Bead onTrouble

by Barbara Burnett Smith

  "Why did you get your keys?"

  "Oh. Because I was going to lock my Land Rover. We don't usually do that, but it was near the road and all:'

  "Where on the river did you go?"

  The man didn't think in a straight line. His questions also weren't out of idle curiosity, not that I thought Peterson was capable of anything so normal. He was asking because May had been found in the river.

  "There is a trail that goes down from the campfire area.

  It's out there." I pointed, but I could have been gesturing in completely the wrong direction. "Wait. I don't know which way that is. The campfire is .. ." I'd never get any geogra-phy awards with that performance. "I'm mixed up now. It's straight down from the campfire. I listened to the water for, oh, I don't know. Awhile. Then I came back up."

  "Did you see anyone else?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure you didn't see anyone at all when you were on this walk?"

  He said, "this walk" as if I were making it up.

  I thought about the night before, the empty trails and how pretty the camp had looked under the stars. "I didn't see another person. Just horses."

  "Who were you looking for?"

  He said it as if he knew about Jeb and that I was hoping to run into him.

  "I wasn't looking for anyone. I was getting reacquainted with Green Clover. It was a homecoming."

  "Did you hear anyone?"

  "When I went to the barn I could hear people up the hill at the saloon, but just background voices. Nothing more."

  "And you got your keys to lock your truck." Peterson was staring at me as if his eyes were lasers. I didn't remember seeing him blink. Lizards hardly ever blink, either, and I don't much care for them.

  "That's right."

  "Except you left the camp," he said.

  I had expected they'd know that, and still it upped my heart rate. "Yes, I did, How'd you hear?"

  "Someone mentioned it," the sheriff said.

  "Someone?"

  "Someone who looked for you and was worried:* the sheriff continued. "They mentioned it this morning to me."

  I wanted to think about that, but I didn't get the time

  "So," the sheriff said, "where did you go? Who were you with?"

  There was nothing to do but tell the story that Shannan and I had concocted earlier.

  When I was done, Officer Peterson said, "Why Weldon and Company?"

  "Because they were the closest hardware store that was open."

  "You have vendors here." It was an accusation.

  My foot was tapping, and I carefully stopped it. "Yes, and I will end up getting Beth's present from one of them.

  But they shut down all the booths at six o'clock. They didn't reopen until this morning."

  "While you were at Weldon and Company, what did you look at, specifically?"

  That was not a question Shannan and I had discussed specifically. "Obviously, Weldon doesn't carry beads or findings, but we looked at pliers and some wire." I know better than to go off and improvise. You try that when you're in public office and some smart-mouth reporter will hang you. So, instead I prevaricated. "In beading we use needle-nose pliers and rounded pliers for bending head pins_ I'm going to get her present later, once she decides what kind of beading she wants to do. The demonstrations will help her with that "

  "But she didn't stay for Ms. Feather's demonstration,"

  he said.

  I nodded slowly. "No, I guess she didn't?'

  There was a challenge in every question the officer asked. "Why didn't she?"

  "I don't know."

  "And what time did you return to the camp?"

  "Good question." I was stalling because my breathing was ragged, and I didn't want him to hear that in my voice.

  After one more slow nod that I hoped looked thoughtful, I said, "I didn't check my watch, but Beth's demonstration was over, so I know it was after nine. Oh, wait, I saw the clock in the Rover; it was about nine-twenty when we got back here:'

  "And what did you do then?"

  "We went to the cabin and visited with some other people. Later they went to the Saloon, and I took two Tylenol PMs and fell asleep."

  "Did you hear or see anything during the night?"

  "Nothing."

  "What about when the others in the cabin came in and went to bed?" Peterson was making the headache come back.

  "I slept right through it."

  "Did you see Ms. Feather any time after the demonstration?'

  I took a breath in anticipation of the big lie corning up.

  "No, I didn't"

  "When else did you see Ms. Feather this weekend?" he asked.

