Lone Star Loving (31 page)

“Toni . . .
Cawwwww, shoooo, cawwwww.
Toni...
Cawwwww, shoooo, cawwwww.
'Toinette.”

The rafters shook with Karl's snores; he sounded like a chorus of braying burros, as far as his wife was concerned. In their rented house near La Villita, Maria Sara punched her husband's shoulder in anger, to no avail.

Outside the wind howled, and shutters slapped against the windows. But neither the bluster from outdoors nor her husband's nocturnal bellows held a candle to Maria Sara's fury.

Karl had stormed out earlier that night, after their argument had continued at home. Upon his return—with a spent
pene,
to be sure—he had reeked of rotgut whiskey and cheap perfume. The same scent worn by that French whore, Antoinette. He had denied being with the woman. His wife didn't believe the
bastardo.

Maria Sara covered her ears with a pillow, then cast it aside. She would not rest until her foes were vanquished. Who first? Ianito or Antoinette?

“I will kill Ianito,” she vowed, her words drowned out by Karl's snoring.

He had undermined Maria Sara; Charity's trust in her had been destroyed. There could be no friendship between them. Again he had shown that she was no more than Latin trash in Anglo eyes. Not once in Charity's suite had Ian Blyer taken more than a passing glance at her. And he had used the child of his loins as a pawn.

The mother had no use for the child, either, for obvious reasons, but she thirsted for the blood of vengeance.

Then she would scare Antoinette Keller away from Karlito.

Tossing back the covers, Maria Sara jumped out of bed. With all haste she dressed and slipped a knife in her skirt pocket. Her hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. Sister Estrella's voice echoed through her mind, like the shutters that flapped against the windows in the December wind.

She turned hurriedly from the door and swept to the kitchen area, where paper and pen were within reach. She sat down at the table, dipping the stylus into ink. The quick but decisive note penned, she tapped it into an envelope, then sealed it and left it on the table, where Karl could see it, should fate deem that she not return.

Tears obscured her vision as she reached for her cloak and hurried out into the bracing night air. The wind blew the doorknob from her clutch; the door banged against the kitchen wall, sending a fierce gust of wind into the house. With determination she shut the door tightly.

In her haste, she had not looked back to see that the letter still rested in its place on the table.

 

 

Dead. Maria Sara was dead. Shot dead. On the morning of the thirteenth of December, two schoolboys found her body floating in the San Antonio River, several miles from the city. A garland of Christmas cedars wrapped her neck. It had been twelve days since Karl reported her missing.

Charity felt certain Ian's hands were tainted with Maria Sara's blood. He had been unusually quiet of late. Which spoke for itself. She prayed he would make some false move and implicate himself in the murder.

 

 

Maria Sara's funeral was held the afternoon of the fourteenth. There weren't many mourners. The widower, Charity, Hawk, Margaret. And Eleanor Narramore, who had arrived the previous night to give moral support to Charity during the trial, which was scheduled to start the next day.

Although Charity had been heartsick over Maria Sara's perfidy, she grieved at the loss. Not because Maria Sara had been the only hard-and-sure witness to her innocence. She mourned for the friend she thought she once knew.

“I'm sorry,” Hawk whispered at the grave site in San Fernando Cemetery.

“Me, too.”

She watched Karl take the white rose from his lapel and place it on his wife's grave, his mouth moving in a silent goodbye.
He loved her. He'll miss her.
And so would her son.

“Oh, Hawk, what will happen to Jaime?”

The widower must have overheard the question; he plodded past Margaret and Eleanor, stopping in front of Charity. “I will take care of him. He is my son by law. And by love. He is ... was . . . Maria Sara's.”

Charity's heart went out to Karl; she forgave him for keeping the truth from her. Touching his haggard cheek, she said, “My mother has offered to raise Jaime. Let her. She will do well by him.”

Karl shook his head.
“Nein.
The boy is mine now.”

