Nuts and Buried (5 page)

Hunter walked in looking bent and tired and quizzical. I supposed he hadn't been laughing much so far that morning. His face was drawn down into a deep frown. The usually sharp crease in his uniform pants was blurred. Even his well-shaven chin and bright blue eyes looked dark and kind of out of it.

Before he shut the door behind him, I heard the big, deep huffs of a barking dog from somewhere in the parking lot.

We exchanged terse good mornings, last night's hard feelings still hanging on though I was looking at our little spat as just another one of those games we played, kind of showing what we felt about each other without having to put it into words.

“That your dog out there barking?” I asked, needing something other than Eugene's murder to break the ice between us.

“Not my dog.” He threw a leg over one of the chairs and
sat down without looking at me. “Still gonna take him to the pound soon as I can get done here.”

“What'd you do with him last night?” Meemaw asked.

He looked down at the table. “What could I do? He stayed at my house.”

“No wonder you look so tired. Keep you awake all night?” I asked.

“What do you think? Couldn't keep him off my bed so I slept on the couch.”

“Well, good luck getting rid of him now. You know what they say, ‘Sleep with a dog and he's yours forever.'”

“Funny.” He wasn't in the mood for humor, or at least not from me.

“Gettin' hot out there. Hope you left the windows down,” I said.

He nodded. “All of 'em.”

Miss Amelia got up heavily, leaning on the table, and went to cut him a piece of pecan pie from a cooled pie in the big refrigerator. She poured him a mug of coffee and brought it all over to the table.

“Awful, there at the house last night,” was the next thing Hunter said after thanking Meemaw for the pie.

“Yeah, especially for Eugene.” I threw his own words back at him.

“Think I should start this early with your ‘special' pie?” Hunter ignored me and grinned up at Meemaw.

“Nothing in there gonna get you, Hunter, but the sugar. Rest'll sharpen your mind.”

He dug in then narrowed his eyes at me, setting his fork down slowly. “Who
was
that dude you were with last night? Sure thought a lot of himself.”

“I told you. He's another plant scientist. He heard about my work. We couldn't talk there . . . I mean . . .” I looked hard at him. “It wasn't a pickup, if that's what you're thinking. I don't pick up men at murders.”

When Hunter opened his mouth to come back at me, Meemaw jumped right in. “Terrible thing, about Eugene.”

Hunter turned away from me to speak to Meemaw. “Talked to Elizabeth again. She's in a state, but keeps saying it had to be suicide if it wasn't an accident. Seems he wasn't happy about marrying that Jeannie, according to Elizabeth. Said he'd been shattered—that's the word she used. Shattered about making such a big mistake. Said she didn't know how to help him. Then comes this.”

“Suicide?” I scoffed. “Don't believe a word of it. He seemed happy enough to me. I saw how they looked at each other. They were in love. Come on, now. Nobody believes it was a suicide, do they, Hunter? You've got the same problems as saying it was an accident.”

He didn't answer, only pushed his mug around on the tablecloth.

“Be suicide magic if it was. No man can shoot himself in the back with a little pistol and have the bullet act like a high-powered rifle. Don't know how she plans on explaining away the evidence.”

“Eugene said he was going to go set up his gun collection for people who wanted to get a look at it,” I said. “Somebody had to have come in by that back door. Somebody he was expecting or why go sit down at his desk after he let the man in? Maybe a gun dealer who came to pick up a gun he bought earlier. Maybe there were bad feelings . . .” I was speculating.

He looked at me briefly. “Tell that to his sister.”

Hunter was thinking hard. “I asked a couple of the regular servants about that back door. The cook—you know her, Chantal Kronos—well, she told me that door was always kept locked and only Eugene had a key, as far as she knew. That collection of his is supposed to be really valuable. Frank Tolliver, from the co-op, said he was the one opened the back door last night after the murder. Didn't remember
if it was locked or not, but he thought it had to be. One of those automatic locking things. Said the smell in there was awful. Had to get air in somehow.”

Frank Tolliver. Nobody in town wouldn't trust Frank's word. He was a member of the pecan co-op. Vice president back when my daddy was the president. Frank owned a ranch bigger than ours and a house twice the size of the one my daddy built. He was a man well thought of in town and not somebody to be caught aiming a killing gun.

“Did he say it was unlocked or open a little bit when he pushed it?” Meemaw asked.

