The Bequest

by kindle@netgalley. com

  “My shooting days are over.”

  “Just do me a favor and keep it close.”

  “I won’t use it.”

  “I hope you don’t have to.”

  Without another word, they turned their horses and headed outside, with Chad leading the way. As they passed a bed of hay just inside the door, Teri pulled the rifle from the scabbard and tossed it aside. It landed soundlessly in the hay as they left the barn. While the saddle and boots brought good memories, the rifle was simply one more bad memory she didn’t need.

  Teri caught up to Chad at the top of a ridgeline that ran north and south through the ranch. To the east, flat range land stretched to the next hill, nearly two miles away. On the west side, the ridge sloped down sharply to a stand of cypress trees that lined a creek cutting across the property. Spanish moss hung from the cypress branches, blowing in the hot breeze.

  “I miss it,” Teri said.

  “Miss what?”

  “All of it. The hills, the trees, the smells, even the heat.”

  “You sorry you left?”

  “I’m sorry I had to.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “You know as well as anybody that I had no choice. It was time to grow up and be on my own.”

  “You did us proud. The only problem was, we couldn’t acknowledge it. We always worried that some reporter would come snooping around, looking for deep background on Teri Squire. Thank God it never happened.”

  “I know,” Teri said. “I was always afraid someone would figure it out. Every now and then, a reporter would trace me back to Texas, but the trail always ended there, as if it disappeared at the New Mexico line. I never knew how you did that.”

  “It’s the advantage of living in a small town and having an aunt who does all the computer work for the county.”

  “I hope she didn’t do anything illegal,” Teri said.

  “She didn’t do anything she didn’t want to do.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for her funeral.”

  “Uh huh.”

  They lapsed into silence again. The only sounds were the hooves of their horses picking their way along the ridgeline. When the ridge turned east, Chad turned west and headed down the slope on the other side, which had flattened over the past quarter mile or so. At the bottom of the slope, they merged onto a dirt road and turned north again. Teri felt a sense of familiarity, as if she had been here before, but she couldn’t quite figure out where she was. A prickly sensation ran up the back of her neck.

  “We’re off your property, aren’t we?” she asked.

  “We left it about a mile back.”

  “Where are we going?”

  He said nothing, but just kept riding. About two hundred yards down the road, he turned west again, through an opening in a barbed wire fence where the wire had been cut, and onto a flat pasture. In the near distance, a copse of trees shaded a structure. As they drew nearer, the structure became clearer: a country church with a bell tower. Nearby, small blips on the landscape indicted headstones. A solitary figure stood by one of the headstones.

  She did know this place. “Chad, why are we here?”

  Still he remained silent. They reached the cemetery, which stood free and unfettered by any gate or fence. The solitary figure was a woman in a denim skirt, her back to the riders, gray hair draped across her shoulders.

  Chad and Teri headed toward the figure, who turned to watch their approach for the last ten yards. The woman smiled but remained silent.

  Teri dismounted and ran to her. “Mama.”

  Mary Tucker embraced her daughter in a hug, and the two women wept.

  Chad clucked the reins and turned Hansel’s head, then returned back the way he had come.

  Mary held her daughter at arm’s length and brushed tears away with her fingers. She allowed tears to run unchecked down her own cheeks.

  “Baby, you came home,” Mary said.

  “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “You came to the right place. Chad told me you were in trouble.” Then she focused on Teri’s swollen nose and blackened eyes. “What kind of trouble? Are you hurt?”

  Teri rubbed her nose gingerly. “It’s nothing I can’t get over.”

  For the first time, Teri looked at the headstone where her mother had been standing. In bold letters, chiseled into granite, was the inscription: FREDERICK ADAM TUCKER, NOV. 19, 1969—JULY 6, 1993.

  Teri bowed her head; her tears beat out a steady pit-a-pat on the toes of her shoes.

  “I come here every week,” Mary said. “He’s still my little boy.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mama.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Baby. I know that.”

