Bead onTrouble

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  "I didn't. We ran a few min' utes over, which doesn't give you the right—"

  "I was helping, okay? Sales are way down. Way down, what with May's death. Usually everyone goes for the best kits first thing but not this time."

  "That's not my fault."

  "Yes? Well, what about you saying that 'beads are expensive, and you can save money this way' You shouldn't be talking people out of buying."

  "I didn't. If people make these beads, they'll still spend the same amount of money, they'll just have more beads. I didn't say it to hurt your sales." I stopped to calm down. This was not a weekend to go exploding at people. With as much sincerity as I could muster, I said, "I apologize if I did."

  He sucked in air, maybe storing up for another tirade, but then he let it out. He wasn't deflated, but at least he was slowed. "I'm sorry; I was overreacting, but I've got reason." His fists were clenched. "No one is buying, and I was already uptight because of this Tivolini thing. Cordy told you about that, didn't she? I mean, you two are old friends, so I figure you know." A touch of a whine in that.

  "She told Beth, not me. I'm not in the running."

  He began creating his demonstration space, while I stood there holding the equipment I'd used. "I don't have to tell you what the Tivolini contract could mean," he said. "I'd finally get some recognition." He laid out a black velvet cloth, and used more force than necessary to take apart a TonyCraft kit. There were two sacks of beads, some headpins, and nylon-coated wire for stringing, some findings and instructions. From his briefcase he took the pliers he would use, as well as a crimping tool. He also had samples . . . a necklace of deep blue with cloisonné beads set at artistic in-tervals. There were earrings to match.

  "The Tivolini contract could involve a lot of money, too," I said.

  "A lot. I could turn TonyCraft over to someone else to manage. Do you know that I sit up nights putting together each and every kit I sell? Every damn one! I shouldn't be doing that. Some underpaid little women in China should be doing that. And I shouldn't be packing every box that goes to a dealer and checking the invoices." He gestured around him. "I shouldn't be doing penny-ante demonstrations at Green Clover, either." "That Tivolini contract is going to change my life—finally."

  "Okay, but what happens if you don't get it?"

  He turned his glare full force on me, and I had to fight the urge to flinch.

  "III get the contract; don't worry about it:'

  I didn't like his tone, or his words. And I didn't like that he was dismissing the competition, especially Beth, as if she didn't have a chance.

  "Then I wish you luck." I didn't say which kind.

  "Thank you."

  I glanced around one last time. "If you'll put the surge protector and that extension cord by the bar, get them later." With my hands full, I very carefully bent down to get my briefcase. By the time I'd straightened, he was holding both items I'd mentioned.

  "Here, I'll just put them in this." He shoved them in the briefcase, tilting me off balance in the process.

  I straightened. "Why, thank you." I said it wishing I had the nerve to throw everything at him. It would never happen, but I could dream.

  Carefully, I made my way out, muttering, "Prima donna." I had to juggle everything as I crossed the road, then down the small path that would take me to the camp office. I could understand his desire to win the Tivolini contract—he was banking on more than the price of the contract. He would also gain respect in the beading community and, with luck, from those outside of it. It would create an upward spiral; the notoriety would al ow him to ask for more money for his kits. He could command higher prices for his demonstrations, too. He could author books that would sell.

  Given my druthers after the way he'd acted, I druthered it wouldn't happen.

  I made the last turn down the sloping path. The office was in front of me, and I got up the two steps without incident, but getting a hand free to open the door was a problem.

  When I finally did, I tripped over the sill and practically fell inside. A strong arm caught me, and then a warm body was against my own.

  "I've got you," said a deep masculine voice that sent chills through me. "Are you okay?"

  "Of course." I tried to straighten, but my briefcase slipped off my shoulder and caught on the doorknob.

  "Damn"

  "Here, let me help." He unhooked the strap and took the printer and computer from me. Our arms brushed and a tingle careened through my body from toes to nose hitting some hot spots along the way.

