The fresh green of new leaves was electric, and the azaleas in purples, fuchsias, pinks, and whites were so vivid they seemed unreal. During this brief magical spell, it was easy to see where the idea of crinoline, hoopskirts, and ruffles culminated in the creation of the belle. It was simply an attempt to mimic the wonder of nature. In the South, women are still considered delicate flowers. It is a doublebladed sword.
I left the beauty of nature behind and stepped into the cool hallway of the courthouse. Television reporters were jamming the doorway of the sheriff's office. The word had spread like wildfire. I noticed a reporter from a Memphis station and another from Batesville.
Easing through the crowd, I tried to slip into Coleman's office, but I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked into the face of Deputy Gordon Walters. We respected each other, but we were not friends.
"Coleman's not seeing anyone," he said. His words were soft, but his hand was firm.
"I've got information." I wasn't sure how much I'd share with Coleman, but I'd at least tell him about the gambling. With his law enforcement connections, he could check on Biloxi gaming a lot easier than I could.
"Wait here."
I did, until the door opened and Coleman signaled me inside. He was sitting at his desk with a stack of papers in front of him. He did not look happy.
"Damned media," he said. "They're making this the case of the century. Word is out that Lee confessed."
"And how did it get out?" I asked, annoyed and worried.
"I'll find out, and when I do, there's going to be someone without a job."
I walked around his desk so that I was behind him. He was a tall man with broad shoulders. He'd leaned up since his high school days on the football team. My aunt LouLane would have said he lost his baby fat.
"Coleman, I hear Kemper owed a lot of money down in Biloxi."
He swiveled his chair around to face me. "Is that so?"
This was something he already knew, but he was wondering how I found out. "That's what I hear."
"Who's talking?"
I shook my head. "Maybe Lee didn't kill him at all." I floated the concept. "What if one of those Mafia types killed him?"
"Why would Lee want to protect a killer from the gambling industry by confessing?"
It was the perfect question to lead me to where I wanted to go. "Maybe she's trying to protect someone else."
"And who would she be protecting?" His blue eyes were alert, eager. He was waiting for me to say Kip's name. I couldn't, and I suddenly had a clearer understanding of the dangerous game Lee was playing, if indeed she was protecting her daughter.
"I don't know," I said, "but that's something I'll find out."
"When you get a line on who that might be, I'd like to hear it."
No matter his personal preferences, Coleman was saying he wouldn't cut Lee any slack. It was one of the things I admired about him. And one of the things that threatened to cost him his job, when he dared to step on the wrong toes.
"I'll let you know," I said. He bent back to his paperwork and I knew I was dismissed. I left the courthouse and headed home. I had no solid suspects, just a shadowy Dixie Mafia hit man.
And someone far more troubling: Kip.
There was also one other avenue—Bradford Lynch. He was a man with opportunity and ability. But did he have motive? That was something I had to find out. But Kip first.
Kip was on the front porch with Sweetie Pie at her feet when I pulled up to Dahlia House. Her hand was resting on the hound's head, and for a split second I could see the child Kip might have been. Then she spoke.
"There's nothing to eat here except a flat of strawberries."
"I'll make us some lunch." It was a little late, and I'd truly forgotten that Kip might want to eat. Guilt is an interesting emotion—so easy to generate and so hard to get over.
"I don't eat any of that healthy crap."
I stopped in my tracks, hand on the doorknob. "I'll make us some lunch. You can eat or not," I said as calmly as I could. "I was thinking of a grilled cheese sandwich and some tomato-basil soup." It was the only thing in the house, except strawberries. I thought of my basil plant, lying in the garden, roots exposed to the hot sun. I had murdered it even before I began. Jitty was right about me. Black-thumb Delaney. I went inside and left Kip to make up her mind. My aunt LouLane would have slapped me into next week for displaying such an attitude. Until exposure to Kip, I'd never fully appreciated the social tools she'd drilled into me.
