Nuts and Buried (11 page)

Bethany was thrilled to show Jeannie around the farm. Justin was acting like a schoolboy, shuffling his feet, head hanging down. All I could think was “Oh no, Justin's smitten.” Which was something I never thought I'd see in my lifetime, this hulking man so into pecans and business. Never, never had I imagined Justin—the tough, sometimes scowling brother who almost never approved of what I did—acting like a lovestruck twelve-year-old. I figured I'd have all kinds of fun teasing him later.

Since it was almost three o'clock, I had to get out to my greenhouse. I'd left it unlocked so Peter didn't have to stand outside waiting for me. But I wasn't looking forward to talking biogenetics today. With everything going on, it just didn't feel right. And not with my mind whirling in all directions. Not a little of the whirling being a growing fear somebody might be after Jeannie and I didn't know what to do about it. I supposed Hunter could put her in jail to keep her safe. The sheriff didn't have enough men to put a full-time
bodyguard on duty. And anyway, Melody'd only “thought” she spotted somebody outside. The door could have been left open. Could have been one of them—forgetting to lock it. Who knew if it was about Jeannie, or just some transient wandering through, seeing a house, and thinking it might be empty and coming up to see.

I parked next to Peter's car in my rutted lot under some of the biggest, oldest trees on the farm. Beautiful day. Texas hot but with the sun coming through a haze. I could smell the trees and the river. And wouldn't I be happier if I was running into the water, barefoot, and yelling back at Hunter, who started throwing sticks at me, and if I reached down into the slow-moving water and pulled up a big mud ball and threw it back at him? Then he'd get mad at me and swear and come after me while I was yelling at the top of my lungs and Daddy would come running and give Hunter a lecture on how to treat a girl while I snickered, knowing full well I deserved everything I got.

I hurried in as if I was just so eager to see Peter. Something Southern women do, I think, to buy time and get the real measure of the man.

“Sorry I'm late. Busy day. Real busy.” I put out my hand to shake his though he was seated in my desk chair and held on to my hand a little too long. I felt those old creeps running up my back and pulled my hand away, wanting to wipe it along my jeans but knowing that would be tacky.

“No, no, don't apologize, Lindy. It's been great, sitting here, taking in your surroundings. I see you keep your test grove locked. Think I could take a look?”

I pretended not to hear and offered tea or coffee, like some lame stewardess, though I resented making it for anybody in a place where I'm supposed to be left alone and working and not having a party where I'm showing off my home-baked cookies . . .

Grrr . . . I wouldn't have wanted to be anybody visiting
me right then when I'm that crabby and not just crabby but feeling violated by this man who probably didn't mean me any harm, just wanted to be a friend.

He took the mug of coffee I handed him and got out of my desk chair to take a folding chair across from me. He picked up his briefcase and laid it on top of the desk, knocking some of my magazines to the floor, which irritated me even more than I was already.

“I'm staying until the memorial,” he said. “Elizabeth insisted I remain at the Wheatley place. I really need to be back in Europe, but considering what she's been through, well, I decided I'd stay on awhile.”

“Terrible thing. All this.”

“And with Jeannie out of the house, too. And Elizabeth really needing her back there to get some legal things settled. She with you? Elizabeth thought maybe.”

“Jeannie's got problems of her own. I think wherever she is, is the best place for her right now. Seems this whole thing is going a lot deeper than it looked at first. I mean, now it's murder. Isn't Elizabeth worried about that?”

“Well, of course. Horrible thing. She can't imagine anybody who would want to hurt Eugene. That's what she said.”

“Did you know about Sally, his first wife?”

“I heard what happened to her.”

“Makes all of this so strange. Both of them killed by gunfire. Talk about coincidences—”

“By the way, Elizabeth said to tell you the memorial is day after tomorrow, if you can get the news to Jeannie.”

I said I already heard and would make sure Jeannie got there.

