Half Past Mourning (36 page)
“Danny? You put him in the trunk of the car?” Marigold shuddered at the idea. “Danny couldn’t breathe in a place like that. You killed him!”
“Dang, woman, that poke in the jaw may have finished him off, but you’d been killing him, smothering him to death, all his life. Why the hell didn’t you let him get out and get dirty, find out how the real world lives, let him off the leash before he got so fed up he was ready to run to Mexico or somewhere just to get away from you?”
“I loved my son,” Marigold wailed.
“That’s not part of this discussion,” Sheriff Hayes interrupted. “You admit you killed Danny Wilson?”
“I admit I hit him. I admit I put him into the trunk. But I didn’t kill him, I damn well didn’t. He was alive when I rolled him into the trunk and put his suitcase up front. He had air and some room back there. And Nina told me his license and pocket knife were hidden inside the trunk. So he had to be alive. He dang sure put those things there. I didn’t.”
Sheriff Hayes nodded. “He did have to be alive at least for a while. But you said that you know he’s dead. How do you know, if you didn’t make it happen?”
“Because I took the car out to the paint shop like always, and when I opened the trunk, Danny was dead. He was breathin’ when I put him in and not when I opened the trunk. I didn’t kill him; I know I didn’t. He was always bellyachin’ about his damn health, so I figured it was natural causes, heart or something. I think maybe I had something to do with bringing it on, but by heaven, Sheriff, I didn’t
start out
to kill him. It just happened.”
“And you were the one who made that call to me, told me Danny was following those race car people, I suppose,” Marigold interrupted.
“And posed as Jeff Davis in Dallas,” Nina added.
“Jeff Davis was the seller’s name on all the fake titles, guys. It got to be almost automatic to sign things that way.” Reeves looked at Marigold and gave a chuckle. “You bet I made that call, and got a kick out of hearing you sputter and fume over ‘my boy’s got no business associating with that sort,’” he answered, his voice a close, taunting imitation of Marigold’s drawl. “You’d have kicked up more fuss than a high plains tornado if you hadn’t thought you knew where your baby was. Made sure to send a telegram from wherever I delivered a car, somewhere around a race track, if possible, to keep you happy. Took you a lot longer to catch on than I expected.” He grinned. “That part was kinda fun, watching to see how long you’d keep the blinders on.”
“Enough, Reeves. Finish the story.” The sheriff sighed at the man’s sudden blank expression. “So where did you bury him? Where is Danny Wilson now?”
“Where he’d have picked to be if I’d given him the choice, Sheriff. In the berm beside the museum, next to all those fine old cars, probably the only things Danny Wilson ever really loved. Eldon was having that driving area paved, and the men piled up all that dirt we used to build up the berm. I just made a place—nice, easy dirt to move, so it wasn’t all that hard—and left Danny and his suitcase there. Workmen finished up the paving and we planted grass over the berm. That’s where Danny is.”
****
“So it’s all over now, Nina. You’re home, you have your answers, and you can pick up your life again.” Peter pulled her into his lap. She rested her head against his shoulder and watched the sun drop lower in the sky. The curtains fluttered in the evening breeze behind the big armchair.
“Way back, oh, it seems ages ago, you asked me if I was sure knowing was better than not knowing.”
Peter nodded. “I remember asking you that, and you said you’d rather know the truth than be in doubt. Did today change your mind? Would you rather not have learned the worst about Danny?”
Nina shifted so she could look at Peter. “No, I still think it’s better to have everything out in the open. Don’t laugh, but I hate it for Marigold more than for myself. She had to face the kind of man her son really was. It hurt to watch that happen. She aged ten years this afternoon.”
The security of Peter’s arms and the quiet strength he gave her went a long way toward easing the hurts of the day’s revelations, but Nina knew there would be no solace for Marigold.
“She did, sweetheart, but remember, she also did everything she could to sabotage your life as well. She has some debts to pay.”
They sat quietly in the darkening room, Nina releasing the past that had held her hostage for so long, Peter simply giving comfort.
“We have some other things to discuss, you know.” His words drew her back to the present.
“Do we?”
“Miss Kirkland, for some time I’ve been telling you that the minute Danny Wilson was out of your life I was planning to mount a campaign to gain your affections.”
“You know you have them, Peter. It took a while, with a lot of doubt along the way, but you know my feelings.”
His hand lifted her chin and he left small kisses on her lips. “I love you, Nina. Have, do, and will, for all the years we have together. I know you’ve come through hell in the last few days, almost dying, pulling a miracle out of your garter to free not just yourself but Eldon and me, as well...” He paused, a puzzled twitch in his eyebrows. “By the way, how did you happen to have that knife tucked into your stocking, if I may ask without sounding ungrateful?”
Nina felt her face color. “Don’t laugh at me, but it was just a silly, sentimental notion. I was sure Danny was dead, gone, but in spite of his money he never had much out of life. Rogue and charlatan he may have been, but he always wanted to see the Isotta run. Miss Dee told me about keeping lipstick and cigarettes in her garter when she was a girl. I didn’t have a handbag, needed my license, and thought of Miss Dee’s story, so I put my license there. Putting Danny’s knife with it was just a whim. It was a way of remembering the good part of him. A bit of him got to share the moment.” She touched Peter’s cheek gently. “I know it sounds foolish, but it seemed right at the time.”
“No doubt that it worked out for all of us. And I’ll feel a little less antagonistic toward that man since, in a way, he helped save the life of this girl I love.” The solemn look in Peter’s eyes faded, and he pulled her closer. “That’s all past now, Nina, and I hope your regrets, your mourning, will soon pass, as well. It may be too quick, but I’d like to know that down the road one day you’ll stand in front of a preacher, a judge, even a witchdoctor if you like, and take those vows again—the ones that go ‘I, Nina, take you, Peter,’ and so forth. Do you think we could talk about that in the near future?”