  "Oh, damn," I said again, this time softly. I knew that touch—and the voice. I even remembered the sizzle.

  "Now," he said, turning to me, so that for the first time I saw his face. "Are you really okay?"

  The face was similar, but not the same. The eyes were a deep warm brown, the cheekbones high and wide, and the hair a dark brown with streaks of silver. Not exactly Tom Cruise, but damn close, if you like men older and a little wiser, which I do. But it wasn't Jeb.

  He smiled and held out a hand. "Nate Wright. You must be Kitzi, since you're returning the computer. Cordy had me set it up for you."

  "Oh_ Thanks. Yes, I'm Kitzi Camden."

  We shook hands, and I felt the kind of electricity that Nate's brother Jeb had sparked in me. I didn't have anything to say; instead I stared at him, hoping I'd closed my mouth.

  "I'm surprised we haven't met before:' he was saying.

  "Yes."

  I thought of the crazy article I'd read about scientists determining if basic genetics governed attraction between men and women. The women were given T-shirts to sniff, but they never saw the men who had worn them. They didn't know age, weight, hairy or bald, short or tall. Each woman selected a favorite shirt, strictly by smell, and every single woman selected the shirt of a man whose DNA was most unlike her own.

  Apparently, primal attraction is real, and it assures strong offspring for the survival of the species.

  My DNA had to be polar opposite to the Wrights.

  "How did the demonstration go?" he asked.

  "What? Oh, fine. It was fine."

  "I didn't get to see what you made."

  "Beads."

  The Wrights are tall and long-legged with dark eyes and dark hair, and I'm under five-five, and I'm what I like to call full-figured with eyes that are mostly green, sometimes blue. I'm also fair. Formerly blonde, with natural silver highlights that look just like the kind some women pay a lot of money for.

  "What kind of beads?" he asked.

  "Beads? Oh. Paper beads."

  The Wright men, despite their name, were also trouble with a capital T; they were worse than Sinatra. At that moment they seemed a more immediate danger than a murderer on the campgrounds.

  "Nice meeting you. Thanks again for your help." I swung around and squarely hit the edge of the open doorway, nearly knocking myself senseless.

  "Hold on!" He caught me with one hand and moved the door with the other. "You're not having a good day."

  He turned me slowly to face him and we were inches apart, as another voice said, "Pardon me. Seems I'm interrupting." It was Sheriff Gonzales.

  I was still blinking. "I bumped into the door?' I realized that Nate's arm was steadying me and I shook it off, although I did so with care to avoid hitting anything else.

  "I'm fine," I said to Nate.

  The sheriff said, "You've been running into a lot of things lately."

  Did he know about the Lexus? Or was he referring to how I'd run into him that morning?

  "Are you sure you're okay?" Nate asked.

  "Fine," I repeated. My forehead hurt, but I wouldn't have rubbed it for all the beads in China. "Thank you, again." I looked at the sheriff, then at Nate. "If you'll excuse me, I need to get back to Sinatra."

  That gave them pause, but I didn't explain—I merely left.

  The sheriff was going to talk with us, and if the rumors were true, interview us, which put me and

  everyone else off their beef tips
and rice. I was desperately hoping for a quick resolution to May's murder, because I didn't want to have to lie about my whereabouts the night before. And I surely didn't want to tell the truth. In Texas, that's called being between a rock and a hard place.

  I got up with the rest of the group at our table, and headed for the big trashcans to scrape plates, drop off sil-verware, and throw away the trash. I nodded at Tony as I passed him, but neither of us spoke. I hadn't yet come up with a plan. Unless you call falling back on good-of-boy-speak a plan.

  I'd use just a little, then I'd pass the buck, and finish up with a quick shuffle off to Buffalo. Or the Lazy L.

  Cordy rang the brass bell, calling for attention, and we all took our places in silence. It wasn't a good omen. During more normal days the bell would signal the beginning of announcements; who had the best times at swimming and who was doing a skit at the campfire. After that would come songs, so that we left the dining hall energized and ready for more fun. Except it wasn't that way today. Today there was sorrow and anxiety.

