by Sandra Brown
Greetings were called out to him by executives, farmers, roughnecks, cowboys, and secretaries, each distinguished by his attire. Everyone except the secretaries wore boots. Alex recognized Imogene, Pat Chastain’s secretary. As soon as they passed her table, she launched into an animated, whispered explanation of who Alex was to the women seated with her. A hush fell over the room as word traveled from one table to the next.
No doubt this microcosm of Purcell gathered every morning at the B & B Café during coffee-break time. A stranger in their midst was news, but the return of Celina Gaither’s daughter was a news bulletin. Alex felt like a lightning rod, because she certainly attracted electric currents. Some, she sensed, were unfriendly.
A Crystal Gayle ballad about love lost was wafting from the jukebox. It competed with “Hour Magazine” on the fuzzy black-and-white TV mounted in one corner. Male impotence was being discussed to the raucous amusement of a trio of roughnecks. The nonsmoking movement hadn’t reached Purcell, and the air was dense enough to cut. The smell of frying bacon was prevalent.
A waitress in purple polyester pants and a bright gold satin blouse approached them with two cups of coffee and a plate of fresh, yeasty doughnuts. She winked and said, “Mornin’, Reede,” before ambling off toward the kitchen, where the cook was deftly flipping eggs while a cigarette dangled between his lips.
“Help yourself.”
Alex took the sheriff up on his offer. The doughnuts were still warm, and the sugary glaze melted against her tongue. “They had this waiting for you. Is this your table? Do you have a standing order?”
“The owner’s name is Pete,” he told her, indicating the cook. “He used to feed me breakfast every morning on my way to school.”
“How generous.”
“It wasn’t charity,” he said curtly. “I swept up for him in the afternoons after school.”
She had unwittingly struck a sore spot. Reede Lambert was defensive about his motherless childhood. Now, however, wasn’t the time to probe for more information. Not with nearly every eye in the place watching them.
He devoured two doughnuts and washed them down with black coffee, wasting neither food, nor time, nor motion. He ate like he thought it might be a long time before his next meal.
“Busy place,” she commented, unself-consciously licking glaze off her fingers.
“Yeah. The old-timers like me leave the new shopping mall and fast food places out by the interstate to the newcomers and teenagers. If you can’t find who you’re looking for anyplace else, he’s usually at the B & B. Angus’ll probably be along directly. ME’s corporate headquarters is just one block off the square, but he conducts a lot of business right here in this room.”
“Tell me about the Mintons.”
He reached for the last doughnut, since it was obvious that Alex wasn’t going to eat it. “They’re rich, but not showy. Well liked around town.”
“Or feared.”
“By some, maybe,” he conceded with a shrug.
“The ranch is only one of their businesses?”
“Yeah, but it’s the granddaddy. Angus built it out of nothing but acres of dust and sheer determination.”
“What exactly do they do out there?”
“Basically, they’re a racehorse training outfit. Thoroughbreds mostly. Some Quarter Horses. They board up to a hundred and fifty horses at a time, and get them ready for the track trainers.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I own a couple of racehorses myself. I board them out there permanently.” He pointed down to her half-empty coffee cup. “If you’re finished, I’d like to show you something.”
“What?” she asked, surprised by the sudden shift in topic.
“It’s not far.”
They left the B & B, but not before Reede said good-bye to everyone he’d said hello to when they came in. He didn’t pay for the breakfast, but was saluted by Pete the cook and given an affectionate pat by the waitress.
Reede’s official car, a Blazer truck, was parked at the curb in front of the courthouse. The space was reserved for him, marked with a small sign. He unlocked the door, helped Alex up into the cab of the four-wheel-drive vehicle, then joined her. He drove only a few blocks before pulling up in front of a small house. “That’s it,” he said.
“What?”
“Where your mother lived.” Alex whipped her head around to stare at the frame dwelling. “The neighborhood isn’t what it was when she lived here. It’s gone to pot. There used to be a tree there, where the sidewalk dips slightly.”
“Yes. I’ve seen pictures.”
“It died a few years ago and had to be cut down. Anyway,” he said, slipping the truck back into gear, “I thought you’d want to see it.”
“Thank you.” As he pulled the Blazer away from the curb, Alex kept her eyes on the house. The white paint had grayed. Hot summer suns had faded the maroon awnings over the front windows. It wasn’t attractive, but she swiveled her head and kept it in sight as long as she could.
That’s where she had lived with her mother for two short months. In those rooms, Celina had fed her, bathed her, rocked her, and sang her lullabies. There, she had listened for Alex’s crying in the night. Those walls had heard her mother’s whispered vows of love to her baby girl.
Alex didn’t remember, of course. But she knew that’s how it had been.
Tamping down the stirring emotions, she picked up the conversation they had been having when they had left the B & B. “Why is this proposed racetrack so important to the Mintons?”
He glanced at her as though she’d lost her senses. “Money. Why else?”
“It sounds like they’ve got plenty.”
