by Becki Willis
“I don’t think it was something he planned. I’m guessing Tony found out about Nigel’s gift to us, and it made him so angry that he acted irrationally.”
“A crime of passion?”
“I’d much rather believe that,” Maddy whispered, snuggling closer against him, “than to believe we invited a cold-blooded killer to our reception.”
“Is there anything else I can get for you, husband of mine?” Madison bent to press a kiss onto his lips the next morning, tasting of maple syrup and apple-cured bacon.
“I could pretend to be asleep, and you could use your special wake-up technique on me again.”
“But we’re both already dressed, and the goal of the wake-up technique is to get us completely naked and in the shower.”
“I’m glad you went with the oversized option when you remodeled the bathroom.”
“I never knew how handy all that space would become,” she agreed, matching the wicked twinkle in his eyes with a glimmer of her own.
“I will take more coffee, if you don’t mind.”
She moved to get the coffee pot. “I’m sure you have a rough day ahead of you.”
“Tony agreed to voluntarily come down to the station. I advised him to bring his attorney with him, but he insisted it wasn’t necessary.”
“Could we have it wrong? Is it possible Tony didn’t kill Nigel?”
“Of course it’s possible. Nigel could have accidentally ingested that shrimp, but it seems highly unlikely. The seafood was on one table, the barbecue on the other. Any mix-up had to happen at the table. And we all know Tony had means, opportunity, and motive.”
“But we’re assuming he knew Nigel was allergic to shellfish, when that might not be the case. I get the feeling the men weren’t ever close and personal friends, and that’s not something that comes up in casual conversation.”
“It could,” Brash argued. “They’ve known each other for over ten years. Who knows what conversations they’ve had during that time? And for all we know, it was something Tony discovered last night. It may have given him the perfect opportunity, especially if it was a crime of passion, like you suggested.”
“But how would Tony have gotten the shrimp into Nigel’s fold over? He couldn’t very well say ‘excuse me, while I bury my shrimp in your brisket.’”
“Call me a lovesick fool on his honeymoon, but that has a dirty ring to it,” Brash grinned.
Madison swatted him on the shoulder. “I’m serious. How would Tony meddle with Nigel’s plate, especially without someone seeing him?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I plan to ask my old friend. Under oath.”
“I wish I could come with you, sweetheart.”
“You shouldn’t have to spend your first full day as a newlywed at the police station.”
“Neither should you,” she pointed out.
“I know, and I’m sorry. I know I’m off duty, but I feel I need to be there for this. I’m sorry to run out on you.”
“I understand, Brash. I hate it for your sake, not mine. Tony is your friend.”
“As was Nigel. I owe it to him to do a thorough investigation into his death, no matter where the leads take me.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Even though her client was no longer alive, Madison felt compelled to continue her investigation into the old man’s next of kin. If nothing else, any newly discovered family could attend his funeral.
Madison had papers scattered over her desk as she waded through the life and times of Nigel Barrett. With the old Barrett family Bible as her road map and copies of records found at the county clerk’s office, Madison was knee deep in piecing together his family tree.
The reading was interesting. Madison always enjoyed learning about history, and the Barrett family was steeped in it. The old Bible traced bloodlines back to the 1700s, when the first Nigel Barrett left Ireland to settle in the southern portion of North America. The trail led through Virginia, Alabama, and into Texas. Samuel Earl Barrett and his brother Eugene were among the original Old Three Hundred to receive a land grant from Stephen F. Austin. According to the Bible, the land along the Brazos had been in the Barrett family since 1827, when the brothers laid claim to a sitio (four thousand, four hundred plus acres) for ranching purposes. In the midst of settling and clearing the wild land, the Barretts were caught up in the Runaway Scrape and were forced to temporarily leave their new home when Santa Anna invaded Texas. By the time they returned, their log cabins had been ravaged, by either the Mexican Army or the Indians. The Bible bore the record of starting over, and of all the marriages, births, and deaths since that time. There were interesting notes written in the margins, noting memorable moments in time. Several old papers and certificates were stuffed among the yellowing pages, none of which Madison disturbed.
The shrinking of the Barrett dynasty made Madison sad.
Through the years, those four thousand acres had shrunk to four hundred. According to the old Bible, some ten or so years after the Republic of Texas was admitted into the Union, the Barretts sold most of their sitio to Bertram Randolph. The planter took advantage of the rich river-bottom soil and soon built a cotton empire along the Brazos. Madison knew that before his death in the early 1900s, Randolph gave each of his quarrelsome daughters, Naomi and Juliet, sufficient land to start their own towns but left the bulk of his estate to his most trusted employee, Andrew deCordova.
Fast forward a hundred plus years later, and the deCordova and Barrett families still owned the land.
But the saddest fact of all was that the Barrett clan, once so large and robust, had shrunk to a single soul, and now even he was gone. Madison understood now why the old man had been so eager to find his unknown family. A collateral descendant was better than no descendant at all. With him gone, the Barrett legacy was extinguished, for all intents and purposes. It wasn’t just about the land; who would inherit the family Bible? Would anyone ever know the history of their family, as recorded in the thick old tome?