Hunter shook his head. “Didn't remember. He'd just seen Eugene and knew the smell had to be cleared out when he saw Jeannie rushing in the way she did.”

“Murderer had to come in that door then. The only way. But Eugene sure wouldn't have been handing out keys . . .”

“So what it all boils down to is a locked-room mystery.” I threw it in because we weren't getting anywhere, going in circles.

“Hope not.” Hunter almost growled the words as he looked from me to Meemaw and back. “Don't say a word to anybody about what we've been talking about. Me and the sheriff have got to think about all of this and come up with a way to handle Elizabeth Wheatley while we're finding a killer. No accident. No suicide. Don't leave much.”

“What about that pistol on the floor?” Meemaw asked. “Why was it even there, do you think?”

“That's the gun he was cleaning, polishing the handle and stuff. Found out this morning it's what's called a presentation piece. You know, guns given to famous people—like Winston Churchill. Heads of state, like that. Gun companies give them out sometimes. That gun is a Schwarzlose, given to Emperor Wilhelm the Second of Germany. We found it listed in Eugene's catalog. Goes back to the
early nineteen hundreds. Eugene has the value as near a million dollars at auction. But the thing is, Miss Amelia, that gun's never been fired. Wasn't meant to be.

“Sniper rifle, is what the lab people are saying,” Hunter went on. “Found the cartridge by the door. Aim was straight. Wasn't an accidental shot.”

He thought a moment. “They tested Eugene's hands. No gunpowder residue. Might have expected some, if he was cleaning guns that actually fired.”

He narrowed his eyes at us. “Somebody was in that room with him, is what I'm thinking. Shot him and went out that back door.”

“What I don't get is why,” I said. “Right there, in the middle of his wedding party? What murderer wants two hundred people around when he commits his crime? Oh, and a lot of servants. Throw in a DJ.”

“What you've got to do is look at what's possible and leave the rest out,” Meemaw said.

“Still scrambling to catch up with the guests, now that we know it's a murder, not an accident. Deputies from other counties coming to help. Understand there was a list. Maybe Elizabeth Wheatley can help us out with that. Sheriff wants to see who was invited and who came, and then who was still there at the end, after the gunshot.”

“You know who had the list?” Meemaw was thinking hard and fast. “Roy Friendly. He's over to the Barking Coyote usually 'bout three o'clock. He'll be stone-cold sober then. You don't want to wait too long after that. Tell you the truth, Hunter, I'd rather be talking with Roy any day of the year than Elizabeth Wheatley. But that's just me. And Elizabeth Wheatley dealing with the death of her brother . . . whew . . . worse than anything I can imagine.”

Hunter took a small notebook from his pocket and wrote down shorthand-like notes.

“We're going to get a rare-gun dealer in there today,” he said
when he looked up, “if Elizabeth will agree to let him take a look. The collection was cataloged so maybe something is missing. Something a lot more important to somebody than money. Or maybe there's a gun so rare even Eugene didn't know the value.”

“I suppose that back door was fingerprinted?” Meemaw said, raising her eyebrows at Hunter.

He shook his head. “That's one of the problems. Everybody thought the shooting was an accident. They weren't as thorough as they should've been. Techs are back in there now going over the whole room, especially the doors: front and back.”

“The back door's the only one that'll tell you something.” Meemaw stood as the oven timer pinged.

Hunter touched the stiff hat he'd set on the table beside him then pushed his dish and mug away. “That poor wife. I can only imagine what she's going through. New bride and now a new widow. Wish this wasn't so urgent. Sheriff's going over to talk to both of them again. Jeannie and Elizabeth. Not going to be a happy day for either one of 'em.”

He turned to look me squarely in the eyes. Nothing friendly in the look. “You knew Eugene, Lindy. Anything you can tell me about him?”

“Knew him from high school, is all. Just like you.”

“I didn't know him. Wasn't interested in me. Not from a ranchin', or pecan farm, or oil family.”

“Well, I knew his first wife, Sally. Sally and me even got together a couple of times. Supper. Things like that. I liked her. It was really sad, what happened to her. Geez—stop to think about it. That was a shooting, too.”

I couldn't help but shiver. Some families went through such deep pain. It didn't matter how much money they had. In a way, that was just like our family, with my daddy and even my uncle being murdered.

I had a question for Hunter, something still bothering me. “Who was the woman who ran in and took over? Jeannie didn't seem happy to see her.”