 

 

Karl Keller trudged toward his mount, but his favorite cousin reached him before he climbed into the saddle. “Are you certain you want the responsibility of Jaime?”

“Ja,
Charity. The boy will be loved and cared for,” Karl Keller replied honestly.

His gaze turned back to the flat plain of the cemetery, where grave diggers were at work. Who had killed his wife? he agonized. But what did it matter? Maria Sara had passed on, and nothing or no one would bring her back. Never more would he hear her call his name with a Spanish inflection. Never more would she caress him with fingers hot and insistent. Never more would he know the joys and the hell of loving his Mexican lady-whore. His wife.

Tears fell, unashamedly.

Charity tried to comfort him, as did Margaret; but there was no comfort for Karl Keller. He had buried his mother. He had buried his brothers. He had lost his father over a mistake in judgment.

“It will be all right,” Margaret murmured.

But these were platitudes. “Leave me alone,” he said hoarsely. “I want to go back to the ranch. And to Jaime.”

“What shall we do about your rented house?” Hawk asked, coming up beside them.

“There are but a few personal items there. Do whatever you please with them.” Already he had filled a couple of boxes. But the chore had been too much for the widower. Maria Sara's lingering scent. Touching her filmy nightclothes. Maychance someday he could touch them without this pain in his heart. “I will take what I need only.”

“Good God,” Margaret groaned.

From the corner of his eye, Karl spotted Antoinette walking toward him; he turned his back. Despite Maria Sara's claims, he had not so much as breathed in the scent of Antoinette, though she had found him in a saloon on the night of his wife's disappearance—when he'd been tormented over how to make peace with Maria Sara. Antoinette had curled herself around him. As he told her then, he repeated today, “I want nothing of you.”

“But,
cheri–”

He pushed away her hand as it clasped his forearm; Karl stumbled toward the carriage. As if from far away, he heard her ask in her lilting accent, “If you do not want me,
mon chére.
should I return to your father?”

 

After leaving the grave site, Charity demanded, “Hawk, I think Ian killed Maria Sara. We should tell the sheriff.”

“I agree.”

So did Margaret and Eleanor, but they stayed in the carriage when Charity and Hawk entered the sheriffs office. The sheriff was unimpressed with their conjectures. More than twenty witnesses placed Ian and his father at Beethoven Hall on the evening Maria Sara had disappeared. “And Mister Blyer has an airtight alibi for later that night.” Sheriff Schultz spat a stream of tobacco juice into the battered spittoon to the left of his desk. “He played cards till the wee hours of dawn with some Meskin buddies.”

“Might we know their names?” Hawk asked.

“Jorge Gomez, Federico Juarez, Rufino Saldino.” Schultz put another wad of tobacco into his mouth, waving a hand in dismissal. “Get on outta here. I got work to do.”

During their hack ride back to the Menger, Charity said to Hawk, “Senor Grande would lie for Ian.”

“Twenty ordinary citizens wouldn't. And what about those other two card players? We've no reason to believe they would lie.”

“If not Ian, then who killed Maria Sara?” she asked.

“Who knows?”

“Well, I still think Ian did it.”

 

That night at dinnertime Charity, Margaret, Eleanor, and Hawk sat at a round table in the Menger dining room. No one showed much interest in the delectable meal of quail and rice, especially not Charity. Margaret and Eleanor kept up most of the conversation.

Other diners in the Menger, buffeted by gossip and lurid newspaper stories about “that McLoughlin girl,” kept close watch on them. Three matrons at the nearest table made certain their conversation was overheard.

“Look at the shameless hussy, sitting there as calm as you please, as if she should even be showing her face in public.”

“Which one is it? I can't tell the difference in those girls.”

“There's a difference all right. One's a lady. The other's not. I certainly feel sorry for the family, having such a cross to bear as Charity McLoughlin.”

Margaret and Eleanor glowered. Hawk, his face and mouth severe, leaned over to Charity. “Let's leave.”

“No,” she whispered in return. “I won't give those old biddies the satisfaction.”

