Best Kept Secrets

by Sandra Brown

  “I’m not joking. She almost got killed this afternoon.”

  “What?” Junior swung his feet over the side of the bed to the floor. “What happened? Is she hurt?” Reede told Junior about the incident on the highway. “I’d better call her,” he said as soon as Reede finished.

  “Don’t. When I left her, she was asleep. They gave her a painkiller at the hospital and it was already working.”

  He could feel the weight of Junior’s inquisitive stare, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He wasn’t going to explain why he’d felt it necessary to tuck Alex in. It had taken all his willpower to walk out of that room and deny himself the luxury of lying beside her all night.

  “Some Mexicans witnessed the whole thing. They said it was an ME truck, and it deliberately ran her off the road.”

  Junior looked confused. “My first guess would be that preacher.”

  “Where would he get one of your company trucks?”

  “A devoted member of his flock could be an employee.”

  “I’ve got a man checking out that possibility, although I doubt anything’ll turn up.”

  The two friends were silent for a moment. Finally, Reede said casually, “I understand you had breakfast with Alex this morning.”

  “She called and asked me to meet her.”

  “Why?”

  “She said you told her about Celina’s attempted abortion.”

  Reede averted his head. “Yeah.”

  “I don’t like to second-guess you, friend, but—”

  “Then, don’t.” Reede rolled out of the chair and came to his feet.

  “Okay, okay. I just fail to see why it was necessary.”

  Reede didn’t intend to talk about last night at all. “What else did you discuss over breakfast?”

  “The night Celina died. Alex wanted to know if I’d proposed.” Junior recounted that morning’s conversation with Alex.

  “Did she believe you when you said you went out and got drunk alone?”

  “I guess so. She seemed to. Everybody else believes me.”

  The look they exchanged lasted a few seconds too long to be comfortable for either. “Yeah, right.” Reede gazed out the window. “Alex said Stacey showed up and was none too friendly.”

  Junior fidgeted. “I’ve, uh, I’ve been seeing Stacey lately.”

  Reede swiveled around, surprised. “Seeing or screwing? Or are they automatically synonymous to you?”

  “Guilty to both charges.”

  Reede cursed. “Why are you fanning that fire?”

  “Convenience.”

  “Nora Gail’s is convenient.”

  “But not free—at least, to no one but you.”

  Reede’s lip curled. “You sorry son of a bitch.”

  “Look, it’s not hurting anybody, Stacey needs the attention. She wants it.”

  “Because she loves you, you jerk.”

  “Awww.” Junior dismissed that notion with a wave of his hand. “One thing I do know. She’s all bent out of shape about Alex. Stacey’s afraid she’ll ruin all of us, but especially, her old man.”

  “She might do it. She’s determined to find a culprit and send him to prison.”

  Junior slouched against the headboard again. “Does that really worry you?”

  “Yes,” Reede said. “I’ve got a lot to lose if ME doesn’t get that racing license. So do you.”

  “What are you getting at, that I ran Alex off the road? Is this an interrogation, Sheriff?” he asked in a tone that didn’t flatter the office Reede held.

  “Well?”

  Junior’s handsome face flushed with anger. “Good God, are you crazy?” He left the bed and came to stand eye to eye with Reede. “I wouldn’t harm a hair on her head.”

  “Were you in her room this morning?”

  “Yes. So?”

  “What for?” Reede shouted.

  “What do you think?” Junior shouted back.

  Reede’s head gave a little snap backward. It was a reflexive action, one he couldn’t prevent from happening or hide once it had.

  Several moments of silence elapsed before Junior said, “She said no.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “But you wanted to,” Junior said intuitively. “Does Alex and her reason for being here have anything to do with you turning down Dad’s offer to come back to ME?” He returned to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, giving Reede a wounded and inquisitive look. “Weren’t you even going to mention it, Reede?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “There was no point. When I left the company, it was for good. I don’t want to become a part of it again.”