Nina pushed away all but his first concern. “Mourning? I don’t think I can keep mourning a man I never really knew. That’s senseless.” She stirred in his arms. In a hesitant tone she asked, “Peter Shayne, are you making some kind of indirect, slightly academic proposal? Do you by some chance think I’d consider spending the rest of my life with a tall, redheaded professor who likes to unravel puzzles and drive snazzy yellow sports cars?”
“Yes, ma’am, that is essentially what I’m asking.”
She sat upright. “Well, if that’s what you’re thinking, my friend, you’d better be careful, because that’s exactly what I plan to do. Spend a long, happy life driving along winding roads with a man who can solve a riddle and even spot a flock of plaster geese.”
The teasing look faded from Peter’s eyes. “Really, Nina, you really will marry me?”
“I will, Peter, with all my heart I promise I will.” She paused. “But not till next summer. I’ve signed my contract with the school for this year, so I have to teach. But come next summer...”
Nina couldn’t finish her thought. Peter’s lips and the bear hug he wrapped around her stopped all conversation.
When he drew back, he grinned. “Okay, next summer it is.” He paused, “Just one thing, sweetheart.”
“What’s that, my love? You want a huge wedding, a thousand guests, and a three-day party afterward?”
“That’s a good idea, and we’ll work on it. What I was really thinking was that it might be interesting to hand out rally instructions instead of invitations to the guests, to lead them to the event. And maybe make our getaway in the Isotta?”
Nina groaned. “I’ve created a monster. I should never have taught you to drive the T-Bird.” She curled into his arms. “We have a whole school year to make plans. A road rally wedding? Who knows, I might let you talk me into it. But the Isotta? You’ll have to convince Uncle Eldon, and that’s going to be a harder sell, my love. Ever so much harder.”
Try a taste from the other Santa Rita books now available from The Wild Rose Press,
and you’ll want the whole feast:
DON’T CALL ME DARLIN’
“Miss Library Lady, if you don’t take that damn book off the shelf, all hell’s gonna break loose. For sure and certain, with every Joe-Bob and Minnie Fay in the country seeing Communists under the bed and believing a Red Menace is beating on the door, folks are gonna shy away from anything that stirs up controversy. Things get heated up, and the County Commissioners’ll have you for breakfast.” The County Judge fiddled with his straw hat, rolling the broad brim, fingering the crease in the high crown. “It isn’t worth losing your job over some piddlin’ novel.”
“Sam Lindley, you can’t be serious. McCarthy’s witch hunts are dead, the House hearings have lost their bite, and the country’s tired of both. I’m the librarian, not the Book Commissar.” Carole kept her tone even, but the impulse to stamp her foot and throw something at the man was strong.
~*~
BLACK RAIN RISING
Evie skirted the barroom to find the farthest table in the darkest corner, where she ordered coffee. The man in jeans finished tuning his guitar and checked two microphones before he settled on a tall bar stool and strummed a few chords. Evie flinched. She’d listened to any number of no-talent singers and off-key guitars in the last twelve hours. She resigned herself to hearing another. She didn’t suppose one more would be fatal. At least this singer was better-looking than most. The tousled, sun-streaked hair was natural, the drooping moustache framed a handsome mouth, and those almond eyes looked like they really had seen a thousand miles of empty road. Evie poured a packet of sugar into her cup and leaned back.
“Good evenin’, folks, and welcome to Duff’s. Good of you all to get out on a night like this.” His voice was low, intimate, warm as whiskey on a winter night, with a slow drawl like wild honey. “My name’s Dallas Baird. I’ll do what I can to make your Saturday night a little more pleasant.”
~*~
ELOPEMENT FOR ONE
“All I want you to do is delay the limo that’s picking up the three of you for half an hour or so. Spill something, break a heel on your shoe, whatever it takes to tie things up for a little bit, long enough for me to call for a taxi and slip out the back door.”
“You’re going to get changed and out of there in half an hour, with the wedding planner and the photographer hanging onto you every minute?” Zarah sounded skeptical.
“The wedding planner is out with the photographer trying to find the setting I wanted for the pictures. Since that corner of the church parlor is full of stuff for the kids’ party tomorrow evening, they’re going to be occupied for a little while moving things around. I can’t unfasten this dress by myself, but I think I can get out the back door without anyone seeing me. All I need is a car and driver. Pray a taxi can get here in time.”
“Our Troy engages in another harebrained adventure.” Zarah’s tone came across the wire with wry resignation. “Don’t worry about getting a taxi there, Troy. It’s too undependable. It might come too late or not come to the right door. I’ll get someone over there to pick you up. You just get yourself out of there. And thank heaven you decided to do it before the wedding march started. I’d hate to take on your dad and Eric that late in the day. Make your dash to freedom in about fifteen minutes.”
A word about the author...
A fifth-generation Texan, Fleeta Cunningham has lived in a number of small Texas towns. Drawing on all of them, she created Santa Rita and its inhabitants. After a career as a law librarian for a major Texas law firm, writing a monthly column for a professional newsletter and other legal publications, she returned to her home in Central Texas to write full time.
Half Past Mourning
is her fourth novel as well as the fourth in her Santa Rita series, but she’s been writing in one form or another since the age of eight. When she isn’t writing, she serves as the wedding coordinator for her church and chief housekeeper for her feline roommates.
Visit Fleeta at
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