“I know this whole thing is making Elizabeth look bad, but you have to understand, Lindy. There's Jeannie's awful mother. And her brother—fresh out of Huntsville. You ever see that mother of hers? Elizabeth wants the legal business right out on the table so she won't be harassed by the woman.
Very low class—all of them. I can see why she's afraid the whole lot of them will be coming after the Wheatley money.”

“You know, Peter,” I was angry and bored with the whole subject of Elizabeth Wheatley, “Jeannie's Eugene's wife. Bet anything Eugene took care of her or would have wanted to. I'd say let them fight it out in court.”

“Well, of course.” He moved nervously in his chair. Seems he wasn't used to direct women.

“So.” I sat forward and slapped my hands on the desk. “What can I show you?”

“You mentioned something new that looked promising. Maybe start with those trees and then how you came up with the crossbreeding or whatever. Would you mind?”

I thought a long while. Maybe the trees—well, saplings. I'd show them to him, but something was telling me to keep my mouth shut about my process. I looked around my desk for the propagation book for the new genus and was happy that for once I'd been diligent about putting it back in the file where it belonged.

*   *   *

My fingers didn't want to open the lock on the gate to the test grove. I wasn't feeling like a geneticist at the moment, more like a kid about to show off her hidden treasures and not wanting to.

Peter did make over the small trees, the way I wanted anybody allowed in here to do. The buckets were full; the little hose coming from the bottom leaking a steady, slow supply of water into each mounded circle around the weak-looking saplings. Weak, maybe, but very much alive and looking like miniatures of the stately, tall trees in the main grove.

“Interesting. Congratulations. I hope they're all you say they can be.”

And then he reached for me and hugged me tighter and longer than was necessary across a line of fragile saplings.

When I pushed him away, his smile was artless. Just a grin of happiness for me. But I wasn't that stupid anymore. I'd fallen for that bull a couple of times in college—young guys grabbing a feel under the guise of wishing me well after a test.

He immediately acted offended at the push. “Oh, Lindy, I didn't mean . . .”

I smiled, the way I was supposed to, and headed for the gate and, I hoped, the parking lot.

“But I haven't seen your work in the greenhouse,” he protested as I led him straight out to his car.

I shook my head. “I'm really sorry, but I've got appointments.” I looked at my watch as if appointments were written on my arm. “Maybe another time.”

“May I ask one question?”

I laughed a little, knowing I was giving him the bum's rush, and feeling a little silly now. A hug is a hug is a hug, after all.

“Which journals have you contacted? Your work will be of interest to geneticists everywhere, you know.”

“Only one. I told them I'd get something to them by next fall.”

“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “Which journal? You don't want to settle for anything less prestigious than
Genetics
Now
.”

“Propagation,”
I said. “Best place for what I'm doing.”

He sniffed and blinked at me a time or two. All he said was, “Well, if that's what you want to do.”

If I ever heard a snobby huff in anyone's voice, his sure had it. So he'd studied at Harvard—that's what he'd said. Who cared? I certainly didn't like being instructed by this man who didn't seem to know as much about my field as I did. Maybe he wasn't even working on drought resistance. Maybe he was working on finding a rich wife like Elizabeth.

He leaned forward, both hands on my upper arms, and
kissed me first on one cheek and then the other. “You're very nice—for a scientist.” He smiled when he was still close.

How European of him. But I knew a move when I saw one and this was his second today. I pulled away and fixed him with a hard look.

“By the way, where were you when Eugene was killed?” I asked bluntly, which immediately changed the temperature around us.

He shook his head. “I suppose you mean, where was I when we all heard the shot?”

I nodded.

“Ha! Like that old game: Clue. I was in the ballroom. As it happened, I was with Elizabeth at the buffet table. Elizabeth fairly flew out of the room when we heard the shot. Thank God people stopped her before she got into that gun room. Poor woman, bad enough as it was, imagine if she'd seen . . .”