  “Of us, you mean.”

  Reede shrugged. Junior thoughtfully gazed at his friend. “Because of Celina?”

  “Celina?” Reede whispered with a soft, sad laugh. “Celina’s dead and buried.”

  “Is she?”

  The friends stared at each other frankly, with all pretense stripped away. After a moment, Reede answered, “Yes.”

  “It hasn’t been the same between us since she died, has it?”

  “It couldn’t be.”

  “I guess not,” Junior said morosely. “I regret that.”

  “So do I.”

  “What about Alex?”

  “What about her?”

  “Is she the reason you won’t come back in with us?”

  “Hell, no. You know the reason, Junior—or at least, you should. You’ve heard me talk about it often enough.”

  “That crap about independence? That’s no reason. You work your way around Angus a lot better than I do.”

  Junior sucked in a quick breath, suddenly realizing that he’d hit pay dirt. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re steering clear of ME for my sake.”

  “You’re wrong.” Reede’s denial came a little too fast.

  “The hell I am,” Junior growled. “You see yourself as a threat to me, the heir apparent. Well, thanks a lot, but don’t do me any favors!”

  As suddenly as Junior’s anger had erupted, it evaporated. “Who the fuck am I kidding?” He gave a scoffing laugh. “Sure as hell not myself.” He raised his head and looked at Reede imploringly. “I’d love to have you back. We need you, especially after that racetrack is built.”

  “Now who’s talking crap?”

  “You know I’m right. Dad makes things happen, but he operates like a robber baron. Business doesn’t work like that nowadays. I’ve got charm, but charm is as wasted on a breeding ranch as snow skis in Jamaica. Unless you’re a gigolo—a career I’ve often thought of pursuing—you can’t bank charm.”

  “It comes in handy.”

  “Dad’s smart enough to see that you could hold us together, Reede. You could be the buffer between us.” He looked down at his hands. “He’d rather have you than me around.”

  “Junior—”

  “No, let’s be honest about this for once, Reede. We’re getting too old to lie to ourselves or to each other. Dad would swear on a stack of Bibles that he’s proud that I’m his son, but I know better. Oh, I know he loves me, but I’m one screwup after another. He’d rather me be like you.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Uh-uh,” Reede said, sternly shaking his head. “Angus knows that in a pinch, when all the cards are down, you come through. There have been times—”

  “What times?”

  “Many times,” Reede stressed, “when you did what you knew you had to do. Sometimes it has to get to that last-gasp stage before you accept your responsibility,” Reede said, “but when you know it’s up to you or else, you do it.” He laid his hand on Junior’s shoulder. “It’s just that sometimes somebody has to put a boot to your butt to get you going.”

  It was time to end the discussion, before it got sloppily maudlin. Reede socked Junior’s shoulder, then headed for the door. “Don’t go selling that dope to schoolkids or I’ll have to haul you in, okay?” He had opened the doo
r and was on his way out before Junior halted him.

  “I was mad as hell the other day when you showed up at the country club to pick up Alex.”

  “I know. It couldn’t be helped. It was business.”

  “Was it? What about the airfield? Was that business, too? That wasn’t Dad’s impression.”

  Reede remained stonily silent, neither admitting or denying anything.

  “Jesus,” Junior breathed, drawing his hand down his face. “Is it happening again? Are we falling in love with the same woman?”

  Reede walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.

  Chapter 40

  Stacey Wallace slid her father’s half-eaten tuna salad out of the way and replaced it with a bowl of fruit cocktail. “I don’t think we’ll have her to worry about much longer,” she said with assurance. The topic of conversation was Alexandra Gaither. “Did you hear about her accident?”

  “From what I understand, it wasn’t an accident.”

  “All the more reason for her to want to leave town.”

  “Angus doesn’t think she’s going to leave,” the judge said as he toyed with the cherry floating in the viscous syrup. “He says she’s convinced somebody wanted to scare her into leaving before she exposed the killer.”