  “It wasn’t yours either, Mama.”

  “I keep wishing I could have done something different. Then it never would have happened.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I think I did. I think I always knew.” Mary paused, and then added, “I think your daddy did, too. But we didn’t do anything about it until it was too late.”

  “Does he know I’m here?”

  “No. He thinks this is just my weekly visit.”

  “Does he still hate me?”

  “Oh, Baby, he never hated you. He just couldn’t make his mind understand it, that’s all.”

  “It sure seems like hate to me.”

  Mary gestured to a wooden bench under a nearby oak. “Let’s sit over there.”

  She took Teri by the hand and led her to the bench, where they both sat. “Something you’ve got to understand about your daddy is that he comes from a long line of Texas ranchers,” Mary said. “He was raised to believe in God, land, and family. He believes it’s his God-given duty to be a good steward of the land and to protect his family. He’s always been good at the first one. He’s taken real good care of the land. But he feels like he failed at the other. He couldn’t protect his family. First he couldn’t protect you, and then he couldn’t protect Adam. Then he lost both of you.”

  “He didn’t lose me, Mama. He kicked me out. I may be the Prodigal Daughter, but I didn’t leave on my own. He abandoned me when I needed him the most.”

  “It was just too much for him. He thought you would be better off without him.”

  “Mama, I know he’s your husband and you love him. He’s my father, and I love him, too. But that’s just bullshit. He made a decision, and then I made a decision. And now I have no father.”

  Mary got up and walked back to the tombstone. “He’s hurting. He has been for twenty years. He lost his son. No parent should have to bury a child.”

  “And I lost my brother.” Teri stood and went to Gretel. She grabbed the pommel of the saddle and mounted up. With the reins in her hands, she headed the horse toward the place where her mother stood. “Daddy buried two children. The problem is that the second one he buried is still alive.”

  Mary didn’t look up but kept her eyes on the tombstone.

  “Did you bury me, too, Mama?” Teri asked.

  The question spun Mary’s head around. “No, Baby, of course not. But don’t make me choose between my daughter and my husband.”

  Teri’s voice softened, thick with emotion. “It seems like you already chose, a long time ago.” She brushed away a tear. “I love you, Mama.”

  Mary looked back at the tombstone. “I love you, too, Baby. I always will.”

  A buzz of uncertainty swirled in Mary’s head as she stared at the gravesite of her only son. Had Adam’s death been her fault? Could she have stopped it if she hadn’t turned a blind eye and a deaf ear? The uncertainties, the questions, the doubts of the last twenty years swarmed like a Texas twister, the buzz increasing to a dull roar and then to a full-blown roar. The chasm the shooting had dug between Peggy and her father had driven Peggy away all those years ago. Now she was finally home again, and still Mary had no words of comfort to offer her daughter.

  Words of comfort.

  Words of comfort? Of course.

/>   Chad had said Peggy was in trouble. That was why he had called and

  told her to meet Peggy here. But Mary had been so wrapped up in thoughts of Adam that she hadn’t even bothered to ask. “Chad said you were in trouble,” Mary said, as she turned to face her daughter. “What—”

  There was no one there. Mary hadn’t heard Peggy leave, hadn’t heard the horse’s hooves on the hard earth. Had she been so oblivious, once again, to her daughter’s pain? Was it the same lack of concern that had chased Peggy off all those years ago? An adage settled on the forefront of her mind: Those who don’t learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

  She hung her head and sobbed.

  CHAPTER 46

  Swafford left a message on Stillman’s cell for a call-back, then pulled his car into a parking slot at an In-N-Out Burger, got out, and went inside. He hadn’t finished his pancakes at Nate’n Al’s, so he felt like a little something to eat was in order, though, if she knew, his wife would kill him over his diet today. After leaving Stillman and Nichols, he made a few calls for some updates—at least one of which was extremely surprising to him—then took a little detour to his favorite fast food restaurant while waiting to hear back from the CHP detectives. He requested his doubledouble “animal style,” then filled his cup with iced tea and found a booth. As soon as he sat down, his cell phone rang. He glanced at the read-out: Stillman.

