by Sandra Brown
“What were you doing here at that time of day?”
“I usually started mucking the stables around seven. That particular morning I was worried about the mare.”
“Oh, yes, the one that had foaled the day before. So, you had come to check on her and the foal?”
“That’s right.”
Tears were shimmering in her eyes as she raised them to his. “Where were you the night before?”
“Out.”
“All night?”
“Since supper time, yes.”
“Alone?”
His lips narrowed with irritation. “If you want more answers, Counselor, bring the case to trial.”
“I plan to.”
As she brushed past him on her way to the door, he caught her arm and drew her up against him. He felt hard and powerfully male. “Miss Gaither,” he growled in irritation and impatience, “you’re smart. Drop this. If you don’t, somebody’s likely to get hurt.”
“Namely?”
“You.”
“How?”
He didn’t actually move; he just inclined his body closer to hers. “There are any number of ways.”
It was a threat, only subtly veiled. He was physically capable of killing a woman, but what about emotionally?
He seemed to have a low opinion of women in general, but according to Junior, he had loved Celina Graham. At one time, she had wanted to marry Reede. Maybe everyone, including Reede, had taken for granted that they would marry until Celina had married Al Gaither and gotten pregnant with Alex.
Alex didn’t want to believe that Reede could have killed Celina under any circumstances, but she certainly didn’t want to believe he had killed Celina because of her.
He was chauvinistic, arrogant, and as testy as a rattler. But a killer? He didn’t look like one. Or was it just that she’d always had a weakness for dark blond hair and green eyes; for tight, faded jeans and worn leather coats with fur collars; for men who could wear cowboy boots without looking silly; for men who walked and talked and smelled and sounded and felt consummately male?
Reede Lambert was all of that.
Disturbed more by his effect on her senses than by his cautionary words, she pulled her arm free and backed toward the door.
“I have no intention of dropping this investigation until I know who killed my mother and why. I’ve waited all my life to find out. I won’t be dissuaded now.”
Chapter 10
Reede let loose a string of curses the minute Alex left the stable. Pasty Hickam had overheard them from his hiding place in a nearby stall.
He hadn’t planned to eavesdrop on their conversation. When he had come into the barn earlier, he’d only been looking for a place where it was dark and warm and solitary, where he’d have some privacy to nurse his damaged pride, cultivate his resentment of his former employer, and suck on his bottle of cheap rye as if it was mother’s milk.
Now, however, his ennui had vanished and his mind was concocting a nefarious plan. Sober, Pasty was merely crotchety. Drunk, he was mean.
He’d barely been able to contain himself as he listened to what that gal from Austin had to say to the sheriff, and vice versa. Lordy be, she was Celina Gaither’s daughter, here to investigate her mama’s killing.
Thanks to her, and a benevolent God he didn’t even believe in, he had been given a golden opportunity to get revenge on Angus and that useless son of his.
He’d busted his ass on this place, worked for miserly wages, and gone without completely when Angus was so broke he couldn’t pay him, but he’d stuck it out. He had gone through thick and thin with the bastard, and what thanks did he get? Fired and booted out of the bunkhouse that had been home for almost thirty years.
Well, fortune had finally smiled on Pasty Hickam. If he played his cards right, he could finally have some money for his “retirement fund.” Ruby Faye, his current lover, was always after him about never having any money to spend on her. “What’s the fun of having an affair if I don’t get something out of it besides the thrill of cheating on my husband?” she was fond of saying.
Monetary compensation, however, would be icing on the cake. Revenge would be sweet enough. It was past time that somebody kicked Angus where it hurt.
His impatience was at a near-frantic pitch by the time Reede finished examining his mare and left the stable. Pasty waited several moments to make sure he was alone before leaving the empty stall where he’d been curled up in the fresh hay. He moved down the shadowed corridor toward the wall telephone. He cursed a horse that nickered, spooking him. For all his meanness, courage had never been his strong suit.
He called Information first, then quickly punched out the digits of the number before he could forget them. Maybe she hadn’t had time to get there, he thought anxiously after he’d asked the clerk to ring her room. But she answered on the fifth ring, a trifle breathlessly, like she might have come in while the phone was ringing.
“Miz Gaither?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“You don’t need to know. I know you, and that’s enough.”
“Who is this?” she demanded, with what Pasty thought was false bravado.
“I know all about your mama’s murder.”
Pasty cackled to himself, enjoying the sudden silence. He couldn’t have got her attention any sooner or any better if he’d walked up and bit her on her tittie.
“I’m listening.”
“I cain’t talk now.”
“Why not?”
“Cause I cain’t, that’s why.”
It was risky to go into it with her now over the telephone. Somebody might pick up another extension somewhere on the ranch and overhear him. That could prove to be unhealthy.
“I’ll call you back.”
“But—”
“I’ll call you back.”
He hung up, enjoying her anxiety. He remembered the way her mama used to sashay around, like she owned the world. Many a summer day, he’d ogled her lustfully while she frolicked in the swimming pool with Junior and Reede. They’d put their hands all over her and call it roughhousing. But she was too good to even cast an eye in Pasty’s direction. He hadn’t minded that she got herself killed. He sure as hell hadn’t interfered and stopped it when he could have.