He gave a shiver, then recovered fast. “By the way, Lindy, I can help you, you know. I have contacts all over the world. With my help you will be asked to symposia and conferences everywhere. I could set you on a path to renown in this field.”

I nodded and made a face. Here came the offer. Whatever it was he wanted from me—this was it. I narrowed my eyes and watched his face.

“I could do that for you. Up with the big guys.”

For a minute I saw me on a stage pontificating on genomics, molecular-assisted selection, transgenic crops; or surprising molecular markers; maybe bioinformatics. All things I got excited about and my family rolled their eyes at.

All I had to do was be nice to him. Very nice, I supposed. Been there. Done that. Even a college professor had offered things he shouldn't have.

A couple of good, solid curses came flying through my head. But like a good girl, I didn't say anything. Just smiled
and waved good-bye—which could have ended in another gesture had I not been such a well-trained lady.

All I could do right then was get my mind cleaned out the only way I knew how.

I called Hunter and asked him who the blonde was.

“I called Hunter,” I said.

I was with Meemaw on our way to Chantal's house. Her smile was bigger than I expected. It was too bad I had to burst her bubble. Hunter and I weren't close friends again, just talking, still with a chill snaking back and forth through our words.

“What about?”

“About the blonde.”

“Oh.” She turned to look out the window. I could see she was dying to know what was said, but I was going to make her wait a little while; make her suffer for coming down so hard on me over Hunter. As if our cold war was my fault. “What'd he say?”

“Not much. Like he's got this big secret.”

“Who is she?”

“He wouldn't tell me. I told him I thought we knew all the same people and I've never seen her before. He said he knows lots of people. I asked him where he met her and all he'd say was through his work.”

Meemaw's eyebrows shot up at that.

“So I asked him if she was a felon. He got mad.”

“I can see why. You've got a smart mouth on you sometimes, Lindy.”

“Well, how do you think I feel? I mean, our whole lives and now he keeps secrets from me?”

“You do realize he's investigating a murder?”

I nodded. “You mean he's probably taking a suspect to an out-of-the-way diner to grill her.”

“Did you mean that as a pun?”

I was mad all over again. Just that voice he'd used with me: “I do know other people, Lindy.” Like he was clucking his tongue.

“Now, before you go off gettin' mad all over again, stop and think what he saw when he walked in there. You and Peter Franklin—in an out-of-the-way restaurant as if you didn't want to be seen. Seems to me this is a case of what's good for the goose is good for the gander.”

“You don't like him, do you? Peter.”

“Not much. Don't know him. Just what I hear.”

“What have you heard?”

“Justin looked him up on the Internet. Just curious so don't go off yelling. It's because of him coming on so strong and everything. We didn't find a thing on him at that Italian website you told us about. What we did find makes it look like he's mostly on his own. Last time in Africa, not Italy.”

“Sometimes the Internet's not up to date on these thing. Could be his latest place—Italy.”

“Well, I'd be careful,” she said, her stern look in place.

“Of what, Meemaw? Not many scientists out to do more than snoop into somebody else's work. Some are known for that. You've got other things to worry about. Like Ethelred and Freda stealing your thunder.”

“Humph. All that pair knows how to do is stir up trouble.”

I was watching addresses. The houses this far out of town could be down a dusty trail with no road sign out on the highway. Usually I just steamed right on past them, not seeing the mobile homes set in clusters or the tiny square block houses under old, dead live oaks. Beyond the houses, the dry earth ran up small hills and then away to blend with a sky that today matched the earth—kind of pale yellow at the horizon.

I was thinking, too, the way I could think when I looked at the Texas landscape and let myself be a part of it, that I did love this country. I almost never had to wonder about people's motives. Usually I knew those within five minutes of meeting somebody. This was different. Maybe to some people my research could mean a lot of money. I didn't have any patents on my trees or on the processes. Didn't think I needed them. For the first time I thought how lax I was on the business end of things.