The skinniest one said to the fattest, “Mildred, I can't wait for the hanging. Did you know invitations are already being printed?”

“My word!” Mildred chomped on a dinner roll. “Pass me that eclair you aren't eating, Gladys.”

Margaret shot murderous looks at the women.

“Is that her attorney sitting there?” The third biddy, who wore a bird's-wing bonnet, nodded at Hawk. “He's mighty handsome, if you ask me.”

“Not if you compare him to Senator Blyer's son,” Mildred commented after devouring Gladys's dessert. “I hear she's secretly married to Mr. Blyer. He's going to testify against her because she refused to share the marriage bed.”

“She refused Ian Blyer husbandly rights?” Gladys put a scrawny hand on her scrawny chest. “Mildred Beeson, how could that be? Why, Mr. Blyer is the handsomest man in Texas!”

“Then you can have him,” Charity answered, making certain no one overheard but her tablemates.

Margaret and Eleanor chuckled. Hawk did not.

Thankfully the women paid their bill and departed, snubbing their noses in the process.

The red-haired Eleanor dabbed her mouth with a napkin, then placed it beside her plate. “Thank God they're gone.”

“I've gotten used to such talk,” Charity said. “And I don't think we should let it bother us.”

Hawk lifted his wineglass. “Certainly not.”

Margaret introduced a new topic. “Mr. Hawk, I think it's terrible Karl's landlord wouldn't hand over our cousin's possessions.”

“That is the least of our problems right now, though I will send someone back over there tomorrow.”

“I'll talk to him.” Eleanor took a sip of wine. “Women do have the upper hand when it comes to speaking with men.”

“Good idea,” said Margaret.

“I may be late for the opening proceedings.”

“Oh, Eleanor, no.” With her father gone to Mexico and Mutti taking care of Jaime and Maisie, Charity needed all the moral support she could get. “I need you here.”

“She does.” Hawk patted her hand, then turned to Eleanor. “Do you think you can get over there and back by nine o'clock in the morning?”

“Absolutely.”

Margaret ran her thumb across the bottom of her wine glass. “Charity, I hate to say anything, being you're upset over Maria Sara, but I've got to. Your best witness is gone.”

Hawk frowned at Margaret; Charity asked him, “What about Sheriff Ellis?”

“He's not a material witness. All he can attest to is Blyer's show of imbalance over Syllabub. And even that could be discounted, since Blyer had suffered a head wound.”

Propping up her spirits, Charity said, “Don't be such a naysayer. Papa and Sam will be back. And they'll have the Eagle with them. You wait and see.”

“Charity, jury selection starts in the morning. We've heard nothing from Papa or Sam. We're desperate.” Margaret lowered her voice. “Unless we get lucky and Ian is exposed as a no-good.”

“I'm afraid she's right.”

Charity gaped at Hawk's concurrence. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

“I'm trying to be practical. And realistic. We're in trouble.” He rubbed his brow. “I'll ask for a delay. I'm going to Peterson's house. Tonight.”

Hawk excused himself, returning in an hour to the impatient women who still waited at the table. All gossip-minded diners had exited, leaving the room deserted except for a waiter. Hawk pulled a chair close to Charity and put a sympathetic arm around her.

“No use. The judge won't grant the delay. Peterson wants it over and done with by Christmas. So it won't interfere with his holidays.”

Margaret wasn't the only one to grimace at Peterson's self-indulgence, but she was the one to speak. “He's got a nerve. Questioning me until my head spun on Spanish history, making me listen to Mrs. Peterson's moronic prattle. Then he uses the excuse of Christmas to sabotage my sister. Goddamn him.”

Margaret never swore, much less used Papa's verbiage.

“Oh, dear.” Her face paling, Margaret lowered her chin. “I know why Judge Peterson is vexed. Henrietta and I, well, we had words a couple of days ago. She made a cutting remark about Charity, and I, well, I told Henrietta she resembled the East African blind mole rat.”