ticket.”
“Oh, I see. Is this the case State’s helping you with?” Callie let the question dangle.
What’s your brother been telling you?” Gil asked. “You must have misunderstood.”
“You’re fishing.” Buddy broke into a wide grin. “Very clever of you. All these years, Callie, and I never knew you enjoyed fishing.”
“I wouldn’t call it fishing, unless you think of Westlake as a real lake. The murder of the U.T. student? Briana Crawley?”
“Westlake…” Buddy scratched his chin. “Yes, I believe State mentioned it. But why would I be helping the police? They’re more than capable.” It was one of Buddy’s oldest tactics, avoiding the question by changing the question.
“I don’t mean helping the police. I mean a client.”
“A client?” Buddy repeated. “As far as I know they don’t even have a suspect. How can I have a client?”
“What about the person brought in for questioning?”
“But he’s no longer a suspect, is he? He was released.” It was a rookie mistake, one she hadn’t expected her father to make.
“Who was released?” she asked.
“Who what?” Buddy said with feigned befuddlement.
“Who was released? Someone important or well-connected? I hope you two didn’t manufacture an alibi for this man. That would be a horrible position to put State in. His own father…”
“We didn’t need to manufacture anything. As a matter of fact . . .”
“Lawrence?” Gil placed a firm hand on his boss’s arm. “That’s enough. She’s trying to rattle you. Don’t say anything more.”
“More?” Buddy was almost mumbling. “There’s nothing more to say.”
“That’s right,” Gil said gently. “Nothing more to say – except that an oven-finished brisket is never as good as a grilled one. Correct? I don’t care what Sarah tells you.”
“Damn straight.” Buddy waved away Gil’s hand and began to saw off another chunk. His knife hand shook noticeably. “Your mother would never let that happen.”
Callie nodded. “Mom was always a stickler for the rules.”
“Damn straight,” Buddy agreed. “Anita should know better, letting Sarah finish it in the oven.” He looked up from his plate and scanned the mahogany table. His face darkened. “Where th
e hell is Anita? She should be here.”
“She should,” Gil interjected, shooting out his hand again to Buddy’s arm. “I miss her every day.”
“What are you talking about?” Somewhere beneath his belligerence, Buddy seemed genuinely confused. He shifted his eyes to Callie on the other side of the table, as if seeing her for the first time. “Why are you sitting in your mother’s chair?”
“Mother’s chair?” Callie squirmed. This had always been Anita McFee’s place, on Buddy’s right side, literally if not always figuratively. That part of their lives had ended nine years ago. In the weeks after Anita’s death, Callie had refused to sit there, leaving a yawning, obvious space between her and her father. But Buddy had insisted. And for the last year of high school and all of college, she had eaten most dinners and the occasional breakfast at his side. Was he saying that she was no longer welcome there?
“Yes, your mother’s chair.” Buddy turned his head toward the kitchen. “Anita?”
Gil increased his pressure on the larger man’s arm. “She’ll be out here. Soon. Probably making herself pretty.”
“Bullshit. Where the hell’s Anita?”
Gil spoke slowly and firmly. “Lawrence, calm down. She’ll be here when she’s here.” Then his eyes connected with Callie’s. “We need to talk,” he whispered. “After dinner.”
Gil’s hand remained in place, comforting and controlling, as the room fell into silence, punctuated only by the sound of Buddy McFee’s chewing and his occasional grunt as his anxiety began to cool one degree at a time.
CHAPTER 6
Callie was in the oak-paneled study, waiting in one of leather chairs. She didn’t get up when Gil came down and joined her. He poured them both two fingers of whisky, no ice, and placed hers within reach on a side table. It was Gil who broke the silence. “He’s okay. Settled in for the night. Thank you for asking.”