  I looked straight into his lizard eyes. "I saw her walking toward the Saloon right after I got here, but I didn't speak to her. She was quite a distance away."

  "Was she alone?"

  "She was talking to someone." I scrunched my face up and thought about it. "I didn't pay much attention."

  That was lie number two and there was no reason for it, except I didn't like Officer Peterson. I didn't think I was protecting Nate Wright; more like I was just being obstinate.

  Peterson turned to Sheriff Gonzales. "Do you have any more questions?"

  "No," the sheriff said, with a shake of his head. "That pretty much covers everything."

  I let my shoulders drop for the first time since the interview had started. The release of tension felt wonderful. I stood. "If there's nothing more, I'll—"

  "No," Peterson said. "Be seated. I do have another question or two." He moved until he was sitting straight in his chair like a military recruit.

  I sat down. "What can I tell you?"

  He cleared his throat and threw out the question. "Why did you leave the camp this morning?"

  My muscles tightened back up. This guy did an interview like a bridge player laid out a hand. Or maybe he did an interview like Freddie Krueger went after his victims.

  "I left to pick up Sinatra." I was rewarded with blank stares. One small step for me . . , "My friend, Beth Fairfield, has a kitten who's been wreaking havoc at her house, and on Thursday," I paused. "Was that really just yesterday?" It didn't seem possible.

  The sheriff nodded. "Yes, ma'am, it was."

  Peterson wasn't quite glowering, but his expression held no warmth. "Go on?'

  "Oh, sorry. It just seems like so long ago." And that was the truth. Surely a lifetime had passed since I'd gone to pick up Beth for camp. "Anyway, yesterday Beth gave me the kitten. Unfortunately, I couldn't take him right then, since we were leaving for Green Clover, and I couldn't drop him at my house because I live a good twenty minutes in the other direction. Anyway, after I heard about May, I wanted some comfort; that's why I went to get Sinatra. The kitten. He's in our cabin."

  Peterson stared at me and waited, but I had nothing to add Particularly because I'd just remembered Mrs. Martin, and how I'd told her I was picking something up for Beth's demonstration. I was getting tangled in my lies, which is what happens when a basically honest person strays off the straight and narrow.

  Finally Peterson blinked and said, "Is there anything else you'd Iike to tell us?"

  Not to that man, I didn't. I shook my head no.

  Officer Peterson was still staring when Sheriff Gonzales leaned forward. "Okay, do you know of anyone who might have wanted Ms. Feather dead? Or any reason someone might have for killing her?"

  I considered it. The more I went over the options the less viable they seemed. No one would kill over the Tivolini contract. Love was a classic motive for murder, but from what I'd seen, May and Ron weren't having a lover's quarrel. Just the opposite.

  Between the two subjects, it was better to talk about the contract.

  "I know that competition for the Tivolini contract has people a little tense, but it doesn't seem important enough to kill over."

  Sheriff said to Peterson, "That's what Cordelia Wright was telling us about. That contract"

  "Oh. Sure." Peterson looke
d at me. "Are you up for it?"

  "No. I'm not what you would consider a designer."

  Peterson took his time, but finally he nodded. "And you didn't leave the cabin after you went to bed last night?"

  "No."

  "Anything else you'd like to tell us?"

  "Nothing."

  The sheriff requested that I not leave the camp until the retreat was over, However, he added that it was merely a request. If at some point I did need to leave, it would be appreciated if I told them where I could be reached.

  He added there would be a transcription of the interview, which I would have to sign. He also said I was not to talk to anyone about my interview, since it could prejudice what they had to say. Then I was free to go.

  And I went. I was out of there in a flash, almost tripping over Lynn who was sitting suspiciously close to the door.

  She tried to smile sweetly, but sugar wasn't in her nature. I had the worst feeling that she'd heard every word of my interview.

