Best Kept Secrets

"Nope. I just figured that if I could outchase the law, I

 

could outchase the lawbreakers." He shrugged. "It seemed

 

a natural career choice. Hungry?"

 

Before she had a chance to answer, he pushed open the

 

door of the B & B Cafe. A cowbell mounted above it announced

 

their entrance. It was the place where things were

 

happening, it seemed. Every table--red formica with rusted

 

chrome legs--was full. Reede led her to a vacant booth along

 

the wall.

 

Greetings were called out to him by executives, farmers,

 

roughnecks, cowboys, and secretaries, each distinguished by

 

his attire. Everyone except the secretaries wore boots. Alex

 

recognized Imogene, Pat Chastain's secretary. As soon as

 

they passed her table, she launched into an animated, whispered

 

explanation of who Alex was to the women seated with

 

her. A hush fell over the room as word traveled from one

 

table to the next.

 

No doubt this microcosm of Purcell gathered every morning

 

at the B & B Cafe during coffee-break time. A stranger in

 

the midst was news, but the return of Celina Gaither's daughter

 

was a news bulletin. Alex felt like a lightning rod, because

 

she certainly attracted electric currents. Some, she sensed,

 

were unfriendly.

 

A Crystal Gayle ballad about love lost was wafting from

 

the jukebox. It competed with "Hour Magazine" on the fuzzy

 

black-and-white TV mounted in one corner. Male impotence

 

was being discussed to the raucous amusement of a trio of

 

roughnecks. The nonsmoking movement hadn't reached Purcell,

 

and the air was dense enough to cut. The smell of frying

 

bacon was prevalent.

 

A waitress in purple polyester pants and a bright gold satin

 

blouse approached them with two cups of coffee and a plate

 

of fresh, yeasty doughnuts. She winked and said, "Mornin',

 

Reede," before ambling off toward the kitchen, where the

 

cook was deftly flipping eggs while a cigarette dangled between

 

his lips.

 

"Help yourself."

 

 

 

Alex took the sheriff up on his offer. The doughnuts were

 

still warm, and the sugary glaze melted against her tongue.

 

"They had this waiting for you. Is this your table? Do you

 

have a standing order?''

 

"The owner's name is Pete," he told her, indicating the

 

cook. "He used to feed me breakfast every morning on my

 

way to school."

 

"How generous."

 

"It wasn't charity," he said curtly. "I swept up for him

 

in the afternoons after school."

 

She had unwittingly struck a sore spot. Reede Lambert was

 

defensive about his motherless childhood. Now, however,

 

wasn't the time to probe for more information. Not with

 

nearly every eye in the place watching them.

 

He devoured two doughnuts and washed them down with

 

black coffee, wasting neither food, nor time, nor motion. He

 

ate like he thought it might be a long time before his next

 

meal.

 

"Busy place," she commented, unself-consciously licking

 

glaze off her fingers.

 

"Yeah. The old-timers like me leave the new shopping

 

mall and fast food places out by the interstate to the newcomers

 

and teenagers. If you can't find who you're looking

 

for anyplace else, he's usually at the B & B. Angus'll probably

 

be along directly. ME's corporate headquarters is just

 

one block off the square, but he conducts a lot of business

 

right here in this room."

 

"Tell me about the Mintons."

 

He reached for the last doughnut, since it was obvious that

 

Alex wasn't going to eat it. "They're rich, but not showy.

 

Well liked around town."

 

"Or feared."

 

"By some, maybe," he conceded with a shrug.

 

"The ranch is only one of their businesses?"

 

"Yeah, but it's the granddaddy. Angus built it out of nothing

 

but acres of dust and sheer determination."

 

"What exactly do they do out there?"

 

 

 

"Basically, they're a racehorse training outfit. Thoroughbreds

 

mostly. Some Quarter Horses. They board up to a

 

hundred and fifty horses at a time, and get them ready for

 

the track trainers."

 

"You seem to know a lot about it."

 

"I own a couple of racehorses myself. I board them out

 

there permanently." He pointed down to her half-empty coffee

 

cup. "If you're finished, I'd like to show you something."

 

"What?" she asked, surprised by the sudden shift in topic.

 

"It's not far."

 

They left the B & B, but not before Reede said goodbye

 

to everyone he'd said hello to when they came in. He didn't

 

pay for the breakfast, but was saluted by Pete the cook and

 

given an affectionate pat by the waitress.

 

Reede's official car, a Blazer truck, was parked at the curb

 

in front of the courthouse. The space was reserved for him,

 

marked with a small sign. He unlocked the door, helped Alex

 

up into the cab of the four-wheel-drive vehicle, then joined

 

her. He drove only a few blocks before pulling up in front

 

of a small house. "That's it," he said.

 

"What?"

 

"Where your mother lived." Alex whipped her head

 

around to stare at the frame dwelling. "The neighborhood

 

isn't what it was when she lived here. It's gone to pot. There

 

used to be a tree there, where the sidewalk dips slightly."

 

"Yes. I've seen pictures."

 

' 'It died a few years ago and had to be cut down. Anyway,''

 

he said, slipping the truck back into gear, "I thought you'd

 

want to see it."

 

' "Thank you." As he pulled the Blazer away from the curb,

 

Alex kept her eyes on the house. The white paint had grayed.

 

Hot summer suns had faded the maroon awnings over the

 

front windows. It wasn't attractive, but she swiveled her head

 

and kept it in sight as long as she could.

 

That's where she had lived with her mother for two short

 

months. In those rooms, Celina had fed her, bathed her,

 

rocked her, and sang her lullabies. There, she had listened