Jitty was strangely absent. Something in the back of my brain fluttered, but I was too intent on making lunch to pay attention. I had the soup going, two grilled cheese sandwiches in an old black skillet, and the crust for a strawberry pie in the works when Kip came in. Hunger had won out over obnoxiousness. She took her seat and I placed a sandwich in front of her. She began to eat without a word.
The phone rang and she looked up, green eyes a shade darker than her mother's. "I'll get it." She leaped to her feet, but not before I picked up the extension and said hello.
"This is Kelly Brewer with WRRK-TV in Greenwood. I'm returning your call. We've got a camera crew on the way to the courthouse."
I turned to look at Kip, who'd stuffed her sandwich into her mouth. Cheeks bulging, she stared back at me defiantly.
I hung up without a word and confronted her. "Why?" I demanded.
"Mother wants to be a celebrity. She confessed, you know."
"You're a real piece of work," I said. "I don't know if you're stupid or just plain mean."
"She confessed!" Kip was enunciating pretty well for having a mouthful of food. "She's told everyone she killed my father. She doesn't care what it does to me. She doesn't care about anything except herself and Swift Level. She wants to be some kind of righteous murderer, then let her be as famous as she wants. Maybe this confession is just a big publicity stunt to promote Swift Level. It's all over the news!"
Her face was red with fury, and though I felt a wave of pity for her, it wasn't enough to counteract my anger. "That's enough, Kip."
"No, no, it isn't enough. Mother didn't kill him. She didn't. She's taking the blame for it, though. That's what she does. She just puts herself in the line of fire. But she never thinks about me. She's my mother, and she never thinks what this is doing to me. I need her and she's in jail! Just once, just one time, I wish she could put what I need first. Just once." She threw her fork across the kitchen, missing my head by a foot or two.
"As of right this minute, you have no phone privileges."
She swallowed, and then laughed. "Right. Some big punishment. Have you noticed how many of my friends are calling to talk to me?"
She jumped up from the table, brushed past me, and ran up the stairs to her room. On the kitchen floor, Sweetie Pie moaned sadly.
5
Kip's music, a blend of Middle Eastern wails and some indistinguishable rap lyrics with a wall-vibrating beat, was still audible through my closed door. Kip was a problem, and one I had no experience in solving. I'd called Coleman and told him who the leak was. He, too, was appalled by Kip's actions. He was also relieved that none of his employees had talked to the media.
I cranked up my computer and began a search for Bradford Lynch. I couldn't exactly "hang ten" as a Web surfer, but I turned up a couple of mentions. A 1997 article in Texas Monthly ranked Lynch as one of the best-kept secrets of Texas. His skills in working with "problem" horses were soundly lauded. I also gathered the basics: He was born in Bandera, a small town with a population under a thousand but labeled the "cowboy capital of the world." His family had once owned the Double D Ranch, which they'd "lost." I did some quick calculations and pinned his age at thirty-nine.
Once the twenty-thousand-acre family ranch had been split and sold, Bradford had drifted around the state, training and riding horses at various ranches. End of article. There was a devastating picture of him in his faded blue chambray shirt and cowboy hat.
The other story was in the Dallas Morning News, a m
ore recent account of a suspicious death. The March 1998 headline read: lawmen investigate mysterious death of local rancher.
Kerr County was the setting, and the dead man in question was William Talbot. He'd just filed for divorce from his wife, Tanya, whom he'd caught in the act of playing bucking bronco with a horse trainer—one Bradford Lynch.
Tiny little goose bumps began doing the boogie on my neck and arms. I read on.
Talbot, who raised cutting horses, had been found dead in a pasture, trampled in a horse stampede. Tanya had inherited everything. Though the rancher had begun divorce proceedings against her for adultery, he had not changed his will. End result, Tanya was very rich and very single.
Now that I had a source, I checked for additional articles but nothing came up. It was as if the entire matter had been dropped. Either that, or I didn't know how to work the damn computer. So I resorted to the detective's best tool, the telephone. I unplugged the computer modem and made a quick call to the daily newspaper in Kerrville. I got all the answers from a delightfully gossipy reporter named Al Redding.