“Nobody ever has enough money,” he remarked with a grim smile. “And only somebody who’s been as poor as me can say that. Look around.” He gestured at the empty stores along the main thoroughfare they were now traveling. “See all the empty businesses and foreclosure notices? When the oil market went bust, so did the economy of this town. Just about everybody worked in an oil-related occupation.”
“I understand all that.”
“Do you? I doubt it,” he said scornfully. “This town needs that racetrack to survive. What we don’t need is a wet-behind-the-ears, blue-eyed, redheaded female lawyer in a fur coat to come along and screw things up.”
“I came here to investigate a murder,” she lashed out, stung by his unexpected insult. “The racetrack, the gambling license, and the local economy have no relevance to it.”
“Like hell they don’t. If you ruin the Mintons, you ruin Purcell County.”
“If the Mintons are proven guilty, they’ve ruined themselves.”
“Look, lady, you’re not going to uncover any new clues about your mother’s murder. All you’re going to do is stir up trouble. You won’t get any help from locals. Nobody’s gonna speak out against the Mintons, because the future of this county is riding on them building that racetrack.”
“And you top the list of the loyal and close-mouthed.”
“Damn right!”
“Why?” she pressed. “Do the Mintons have something on you? Could one of them place you in that horse barn well before you ‘discovered’ my mother’s body? What were you doing there at that time of day, anyway?”
“What I did every day. I was shoveling shit out of the stables. I worked for Angus then.”
She was taken aback. “Oh, I didn’t know that.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know. And you’re far better off that way.”
He whipped the Blazer into his parking slot at the courthouse and braked, pitching her forward against her seat belt. “You’d do well to leave the past alone, Miss Gaither.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. I’ll take that under advisement.”
She got out of the truck and slammed the door behind her.
Cursing beneath his breath, Reede watched her walk up the sidewalk. He wished he could relax and just enjoy the shape of her calves, the enticing
sway of her hips, and all else that had immediately captured his notice when she had entered Pat Chastain’s office yesterday afternoon. Her name, however, had robbed him of the luxury of indulging in pure, masculine appreciation.
Celina’s daughter, he thought now, shaking his head in consternation. It was little wonder that he found Alex so damned attractive. Her mother had been his soul mate from the day in grade school when some snotty kid had hurtfully taunted her because she no longer had a daddy after her father’s sudden death of a heart attack.
Knowing how ridicule about one’s parents could hurt, Reede had rushed to Celina’s defense. He had fought that battle and many others for her in the ensuing years. With Reede as the bearer of her colors, no one dared speak a cross word to her. A bond had been forged. Their friendship had been extraordinary and exclusive, until Junior had come along and been included.
So he knew he shouldn’t be surprised that the assistant D.A. from Austin had churned up such emotions inside him. Perhaps his only cause for alarm should be their intensity. Even though Celina had borne a child, she had died a girl. Alexandra was the embodiment of the woman she might have become.
He’d like to pass off his interest as purely nostalgic, a tender reminder of his childhood sweetheart. But he’d be lying to himself. If he needed any help defining the nature of his interest, all he had to do was acknowledge the warm pressure that had developed inside his jeans as he had watched her lick sugar off her fingertips.
“Christ,” he swore. He felt as ambiguous toward this woman as he’d felt toward her mother, just before she had been found dead in that stable.
How could two women, twenty-five years apart, have such a pivotal impact on his life? Loving Celina had almost ruined him. Her daughter posed just as real a threat. If she started digging into the past, God only knew what kind of trouble would be stirred up.
He intended to trade his sheriff’s job for one that would generate wealth and status. He sure as hell didn’t want his future shadowed by a criminal investigation.
Reede hadn’t worked his butt off all these years to let the payoff slip through his fingers. He’d spent his adult life overcompensating for his childhood. Now, when the respect he’d always wanted was within his grasp, he wasn’t about to stand by and let Alex’s investigation remind folks of his origins. The sassy lady lawyer could wreck him if she wasn’t stopped.
The people who said material possessions weren’t important already had plenty of everything. He’d never had anything. Until now. He was prepared to go to any length to protect it.
As he left his truck and reentered the courthouse, he cursed the day Alexandra Gaither had been born, just as he had on that day itself. At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder if her smart mouth wouldn’t be good for something besides spouting accusations and legal jargon.
He’d bet his next win at the track that it would.
Chapter 4
Judge Joseph Wallace was the Prairie Drugstore’s best customer for Mylanta. He knew as he pushed away from the lunch table that he’d have to take a swig or two of the stuff before the afternoon was over. His daughter Stacey had prepared the meal for him—as she did every day of the week except Sunday when they went to the country club buffet. Stacey’s dumplings, light and puffy as always, had landed like golf balls in his stomach.
“Something wrong?” She noticed that her father was absently rubbing his stomach.
“No, it’s nothing.”
“Chicken and dumplings is usually one of your favorites.”
“Lunch was delicious. I’ve just got a nervous stomach today.”
“Have a peppermint.” Stacey passed him a cut-glass candy dish, conveniently kept on a dust-free cherrywood coffee table. He took out a wrapped piece of red-and-white-striped candy and put it in his mouth. “Any particular reason why your stomach is nervous?”
