Mason's Daughter (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

After dropping Colton at school, I cruise through downtown Mason’s Crossing. It will do me good to stop and chat with folks I’ve known all my life, because arguing with Colton leaves me feeling like a failure. I sigh and wonder how long it will be until we take pleasure in each other’s company again. Surely he didn’t mean he wants me dead, but he might as well have poked a straw in me and sucked the life out.

Sheriff Avery’s shiny blue Mercury Marauder pulls up behind me, triggering an automatic flash of electricity from my guts to my fingertips. Brake lights will only draw his attention. My speed dwindles to a crawl past the Hot Crossed Buns Diner, and I spot a silver Chevy pickup parked in the side lot.

Who better to ask about the names and numbers in the appointment book than my father-in-law? Big Jack Edwards keeps a detailed chart on each customer and supplier, enough info to make an FBI agent proud.

Get him to help.
But I had left the book at home.

Because he likes to linger over the baked goods, he’ll probably stay put until I return. Maybe I can talk him out of ordering anything made of sugar and white flour. His arteries already look like a sackful of pastries.

The traffic light changes to green. I press on the accelerator, glance in the rear view mirror, and immediately let up. Officer Avery waves and points at the back of my car.

I jerk the turn signal to the off position. A ticket for absent-minded driving is another expense I can ill afford.

Officer Avery turns left at the next corner. I speed up. Is it too soon to feel cautiously optimistic? What if I discover something that improves the past for all of us? For months, I prayed Jack’s death was some bizarre accident instead of a deliberate choice. Even a fatal illness wouldn’t have clawed my thoughts to shreds this past year. I can picture Colton bleeding inside from grief.

Damn the so-called facts, my husband didn’t kill himself! Right after his funeral, everyone in town said it wasn’t like him.

Driving a little faster, I plot my strategy. Once Big Jack agrees with my logic, he’ll help me persuade Colton. The county coroner will fall into line as well.

The car vents crank out too much warmth, and I roll down the window to let the cool morning air bathe my flushed face. Ahead a banged-up VW Beetle covered with leftover peace symbol stickers sits idling. I swerve around it just in time to stop at the train tracks. Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, I wish with all my heart I could turn back the calendar.

Someone behind the Volkswagen honks. The weekly freight train from East Texas has already passed and the guardrails lift. The driver of the Beetle flashes the ‘V’ at me.

Peace. If only.

I dash across the tracks.

No way can I see peace on the horizon except by proving Jack’s death was accidental. My optimism vanishes like vapor. This could turn out to be a wild goose chase, and all I will accomplish is to open fresh wounds. Left alone, scars might serve us just as well.

Three minutes later, I pull into my driveway. Good heavens, I left the side door open. Tense scenes with Colton make me twice as forgetful. Today, at least, I remember what I came home to do.

In the kitchen, Grandmother’s china cup and saucer catch my eye, right next to the coffee pot. Nothing except Colton’s dirty dishes in the sink. I head toward the back door. One drawer sticks out and I bump it with my hip as I pass. Something flat and brown lies inside.

How on earth did Jack’s appointment book wind up in the kitchen drawer?

I stare at the leather cover and fan the pages to be sure it is the same book. My fingers stroke the ones at the middle of March and stop. I look closer.

Water spots? The paper is crinkled where a few droplets have fallen. They still feel damp.

I flop into the kitchen chair and mentally retrace my steps from the time Colton appeared in the greenhouse. Nothing convinces me I didn’t carry Jack’s book to the kitchen, unless . . .

When I was a young girl, a family friend comforted me by promising my mother would become my guardian angel after she died. For years I awaited an epiphany. Maybe she finally chose today. Either that, or Colton was trying to hide it when I came downstairs.

No, the water droplets must be tears. Mine? I don’t remember crying. No matter. I grasp the book and run out the kitchen door.

The car door stands open, as if waiting for my return. Had I forgotten to close it or . . .? Now is not the time to get carried away. I climb into the front seat and turn the key in the ignition. Jack’s book with its troublesome contents lies on the passenger seat. My stomach flutters, and I rev the engine while it’s still in neutral.

Do this for Colton.

I take off down the street. At the edge of downtown, my speed drops to the legal limit. By the time I reach Mason Boulevard, Big Jack’s truck hasn’t moved. I pull into the adjacent lot and park three spaces over.

While I rely on him to recognize every name and number in Jack’s book, I worry I might start a fire I can’t put out. At home in private, Jack often accused his father of acting overbearing to the extreme. But because Big Jack owns the corner gas station, the feed store, and the sporting goods outlet, he occupies a unique position to gather all the gossip and unofficial news. Everyone, from locals and rurals to folks merely passing through town, becomes acquainted with Big Jack and vice versa.