  “You got something on the DNA yet?” he said as he answered. “Always be good to the computer geeks and they’ll be good to you,” Stillman said. “But no.”

  “Do tell.”

  “We found out that Leland’s buried in Ludlow, out in the desert.

  We’re working on an exhumation order right now. We also got the hair from that tub to the lab. We’re front of the line, but still don’t know how long that’s gonna take. I hope we’ll have something to match it up against at least by the time we dig Leland up.”

  “I got my people looking for Annemarie, but no luck yet,” Swafford said. “Looks like she’s fallen off the face of the earth.”

  An In-N-Out worker approached Swafford’s table with his order. Swafford accepted it with a nod then dismissed the kid with a wave of his hand.

  “So here’s the scenario I’ve been putting together in my head for this,” Swafford said. “It assumes, of course, that the DNA’s all going to match up.”

  “Your elevator pitch, huh?”

  “Leland writes a script and wills it to our actress, Miss Squire. Then Mommy Dearest sends him off a cliff. She knows the story of a suicidal screenwriter just about guarantees a blockbuster. She knows just enough about the business to know it really doesn’t matter if the screenplay’s any good. All that matters is how it ended up in the hands of Teri Squire. Then, just when the blockbuster is about to hit—”

  “Brother Rodney shows up, pretending to be Leland, and he tries to horn his way in on the back end.”

  “The problem with that is planning that far ahead,” Stillman said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nichols and I have been thinking the same way. The problem is this: How can Annemarie know the screenplay is worth a damn? I mean, how can she be so sure it’s going to be a hit, that she offs her kid just hoping that the screenplay is good enough? Most screenplays suck.”

  “Like I said, she knows it’s the hype that’ll blow up the box office, not the actual script.”

  “But that still takes a lot of luck. How do you factor that into an actual plan?”

  “You got a theory?” Swafford asked.

  “Our theory is she’s just taking advantage of happenstance. She may or may not have gotten her kid to take a header off a cliff, but when he did, she figures out an angle for it. Then, when the blockbuster special’s about ready to roll, she decides it’s time to get on board before the train leaves the station. She pulls Rodney into the deal to pretend to be Leland and throw a monkey wrench into the whole deal.”

  Swafford grabbed his burger in one hand—not an easy task with a double-double—and took a big bite. Sometimes he thought better when he ate. “The rest of the story still plays out the same way,” he said. “Along comes Doug Bozarth and his hedge fund, but all of a sudden he finds out Teri Squire may not really have owned the screenplay all along. Not if the screenwriter is still alive.”

  “So the screenwriter needs to be dead to clear title. That means byebye Rodney.”

  “It’s still a leap to tie that to Bozarth,” Swafford said. “What if it’s the actress? She’s the one who needs him dead.”

  “You really think she’s capable of killing someone?”

  Swafford swallowed then brought the hamburger up for a second bite. Just before biting, he put it down on the table. “Well, see, that’s why I called. We’ve got some pretty good computer geeks of our own. It took some doing, including calling in some favors from the FBI, but I found out a little something about Miss Teri Squire.”

  “My turn,” Stillman said. “Do tell.”

  “She’s killed before.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. Swafford smiled as he realized he had finally struck the smartass state cop speechless.

  “Her real name is Peggy Tucker, and about twenty years ago, she shot and killed her brother Adam back in Bandera, Texas. They said it was a hunting accident, but it doesn’t pass the smell test. She spent a year in a state youth home for it.”

  “So is that where she’s from? Bandera, Texas?” Stillman asked.

  “Yep. I’m betting that’s where she’s gone. She had a lawyer named Chad Palmer, who’s now a veterinarian full-time. He was pretty much fresh out of law school when he handled the hunting accident case, then shut down his practice after Peggy Tucker went to the youth home. My money says that’s who we were talking to earlier.”

