"John? Hi, it's Kate. . . Yes, I did. Thank you, they're beautiful. . . Not at all. Everybody has a bad day. Listen, do you have some time this morning? There's something I'd like to talk to you about. . . Great. I'll be in town as soon as I get these animals fed."
18
"Can you see anything?" Mandy asked, craning her neck back and looking up at her sister in the hayloft.
Jenny, angling the beam of a flashlight across the rafters, quickly made out the hand-over-hand pattern Jack Swinton had described to them. "Yes, I see the marks."
As soon as they heard Kate's truck pull out the front gate, Jenny insisted she and Mandy go to the barn to see the latest evidence for themselves.
"But I don't like heights," Mandy protested.
"Fine. You can stay on the ground, but I want to see what Swinton's talking about."
Now, in the dusty air of the barn, a picture of the scene that played out was forming in her artist's mind. "Mandy, take a couple of steps forward . . . now a little left . . . a little more . . . . stop!"
Her sister was now standing under the first handprint in the pattern. That must be the spot where someone stood and watched Langston Lockwood commit suicide.
Jenny climbed down the ladder from the loft and positioned herself where her father had knelt in the powdery dirt. "Well, that explains that," she said. "Whoever it was stood too far away to get any . . . debris on them. Everything went backwards. How tall do you think someone would need to be to jump up and grab the rafter?"
Mandy looked up, stretching one arm above her head. "A lot taller than I am."
Jenny took her phone out of her pocket, thumbed through her contacts, and placed a call. "Josh?" she said after a few seconds. "It's Jenny . . . uh . . . yeah . . . uh, me too . . ." she fumbled, sticking her tongue out at her grinning little sister. "That's not why I called . . . I mean . . . damn it . . . how tall are you? Six four? Perfect. Can you drive over here? . . . No, I do not need a can taken off the top damned shelf. Would you just get over here . . . please . . . thank you. We're in the barn. Yes, it is about Daddy."
In less than 10 minutes they heard Josh's truck pull to a stop in front of the yard. He loped across the space to the barn, instantly removing his hat in their presence.
"For God's sake, would you stop with the hat," Jenny scolded, but she stood up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.
A delighted grin split his face, "Morning, sugar," he said. And then turning to Mandy he added, "And little sugar."
Mandy giggled. "Morning, Josh."
"So," he said. "One tall man reporting for duty. What do you need?"
Jenny repeated Jack Swinton's revelation about the bloody handprints on the rafters. Without a word, Josh held out his hand for the flashlight and climbed the ladder into the loft. "I'll be damned," he said, when he came back down. "I'm guessing the X in the dirt is right under the first one?"
"Yes," Jenny said, "and I'm trying to figure out how tall a man would have to be to make that jump."
"Might not be height so much as what kind of shape he was in," Josh said. He positioned himself under the rafter, bent a little at the knees, and uncoiled his body upward, catching hold of the rafter and hanging by one hand. "I'd say any man from six feet on up in reasonably good shape could do it with no trouble."
"How hard is it to get from one rafter to the next?" Mandy asked.
Josh dropped to his feet. "I don't want to mess up those prints," he said. "Let me move over a little bit."
A few feet to the right, Josh re-executed the jump, this time catching hold with both hands. He swung his body back and forth a couple of times to create momentum, and then started hand-walking across the rafters. He reached the barn door in seconds and dropped to his feet.
"Was that as easy as it looked?" Jenny asked.
"No," Josh said, rubbing his shoulders. "But any guy who ever survived an obstacle course in high school P.E. could pull it off. I wouldn't say it's a job for a couch potato, but once you pick up momentum, the motion matters as much as the strength."
"So someone youngish to middle-aged?" Jenny said, chewing her lip.
"Ouch!" Josh grimaced in mock pain. "Who are you calling middle-aged?"
Ignoring him, Jenny went on. "A youngish to middle-aged man, six feet or taller, driving a sedan."
"With A positive blood," Mandy supplied helpfully.