My late mother-in-law would have given me even more help. No one in Mason’s Crossing knew more about folks than Trixie Edwards, past chair of the school board and in the choir at the First Methodist Church.

From the entrance, I catch sight of Big Jack in his usual booth. His attention is buried in
The Central Texas Journal
. As I slide into the seat opposite, I nod at Lois, our favorite waitress, to bring more coffee.

“Good morning.”

“Whaaat?” Big Jack lowers his newspaper and glares at me for a split second before his face softens into a friendly smile. “Oh, hi, Sally-Girl.”

I like it when he uses his affectionate nickname for me. “What’s up with the world today?” Flinging my hair over my shoulder, I try to adopt the persona of a lost tourist.

“After that idiot President Ford pardoned Nixon last September, I thought Congress should hang ‘em both.” His mouth stretches into a grin. “But now the Big Three have been sentenced–”

“I can see you’re worried sick about them. Which three?”

“Ehrlichman, Haldeman, and Mitchell are going to jail.”

“For how long?”

“Not long enough, the sorry sons of bitches.”

“Still, it’s nice to have some . . . resolution.” I sip my coffee.

Big Jack emits a ‘hmmmm’ while he shuffles his paper. He doesn’t cover his face, but he wants to get back to the article. It would be easier to navigate a field of landmines than capture his attention, but I have no choice except to move forward or else give up.

“Speaking of resolution, your help would be really valuable with something.” I finger the appointment book tucked under my arm and out of his sight.

The newspaper crackles as he folds it and lays it to one side. “You bet, Sally-Girl.” He pulls his checkbook out of his back pocket. “Is Colton causing trouble again? Just tell me how much you need.”

I had made it a rule that Jack and I would never ask for financial assistance from our parents, not even for Colton. Jack’s older sisters soon regretted accepting their father’s generosity after they learned it always came with strings attached.

“Colton’s fine.”

“What is it, then?”

“I found something, um, of Jack’s that I want you to see.” I smile and try to come across like a student asking her teacher for an explanation. His return smile fades when I place Jack’s appointment book in front of him and open the cover. “Remember this?”

He nods.

“Please skip over to March. Start at the nineteenth. Would you mind taking a look at the lists of names and numbers and identifying them?”

He hesitates, and then flips the pages one by one until the book lies open to mid-January. Big Jack’s eyes graze my face while he grunts and squints, pushing his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose. He fans the pages past February and the first half of March and stops. “What about it?”

“See all those meetings and appointments on the day Jack died? Look at the following day, and several days after. Same thing, even into the next week.”

“I see them.”

“He made lots of plans after the nineteenth. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

Shrugging, he closes the cover and nudges the book toward me.

I reopen it and tap my index finger on the page. “Despite what the coroner said, Jack never intended to kill himself. He had some project in the works. Look at all those names. Who
are
those people? If I get in touch with them, I bet they could at least tell me
something
.”

“Sally, you’ve got to stop poking through all this.” He removes his glasses, closes the book again, and shuffles it across the table. “You can squint your pretty blue eyes at me, but it won’t do anybody any good.”

“Yes, it will!” I ignore his scowl. “For Colton’s sake, I’ve got to prove Jack’s death was accidental. It’ll make you feel better, too, if . . . well, can’t you help me?”

“I don’t know any of those folks.” He wipes his hand over his mouth, as if trying to shove the words back inside.

“Sure you do.”

With a quick jerk of his head, he stares at the parking lot. I follow his gaze. Outside a man in a black business suit wipes his sweaty forehead while he changes a front tire. Big Jack draws his lips together and blinks several times, as if counting the lug nuts. He exhales for so long, a smaller person would turn blue.

When he looks at me, his expression has grown frosty. “Never mention this again.”

I collapse against the back of the booth. “I didn’t mean to push you into a corner.”

“Forget it.”

Sally-Girl has blown it, and I wonder how to wriggle the truth out of him. “Okay.” I try my softest young-lady voice; it has worked in the past. “Maybe you can just tell me one tiny thing, then?”

Through narrow slits, he eyes me.

I clear my throat. “Why did Jack write my father’s name in his book?”

“Let me see that thing again.” He grabs the book and dogpaddles through the pages to find March. “Where?”

“The twenty-second.” I sit up straight. “Also his phone number.”

