Nuts and Buried (8 page)

Martin Sanchez came into my office as I settled down to work, record books piled in boxes around me. Five years of them.

My office isn't a place anybody would envy. The floor is gray cement. The ceiling is high—with red pipes running across it, pipes that sometimes dropped sweat on my head. But I did have a metal desk and a corner with a small kitchen so I could make tea in the morning or have a cold Coke-Cola in the afternoon. And rows of file cabinets. One for each year since I'd started keeping track of the experimental cultivars.

“Wanted to show you something out in the test lot,” Martin said, his dark and well-lined face crunched up from coming into the shade of my greenhouse after the bright sun outside.

I immediately felt guilty—the way I always did. Something was wrong, I told myself. Because I hadn't been watching the way I should have been, the trees had been attacked by some awful virus.
Mea culpa! Mea culpa!

I followed Martin outside and over to my fenced test grove—an acre set up in the sunniest place we could find. The gate to the grove was always kept locked—to keep out curious ranchers and jealous destroyers—one had actually broken in and tried to ruin my work, but that one was in prison now.

This was truly God's Little Acre. Just opening that gate and stepping inside, looking down the perfect rows of trees—some fairly tall, some barely more than seedlings—made my heart thump. Each little tree had its own bucket watering system. A mound of soil ringed each with gauges stuck in to monitor acidity, the level of dampness, even temperature. I knew everything about each specimen.

Martin led me to the last row where we'd put in a cultivar that was really experimental. This was a rare and very old pecan cultivar combined with a genome I'd never worked with before. I had a lot of hope for drought resistance with this new seedling.

Martin pointed to a row of tiny trees I'd set out about a month before. At first they'd been disappointing—the few leaves on each turning yellow and dropping immediately.

“I stopped watering, the way you told me to. Figured they were a total loss,” Martin said. “Now look.”

The trees were about two feet tall. Not just sticks anymore, but showing full leaf budding. They'd come back from the dead. A few of the buds were swelled to bursting.

I looked back at Martin, mouth hanging open. “Same ones?”

He nodded.

“But we gave 'em up for dead.”

He smiled and nodded again.

“No extra water?”

“None at all. I quit with the irrigation when I saw they were dead.”

“Must have been early dormancy—and here they are.
Oh, Martin. This might be what we've been waiting for. This could be the centerpiece of my work.”

He smiled from ear to ear, this wonderful Mexican man who came to the farm as a young boy, under my grandfather, and was still here, now with his wife and daughter.

He lifted and dropped his heavy eyebrows a few times—the closest thing I'd ever seen to celebration in this stoic, hardworking man.

I could have hugged him, but it wouldn't have been seemly. Instead we shuffled around, looked at each other, and smiled a few dozen times.

It was only the sound of voices on the other side of the gate that broke our happy spell and wiped the goofy grin right off my face.

I walked from the garden and shut the gate tightly behind me. When I turned, not knowing who to expect, I saw Peter Franklin, with Elizabeth Wheatley sailing behind, her sturdy, made-up face set and ready and aimed straight at me.

Elizabeth Wheatley was as different from most of the women in Riverville as an ostrich is from a robin. I'd always kind of admired her—all that attention to how she dressed and how her hair was fixed and how she applied her makeup. Today she wore white pants and a pink flowing top with a lot of gold at her ears, wrists, and around her neck. From the wide smile on Elizabeth's face, you would have thought she'd never said a single unkind word to anybody on the face of this earth, let alone me.

“There you are, Lindy. Your mama said she didn't think you were out here. Maybe she was just trying to fool me.”

I smiled one of those half-frozen smiles I smile when forced to be nice. “She knows I don't like to be disturbed when I'm working.”

Elizabeth waved a hand at me. “Peter said you two are having dinner together tonight so I thought you must be friendly enough not to mind us barging in on you.”

She was wrong. It was a mark against Peter. And another one against her.

“Anyway, I'm not here to see a bunch of little trees. How on earth you keep them straight—one from the other—I'll never know. What I do want to know is where you've taken my sister-in-law. The servants said it was you who drove away with her. I know she's probably distraught, but we do have things to discuss. Urgent things. There is the matter of the family trust, you understand. Eugene's will is tied up in that. Never changed, as my attorney informed me. Jeannie and I really have to talk.” She stopped to look around. “So? Is she back up at the house?”