"Well, that narrows the pool of suspects right on down," Josh said, leaning up against the barn door. "Can't imagine why the law hasn't brought someone in."
Kate finished relating Jack Swinton's information to John Fisk, including her own examination of the area. "I climbed up myself," she said. "It's clearly how the witness got out of the barn without leaving a trace."
John stared at his desk blotter in silence for several seconds until Kate shifted uneasily in her chair. "Aren't you going to say something?" she asked finally.
Fisk looked up. "Well, it's an odd development," he said. "But unfortunately, it doesn't tell you much."
"It tells me Daddy went to the barn with someone that day and took a .45 with him," she said.
"But if the other person meant to do him physical harm, why would Langston kill himself? Why not kill this other person?" John asked.
"You talk like a lawyer, John Fisk," she grumbled.
"I am a lawyer," he said mildly, "and I'm afraid I agree with the Ranger captain. Nothing invalidates a finding of suicide. You just know someone didn't or couldn't stop your father from pulling the trigger."
"Couldn't stop him?" Kate asked, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"Well," John said reasonably, "maybe the second person had no idea what Langston was planning to do and was taken unawares. Suicide must be a horrific thing to witness. They could have just panicked and fled the scene."
"I guess," Kate said, not sounding at all convinced. "But I'm telling you, just the fact Daddy was talking to someone in the barn is strange. He didn't like people, John. He avoided folks like the plague."
"Your father was a well-documented misanthrope," John agreed.
"Misanthrope?" Kate snorted. "He was an anti-social son of a bitch."
Fisk laughed. "I was trying to be nice. Now," he said, pushing back his chair, "haven't you had enough of this for one morning? Why don't you join me for lunch?"
"Well," she hedged, "I should get back . . ."
"Oh, come on," he said. "You have to eat and I'm tired of having a hamburger at my desk every day. Please?"
"Okay," she relented, smiling. "I'd love to."
As they got up to leave, John reached to switch off the light in his office. A framed piece on the wall by the door caught Kate's eye and she leaned in toward the picture. "Are those men our fathers?" she asked in astonishment.
"Uh, why, yes . . . they are," John said. "What are you hungry for?"
"Wait a minute," Katie said, staring at the photo. "They went to high school together? I never knew that."
"You didn't?" Fisk asked.
"No, I didn't," she said pointedly. "That photo makes it seem like they were pretty good friends."
"Do you think?" Fisk asked, moving to stand behind her. "They were both on some kind of 4H judging team. Daddy never said anything about them being friends."
"John, for heaven's sake, my father has his arm around your father's shoulder," Kate said.
"Huh," John said. "To tell you the truth, that's been hanging there so long, I've never paid it any attention. Who knew? I guess everybody gets along better when they're young. My Dad did work for yours for years."
"Yeah, and Daddy treated him like dirt."
"That's a bit extreme, Katie," John said evenly. "Langston didn't treat my Dad any worse than he treated anyone else in this town."
"That's not how I remember it. I wonder if something happened between the two of them."
"Well, if it did," John said, a little too brightly, "it was about 150 years ago and it hardly matters now. Come on. I'm starving."
He motioned w
ith his hand indicating she should go down the hall first. She dropped the subject because John clearly didn't want to discuss it any farther, but something about the discovery that at some point in his life her father apparently had a friend nagged at her.
She'd never given much thought to her father's terrible disposition since it was an inescapable and looming fact of her life, but was it possible that Langston Lockwood hadn't always been a complete bastard? Now there was an idea she'd never considered.
19
Joe didn't wait for Mandy to knock on the door of the old Victorian house that was once his grandmother's. He was down the walk before she could cut the engine, and at the car door, his hand extended as she stepped out.
"Hi!" he said, sounding like a school boy. "You look so pretty," he added, forcing himself not to duck his head with his habitual shyness.
"Thank you, Joe," she said, taking his hand and squeezing his fingers. She stood on tip-toe and gave him a light kiss, grinning when he blushed.