I’ve never seen anyone’s face turn crimson so fast. Fearing he would suddenly clutch his chest and keel over, I reach across to pat the back of his hand, a risky move since he shuns physical affection.

“Dammit to hell!” He bangs the book shut, hard enough that a few startled customers look at us. “Leave it alone, you hear me?”

Across the room, Lois springs to action with her coffee pot appendage and heads in our direction, but I hold up a hand.

Big Jack stands and stretches to his full height, so his silver belt buckle comes level with my eyes. “Nate Wallace, that lousy bastard. Your father better not set foot in Mason’s Crossing now.” He snatches too much cash from his wallet for the three-fifty blue plate special and drops it on the table. As he stomps out of the diner, his boots clunk against the old mesquite floorboards.

When Lois appears at the edge of the booth, I try to smile, but my mouth feels dry and prickly. She fills my coffee mug and pulls a ticket from her apron pocket, matching it with the two five-dollar bills Big Jack left.

She gazes out the window as Big Jack climbs into the cab of his truck and slams the door. Within seconds, the engine roars to life. Lois tucks the ticket and the money into her pocket. “Didn’t care much for them eggs today, did he?”

“I . . . I guess not.”

“That wife of his, Miss Trixie, she was a saint, I reckon.”

Nodding, I reach for my purse, but Lois pushes my hand away. “Coffee’s on him.”

I sigh and pick up the appointment book. If both Colton and Big Jack won’t change their minds, fighting them will make my misery worse. Is pain better than unanswered questions? I can’t rest without finding out what really went on with Jack.

Why did Colton hide Jack’s book in the kitchen drawer? It couldn’t be Saint Trixie or my crazy mother, rival guardian angels maneuvering from heaven. How was my father involved in Jack’s wheeler-dealing? What made Big Jack lie about knowing those names?

One significant person in Mason’s Crossing has always helped me find answers. I hope Officer Avery has let her out of jail by now.

CHAPTER THREE

Sheriff Mike Avery sits at an olive green metal desk behind the counter of the police station, filling out paperwork. When I set my purse on the countertop, he doesn’t raise his head.

I drop my keys. “Did you arrest all those Earth Day demonstrators yesterday?”

“Oh, hi, Sally.” He stands up so fast his chair tips over. Chuckling, he bends and sets the chair upright. “Nah, our jail’s too small. State troopers carted off ‘most everyone to Austin.” He drops his pen on the stack of papers and approaches the counter. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“No time, but thanks anyway. I’m here on business. For Angelique.”

“But you’re not her daughter or her lawyer.”

“I’ll pay her fine.” Brave words, but I know she will reimburse me.

“Too late to spring her. I already sent Angelique on her way.” He glances over his shoulder at the wall clock. “About an hour ago.”

Since we first met in elementary school, our paths crossed often enough for me to consider Mike a friend, but not a confidant. Yet there is something about his demeanor I find comforting. Or maybe it is his penny loafers.

“I caught the news last night. She insisted you book her and lock her up, didn’t she?”

“You know how stubborn she can be. I offered to drive her home after the diner delivered her favorite supper, but she wanted to keep the faith.” He shakes his head. “I’m throwing her fingerprints out.”

I admire Mike Avery for his old-fashioned good manners and because he sings like Elvis with his weekend rock-and-roll band. “Is that why you have so much paperwork today?”

With a laugh, Mike sidesteps around the counter, pushes through the swinging gate, and stops about two feet from me. “How’s Colton’s ankle? Not still limping, is he?”

“All healed, thank goodness.”

“I climbed on the same roof when I was about his age. Lucky for me, I didn’t fall off.”

“Let’s hope Colton’s luck improves.”

“It already has. The owner didn’t want to press charges after all.”

“He was pretty angry. What changed his mind?”

Mike glances at his loafers. “Teenaged boys need to keep busy.”

“Speaking from personal experience or so you’ve been informed?”

“Both.” He smiles and ducks his head. “I take my nephews fishing on the Brazos every chance I get. Maybe Colton would like to come along sometime.”

“Thanks, that’s very kind of you. He likes to fish.”

I have every reason to trust Mike Avery. On the morning Colton discovered Jack’s body in our garage, Mike arrived first on the scene, and he labored for two days afterward to rule out any suspicion of foul play.

A comfortable silence settles between us. We might as well turn the clock back eighteen years and meet in the high school cafeteria. “I should let you get back to work. Is there anything else to handle for Angelique?”

“She was going to stop by the judge’s office to pay her fine, but I’ve got the paperwork ready to dismiss.”