Al had covered the story and was glad to gab about it. The two chief suspects with motive, opportunity, and means, Tanya Talbot, aka wealthy widow, and Bradford Lynch, had been thoroughly investigated. There was insufficient evidence to prove foul play. Tanya had inherited and sold the ranch, and Bradford Lynch had continued his drifting ways, moving out of Kerrville and into the sunset as far as anyone knew.
"They didn't go away together?" I asked.
There was a pause on the line. "It seemed that once Talbot was dead, Tanya didn't have a lot of need for Bud. It's my opinion that she dumped him and moved on to richer hunting grounds. I mean, now she had the bucks to track herself down a very wealthy man. Bud's a charmer, but his Dun and Bradstreet wasn't up to snuff. That was Tanya, always looking to marry up the ladder."
"So the case is over and done. Were they guilty?"
"As sin. At least Tanya was. Everyone in the county agreed she was guilty. That's why she had to sell out. The law couldn't punish her, but the community shut her out. Kerr County was once nothing but big cattle ranches. There was a code of honor, and it still exists among many of the people here."
"And the trainer, Lynch?"
"There were two schools of thought about him. Some say he planned and executed the murder for a big payoff. Others thought he was just a victim. Sure, he was bedding the boss's wife, but that's not a hanging offense this day and time. And Tanya was quite a woman. Not many men could resist her. Last I heard of him, he was down in Laredo working with some crazy stallion that had gone on a rampage and killed a half dozen of his own mares."
"The horse killed his own herd?" This did not jibe with my mental picture of the magnificent stallion protecting his herd from mountain lions, man, or other dangers.
"So I was told. He's a valuable horse, but the only cure for that kind of thing is a bullet in the brain. Once a horse kills, it's time to destroy him. Loss of marketability as a stud. Nobody wants to breed to something crazy. That's the way it works, the unwritten horse code."
"Hey, thanks," I said.
"What's all the curiosity? Has Tanya turned up in Mississippi? I heard she had an aunt living over there."
"No, I'm writing a book," I lied. I had never conjured up a more serviceable falsehood.
"Yeah? I thought about writing about Tanya and Bud and poor ol' William. I just never got around to it. It'll make a great book, though. Good luck."
"You, too." I replaced the phone and turned to find Kip staring at me through a small opening in my door. My instant reaction was anger. She'd simply opened the door without knocking. I had no idea how long she'd been listening.
"Bud didn't do anything wrong." She wiped under her eyes where her thick black mascara was smeared. To my amazement, I saw a tear trickle down her cheek. She brushed it away with fury. "Bud can't leave the farm. There's no one else to take care of the horses."
"Kip, your mother's future is on the line. Don't you understand that? She can go to prison for life."
"She doesn't care!" Kip's voice was heated. "They were both nothing but liars. Everything was a lie. All of it. I had to listen to them fighting, to the sound of him hitting her." She put her hands over her ears. "I heard it night after night."
I gripped her shoulders lightly. "I'm trying to help Lee. It might not be the way you like it, but I'm going to pursue every avenue. You said Lee didn't kill your father. Who did?"
She took a ragged breath and stepped back from me. "I don't know, but it wasn't Bud."
"Kip, if we can point the finger of doubt at someone else, it might save your mother."
"This is what I'm supposed to want to grow up to become. Grown-ups do whatever it takes to make it work out the way they want." She shook her head, and in the blurred ruin of her face, the eyes of a terrified child looked at me. "I don't want to be part of this. I'd rather die."
She stalked out of my room, and in a moment I heard her door slam with a righteous bang.
"It's awful hard to understand how you can throw the blame on someone just to take it off another. You'd think the truth would have something to do with it." Jitty had appeared at my elbow. Her face, normally unperturbed by the trials and tribulations of mere mortals, was worried. "If you plant the seeds of lies now, there'll be a high price to pay in the future when your harvest comes in."
"I don't think Lee killed Kemper. She tells a good story, but it doesn't ring true."
"That girl is gonna suffer no matter what you do."
Jitty was correct, and I was worried. "Maybe Kip should talk to a professional. You don't think she'll harm herself, do you?" Kip's last statement seemed melodramatic and very teenlike, but she wasn't experiencing the traumas of a normal teen. She'd been hurled into adulthood.