None of your business, was what I wanted to say. This was going to be a knock-down, drag-out battle, I figured. I made no offer to take them inside the much cooler greenhouse. Be easier to get rid of her out here when she starts to melt.

She waited, one eyebrow tilted up. “Well? Are you going to answer me or do I have to go speak to your mother?”

“She's not here.” I leaned back, crossed my arms in front of me, and drew a long breath. “Jeannie's very upset. She says the two of you got into it over Eugene's death and she wasn't ready for a thing like that. I'm not taking sides, mind you, Elizabeth. I just figured the poor woman's going through a lot and could use a couple days off by herself.”

“Where is that?” she demanded, nose headed into the stratosphere. “Where'd she go, ‘off by herself'? You shouldn't have interfered. Jeannie comes from a very different background than the Wheatleys, hope you recognize that. Eugene married her knowing there were things . . . well, unsavory things about her family. She has no idea of the protocol surrounding the death of a wealthy man. She needs to come back and hold up her end of this memorial, as his wife. People are calling to express their condolences from as far away as New York City, and here she is, nowhere to be found.”

“When she's ready, she'll be back.”

“I'm afraid I can't wait for that. Will you please give her this card and tell her to call him today?” She dug in the huge straw handbag hanging from her shoulder. “He is our attorney. He needs to hear from her. She's going to be unhappily surprised with what's due her. I understand that. But I'm prepared to be generous anyway—you, know, to honor Eugene's memory. I can only imagine that mother of hers going through the roof and causing her trouble. And that brother . . . well, I understand he's out of prison now. Second-degree murder, I heard. I've passed that bit of news on to Sheriff Higsby. If he's looking for suspects, that's the place to begin, I told him.”

I took the business card she handed me and stuck it in the pocket of my jeans.

She turned and left, stepping high across my rutted parking lot.

Peter Franklin cleared his throat. He didn't follow her but stood, squinting into the sun, watching as she made her way to a black Mercedes.

“I'll be back later.” He turned to me, his face unhappy. “Sorry about this. She demanded that I bring her out.”

We left it at that. I wanted to get inside fast and call out to the Chaunceys' ranch, pass on my news, see how things were going, and maybe go there, give Jeannie that lawyer's card, and tell her what Elizabeth was saying. She had to know where she stood and what Elizabeth planned for her.

When I called, all Melody did was whisper for me to get out there as fast as I could. I asked her over and over what was going on, but then she'd go off into saying how wonderful it was to talk to me and how “We'd love to see you someday, soon as you can find the time to come on out. Hope it's as soon as you can make it.” And then she was sort of laughing like I'd said something funny and then carrying on about “How nice it is to have people dropping by, even when you don't expect them. But isn't that what Texas hospitality is all about? Welcoming unexpected visitors with open arms and hoping they'd take you just the way you are . . .”

I thought I was never going to get off the phone. I got it. Something was going on out there. Why she couldn't come right out and tell me meant it was a situation the Chaunceys weren't used to handling.

I stuck my phone in my purse and hesitated about a minute and a half. I should call Hunter—in case whatever was happening was more than I could handle. I was mad, but
not mad enough to be stupid. Hunter could drive on out—say he came about something or other. Just to be there.

He wasn't at the sheriff's department. The deputy said he was on a call, that maybe I could catch him back there in an hour. But I didn't have an hour. I called Meemaw and told her the Chaunceys seemed to be having some trouble. She said, in a voice that meant business, to get ahold of Hunter. When I said I tried and he was out on a call, she said to pick her up on the way back through town. She was going with me.

“Not unless you're packin'.”

“Just do what I tell you, Lindy. There's no time for playing games. Anyway, those girls got enough guns out there already.”

