Best Kept Secrets

"Pat? No way. When things get touchy, our D.A.'s a real

 

chickenshit."

 

Alex caught her forehead in her hand. "This is a nightmare."

 

He hadn't waited for her to decline or accept his offer of

 

coffee. He was filling a cup similar to his. "Cream, sugar?"

 

"This isn't a social call, Mr. Lambert."

 

He set the cup of black coffee on the edge of the desk in

 

front of her and returned to his chair. Wood and ancient

 

springs creaked in protest as he sat down. "You're getting

 

us off to a bad start."

 

"Have you forgotten why I'm here?"

 

"Not for a minute, but do your duties prohibit you from

 

drinking coffee, or is it a religious abstinence?"

 

Exasperated, Alex set her purse on the desk, went to the

 

table, and spooned powdered cream into her mug.

 

The coffee was strong and hot--much like the stare the

 

sheriff was giving her--and far better than the tepid brew

 

she'd drunk in the coffee shop of the Westerner Motel earlier.

 

If he had brewed it, he knew how to do it right. But then,

 

he looked like a very capable man. Reared back in his chair,

 

he did not look at all concerned that he'd been implicated in

 

a murder case.

 

"How do you like Purcell, Miss Gaither?"

 

"I haven't been here long enough to form an opinion."

 

"Aw, come on. I'll bet your mind was made up not to

 

like it before you ever got here."

 

"Why do you say that?"

 

"It would stand to reason, wouldn't it? Your mother died

 

here."

 

His casual reference to her mother's death rankled. "She

 

didn't just die. She was murdered. Brutally."

 

"I remember," he said grimly.

 

"That's right. You discovered her body, didn't you?"

 

He lowered his eyes to the contents of his coffee mug and

 

stared into it for a long time before taking a drink. He tossed

 

it back, draining the mug as though it were a shot of whiskey.

 

"Did you kill my mother, Mr. Lambert?"

 

 

 

Since she hadn't been able to accurately gauge his reaction

 

the day before, she wanted to see it now.

 

His head snapped up. "No." Leaning forward, he braced

 

his elbows on the desk and gave her a level stare. "Let's cut

 

through the bullshit, okay? Understand this right now, and

 

it'll save us both a lot of time. If you want to interrogate me,

 

Counselor, you'll have to subpoena me to appear before the

 

grand jury."

 

"You're refusing to cooperate with my investigation?"

 

"I didn't say that. This office will be at your disposal per

 

Pat's instructions. I'll personally help you any way I can."

 

"Out of the goodness of your heart?" she asked sweetly.

 

"No, because I want it over and done with, finished. You

 

understand? So you can go back to Austin where you belong,

 

and leave the past in the past where it belongs." He got up

 

to refill his coffee mug. Over his shoulder he asked, "Why'd

 

you come here?"

 

"Because Bud Hicks did not murder my mother."

 

"How the hell do you know? Or did you just ask him?"

 

"I couldn't. He's dead."

 

She could tell by his reaction that he hadn't known. He

 

moved to the window and stared out, sipping his coffee reflectively.

 

"Well, I'll be damned. Gooney Bud is dead."

 

"Gooney Bud?"

 

"That's what everybody called him. I don't think anybody

 

knew his last name until after Celina died and the newspapers

 

printed the story."

 

"He was retarded, I'm told."

 

The man at the window nodded. "Yeah, and he had a

 

speech impediment. You could barely understand him."

 

"Did he live with his parents?"

 

"His mother. She was half batty herself. She died years

 

ago, not too long after he was sent away."

 

He continued to stare through the open slats of the

 

blinds with his back to her. His silhouette was trim, broad-shouldered,

 

narrow-hipped. His jeans fit a little too well.

 

Alex berated herself for noticing.

 

"Gooney Bud pedaled all over town on one of those large

 

 

 

tricycles," he was saying. "You could hear him coming

 

blocks away. That thing clattered and clanged like a peddler's

 

wagon. It was covered with junk. He was a scavenger. Little

 

girls were warned to stay away from him. We boys made

 

fun of him, played pranks, things like that." He shook his

 

head sadly. "Shame."

 

"He died in a state mental institution, incarcerated for a

 

crime he didn't commit."

 

Her comment brought him around. "You've got nothing

 

to prove that he didn't."

 

"I'll find the proof."

 

"None exists."

 

"Are you so sure? Did you destroy the incriminating evidence

 

the morning you ostensibly found Celina's body?"

 

A deep crease formed between his heavy eyebrows.

 

"Haven't you got anything better to do? Don't you already

 

have a heavy enough caseload? Why did you start investigating

 

this in the first place?"

 

She gave him the same catchall reason she had given Greg

 

Harper. "Justice was not served. Buddy Hicks was innocent.

 

He took the blame for somebody else's crime."

 

"Me, Junior, or Angus?"

 

"Yes, one of the three of you."

 

"Who told you that?"

 

' 'Grandma Graham.''

 

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere." He hooked one

 

thumb into a belt loop, his tanned fingers curling negligently

 

over his fly. "While she was telling you all this, did she

 

mention how jealous she was?"

 

"Grandma? Of whom?"

 

"Of us. Junior and me."

 

"She told me the two of you and Celina were like the three

 

musketeers."

 

"And she resented it. Did she tell you how she doted on

 

Celina?"

 

She hadn't had to. The modest house Alex had grown up

 

in had been a veritable shrine to her late mother. Noting her