  I turned my back on her and started toward the table where Beth and Cordy were now sitting alone, but then I remembered that I wasn't supposed to talk to anyone. Beth saw me and waved. I pointed to the outside door, to let her know that I was leaving. She nodded, but she looked more worried than when Shannan had gone out on her first date—I didn't like that at all.

  I needed comfort in the form of a dip cone from the Dairy Queen outside of town, or maybe a piece of fudge from one of the little stores in Wimberley. I'd just have to tell Sheriff Gonzales that I was leaving. I headed back to the private dining room hoping he didn't ask where I was going and why. It wasn't a secret, but I didn't want Peterson to know he'd rattled me.

  The door was cracked open; apparently I hadn't closed it wel . Lynn was watching with great interest as I put my hand on the knob. Before I turned it, I heard Peterson say,

  "I don't give a damn—she's hiding something, and I intend to hound her until I find out what it is."

  The sheriff said, "You might want to remember who she is."

  Peterson made a snorting sound. "The Camden name doesn't mean shit to me."

  My head snapped up, and I saw Lynn with her snotty little grin aimed at me. Without malice aforethought, I pushed open the door. Two very surprised men looked up.

  "Officer Peterson:' I said. "I'm glad the Camden name doesn't mean 'shit' to you, and do you know why? Because translation is everything:' Then, before he could respond, and without any forethought at all, I muttered,

  "Little moron."

  I hadn't meant to say that out loud. I had shot from the mouth, as my son says.

  Peterson's face went rigid and white with fury, then just as quickly went cold and blank. Only his eyes showed emotion, they were icy, radiating something much deeper than anger. He raised one eyebrow and tipped his head just slightly. It was the look of the samurai, and the serial killer.

  He was making me a promise; he wasn't finished with me, and when he was, I would be very sorry.

  I closed the door and stood there shaking in the heat of camp. Lynn was still watching me, her eyes glittering with the cheap thrill of seeing me threatened.

  "Same to you," I snapped, marching toward the door.

  I thought of Peterson's face. My grandfather always said that if you live a full life, you'll make some enemies, and that's expected, but you had to remember that an enemy was a luxury. Sometimes a real expensive luxury.

  I had just made an enemy I couldn't afford.

  Thirteen

  I headed out, thinking that with my connections, surely, I was privy to information that would get this murder solved. Which in turn would get the DPS officers out of our camp, and Officer Peterson off my back.

  The more I thought about it, the faster I walked up the trails to the main road. Who did I know in the attorney general's office? I went through a list of names, but there'd been a regime change since my time in the senate. Two, actually, and I couldn't think of a single solitary person who had quite the power I was looking for.

  What if I just contacted some old colleagues? Maybe a senator who had some clout. Maybe John Cornyn. No, he was in Washington. There was Kevin O'Keeffe, who was in the attorney general's office, but this wasn't his area of ex-pertise, and wasn't he doing Sports Talk on the radio? Didn't matter, because I didn't much feel like explaining the problem to him. I didn't much feel like explaining it to anyone.

  The other thing is that I don't like asking for favors. My father always said that if you were asking for favors, you were getting something you didn't deserve in the first place. The rest of the political world doesn't feel that way, but he was a straight shooter, and I'd inherited way too much of that attitude.

  My feet had been moving as fast as my thinking, and I looked up to find myself nearly at the front entrance of the camp. For the first time since I'd been coming to Green Clover, the big wrought iron gates were closed. On this side was a female deputy who was pretending not to watch what looked like a carnival on the other side of the fence.

  There were two TV news trucks and one other van, and there were a couple of people looking in the gates, as if Green Clover was a great big zoo. The most animated one was the young man who was waving his arms frantically and shouting, apparently at me.

  "Hey! I need to talk to you. Hey!"

  I nodded at the deputy and made my way toward the gate. I recognized the yeller. He was a reporter for Channel 17 and he never seemed to how his butt from page ten.