“Turns out that really is her mother.”

“Not invited to the party? Isn't that strange? Where was she? Hanging around outside? Looking in the windows?”

“One more question I've gotta ask, Lindy.” He put his hand up, stopping my questions as he set the stiff hat on his head. “Any reason you were there looking like death last night? Was that really your costume? Couple of people mentioned it.”

“Yup. That was my costume. But I wasn't there predicting a death at the feast. And I don't see dead people. I was supposed to be— Oh well, never mind. It was kind of because I was mad and didn't want to go to the damn party to begin with.”

He nodded, knowing me. He twisted his head from side to side then put his arms up to stretch.

The three of us were sitting still when a noise started, a kind of raspy scratching at the back door.

“What the devil . . .” Meemaw got up to see what was happening beyond her door.

Hunter jumped up fast, scraping his chair along the tile. “Gotta be that damned dog. I'll go.”

He opened the door and an animal bounded in. Too big. Too black. Too curly-haired. With round black eyes going from side to side and from me to Meemaw and back to Hunter. The dog took one leap at Hunter's chest and they both went down.

Meemaw and I helped Hunter to his feet with Hunter swearing at the dog and Meemaw chastising Hunter. “You put the windows all the way down?”

Hunter brushed off his pants while he held up a hand to keep the leaping dog off him.

“Halfway. Thing's got to be Houdini.” He grabbed for the dog's scruff and held on. The dog yelped and threw his head back and around, long pink tongue coming out, aimed at Hunter's face. The beady eyes leaked love.

“So he came after you rather than run,” I pointed out, standing out of the way. “Dog's nuts.”

“You sure do have your hands full, Hunter,” Meemaw said from back over at the stove, where she was taking one hot pie after another from the oven and setting them to cool on a long metal table. “Better take him out of here before the Board of Health gets after me.”

Hunter nodded and practically rode the dog through the door and out toward his squad car. I watched and yelled back at Meemaw, “That dog's in love. Hunter's got himself a big, crazy dog for life.”

“Guess that's how a woman'll have to hook him, too. Chase him hard. Lick his face. And knock him out of bed.” Meemaw was looking real innocent as she stepped back to admire her pies.

I washed up the cups and plates and put things away for Meemaw, who then blocked my way out of the kitchen, hands at her waist, a tough look on her pretty face.

“What in the name of heaven is going on between you and Hunter?” she demanded. “Why are you treatin' the boy like that? And why's he so cold to you?”

“Oh, Lord, Meemaw. There's nothing wrong but in Hunter's head. It was a man there last night. In the same field I'm in. Heard of me, he said, and asked me to dinner tonight. Guess Hunter didn't take to him.”

“Did you?”

I had to stop and think. Sure, I was flattered. With Meemaw I knew better than to lie.

“Guess I liked him well enough. I don't often get someone who understands what I'm trying to do, let alone be interested, even maybe wants to come in and take a look.”

She didn't say a word. She didn't have to.

I frowned hard at her. A woman who preened when the
press came to cover her store; who liked being called a “master baker” in the local paper—and her judging me? There was sin enough to go around for the both of us.

“Hmmm.” She turned away to start a new dough. “Think you two better settle what you feel about each other and decide if you're right together or not. Sometimes people let it get away, thinking there is always time. Don't let that happen to you, Lindy. I've seen plenty of mistakes in my day. Ethelred Tomroy being one of them. Turned her back on a man she didn't think was good enough for her. Now you're taking the same kind of chance, maybe losing somebody you really want in your life. You do that and you'll end up being sorrier than about anything else you ever did. Won't be like not having one of your trees turn out right or not getting one of your papers published in some scientific magazine. This will be real. Be awful. I just don't understand why the both of you can't be happy . . .”

All of this while she was banging drawers closed and plunking things down on a metal table, pretending the only thing on her mind was her next batch of Pecan Moon Cookies.

“It's not that easy, Meemaw.”

“Nothing's easy with you. Lindy. I'm still saying, there's no reason why you and Hunter have to act like enemies.”

I pushed my way through the swinging doors to the store, turning back to say only, “And don't compare me to Ethelred Tomroy. Bet it wasn't her broke up whatever they had.”

*   *   *

So why was she the first person I ran into as I tried to get to the front door and out to my truck? And just after Meemaw compared me to her, probably hoping I'd develop a kinship with a lonely old woman who, like me, had turned away the only love she'd ever known in her life.