The thought was depressing. If only to herself, Madison pledged to find Nigel’s long-lost family.
According to Collette, the most likely close relative was RR78, whoever that might be. The cryptic profile identified the person only as a male living in Texas. Until he replied to her request to connect, she was at a dead end.
At least she had the name of Nigel’s niece now. Madison typed it into her database searches. As she feared with a given name such as Laura Jean—not to mention the almost generic surname of Thomas—there were dozens of hits. Searching for Laura Jean Huddleston, Laura Jean Ruiz, and Laura Jean Winston only compounded the results. She confined her search to people in Central Texas, specifically the Waco/Temple/Killeen/Marlin area, trimming the list down to eighteen. By the time Madison threw in the parameters of an estimated age and the assumption of race, the list dwindled to seven.
She paired the name Eric with each of the last names and searched again, but the two resulting leads were doubtful. Abandoning that angle for now, she concentrated on the seven women on her list.
Most of the hits came from obituaries, which didn’t bode well for finding Nigel’s surviving relatives. Tracking down the families of the deceased women meant even more searches and a serious investment of her time. For now, Madison put copies of the obituaries into a file for later perusal.
By mid-afternoon, Madison’s back ached, and her eyes were crossed. This was hardly how she had envisioned her first day as a newlywed. She knew for her dear husband, it must be ten times worse. He was still at the police station, interrogating one of his oldest friends on possible murder charges.
Taking a break, Madison made a glass of iced tea and carried it to the front porch swing. It was another lovely spring day and, being a Sunday, the street out front was quiet.
She settled in and replayed the joyful events of yesterday in her head. Despite the leaky clouds and the disastrous ending to the reception, it had been a wonderful day. She allowed her mind to stroll through th
e happy moments that joined her life with that of the man she loved.
All too soon, the remembered timeline brought her to the reception, and her thoughts stumbled into that fateful moment when Tony and Nigel got into an argument. She tried to recall exactly what she had seen, exactly what she had overheard.
Nigel and Tony were seated across from one another, and Nigel was already on his feet, towering over Tony. She vaguely remembered Allen tugging on Nigel’s arm, trying to settle him down, and Collette grabbing for the tablecloth. The white cloth bunched in Nigel’s hand, right along with his napkin.
For a man of such considerable bulk, Tony had moved quickly, coming to his feet and meeting Nigel nose to nose over the wildflower centerpiece. A former linebacker and still in his prime, Tony was bigger and stronger than the older gentleman, but old Nigel hadn’t backed down. He had yelled at the other man, something about over his dead body.
Tony hadn’t been opposed to the suggestion. Hadn’t he said something to that order? Something about Nigel doing everyone a favor and kicking the bucket? The guest seated next to Tony—another former NFL player, though his name escaped her now—pulled him away and tried to reason with him, but she recalled how Tony jerked his arm free and stalked off, his face dark with anger.
The question was, had Tony been angry enough to do something to harm the older man? And when would he have done it? Even if Nigel left his plate unattended, there were people all around them. Surely, someone would have noticed him meddling with the other man’s food. And given their frequent animosity toward one another, Madison couldn’t image a scenario where Tony had offered to fetch seconds for his cantankerous neighbor.
So how, she wondered, would Tony have managed to taint Nigel’s fold-over with the deadly shrimp?
Before she could ponder the question further, a familiar truck pulled up. With his ever-present welding rig and faithful dog perched upon the flatbed, Cutter Montgomery drove straight into the driveway. Because he was like family, he was one of the few people to have access to the gate’s code.
“Morning, Mrs. deCordova!” he called jovially as he climbed from the truck.
Madison returned the greeting with a wave and a happy smile. “Good morning to you, Mr. Montgomery.”
She watched as the younger man approached. To the dismay of women throughout the county, from the ages of two to ninety-two, Cutter Montgomery was off the market. The man was totally and utterly in love with his wife.
Married life agreed well with the handsome firefighter. The laugh lines around his blue eyes and sensual mouth appeared deeper now. His broad, bony shoulders still punched from the cotton of his western-styled shirt, but they seemed more relaxed, as if they had finally found the skin that fit. Just six weeks in, but Madison thought marriage had already thickened his flat belly, ever so slightly.
“I hate to come calling at the honeymoon cottage so soon, but I’m looking for your new husband.” Only Cutter would call the three-story mansion a cottage. He had an easy sense of humor about him, a special knack of putting people at ease and bringing a smile to their faces.
One touched hers now. “I’ll forgive you, especially since I’m alone here at the cottage.” The amusement fell from her face. “Brash is still down at the police station.”
A slight frown puckered his brow. “I didn’t see his truck. Guess I missed it.”
“Would you like some tea?” She moved aside, making room for him there on the swing.
He pulled the cowboy hat from his head as the swing danced beneath his weight.
“Thanks, but Genny’s expecting me back soon. If I play my cards right, she’ll be taking a batch of apple turnovers out of the oven about the time I walk through the door.” He winked mischievously.
“You’re going to turn into an apple turnover one of these days!” Madison predicted with a sharp burst of laughter.