  He'd covered two major events that I was part of and always blundered his way in and asked the stupidest questions I'd ever heard in my life. Once at a Bead Show he looked at Beth's booth, which was filled with incredible beaded jewelry, then he looked at Beth who was making a beaded bracelet and said, "So, you have something to do with beads, is that right?"

  "Hey—you," he yelled at me again.

  "Hay is for horses," I said, "And for little jackasses."

  That stopped him, but not for more than a second or two.

  "Well, hey, I just wanted to put you on TV. Make you a star—"

  Lounging against a van was another reporter who was trying hard not to grin. That was tough because he, Lar Brill, has a megawatt smile and it sneaks out whether he likes it or not.

  "Mr. Brill," I said, moving in his direction.

  "Ms. Camden," he responded.

  "Hey," the young reporter said, "do you how her? Who is she? I could use an interview here."

  "Friend of yours?" I asked Larry.

  "I've never invited him to my Christmas party," Lar responded.

  "Yes, but have you ever invited me?" I wanted to know.

  Larry Brill has been in Austin news long enough to make lots of friends. While most reporters operate on the theory that "if it's bleedin', it's leadin'," Larry has convinced the powers-that-be that news should also include coverage of people who aren't murderers or crooks, and events that aren't just car crashes or political scandals.

  What a concept. When major charity functions are in the works, Lar is the one person who will do a story on it. The nonprofits in this city have raised millions of dollars because of him, so he has entrée to any event he finds interesting. As a result, he got a personal invitation to the president's inaugural ball when his bosses couldn't buy a ticket from a scalper.

  "Actually, I've invited you to my party twice;' Larry said, "but you never attend."

  "Conflicts," I explained. "But if you invite me, I'll be there this year. Now tell me, what in the world you are doing here?"

  "The news director decided that I'm the natural for this story, since 'these are my people.' " He shook his head.

  "She said that with a straight face, even though we both know we're short-staffed,"

  I was looking around. "Is there some place that we could talk?"

  He seemed a little surprised but nodded toward the van.

  "Will that do?"

  "Too hot."

  "Hey, hey—what about my interview?" The little jackass was only a few fee
t away.

  "Not interested;' I said. "Thank you for the offer."

  "Well, hey, you should want to be on TV. How about if I just hang out with you and Lar, in case you change your mind—"

  "We," I said to him, putting my band through the gate to gesture to Lar, "Mr. Brill and I, are going for a private tete a tete_ You don't know what that is, but you should understand the word private. Have you gotten that far in your vocabu-lary book?"

  "You didn't have to get snappy;' he responded. "If you don't want me to make you famous, it's your loss, not mine."

  Lar was grinning full force now. "Ms. Camden, how about if I follow you?"

  "This way." I turned to my right, away from everyone else at the gate, and walked along the fence line behind May's trailer, which now had bright yellow police tape crisscrossing the door. May wouldn't have liked the color combination.

  There was a small path on my side of the fence, but Larry had to fight his way through sticker vines, algarita bushes with thorns, and scrubby oaks.

  "Where are we going?" he asked. At least he was a good sport about it.

  "You'll see."

  We went on for about the length of a football field until I found a gate in the wire fence. In the past I'd never had need of it, but I thought now would be a good time to see if it worked.

  Turned out the old wrought-iron gate wasn't even locked, just latched with a rusty stretch of wire. I slipped it up, and Lar crawled through a bush to meet me.

  "I'm glad you opened this," he said, dodging errant branches. "Otherwise, this might be illegal entry."

  "You're my guest," I said. I gestured toward the path that would take us even farther from the gate and anyone who might overhear us. "Could you use a little exercise?"

  "Oh, sure. Why not?" He was brushing the scratches on his arms.

  "I'm sorry about that."

  "No need to apologize for the flora; it goes with the territory."

  And so we walked. After a few minutes he said, "What's so secretive? Can you tell me why you're luring me off into the woods?"