  “Do you take everything Angus says as carved in granite?” Stacey asked with exasperation. “How does he know what she’s going to do?”

  “He’s going by what she told Junior.”

  Stacey laid her fork aside. “Junior?”

  “Hmm.” Judge Wallace sipped his iced tea. “He sat with her yesterday.”

  “I thought she left the hospital and was back at her motel.”

  “Wherever she is, Junior’s been her only contact with the outside world.” The judge was so caught up in his own worries, he didn’t notice Stacey’s suddenly preoccupied gaze.

  He pushed away from the table. “I’d better go or I’ll be late. We’ve got a jury selection this morning and a pretrial hearing for that character who shot a man out at Nora Gail Burton’s the other night. I’m expecting a plea bargain, but Lambert’s got Pat Chastain pushing for attempted murder.”

  Stacey was only half listening. Her mind had lodged on a mental picture of the beautiful Alex Gaither languishing on her motel room bed while Junior waited on her hand and foot.

  “By the way,” the judge said as he pulled on his overcoat, “did you get that message I left you yesterday?”

  “To call Fergus Plummet?”

  “Yes. Isn’t he that evangelical preacher who raised Cain because they had bingo at the Halloween carnival last year? What’d he want with you?”

  “He’s canvassing support to keep pari-mutuel gambling out of Purcell County.”

  The judge snickered. “Does he know he’d just as well try and hold back our next dust storm?”

  “That’s what I told him when I returned his call,” Stacey said. “He knows I belong to several women’s organizations and wanted me to plead his case with them. I declined, of course.”

  Joe Wallace picked up his briefcase and opened the front door. “Reede is convinced that Plummet was responsible for that vandalism out at the Minton ranch, but he’s got no evidence to hold him.” The judge didn’t think twice about discussing cases with Stacey. She had earned his confidence years ago. “I don’t think Plummet has the sense to pull off something like that, not without somebody directing him. Reede has been harping on it, but right now, Plummet is the least of my worries.”

  Concerned, Stacey caught her father’s arm. “What worries, Dad? Alex Gaither? Don’t worry about her. What harm could she possibly do you?”

  He faked a smile. “Absolutely none. You just know how I like things neat and tidy. I’ve got to run. Good-bye.”

  Wanda Gail Burton Plummet happened to be sweeping off her front porch when the postman arrived. He handed her the stack of mail and she thanked him. She sorted through it as she made her way back into the house. As usual, all the mail was addressed to her husband. It was mostly bills and church-related correspondence.

  One envelope, however, was different from the others. It was made of high-quality beige paper. There was an embossed return address on it, but it had been exed out on a typewriter, making it illegible. Their address had been typed on it, too.

  Curiosity won out over her husband’s strict instructions that he was to open their mail. Wanda tore open the envelope. It contained only a blank piece of paper, folded around five one-hundred-dollar bills.

  Wanda stared at the money as though it was a message from an alien planet. Five hundred dollars was more than the offering plate contained after a well-attended revival service. Fergus only took out a pittance to support his family. Almost everything collected went to the church and its “causes.”

  No doubt this money had been sent by a donor who wanted to remain anonymous. For the last several days, Fergus had been calling up folks on the telephone, asking for volunteers to picket at the gates of the Minton ranch. He solicited money. He wanted to place full-page antigambling ads in the newspaper. Well-publicized crusades were expensive.

  Most people hung up on him. Some had called him ugly names before slamming down their receivers. A few had listened and given halfhearted pledges to send a supportive offering.

  But, five hundred dollars.

  He’d also spent time on the phone in secretive, whispered conversations. Wanda didn’t know what these covert calls were about, but she suspected they had something to do with that business at the Minton ranch. One of the hardest things she’d ever had to do was lie to her old friend, Reede. He had known she was lying, but he’d been gentlemanly enough not to accuse her of it.