“Can I help it if my wife is the best cook in the state?”
“I know Blake is certainly missing her and her culinary talents these days. The poor kid is stuck with having his mother cook for him.”
“You can send him over to the house once in a while for a mercy meal. No offense,” Cutter added quickly. “You’re a fine cook, yourself.”
She laughed again. “No offense taken. I’ll be the first to agree that my friend is a better cook than I am.”
A comfortable moment lingered between them, until Cutter shifted upon the swing. Madison sensed it correlated with a shift in his mood.
“What is it, Cutter?” she asked in a resigned voice.
“Why do you think something’s up?”
“Because I know you. And I also know you wouldn’t come over to the ‘honeymoon cottage’ unless there was something serious afoot. Spill it.”
He didn’t answer immediately. “So Brash is down at the police station, questioning his old friend about murder?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Motive?”
Madison’s shrug was graceful, despite the mood it reflected. “Anger issues? An argument that got out of hand? Money? Upon Nigel’s death, Tony will get fifty percent of the mineral rights to the land he bought from him. I suppose that could be a motive.”
Cutter fingered the straw hat in his lap, not quite meeting her eyes. “I was in town earlier and heard some rumbling. I thought I should give Brash a heads up.”
She nodded. “With Tony being his friend, I know Brash will come under extra scrutiny.”
“It’s not just the Tony angle.”
“What is it, then?”
“Word of Nigel’s wedding gift has made it through the grapevine.”
“That didn’t take long, even by The Sisters’ standards!” There was no humor in her snort. A full moment passed before she angled her head and thought to ask, “But what does that have to do with anything?”
“There’s a few—and by a few, I mean one. Joel Werner—who thinks that complicates matters and offers a new motive to killing ol’ Nigel.”
“I get the Joel Werner thing. The man is after Brash’s job and makes no bones about it. But, again, what does our wedding gift have to do with anything?”
“Is it true that Nigel gave you fifty percent of the mineral rights on your land as a wedding present?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“So when Nigel dies, Brash and you would own the full rights.”
“Right. But I still don’t see—” She broke off abruptly, as a sick feeling wormed its way into her stomach. “Wait. You can’t be suggesting… That—That’s ludicrous!”
“Of course it is. And I’m not suggesting it. But Joel Werner wasted no time in making the suggestion.”
Madison stared at her friend in horror. “That man’s actually accusing Brash of—of murdering Nigel?”
“Not yet, he’s not. But I have no doubt it’s coming. Right now, he’s just planting the seeds of doubt. Suggesting that Brash and Tony may have been in on this together. But I’m sure it won’t be long, and he’ll start talk about Brash being the one to benefit the most from Nigel’s death.”
“That is utterly insane.”
“I know. And I hate to lay this at your feet—on your honeymoon, of all times—but I thought you two needed to know. It’s better to snip these things off in the bud, before they burst out in full bloom.”
“Absolutely,” Madison agreed, but her voice sounded dazed. She had obvious trouble absorbing the farcical rumblings. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing this to our attention.”
Cutter laid a comforting hand on her arm. “You do know that very few people will even listen to the man. He’s a fanatic, and most folks see him for the sleek politician he is, spouting lies about other people to make himself look better.”
“But there will be a few…”
“There’s always a few, Maddy. The important thing is that anyone with any sense knows Brash would never be part of something like this, no matter how much money was at stake. For every person who gives Joel Werner the
time of day, there will be ten others who have Brash’s back. And I’ll be at the head of that line.”
“I know that, Cutter. And thank you. You and Genny are always there for us when we need you.” She hugged his neck and felt the kiss he brushed against her hair.
It wasn’t until Cutter said goodbye and started for the front steps that Madison thought to ask, “Hey, Cutter. You said something about money being at stake. What are mineral rights worth, anyway?”
“It all depends, but right now, a decent price would be a thousand dollars an acre. That’s just the bonus consideration, mind you, for allowing the company rights to exploration. If they should drill a well and hit a vein, then you would get royalties. Some of those could be quite hefty.”
“I didn’t realize mineral rights were such a big deal.”
“That’s why a lot of people sell the land but retain the mineral rights. These days, it’s rare to own a full one hundred per cent of the rights to any piece of property. Even fifty percent is good.”
“I see.” Her tone was distracted, as she digested the information he had just told her. Lifting her hand in a wan farewell, she said something about his turnovers getting cold, but her mind was already moving ahead.
Maybe I should be asking if Tony’s decade-old feud with Nigel over the mineral rights was worth murder, she mused. She paused to do the math in her head.
If the bonus on leasing was worth a thousand dollars an acre, even fifty percent of the mineral rights on Tony’s hundred acres would amount to $50,000. Not a fortune, but maybe the former player had fallen on hard times and was desperate. According to the news, people committed murder for far less. Just the other day, she read about a woman who stabbed a co-worker to death because she stole her fifty-cent ink pen. She even used the stolen ballpoint to do the deed.
Tony Sanchez hardly seemed like one of them, however. From what she could see, he was a polite, personable man. True, he had a temper, but that didn’t qualify him as a murderer.