  Sheriff Gonzales came out of the private dining room and walked directly to the spot where the bell was. He was all serious business.

  After a solemn glance around at us, he said, "Good afternoon. I have some disturbing news."

  "First, May Feather's death does not appear to be accidental." Careful phrasing or not, we knew what he meant—

  she'd been murdered. "I'm going to need your help:'

  Word had spread that we were supposed to bring photo identification to lunch, which isn't a regular part of getting a meal at Green Clover. Sande, who runs across lots of facts in her job as a research librarian, explained that legal ID was standard when giving an official statement. That was a tidbit I never thought I'd learn at camp.

  As the sheriff went on, I played with the arrangement of artificial bluebonnets in the center of the table. They were stuffed in an old boot with a bright red bandanna tied around it. They were too cute for this kind of occasion.

  The sheriff said, "I have already brought in DPS, the Department of Public Safety. They are working on the crime scene and forensics—"

  A male voice from the back of the room cut him off.

  "There are fifty women here at Green Clover; are they safe?"

  My heart stopped, and luckily the boot didn't contain water because I knocked it over. The voice that challenged the sheriff was one I knew well—it belonged to Jeb Wright, long-lost love and breaker of hearts. He was here, not just in camp, but in the dining hall, somewhere behind me.

  Damn. It took every, bit of my will power not to say it out loud. And to keep my eyes forward, focused on the sheriff.

  The sheriff said, "Yes, we believe that they are safe—"

  "How can you guarantee that?" Jeb's voice had a snappy ring of authority, and it wasn't near as pleasant as some other tones I'd heard him use.

  usually for a personal reason by someone close to them.

  You hear about it in the news. Boyfriend, girlfriend, family member, someone like that. That means the rest of you aren't in any danger?'

  "What if it was a serial killer?" Jeb pushed.

  "Then he's long gone." Funny, I hadn't noticed the His-panic accent before, but the sheriff was using one now. I wondered if it was because of the pressure, or if it was his equivalent of good ol' boy. "I understand your concern, so to make you feel better, I'm going to leave a deputy here on the grounds tonight."

  "One?" Jeb said. "One is hardly going to be sufficient.

  We need several men. If you don't have that kind of man-power, who can we hire?"

  I swung around to look at Cordy, to see how she was taking Jeb's interference.

  Not well. She looked like a hostess who'd had barbecue sauce spilled on her white carpet and was trying to be gracious about it.

  The sheriff ran his hand over his thin brown hair.

  "Mezner is the best."

  "Axe they located in Austin?" Nate asked from a far table.

  "Yes, sir. They're in the phone book."

  Cordy said, "Here's the most important thing: everyone has to be safe."

  "They are. As much as anyone is anywhere," the sheriff said. "It's always smart to be aware of your surroundings.

  Especially women. And don't go walking alone at night. If something does happen, scream loud."

  Was he talking about here at Green Clover or downtown New York? It wasn't the camp I knew.

  "What about carrying some kind of weapon?" Sande asked, slipping her straight auburn hair behind her ears.

  "Do you recommend that?"

  "Depends on what kind. This is Texas, and if you were thinking of putting a .357 under your pillow, I don't recommend it:'

  I have several guns at home, including two rifles and a revolver. That's legal in Texas. In fact, you can carry a weapon openly if you are traveling over county lines.

  I've been shooting since I was a kid, and I've never missed a rattlesnake, no matter the distance. Of course, I couldn't hit a deer or a rabbit for the life of me. When the concealed carry laws went into effect I considered getting a license, but my son convinced me that with my temper, I just might use the gun and then I'd be sorry. He was right, so my weapons were all locked up at home.

  Under cover of the audible response from the women I said to Beth, "Guess I could loan out my guns to people:'

  She raised one eyebrow at me.

  Jennifer's eyes got wide, and Angie said, "We'd end up shooting each other."