"You're gonna set the neighbors talking, Mandy," he said, obviously delighted by the idea.
"Wouldn't they be talking anyway?" she teased, still holding his hand.
"Sure, but they don't usually have anything to say about me."
"Then it's high time you gave them something to talk about," she said, looping her arm around his waist as they moved up the front walk and climbed the three steps to the door.
Inside the foyer, Mandy stopped in astonishment. The home was decorated with period perfect antiques. The late afternoon sun flooded the front parlor, throwing beams of light over a rosewood settee upholstered in green velvet.
"Oh, Joe!" she breathed, walking around the room and running her hand over expanses of polished wood. "It's like walking into a movie set."
"I decided to keep the front rooms correct to the period," he said, proudly. "Granny had all this furniture stored. I restored the pieces and had them all reupholstered. Almost everything in here belonged to my family."
"You did all the restoration yourself?"
"I wouldn't trust anyone else," he said, seriously. "I had one man suggest stripping everything and coating the wood in polyurethane because the finish would be more durable. I had nightmares for a week after that conversation," he said, shuddering. "Can you imagine doing that to such gorgeous wood?"
"No, I can't," she admitted.
That won her an even bigger smile. "Now," he said, "be prepared for time travel." He motioned her down a hallway toward the back of the house. They stepped into an open concept space where a tidy kitchen flowed seamlessly through a comfortable dining area and into a warm, compact den.
"This is where I spend most of my time," Joe said. "The front rooms are kind of a hobby for me. I don't need a lot of space to live."
"Where do you sleep?" Mandy asked, resisting the urge to giggle when he blushed again.
"Here," he said. "That cabinet folds down. It's a Murphy bed."
"I didn't even know they still made those," she said. "Do you use the upstairs?"
"It's not very big," he said. "There are two guest rooms up there, but they don't get used much. Mainly at Thanksgiving and Christmas when there's an overflow of relatives. Wine?" he asked, holding up a bottle of red.
"Yes, thank you," she said, coming to stand beside him in the kitchen. "I thought you were cooking dinner."
"Already have," he said.
She glanced around the spotless kitchen. "In here?" she asked incredulously.
"I cleaned up," he said, busying himself with the cork screw.
"Where's the food?" she asked curiously.
"In the warming oven." The cork came loose with a satisfying pop and he filled two glasses. "I didn't want us having to fuss over stuff. The food's ready whenever you are."
"I'm in no hurry," Mandy said, accepting the wine glass. "Tell me about how your economic planning meeting went. It was this morning, wasn't it?"
Visibly pleased that she remembered, Joe launched into a discussion of the plans to bring new businesses into the empty buildings lining the town's Main Street. As she listened to him talk, they moved into the den and settled on opposite ends of the couch. From her vantage point, Mandy was able to keep her attention on Joe and take in the details of his living space, the titles of his books, the framed pictures with his nieces and nephews, the little "treasures" tucked in corners of shelves.
She asked questions in all the right places, accepted more wine when it was offered, and settled into the crook of his arm when he sat closer to her on the couch. "And so," he said, "I think we can get the grant from the state with this version of the proposal. It's taken all winter to get the language right, but it's ready to go to Austin now."
"When will you know?" she asked, putting down her wine glass and turning toward him.
"Oh, you know, bureaucrats," he said, his eyes on her face, "always taking their own sweet time . . . God . . . you are beautiful . . ." His voice trailed off and he looked vaguely uncertain.
"Joe, honey, this is the part where you kiss me again," she directed gently.
"Yes, ma'am," he answered automatically.
Could it be possible his lips were even softer than they'd been 24 hours before? He was wearing aftershave that left just a subtle scent on his skin, not overpowering, but warm and strong. She felt the smooth, ironed cotton of his shirt under her hands, and beneath that, the hard muscles of his chest and shoulders.
She sighed when he threaded his fingers into the hair at the back of her neck. It would be very easy to give in and go all the places her mind was imagining, but gradually she lessened the intensity of her responses until they were cuddled against one another. "We need to have dinner," she whispered against his lips.