He remembered that night and everything that had happened like it was yesterday. It was a secret that he’d kept all this time. Now it would be divulged. And it was gonna tickle him to death to tell that prosecutor all about it.
Chapter 11
“Are you waiting to give me a parking ticket?” Alex asked as she got out of her car and locked it. She was feeling chipper this morning, due to the unexpected telephone call she had received the night before. Maybe the caller was the eyewitness she’d been praying for. But it could have been a crank call, too, she realistically reminded herself.
If he was genuine, it would be a tragedy if he named Reede Lambert as Celina’s murderer. He looked extremely attractive leaning against the parking meter. Actually, since the meter was listing to the right, it might have been leaning on Reede.
“I should change my mind since you’re being a smart-ass, but I’m such a nice guy…” He slipped a canvas hood over the meter. In blue letters it was labeled, CITY OF PURCELL—OFFICIAL CAR. “Take this with you when you leave and use it from now on. It’ll save you some change.”
He turned and started up the sidewalk toward the courthouse. Alex fell into step beside him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” They climbed the stairs and went inside. “Come down to my office,” he said. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Curious, she followed his lead. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms the night before. Yet this morning, he was going out of his way to be hospitable. Deciding that was out of character, Alex couldn’t help but be suspicious of his motives.
When they reached the lower level, everyone in the squad room stopped what he was doing to stare. The scene became as still as a photograph.
Reede gave the room one slow, meaningful sweep of his eyes. Activity was immediately resumed. He hadn’t spoken a single word, but it was apparent that he wielded tremendous authority over his staff. They either feared or respected him. Alex suspected the former.
Reede stepped around her, swung open a door to the left of the staircase, and moved aside so she could go in. She stepped into a small, square, windowless, cheerless office. It was as cold as a meat locker. There was a desk so dented and scarred it looked like it had been made from scrap metal. The particleboard top was ink-stained, and holes had been chipped out of it. Sitting on it were an overflowing ashtray and a black, no-frills telephone. Behind it was a swivel chair she had little confidence in.
“It’s yours to use if you want it,” Reede told her. “I’m sure you’re accustomed to fancier office space.”
“No. Actually, my cubicle in Austin is not much larger than this. Whom should I thank?”
“The city of Purcell.”
“But it was somebody’s idea. Yours, Reede?”
“So what if it was?”
“So,” she said, drawing out the word in an effort to ignore the chip he carried on his shoulder, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Trying to temper the animosity between them, she smiled and said teasingly, “Now that we’re in the same building, I can keep a closer eye on you.”
He pulled the door shut as he backed out. “You’ve got it backwards, Counselor. I can keep a closer eye on you.”
Alex tossed down her ballpoint pen and vigorously rubbed her chilled arms. The electric space heater she had bought at the hardware store was on full blast, but it wasn’t helping much. The square little office was frigid and seemed to be the only dank, damp spot in this otherwise arid climate.
Earlier she had bought office supplies: paper, pencils, pens, paper clips. The office was hardly comfortable, but at least it was functional. It was also much more centrally located than her room at the Westerner Motel.
After checking to see that the heater was indeed working at its maximum, she bent over her notes again. It had taken all afternoon to compile and arrange them according to the individuals involved.
Beginning with her profile on Angus, she reread the briefs. Unfortunately, they were no more concrete or factually based than they had been the first dozen times she’d read them.
What she had was conjecture and hearsay. What few facts she had, she had known when she left Austin. So far, this trip had been a waste of taxpayers’ money, and almost a week of Greg’s deadline had elapsed.
For the time being, she decided to let the question of opportunity wait. She had to establish motives. All she had learned so far was that the three men had adored Celina. Adoration was hardly motivation for murder.
She had nothing—no evidence, not even a viable suspect. She was certain that Buddy Hicks hadn’t killed her mother, yet she was no closer to discovering who had.
After spending time alone with Angus, Junior, and Reede, Alex was convinced that getting a confession would be tantamount to a miracle. Contrition and repentance didn’t fit their personality profiles. Nor would one testify against the other. The loyalties were solidly forged, though it was obvious their friendship wasn’t what it had once been, which in itself was a clue. Had Celina’s death splintered their clique, yet kept them bound to one another?
She still hoped that the person who had called a few nights before was an actual eyewitness. She had waited for days for another call, one that hadn’t come, which was a strong indication that it had been a prank.
Apparently, the only people near the stable that night had been Gooney Bud, the killer, and Celina. Gooney Bud was dead. The killer wasn’t talking. And Celina—
Alex was suddenly inspired. Her mother couldn’t talk—at least, not in the literal sense—but she might have something valuable to tell.
The idea made Alex sick to her stomach. She propped her forehead on the palms of her hands and closed her eyes. Did she have the fortitude to do it?
She groped for alternatives, but came up empty-handed. She needed evidence, and she could think of only one place to look for it.
Before she could change her mind, she switched off the heater and left the office. Avoiding the unreliable elevator, she jogged up the stairs, hoping that she would catch Judge Joe Wallace before he left for the day.