I ask if he would like me to deliver the documents across Courthouse Square, and Mike agrees at first, then changes his mind. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

He holds the door open for me as I slide behind the wheel, a courtesy I forgot some men extended. “Take care of yourself.” He pats the roof of my car. “And tell Angelique to stick to her artwork and keep off government property.”

I smile. “If you find any graffiti in the Impressionist style, you’ll know who painted it.”

We both laugh. Acting friendly with a sweet man like Mike Avery lifts my spirits.

As I drive, I croon “Mr. Bojangles” with Jerry Jeff Walker on the radio until I reach Angelique’s sprawling ranch house on twenty acres beyond the other side of town.

Angelique swings the front door open and holds up her palm. “I don’t want to discuss it.” She absorbs me in a huge embrace, and then pulls back. “Let me gaze at you! You’ve trimmed your gorgeous hair.”

With a grin, I hug her tighter and nestle my cheek on her shoulder. I don’t want to let go. Since I was nine years old, she has been the only older female in my life whose eyes light up whenever she sees me.

At just under six feet tall, Angelique is the most graceful person I have ever known. Like an exotic dark-eyed queen, she floats into each room, making every head turn, her jet-black hair always tucked straight back. She has racked up two wealthy ex-husbands like hunting trophies, and now at age fifty-two, has enjoyed the attention of more than one younger boyfriend. Her current beau, a restaurateur close to my age named Raúl, moved in with her six weeks ago.

“You looked good on TV last night, very sexy in that tight red sweater and dangly earrings,” I say. “How does it feel to be a jailbird?”

She raises her eyebrows and then draws me by the arm into the entryway. “I got a terrific night’s sleep.” She spins me around. “My, aren’t you pretty today. New outfit?”

“I wish. Just spent all my money on the new sprinkler system. Landscaping business expense, of course, so it’s tax-deductible.”

After we tour her studio and I admire her latest paintings, Angelique sets a tray on a small wrought-iron table outside. We recline on cushioned chaises, sipping hot tea and enjoying the view of the Brazos valley from her terrace. The sunlight scatters crystals on the river’s gently flowing surface.

I share with her my morning discoveries. “For some reason, Big Jack is another one who despises my father. I can’t blame him, but his refusal to look at Jack’s appointment book doesn’t make sense.”

“Do you think he’s hiding anything?”

I suck in my breath and hold it. Big Jack probably never did an illegal thing in his life. Bent or slightly twisted, no doubt. I shrug. “Also I don’t know what to think about Jack’s attempt to come up with a spreadsheet. He couldn’t even balance his own checkbook.”

Angelique sets her teacup on the table. “Could be he got interested in something else, something his father wouldn’t approve? Maybe Jack went job-hunting after deer season.”

“As unbelievable as it sounds, it does look like Jack had some kind of deal in the works.” I squint at Angelique. After a moment, I blink. “A secret partnership with my father?”

“Would that have been such a catastrophe? Nate could have given Jack invaluable financial advice about a start-up situation.”

My husband and my father in cahoots? One after another, possibilities click through my mind, but I can’t make myself believe any of them. Except one. “If Big Jack found out his son tried to make a separate arrangement with his archenemy, he would pitch a conniption.”

“Didn’t you just witness one?”

“This morning I sure pushed his hot button. But perhaps most fathers and sons who work together are eventually headed for a showdown.”

“In their case, it would be two short-horned bulls in the same pasture.” Angelique crosses her legs at the ankles. “Still, one has to wonder what tiptoed through Jack’s head that night.”

“It’s possible he had something in mind other than ending his miserable life, the giant shithead.” I sit up and punch the cushion behind me. “Twice the legal limit. What was he thinking?”

“You’ve been mad at Jack since the day you married him simply to spite your father. Poor guy, he can’t win for anything, not even dying.”

“I don’t know why you feel sorry for him. Look at what he did to me. If it
was
suicide, no explanation, no signatures on important papers, no hints at good-bye.”

“Not to quash your righteous indignation, but doesn’t the note he left on the front seat count for anything?”

“I’ve thought about it every day since, and it still doesn’t make any sense. I can’t believe he would threaten me about getting along without him.”

“You’re right, the note is a strange memento. But otherwise, why would you expect Jack to behave any differently? Correct me if I’m wrong, my dear, but I always got the impression that he knew you preferred making your decisions solo.”

I set my teacup down to jab the air with my finger. “Now the whole responsibility for . . . he’s left me completely alone.”

“Not to mention Colton.”

“Even if all his cylinders were firing right now, Colton is a handful. He needs a father.” I run my fingertips around the top edge of the armrest. “My life will get more stressful, and he’s not even driving yet.”