None of that worked. I took a long look at the tall, broad woman with a sour face and scraggly hair, and got ready to
go after her.
Say one word wrong to me, Ethelred. Just one word.

Her big hands were in the air, one finger crooked, peremptorily calling me over to where she stood in the pecan candy aisle, surrounded by an enthralled audience.

“Lindy, here, was at the party last night, same as me.” She nodded fast, until tendrils of steel gray hair were shooting up and weaving around like Medusa's snakes. “She can tell you about that new wife. Shame. That's what I called it.”

I nodded to Freda Cromwell, short and elderly, in a dress too long and too washed-out to do anything for her. Freda, who usually had the gossip market cornered in Riverville, was looking mightily put out now that Ethelred had the floor and was an insider on this particular story. The others were neighbors and town women.

“The whole thing was a scandal,” Miss Ethelred was saying to the circle around her.

“What's a scandal, Ethelred?” I asked, smiling my “cat's got you cornered” smile and vowing to lighten up whatever outrage she was spouting.

“You know very well, Lindy Blanchard.”

“Man's death isn't a scandal. That's called a tragedy.”

Ethelred frowned hard at me and leaned in, ready for a fight. “You ask me, that man's death was no accident, the way the sheriff's saying. Just take a look at that new wife.”

“Jeannie? Seemed real nice, you ask me. Poor thing.”

“Nice! You must've had your eyes closed—all that flour on your face. Why, that woman was advertisin' who she is, all night. You see that yellow dress? You tell me, Lindy, what famous person wore a yellow dress and was known for what she did with that General Santa Anna?”

“Yellow Rose of Texas. A true patriot. Kept Santa Anna busy in bed while Sam Houston was beating his soldiers in an eighteen-minute war.” I gave a self-satisfied nod to the listening circle the way people always do when they're
talking patriotism. “Why, Ethelred, all kinds of songs've been written about the ‘Yellow Rose of Texas.' I remember, in school, we learned that even our men in the Civil War were singing about her.”

I looked at the others and broke into a lusty version of one of my favorite songs ever.

“She's the sweetest little rosebud that Texas ever knew. Her eyes are bright as diamonds. They sparkle like the dew. You may talk about your Clementine and sing of Rosalee. But the Yellow Rose of Texas is the only girl for me—”

“
Now, Ethelred,” I said to the red-faced woman when I figured the listeners had enough. “What on earth's wrong with that?”

“That's not what Jeannie Wheatley was about. I asked her and she refused to answer. And why on earth didn't Elizabeth know to stop her before she outraged so many of us? Pretends to be a historian, that woman. Don't know much of anything about Texas, you ask me.” She nodded hard and fast, making some around her nod in return.

“Coming dressed as a woman who was no better than a . . . well . . . I'll come right out and say it: no better than a prostitute. And to her own wedding party? She's no Wheatley, I'll tell you. That Jeannie. Flaunting who she is right in your face.”

“‘Who she is'?”
I was getting a little red in the face myself. “What in the name of heaven is that supposed to mean?”

“Things been going around.”

“What things?”

“I'll bet you know very well, Lindy. You heard about her mother coming to town. Terrible woman. Heard Eugene wouldn't let her up to their house.”

“You sure hear a lot, Ethelred.”

“Well, she wasn't invited to the party, was she? Yet she showed up anyway, right after Eugene died.” She leaned down to those closest around her. “She's been hanging out at the Barking Coyote. Bragging who her daughter just married. Saying how she was going to be rich. Why, even Finula, who everybody knows is only as good as she needs to be, has been talking about it.”

Meemaw came up behind me and put a warning hand on my shoulder. I knew she was afraid I was getting too mad and about to blurt out what Hunter told us that morning, adding fuel to Ethelred's fire.

“Think that's about enough gossiping here in my store,” Meemaw said. “Poor woman just lost her husband. I'd say, let's have a little respect and wait for the sheriff and Hunter to make their conclusions, what happened out there last night.”

I heard a deeply angry Meemaw in her pronouncement and felt it as her fingers dug into my shoulder.

There wasn't another word spoken as the group, led by Ethelred Tomroy, turned and took their ugly talk out to the store porch, where they'd soon be sweating in their limp cotton dresses. Nothing like a good dose of Texas heat to fry out meanness.