She anxiously checked her wristwatch. It was almost five o’clock. She didn’t want to put this off until tomorrow. Now that her mind was made up, she wanted to act on her decision before she had the time and opportunity to back out.
The corridors on the second floor were deserted. Jurors had been dismissed for the day. Trials were in recess until tomorrow. Her footsteps echoed loudly as she made her way toward the judge’s chambers adjacent to the empty courtroom. His secretary was still in the anteroom, and none too pleased to see her.
“I need to speak with the judge immediately.” Alex was out of breath after quickly climbing two flights of stairs, and her voice was tinged with desperation.
“He’s fixin’ to leave for the day,” she was told with a lack of apology. “I can make an appoint—”
“This is vitally important, or I wouldn’t bother him at this time of day.”
Alex wasn’t intimidated by Mrs. Lipscomb’s censorious stare or the retiring sigh she emitted as she left her desk and moved to the connecting door. She knocked discreetly, then went inside, closing the door behind her. Alex paced impatiently until she returned.
“He’s agreed to see you. Briefly.”
“Thank you.” Alex rushed past her and into the chambers.
“Well, what is it this time, Miss Gaither?” Judge Wallace barked at her the instant she crossed the threshold. He was pulling on his overcoat. “You seem to have a nasty habit of showing up without an appointment. As you can see, I’m leaving. My daughter Stacey doesn’t like to hold dinner, and it would be rude of me to expect her to.”
“I apologize to both of you, Judge. As I told your secretary, it’s urgent that I talk to you this afternoon.”
“Well?” he demanded cantankerously.
“Could we sit down?”
“I can talk standing up. What do you want?”
“I want you to issue a court order to have my mother’s body exhumed.”
The judge sat down then. Or rather, he dropped down into the chair in front of which he was standing. He stared up at Alex with undisguised dismay.
“I beg your pardon?” he wheezed.
“I believe you heard me, Judge Wallace, although if it’s necessary to repeat my request, I will.”
He waved his hand. “No. Good Lord, no. Hearing it once was bad enough.” He cupped each knee with a hand and continued to stare up at her, apparently thinking she was certifiable. “Why would you want to do such a ghastly thing as that?”
“I don’t want to. I wouldn’t ask for a court order if I didn’t think exhumation was absolutely necessary.”
Having recovered some of his aplomb, he ungraciously indicated a chair. “You might as well sit. Explain your reasons.”
“A crime was committed, but I can find no incriminating evidence.”
“I told you you wouldn’t,” he exclaimed. “You didn’t listen. You came charging in here, slinging unfounded accusations, bent on getting vengeance.”
“That’s not true,” she denied evenly.
“That’s how I read it. What does Pat Chastain have to say about this?”
“The D.A. is unavailable. It seems he’s spontaneously taken a few days’ vacation and gone hunting.”
The judge harrumphed. “Sounds like a damn good idea to me.”
It sounded cowardly to Alex, and she’d been ready to chew nails when the aloof Mrs. Chastain had informed her of it. “Will you permit me to look for evidence, Judge?”
“There is no evidence,” he stressed.
“My mother’s remains might provide some.”
“She was
autopsied when she was killed. That was twenty-five years ago, for crissake.”
“With all due respect to the coroner at that time, he might not have been looking for clues when the cause of death was so readily apparent. I know an excellent forensic specialist in Dallas. We use him frequently. If there is anything to be found, he’ll find it.”
“I can guarantee you that he won’t.”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
He gnawed at the corner of his lip. “I’ll take your request under advisement.”
Alex recognized a brush-off when she saw one. “I’d appreciate an answer tonight.”
“Sorry, Miss Gaither. The best I can do is think about it overnight and give you an answer in the morning. Between now and then, I hope you’ll change your mind and withdraw the request.”
“I won’t.”
He stood up. “I’m tired, hungry, and damned perturbed that you’ve put me in this awkward position.” He aimed an accusatory index finger at her. “I don’t like messes.”
“Neither do I. I wish this weren’t necessary.”
“It isn’t.”
“I believe it is,” she countered stubbornly.
“In the long run, you’ll be sorry you ever asked me for this. Now, you’ve taken up enough of my time. Stacey will be worried. Good night.”
He marched from the room. A few seconds later, Mrs. Lipscomb appeared in the doorway. Her eyelids were fluttering with indignation. “Imogene told me you’d mean trouble around here.”
Alex swept past her and returned to her temporary office, only long enough to retrieve her belongings. The drive out to the Westerner took longer than usual because she got caught up in Purcell’s rush hour. To further complicate the snarled traffic, it began to sleet.
Knowing she wouldn’t want to go out again, she picked up a box of carryout fried chicken. By the time she spread the meal on the round table near the windows of her room, the food was cold and tasted like cardboard. She promised herself that she would buy some fruit and healthy snack food to supplement her unbalanced diet, and maybe a bouquet of fresh flowers to brighten the dismal room. She debated taking down the lurid painting of the bullfighter that dominated one wall. The swirling red cape and slavering bull were real eyesores.