"Woman, you are always trying to feed me at the damnedest times," he whispered back.
She laughed against his cheek, "Oh don't you worry, Just Joe, this is all headed exactly the way you're hoping it is."
"Just not tonight," he said, but his words were warm and happy.
"Just not tonight," she said. "Okay?"
He kissed her again. "Of course it's okay. I may die of a heart attack, but it's perfectly okay."
They both laughed again and Joe stood up, drawing her with him. "Come on, a dying man has to eat."
"You go ahead and fix our plates," she said. "I'll be right back."
She slipped into the bathroom, straightening her clothes and hair. The tissue roll was low. Without thinking much about it, Mandy opened the cabinet under the sink only to find neat stacks of take-out boxes from the local cafe hidden there. She couldn't decide to laugh or cry. It was so sweet.
No wonder the kitchen was spotless. The poor man probably couldn't boil water to save his life, but he was trying to impress her. She extricated a roll of tissue, rearranging the remaining rolls so he'd never know she'd opened the cabinet.
When she stepped out, Joe had thrown a crisp white cloth over the small table, put out two place settings, and lit two flickering white candles. "Ready to eat?" he asked, pulling out a chair.
She sat down and watched as he took two plates out of the warming oven, putting one down in front of her. "I hope you'll like the food," he said, taking a seat across from her.
"I'll love every bite because you made it," she said, catching hold of his hand. "And next time you let me cook for you at my place, okay? I just can't have you going to all this trouble when you work so hard every day."
For just a brief instant relief washed over Joe's face before he recovered, and said gallantly, "Nothing's too much trouble for you, darling."
20
Ida Belle Banners stared down her long nose at Kate. "Yes, I knew your father when he was young. At my age, I knew everyone when they were young. Why do you ask, Katherine?"
Kate winced. Miss Ida Belle was the holy terror of the town. The old woman's appearance hadn't changed in 30 years. She might be 80 or 800. The whole community nursed a healthy fear of her because she penned a weekly "information" column in t
he local paper and delivered a daily "program" on the radio.
"Well, then you're aware that Daddy . . . died . . ." Kate began.
"I'm aware he put a bullet in his brain in your barn and ruined a fine hat doing it," the old woman said, adjusting her gold-rimmed glasses. "Get to the point, Katherine. I dislike shilly-shallying."
Shilly-shallying? Kate felt like she'd been dropped into some book off a high school English class reading list. Fine. The old biddy wanted direct, Kate could do direct.
Taking a breath and rolling the dice that Ida Belle was smart enough to decide what not to put in the paper, Kate told her the whole story. When she finished, the old woman got up without a word, returning in a few minutes with a cup of black coffee Kate accepted gratefully.
"That's quite some tale, Katherine," she said, her tone more conversational and less dictatorial. "You want me to tell you about your father and George Fisk, I assume?"
"Yes, Mrs. Banners."
"Oh for heaven's sake. We're grown women. Call me Ida Belle."
Kate almost choked on her coffee. That pronouncement was a little like the Queen of England saying, "Call me Liz." She mumbled her thanks and said, "Were they friends?"
"They were closer than brothers," the old woman said, a tinge of sadness in her voice. "Until little Alice died."
When she saw the look on Kate's face, Ida Belle said, "You are shocked, aren't you?"
Kate nodded and the old woman went on.
"Langston and George were raised together. Where you saw one, you saw the other. They were both light-hearted, talented young men. Your father was a star athlete and George was the best student in the high school. He graduated and won a full scholarship to Texas A & M, followed by a fellowship to attend law school. They both had bright futures, until their senior year in high school."
"What happened?" Kate asked. "And who was Alice?"
"Alice Browning," Ida Belle answered, taking a sip of her own coffee. "The young woman they were both in love with."
The Lockwood Legacy - Books 1-6: Plus Bonus Short Stories Page 9