Stacey had become her father’s caretaker when her mother had died several years earlier. She was single and rapidly approaching middle age, but she had never exhibited any ambition beyond being a homemaker. Because she had no husband or children of her own, she fussed over the judge.
She had never been a raving beauty, and age hadn’t ameliorated that unfortunate fact. Describing her physical attributes with tactful euphemisms was pointless. She was and always had been plain. Even so, her position in Purcell was well established.
Every important ladies’ league in town had her name on its roster. She taught a girls’ Sunday school class at the First Methodist Church, faithfully visited residents of the Golden Age Home each Saturday morning, and played bridge on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Her activities calendar was always full. She dressed expensively and well, though far too dowdily for her age.
Her etiquette was above reproach, her decorum refined, her temperament serene. She had weathered disappointments in a style that was noble and worthy of admiration. Everybody assumed that she was happy and content.
They were wrong.
Judge Wallace, a sparrow of a man, pulled on his heavy overcoat as he made his way toward the front door. “Angus called me last night.”
“Oh? What did he want?” Stacey asked as she pulled the collar of her father’s coat up around his ears to guard against the wind.
“Celina Gaither’s daughter turned up yesterday.”
Stacey’s busy hands fell still, and she took a step away from her father. Their eyes met. “Celina Gaither’s daughter?” The voice coming from her chalky lips was high and thin.
“Remember the baby? Alexandra, I believe.”
“Yes, I remember, Alexandra,” Stacey repeated vaguely. “She’s here in Purcell?”
“As of yesterday. All grown up now.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this last night when I came in?”
“You were late coming home from the chili supper. I was already in bed. I knew you’d be tired, too, and there was no need to bother you with it then.”
Stacey turned away and busied herself picking the empty cellophane wrappers out of the candy dish. Her father had an annoying habit of leaving the empties. “Why should the sudden appearance of Celina’s daughter bother me?”
“No reason in particular,” the judge said, glad he didn’t have to meet his daughter’s eyes. “On the other hand, it’ll probably upset the whole damn town.”
Stacey came back around. Her fingers were mutilating a piece of clear cellophane. “Why should it?”
The judge covered a sour belch with his fist. “She’s a prosecutor in the D.A.’s office in Austin.”
“Celina’s daughter?” Stacey exclaimed.
“Helluva thing, isn’t it? Who would have guessed that she would turn out that well, growing up with only Merle Graham for a parent.”
“You still haven’t said why she’s come back to Purcell. A visit?”
The judge shook his head. “Business, I’m afraid.”
“Does it have any bearing on the Mintons’ gambling license?”
He looked away, and nervously fidgeted with a button on his coat. “No, she’s, uh, she’s gotten the D.A.’s okay to reopen her mother’s murder case.”
Stacey’s bony chest seemed to cave in another inch. She groped behind her, searching for a place to land when she collapsed.
The judge, pretending not to notice his daughter’s distress, said, “She had Pat Chastain arrange a meeting with the Mintons and Reede Lambert. According to Angus, she made this grandstand announcement that before she was finished, she would determine which one of them had killed her mother.”
“What? Is she mad?”
“Not according to Angus. He said she appears to be razor sharp, in complete control of her faculties, and dead serious.”
Stacey gratefully lowered herself to the arm of the sofa and laid a narrow hand against the base of her neck. “How did Angus react?”
“You know Angus. Nothing gets him down. He seemed amused by the whole thing. Said there was nothing to worry about—that she couldn’t present any evidence to a gr
and jury because there isn’t any. Gooney Bud was the culprit.” The judge drew himself up. “And no one can question my ruling that the man was incompetent to stand trial.”
“I should say not,” Stacey said, rising to his defense. “You had no choice but to commit Gooney Bud to that hospital.”
“I reviewed his medical records every year, took depositions from the doctors who treated him. That facility isn’t a snake pit, you know. It’s one of the finest hospitals in the state.”
“Daddy, nobody is pointing a finger at you. Good Lord, all anybody has to do is review your record as judge. For more than thirty years, your reputation has remained unblemished.”
He ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I just hate for this to come up right now. Maybe I should retire early, not wait till my birthday next summer to step down.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Your Honor. You’ll stay on that bench until you’re ready to retire, and not a day before. No little upstart fresh out of law school is going to run you off.”
For all her starchy show of support, Stacey’s eyes revealed her anxiety. “Did Angus say how the girl… what she looks like? Does she resemble Celina?”
“Some.” The judge went to the front door and pulled it open. On his way out he regrettably mumbled over his shoulder, “Angus said she was prettier.”
Stacey sat woodenly on the arm of the sofa for a long time after the judge left, staring into space. She completely forgot about cleaning the noon meal dishes.
“Hello, Judge Wallace. My name is Alex Gaither. How do you do?”
Introductions were unnecessary. He had known who she was the minute he had stepped into the office outside his chambers. Mrs. Lipscomb, his secretary, had nodded toward a chair against the opposite wall. Turning, he saw a young woman—twenty-five, if his calculations were correct—sitting in the straight chair with all the poise and self-confidence of royalty. It was an air she had inherited from her mother.