  "I'm from California," Sande said to the sheriff. "We're peaceful. I meant Mace."

  "Never carry a weapon you're not willing to have used on you, Mace included." He looked around at us. "I don't think any of this is necessary—"

  "What if your wife or daughter were here?" I asked before I realized I was going to do it. "Would you be comfortable with them staying overnight?"

  He gave me a tiny shake of his head. "Ms. Camden, I never feel comfortable when my daughter is out of my sight for very long, but she's seventeen and I'm a typical father." The tension shifted like mercury, and there were even a few small laughs. The man was a heck of a lot quicker than I'd given him credit for, and I wasn't sure I was glad.

  "Was she raped?" Lynn asked from another part of the room. There were gasps, and heads swiveled to glare in her direction.

  "We have no reason to think that. Ms. Feather was fully clothed when she was found."

  That brought another of those group responses, only this one was an audible release of air. Then Lynn, true to form said, "Well, I'm getting in my Hummer and getting out of here."

  "No. No one is to leave until we get statements." Sheriff Gonzales had lost his good-ol'-boy easiness.

  "Are we officially being detained?" It was Jeb again.

  The sheriff gave him a hard look from dark eyes. I couldn't hold myself still any longer—I turned to look at Jeb.

  He was standing near the back door, his body taut, but there was something else in his expression. He was doing battle and enjoying it. For him this was a testosterone-filled game.

  I looked him up and down. He was in his `business-casual attire' of khaki pants with a gray-and-green golf shirt. Must be the way he got off the plane. Even his hair looked sleek with its razor cut, and I could see he had man-icured nails. Yes, Jeb had grown up since he'd left Austin, but it hadn't all been good. Over the years since I'd seen him, his skin had turned sallow, and his eyes had sunken.

  Either he'd had a bad flight, or Jeb Wright was taking a beating in his life with the big boys.

  I looked at the sheriff again in his uniform. His face was craggy, his hair windblown, and I knew from our handshake that his hands were rough and calloused from hard work. City Boy vs. Tough Country Sheriff. I hoped Jeb would lose.

  When the sheriff spoke again there was power in his voice—this was his territory. "If you just got here and you want to go, that's fine with me. But if you were here last night and you don't help," he grazed us with his look, "I'm going to wonder why."

/>   Then he explained the drill. We were to be interviewed by law enforcement personnel. Those who hadn't been at camp last night were to go with one of the Department of Public Safety officers to the Saloon, and the rest of us were to wait our turns in the dining hall.

  At some point I stopped breathing. I had lied to Sheriff Gonzales once, and now I either had to admit the lie, or tell the truth. How could I say I had caught May and Ron together last night? That I had rammed Ron's Lexus? That I had withheld information?

  "Answer every question fully and volunteer what we don't ask for," the sheriff said. "Don't talk about this with each other. You could change your memories. We want to be the first ones you talk to."

  There were additional instructions, but I wasn't listening.

  My father, straight arrow and straight-laced, would have been angry at my lack of cooperation with law enforcement. I could hear his voice from years before, "We have to set an example, Katherine:' He didn't believe in breaking the rules or stepping out of line. We weren't above the law; as Camdens, we stood for it and upheld it.

  My grandfather might have been more understanding.

  He was a bigger, more freewheeling personality.

  Protecting a friend was important, and in some ways, I was saving time for law enforcement. They wouldn't be going off in directions that wouldn't lead anyplace. And I was positive neither Shannan nor Beth had anything to do with May's death. Yes, my grandfather would buy that, and maybe even support me in it, but I didn't think I could pull it off like he would have.

  I kept thinking of those two heads, Ron's and May's, popping up in my headlights. What if that had started an argument between them? I couldn't see Ron getting angry enough to kill, but then I couldn't imagine anyone willingly having sex with him, either.

  Mo-Ron.

  No, Ron wouldn't kill someone. I was almost positive, and the little doubt I had wasn't sufficient to make me tell all to the police. Not when it would throw suspicion on everyone in the family.