  “Where’s Bandera?”

  “About an hour, give or take, from San Antonio.”

  “Shit!” Stillman said.

  Swafford set his hamburger down and perked up in his seat. “What?”

  “That fits nicely with a piece of information we learned about Doug Bozarth. His private Gulfstream filed a flight plan today for San Antonio. He should be getting there right about four-thirty Central Time.” He glanced at his watch. “That’s about a half-hour from now.”

  Swafford glanced at his watch then said, “You guys ever flown on a private jet? I got another favor I can call in.”

  Mark Dolan and Will Morgan waited at one of the hangars at San Antonio International Airport that serviced private jets. They looked like typical Texans, clad in jeans, denim workshirts, and cowboy boots. The differences between them were readily discernable, though it would take a slight bit of analysis to actually articulate them. Dolan wore calfskin boots, while Morgan wore alligator; Dolan’s jeans were worn, the cuffs frayed from years of being stepped on by the heels of his boots, while Morgan’s were true blue, creased as if professionally ironed; Dolan’s workshirt was wrinkled, as if he’d slept in it, while Morgan’s was starched and pressed. By all appearances, Morgan was the boss, Dolan the hired hand.

  Appearances could be deceiving.

  Morgan looked at this watch. “Jet should be here by now.”

  “It’ll get here when it gets here.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “You usually are. But saying doesn’t change anything.”

  A Gulfstream taxied to the structure and pulled inside the air conditioned hangar. As the engines shut down, the door opened and stairs descended. Doug Bozarth exited, clad in a silk suit straight from Europe, every hair groomed and slicked back, a leather briefcase clutched in one hand. He didn’t smile or even look from side to side, just moved straight forward as if with a purpose. He eyed the two men in jeans and boots, who fell in beside him, one on each side. They veered across the hangar and toward the exit that led outside to the parking lot.

  “What have we learned?” Bozarth asked.

  “She hasn’t been to her parents’ ranc
h,” Dolan said. “We’ve had eyes on it since we first heard from you.”

  “She came to Texas for a reason,” Bozarth said. “If not so see her parents, then what?”

  Dolan opened the door and the men stepped outside into a hot Texas sun that heated the wind, blasting their faces like a furnace. Sweat immediately leaked from Bozarth’s brow, his perfect hair mussing.

  “It always this hot here?” he asked.

  “It’s Texas in the summer,” Dolan said. He pointed toward the private parking area. “This way.”

  “Where else would she go?” Bozarth asked.

  “She’s got an old boyfriend here. A lawyer turned vet.” “Interesting career change.”

  Dolan led the way to a newer model, oversized Dodge pick-up truck. He pressed the remote control on his key ring, unlocking the doors. Dolan got in on the driver’s side and Morgan squeezed into the back while Bozarth got in on the passenger side. Dolan cranked the engine, turned the air conditioner as high as it would go, and backed out of the parking spot.

  “Talk to me about this old boyfriend,” Bozarth said. “The former lawyer.”

  “He was her lawyer on a manslaughter charge.”

  Bozarth snapped his head around, a momentary lapse of composure. The news obviously took him by surprise. “Manslaughter!” he said.

  “They said it was a hunting accident, but she still got a year for it. A plea deal.”

  “Who’d she kill?”

  “Her brother.”

  Dolan pulled a folded page from his pocket and handed it to Bozarth, who studied the page, then smiled. What a delectable piece of information. Little Miss Teri Squire, who seemed to take offense at the unspoken threats of violence that accompanied their meetings to discuss the screenwriter problem, with a holier-than-thou attitude that she lorded over him—that same Teri Squire had killed her own brother.

  “How come no one knows about this?” Bozarth asked.

  “She was sixteen when it happened. When her year was up, her record was sealed, since she was a juvenile. Her father disowned her, so she changed her name when she moved to California, maybe even had a little work done, and started acting. Anyone trying to track down her background would have run into a dead end.”