"Doubtful," Jitty said. "If she did, though, she might want to stay here and haunt you, too. Dahlia House is big, but not big enough for two ghosts."
She was gone and I was left wondering what in the world to do. Jitty might want an heir, but Kip was enough to shrivel my Fallopian tubes. Aunt LouLane, a confirmed spinster, had been a lot smarter than I'd ever appreciated. But in the long run, what good had it done her? She'd been saddled with me.
The telephone saved me from further morbid ruminations and signaled that one of my cohorts was probably reporting in. "What have you found?" I asked, by way of hello. I was unprepared for the male voice on the other end.
"I want to see Lee," Bud Lynch said. "I've got some questions about the farm. Some serious ones."
"The sheriff won't let you talk to her?" That surprised me. Coleman wasn't exactly the type to isolate a prisoner.
"He's stalling, and right now I don't have time for it. There's someone here to pick up Avenger. She has a bill of sale signed by Kemper."
I thought for a moment. "Tell them the horse is evidence in a murder investigation."
His chuckle was rich. "I like the way you think, Ms. Delaney. The problem is, Mrs. Bishop has a bill of sale for three hundred thousand dollars, signed by Kemper, showing that she paid two hundred thousand dollars for Avenger and four of our best mares bred to Avenger.
I think she's afraid the horse will be implicated in the crime. She wants him removed before that happens. Bad for the breeding business, you know, if the stud is part of a murder."
"Does Lee know about this?"
"I doubt it."
There was just enough hesitation in his voice to make me wonder—and despair. Knowing Lee as well as I did, this was one of the best reasons yet for her to kill her husband.
"Could Kemper have sold the horses? I thought they were Lee's." According to Harold, Kemper had sold Mrs. Peel. I needed to know the law on this issue.
"I'm not sure of the legalities. I'm just sure that Mrs. Bishop will do everything in her power to get those horses any way she can."
"Can you stall her?" Somehow I suspected Bud would be very good at delaying a woman.
"It's March. Her m
ares are ready to be bred. Past ready. She's not going to tolerate much of a delay. She's on her cell phone talking to a lawyer right this minute. If this bill of sale is legal, and if Kemper had the authority to sell the horses, she's going to do her best to take them as soon as possible. That's why I need to talk to Lee."
"I'll call Coleman."
"Make it fast. She's left the motor running in her truck." He hung up.
It took a few calls to track Coleman down, but, as it happened, he was headed out to Swift Level. My call was patched through to him, and I gave him the pertinent details. He promised to check into it.
I'd just hung up when the phone jangled beneath my fingers. "Delaney Detective Agency."
"It's me." Tinkie's voice bubbled with excitement. "What do you have to eat?"
Whereas Cece preferred cheese Danish hot from the local bakery, Tinkie liked to come to Dahlia House for empty calorie consumption. Her expensive, registered dust mop, Chablis, liked to romp on the kitchen floor with Sweetie Pie.
"As it happens, some fresh strawberry pie." It was Delaney tradition to have at least one pie with the lush, sweet berries sliced and piled high in a graham-cracker-crumb crust and covered with mountains of whipped cream. I was a slave to tradition, especially when it came to food.
"We're on our way," Tinkie said as she hung up.
I looked around for Sweetie Pie. She'd be delighted to see Chablis. They were an interesting pair—the big, gangly red tic hound and the froufrou toy Yorkie. They adored each other.
My hound was nowhere in sight. I remembered that Kip had taken a liking to her, and it was a good excuse to check on the teenager. I knocked on her door, pounding to get over the din of the music. "Kip, Sweetie Pie has a friend coming over to play. Is she with you?"
The sudden silence was startling. When the door opened, the first thing I noticed was Kip's clean face. Without all that makeup, she looked vulnerable. Her eyes were puffy from crying. Sweetie Pie sat at her side, tail thumping the floor. In that moment she looked like only a fourteen-year-old kid who'd listened to her parents fight and had been pressured to a level of performance in the show ring that I couldn't even imagine.
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