Chantal lived down a long driveway leading to a small house set in the middle of some tall bushes. The house was covered with vines. Dead vines and live vines. It looked like something caught in the roots of a tree. Chantal Kronos got up with difficulty from a rocker on her pitched-roof porch. She stood at the top of her steps, waving as we got out and waved back. While we climbed the front steps, she greeted us again and again, then pointed to two other rockers. We turned down sweet tea, saying we weren't staying long, which brought a look of sadness to her heavy face, eyes disturbed under thick brows; lips pursed in a pout. She steepled her hands together and shook them at us.

“You never come to my home before, Miss Amelia. Now you refuse my hospitality!”

So, of course, it was sweet tea and cookies so light they almost lifted off the plate by themselves.

“You want to know about the staff at the party,” Chantal said after a lot of town gossip and talk about the weather.
“Only a couple of strangers. Well, strangers to me. One man who said his name was Curly, though he didn't look like any Curly I ever saw before. He was tall—like a Greek man. Dark, like me. Didn't say much the whole evening. Anyway he was a bad waiter. I'd see him standing at the side of the room looking around and I'd send Willy Mason out to get him moving with his tray.”

“Anybody else?” Meemaw asked.

“One woman came in. I didn't like her. Ms. Wheatley must have hired her. I thought we had plenty of people from town there for the job. But I guess she thought different.”

She shrugged, lifting her shoulders high and rolling her eyes.

“Did you see the man after the murder?”

“Yes.” She narrowed her eyes at Meemaw. “I think so. But you know what? I wasn't watching anybody after that. What we had to do and do fast was take down the buffet table and clean up the house. Then we couldn't clean the ballroom and some of the other rooms until the police left. The police wanted to talk to all of us first, so we waited for that. I didn't get home until three o'clock in the morning.” She thought hard. “No, I didn't watch out for anybody. Too busy.”

“What about the woman?”

She shook her head. “You ask me, she was out of there before the police came.”

“What'd the woman look like? You remember?” I asked.

Chantal settled back in her chair and rocked hard a minute or two. She was working up a sweat, her forehead shining. I figured she was struggling with getting somebody in trouble.

“I don't want this getting back to anybody.” Chantal frowned over at us. “I didn't know the woman, but still, maybe she wasn't supposed to be there. People have got all kinds of reasons for not wanting to deal with police.”

“Somebody shot Eugene,” Meemaw said, her voice slightly scolding. “Anybody having anything to do with that should be worried. Anybody who didn't, well, they've got nothing to worry about from me and Lindy.”

She nodded, agreeing. “She was kind of funny. I mean, started telling some of the girls I had helping me what to do and how to do it. I told her more than once to butt out of their business and then she'd look at me like she was outraged. Like who did I think I was? You would've thought it was her house or something.”

“She wear a lot of makeup?”

She shook her head. “Yeah, sort of. Probably hiding bad skin. I do remember two crooked teeth at the front. One overlapping the other one. Kind of skinny. Blond hair, but coarse and curled up.”

“You don't remember her name?”

Chantal shook her head slowly. “Didn't listen, I suppose.”

“You ever see Jeannie Wheatley's mother?”

“Why?”

“Well, nothing, I guess.”

“Never saw her that I know of. She was at the house a couple of times, causing trouble I heard, but I didn't see her.”

“Was this woman out in the ballroom at all? I mean, setting up the tables or anything?”

She shook her head again. “Kitchen help was all she was supposed to be, but I caught her peeking out there, looking at the people.”

“Did you have to check out with anybody after the party?” Meemaw asked. “Were you paid by the hour?”

“I'm paid weekly. Extra for big parties like that. I'm not like that fly-by-night help she brings in. You ask Roy Friendly about the man and that woman. You ask Roy. See if he knows anything.”