And so I was on my way out of Riverville with Meemaw sitting upright in the truck beside me and the both of us trying to figure out what in heck was going on at the Chaunceys'. We talked over a lot of things. I guess Meemaw's mighty brain had been going full speed since I'd seen her that morning, but to be honest, I wasn't paying much attention right then. I'd heard Melody act kind of lighthearted and playful before. Maybe that was all it was. Still, I was grateful to be pulling into their long, dusty road leading toward the ranch house, going as fast as I could go with a big cloud of dust shooting up behind me and a couple of cottontails scooting faster than they'd ever scooted, getting out of my way. Poor things. Out enjoying a day that wasn't windy, 'cause wind does something to their hearing, and here I come like a crazy roadrunner.

I stopped in front of the house and leaped out of the truck to get a face full of my own dust and grit. A blue Ford was parked farther up, pulled alongside of the house. Meemaw looked at me and I shrugged at her.

Melody was on the porch as fast as we were hurrying up to see her.

She put a finger to her lips and rolled her eyes back toward the house.

“So you got company, Melody?” Meemaw was smiling real big, but at the same time wiggling her eyebrows.

“Yes, ma'am. We do.”

“More than just the lady Lindy brought out yesterday?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'd have to say it's more than yesterday.”

“And just who would that be?”

“Well.” Melody licked at her lips. I'd never seen one of the girls this nervous before. I guess I'd always figured if anybody could take anything the world wanted to throw at them, it would be the twins. “Whyn't you come on in and meet these folks. Think you heard of one of them: Wanda Truly. Jeannie's mother. You met the woman.”

She made an ugly face, wrinkling her skin up like a potato doll, telling me what she thought of “the woman.”

“Probably never met her brother, Billy, I'll bet. Got quite a story he's been telling Miranda and me. But you two come on in. Jeannie'll be happy to see you.”

So that was it. I gave Meemaw a look. From what I'd seen of the woman at the Wheatleys' that night, I couldn't say I was looking forward to meeting her again. And what about this brother, Billy?

The two visitors sat at the big, cluttered table in the shadowy main room. The woman sat up straight, hands clasped in front of her. She had a big red smile pasted on her face over big crooked teeth. I recognized the blond hair, the makeup: blush put on with a paintbrush; bright red lipstick outlined with dark red; musky eyes and lashes so long they looked like awnings.

The man, maybe in his late twenties but somehow older looking, sat slumped forward at the table, head down, hands clasped in front of him like he was praying. He didn't look up when we walked in.

Jeannie sat across from her brother, her back to us. She turned and I could see the anguish written big all over her face.

Miranda was just coming from the kitchen with a metal coffeepot in her hands. There were already mugs set around the table. A plate of cookies sat at the center. Looked like an afternoon coffee klatch in progress.

Miranda, her face scrunched up as bad as Melody's, hailed us and pointed to chairs.

“What's going on, Jeannie?” I asked fast, sitting down next to her. Better to be in control of a situation like this than to let somebody else grab it and start going off on us.

“This is my mother, Wanda Truly,” she said, gesturing toward the woman staring back at me like a made-up doll left out in the rain.

“How'd ya do.” Wanda nodded.

“And my brother, Billy Truly.”

I looked hard at Jeannie, who licked at her lips and took a deep breath.

“Thought you were in jail, Billy.” Meemaw spoke up before I had a chance to catch what was going on here.

His mother sputtered and blinked hard across the table. Billy turned slowly to look over at Meemaw, then back down at his hands. “Got out,” he said.

“Glad to hear it,” Meemaw went on as if she were having a happy conversation with a new acquaintance. Like she actually knew him. “Hope things'll go better for you from now on. Must've been awful, being in a place like that. Where were you?”

He glanced up again and I could see Meemaw was getting to him. Maybe it was the look about her—an older lady, grandmotherly, kind voice. “Huntsville,” he said then cleared his throat and said it louder, “Huntsville, ma'am.”

“Well, it's nice to meet you. How long you been out now?” She slid into the chair next to him, grabbed the heavy
coffeepot, and began pouring out mugs of coffee for all of us. Billy dumped three spoons of sugar in his cup and passed the bowl to Meemaw.

I could see they were getting along fine though the smile was gone from Wanda's face and Jeannie looked on in amazement.

“Been out two weeks,” he muttered then shook his head over and over. “Hard, being out. Six years in a place like that . . . ya kind of lose . . . well . . . you know, like how to make small talk and stuff.”