  Afterward, when she had expressed concern to Fergus about her sin of lying, he had told her that it had been justified. God didn’t expect his servants to go to jail, where they would be ineffectual.

  She timidly pointed out that Paul had spent a lot of time in prison, and had done some of the most inspired writing in the New Testament while behind bars. Fergus hadn’t appreciated the comparison and had told her that she should keep her mouth shut about matters that were too complicated for her to comprehend.

  “Wanda?”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice and reflexively clutched the money to her sagging breasts. “What, Fergus?”

  “Was that the postman at the door?”

  “Uh, yes.” She glanced down at the envelope. The money was surely related to those furtive telephone calls. Fergus wouldn’t want to talk about them. “I was just bringing you the mail.”

  She went into the kitchen. He was seated at the Formica dining table that served as his desk between meals. She laid the stack of mail on the table. When she returned to the sink to finish washing dishes, the fancy envelope and its contents were in her apron pocket.

  She would give it to Fergus later, Wanda promised herself, as a surprise. In the meantime, she would fantasize about all it could buy for her three kids.

  Alex had had thirty-six hours to think about it. While nursing her debilitating headache, she’d lain in bed, reviewing everything she knew and filling in what she didn’t know with educated guesses.

  She couldn’t continue to run around in circles indefinitely. She was probably as close to the truth as she was ever going to get, short of taking desperate measures. The deadline Greg had set was imminent. It was time to force someone’s hand, to get aggressive, even if she had to bluff.

  Days ago, she had reached the heartbreaking conclusion that she had been the catalyst for Celina’s murder, but she didn’t plan to bear the burden of that guilt alone for the rest of her life. Whoever had done the actual deed must suffer for it also.

  That morning when she woke up, she still had a headache, but it was one she could live with. She spent the morning reviewing her notes and doing some research, and was waiting in Judge Wallace’s anteroom when he returned from lunch. He didn’t look pleased to see her.

  “I told Ms. Gaither that you had a full
schedule today,” Mrs. Lipscomb said defensively when he turned a baleful glance on her. “She insisted on waiting for you.”

  “She’s right, Judge Wallace, I did,” Alex said. “Can you spare me a few minutes?”

  He consulted his wristwatch. “A very few.”

  She followed him into his office. He took off his overcoat and hung it on a brass coat tree. Not until he was situated behind his desk, trying to look intimidating, did he say, “What is it this time?”

  “What did Angus Minton use to entice you?”

  His face became instantly mottled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do. You confined an innocent man to a state mental hospital, Judge Wallace. You knew he was innocent, or at least strongly suspected that he was. You did that at Angus Minton’s request, didn’t you? And in exchange, you demanded that Junior marry your daughter Stacey.”

  “This is incredible!” He banged his fists on his desktop.

  “It’s extremely credible. On the morning after Celina Graham Gaither was found murdered in a stable on the Minton ranch, you received a phone call or a visit from Angus. Bud Hicks had been arrested nearby, covered in blood and in possession of a scalpel presumed to be the murder weapon. That was never ascertained because the scalpel wasn’t thoroughly analyzed. The autopsy report specified that she died of repeated stab wounds, but a forensic expert didn’t have access to the body before it was cremated, so she could have been stabbed by anything.”

  “Gooney Bud stabbed her with Dr. Collins’s scalpel,” he stated stubbornly. “He found it in the stable and killed her with it.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Now? It’s been twenty-five years. You don’t expect it to be lying around in the evidence room, do you?”

  “No, but I would expect to have a record of its dispensation. No one ever called the late Dr. Collins or his son, asking if they might want it back, even though it was known to have been a gift from his wife. Doesn’t that strike you as unusual?”

  “God knows what happened to it, or to the records concerning it.”

  “I think that you disposed of it, Judge. You, not the sheriff’s office, were the last one recorded to have possession of it. I checked this morning before coming here.”