“What’s wrong with Colton’s cylinders now?”

A cool breeze wafts across the terrace as I tell Angelique about my argument with Colton and his reaction to my new goal. Maybe she can help me understand his hostility while I get my own under control.

“All his little–what shall we call them?–accidents or incidents must give you a clue.” Angelique places her hand on my arm. “Does Colton ever tell you how he feels?”

“He shuts me out completely. Won’t talk, except to argue with me, and won’t listen at all.”

“Ah, kids these days. How well I know.”

“What do you mean? You don’t have any children.”

Angelique raises herself from the chaise and pours more tea into our cups. “Mind if I explore some parallels?”

“I’m all ears.”

Angelique begins to pace, and the words flow with her movements. She reminds me I was fourteen the year my mother died, and I’d never spoken to Colton about my life without her. To this day, I am still furious with my father for letting her die.

She stops in front of me. “Nate had no control over your mother’s insanity.”

I try to nod, but my neck has stiffened.

“Perhaps he deserved it. But you’ve pushed your father so far out of your life, he hasn’t come back to Mason’s Crossing for anything, not even Jack’s funeral.” Angelique lights a cigarette. “Believe it or not, Nate did the best he could.”

“It wasn’t good enough.”

She arches one eyebrow. “Now Colton’s a volcanic mess, and with all these minor accidents lately, he’s headed for a meltdown.”

“I simply can’t let that happen.”

Angelique drifts to the edge of the terrace and turns to face me. “Would that be so terrible?”

“I’m going to prove Jack’s death was an accident. It’s the best way to help Colton.” My hands shake as I set my cup down. “Besides I don’t know how much longer I can stand his . . .”

“In Colton’s eyes, you’re really strong and tough. Possibly he blames you for not preventing his father’s death.” She sighs. “Sound familiar?”

I stare at her until tears sting the rims of my eyelids.

“Sally, you don’t communicate with Nate. Colton doesn’t speak to you. Do you really want another generation of this horrible rejection? Find a way to stop it.”

“This has to do with Colton’s father, not mine.”

“Jack is dead. Talk to Nate.”

Angelique might as well offer me chopped worms with my tea.

“Show Colton things can be different.” She steps forward and pauses near the foot of my chaise. “Teach him how forgiveness and reconciliation work. Make the first move.” She bends to stir her tea. “It doesn’t have to be much. Send Nate a postcard.”

I haven’t mailed anyone a postcard for a very long while. It isn’t an easy thing to do, especially the first time.

I waited in front of the counter of the Hot Springs Hotel and Spa and stood on my tiptoes to ask the desk clerk for a stamp. He wore a dark jacket with the hotel monogram on the pocket. His pale brown hair was slicked back, making his smooth forehead look bigger than his face. He leaned over and peered down at me. “Postcard or letter?”

“Postcard, please.” He reminded me of a skinnier version of Ichabod Crane from my storybook, but I didn’t feel like smiling, missing two more baby teeth since last week. “I wrote a postcard to my mother.” She would like the photo. The porch with columns across the front of the hotel looked like our house, only bigger. Even their geraniums bloomed in the same colors as ours.

“That’ll be one cent.” He passed me the stamp. “Isn’t your mother with you?”

With a shake of my head, I reached in my pink satin coin purse and handed him the five-dollar bill my father’s assistant, Clyde, gave me before we left home.

The clerk took it between his thumb and one fingertip, like I could pass him cooties. “Nothing smaller, I suppose,” he muttered.

I licked the stamp and worked it carefully into the upper right corner. Maybe Mother wouldn’t notice I got it crooked. “She had to stay home. She wasn’t feeling well enough to make the trip, so Aunt Mary came instead.”

As he counted out my change, he glanced around the lobby. “Where is your aunt now?”

“Upstairs in bed.” I could tell this man didn’t like children, so I quickly scooped the money into my purse. “Where’s the dining room, please?”

“Perhaps you should go back upstairs and get her.” He sniffed. “Change clothes while you’re at it. We don’t allow–”

“But I always eat breakfast in my robe and pajamas. Mrs. Gussmann doesn’t mind.”

“Is that your name? Gussmann?”

He reminded me of a mean dog the neighbors used to have. He barked all night until my father went over to talk some manners into him. “No, it’s Sally Mason Wallace.”

His face turned pale. “Oh, my god. Your father is Nate Wallace?”

I nodded and reached up toward the counter and laid the stamped postcard on it. With my fingertip I scooted it toward him, in case he was the one with cooties.