“Bet you do,” Meemaw agreed and passed him the plate of cookies, as Wanda let out a harsh, brittle laugh.

“Small talk!” She blew out her puffy lips in exasperation. “Living with a bunch of killers all that time. I'll bet you anything you didn't sit around making ‘small talk.'”

“Mama,” Jeannie warned from across the table. “Don't start on Billy.”

“I'm not starting nothing,” Wanda spit back, ignoring the rest of us. “Just saying. He's been through some terrible times. That's why I came to tell you to get back to that house of yours. You could help your brother back on his feet, you know. Think about somebody besides yerself. That woman's already stealing things belonging to you. You're the wife. She's only his sister. Got no claim and here you are running off like this. For once in yer life you gotta stand up and be a woman. You gotta fight. I been fighting all my life and what do I have? Nothing. Nothing to show for it.”

So that's why the mother and brother were here. They smelled money and the possibility of Jeannie coming into a fortune. Sometimes I just wanted to pretend people like this mother didn't really exist. Or they existed only in fairy tales where the wicked stepmother always got it in the end, like being cooked in an oven, or melted, or run through with a brave warrior's lance.

“How'd you find Jeannie?” I stepped in the middle of the mother-daughter battle.

“None of yer business,” Wanda spit back at me.

“A man at the Barking Coyote told them.” Jeannie turned to me. “He saw you bring me here yesterday. Just driving by.”

“Should've known. Not many secrets around Riverville. Hunter Austen will be coming out soon, too,” I lied. “He's a local sheriff's deputy.” I added this last part for Wanda.

I saw Billy shiver. “Rather not be here to talk to him. I'm not ready for something like that . . .” He shot a pleading glance at Wanda.

She made a face at him. “Not about you, Billy. It's about Jeannie's deceased husband. Talking all over town how he was murdered, didn't commit suicide. No accident.”

She turned to Jeannie. “They'll pay the insurance, long as it wasn't you who killed him. And you'll get all the rest, too. But you can't sit out here and leave that sister of his to grab everything. You go back there too late and I'll bet you anything the place is stripped clean. I seen women fighting over flowerpots after a man dies.”

I didn't know if it was the right time or not, but I pulled the attorney's card from my pocket and handed it to Jeannie. “Elizabeth stopped by my greenhouse, said you should call this man. The estate has to be settled.”

Jeannie took the card and looked at it, then at me. “I don't want anything from her. Tell her she can have everything. I loved Eugene. But I shouldn't have married him. Awful things happen around me. People die. First my father . . .” She shook her head. “It's all my fault.”

Her eyes welled as her mother scoffed and her brother cleared his throat. I had to say, the man looked miserable.

Melody leaned over and patted Jeannie's folded hands. “I want you to go ahead and call Ben Fordyce.” She nodded
along with her words. “He's the lawyer everybody around here goes to. Ben'll help you.”

Wanda pushed her chair back and stood, one hand shooting to the hip she stuck out. “Go get your stuff, Jeannie. I'm taking you back to that house right now. You've got nothing to be afraid of. I'll be staying right there with you. Billy, too. She won't go starting nothing with us there.”

Miranda was on her feet. I could see her chest puffing up and her chin sinking down.

“She's not goin' anywhere she don't want to go.”

The words were growled. Melody said nothing though I thought I caught a smug smile cross her lips.

“Well, yes, she is.” Wanda didn't bother to look around at what she thought was a useless old lady. “I'm her mother.”

“And Jeannie's a grown woman. Let her talk for herself. You want to go with these two, Jeannie?”

Jeannie shook her head.

“Then that's settled.” Miranda reached around and grabbed Wanda by the back of her neck and lifted her around the chair as the woman squealed and flailed out.

Miranda tapped Billy on the shoulder and lifted her head, letting him know she wanted him up and out of there, too.

Wanda went cursing and kicking out the front door. We ran to watch as Miranda prodded a squealing and cursing Wanda over to the blue Ford. Billy walked along behind, doing nothing to help his mother. When they were both in the car and turned around, headed back out the road, we all watched, hand up over our eyes against the sun, until we couldn't see them anymore. Miranda swiped her hands together, and walked back to the house, offering everybody more cookies.