She stopped a minute, putting a crooked finger to her lips. “You know, your friend Ethelred Tomroy came out to
see me. She says they're looking into gun runners from South America.”

“Who's looking into gun runners? And for what?”

Chantal shrugged. “That's what she said. They think Mr. Wheatley's gun collection had something to do with his murder. Like maybe he made a deal to sell guns and then he didn't go through with it.”

“Most of the guns didn't even fire was what I heard. They're collectors' guns.”

“Don't know about that. That's what she said. That they're getting close to solving the murder. Sure hope so. Poor Miss Jeannie. I like her—Mr. Wheatley's second wife. Just as nice as that first wife, Miss Sally.” She looked around and lowered her voice. “I'm gonna tell you something. Maybe I can get in trouble, but I've been thinking hard about that family of Miss Jeannie's.”

I sat up straighter, maybe something real at last.

“For a week that mama and her son came to the door and asked Mr. Wheatley to see Miss Jeannie. Martha, the housekeeper, told me Mr. Wheatley said never to let them in the house. And never to let Miss Jeannie know about it. I guess Mr. Wheatley didn't like them, and when Martha said they were threatening him, I didn't blame him.”

“What kind of threats?” Meemaw was quick to ask.

“Martha said it was mean things. Things like he took their girl away from them and owed them something. Well, this was that mother talkin', you understand. Something else about getting a lawyer after him if they didn't get in the house to see Jeannie. I felt so bad when I heard. That poor Miss Jeannie's as sweet as can be. What a terrible mother! But it's not my place to have human feelings in that house. Miss Elizabeth wouldn't like it. Now, from what I'm hearing almost every day, there's trouble with Mr. Wheatley's will, or a family trust. Something like that she keeps talking about on the telephone.”

“What about Dr. Peter Franklin?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Never saw him before the party. But he's at the house almost every day now. Kind of—what do you call it? A hanger-on or something. I heard her talking to somebody on the phone today, saying after the memorial ‘that man' was leaving town or else. I thought she meant Dr. Franklin. It was, like, maybe he made a pass at her, or something.”

So I was right—the rich wife thing. Then why me? What a letdown if I married him and he had to share my near-poverty existence. Well—free room and board, I guess. Maybe that was all it took to entice the good doctor.

After we left Chantal, and I agreed that the woman didn't talk our heads off exactly and had been very helpful, we headed farther out the I-10, toward the Barking Coyote. Almost nine o'clock and getting dark fast. Roy Friendly had promised Meemaw he'd meet her outside the saloon. All I worried about was if Roy was checking the time, or could still see his watch by then.

On the way out to the Coyote, I called Jessie Sanchez and asked her to talk to her summer intern about the man who'd come in asking about the Blanchard family. “Just curious,” I told her.

“I did already. I asked Mindy what he looked like. She said he was average looking. Not young, not old. He had a Boston or Eastern accent. That was all she remembered. And she said he was stuck-up, like not looking at her when they were talking, not saying thank you for her time. Things like that. Sounds like that man who came in The Squirrel the other day. That Peter Franklin.”

“Could be. Maybe checking me out. Seeing how I'm thought of around here. I mean, if I was a serious scientist or not.”

“Mindy said she got the feeling it wasn't the oldest families he was interested in so much as the richest.”

“That sure isn't us.”

“Well, land and business rich, I guess you could say.”

“Poor guy. Better he concentrate on Elizabeth Wheatley.”

We agreed to meet for breakfast in the morning—the only way we ever got to talk without family around.

Meemaw'd been listening. “Not what that Franklin man made himself out to be, I take it.”

“Well, scientists are always looking for money to keep their labs going. Once he met Elizabeth, I'll bet his eyes popped open. One look at the Wheatley mansion would do it. But why he had to go to the library to check on me is a mystery. What I'm doing is all over the Internet. All he had to do was look.”

“Really?” she said. “Your work, huh? You still think that's what this is all about?”