get her, Reede. You could be the buffer between us." He
looked down at his hands. "He'd rather have you than me
around."
"Junior--"
"No, let's be honest about this for once, Reede. We're
getting too old to lie to ourselves or to each other. Dad would
swear on a stack of Bibles that he's proud that I'm his son,
but I know better. Oh, I know he loves me, but I'm one
screwup after another. He'd rather me be like you."
"That's not true."
"I'm afraid it is."
"Uh-uh," Reede said, sternly shaking his head. "Angus
knows that in a pinch, when all the cards are down, you come
through. There have been times--"
"What times?"
"Many times," Reede stressed, "when you did what you
knew you had to do. Sometimes it has to get to that last-gasp
stage before you accept your responsibility," Reede said,
"but when you know it's up to you or else, you do it." He
laid his hand on Junior's shoulder. "It's just that sometimes
somebody has to put a boot to your butt to get you going."
It was time to end the discussion, before it got sloppily
maudlin. Reede socked Junior's shoulder, then headed for
the door. "Don't go selling that dope to schoolkids or I'll
have to haul you in, okay?" He had opened the door and
was on his way out before Junior halted him.
"I was mad as hell the other day when you showed up at
the country club to pick up Alex."
"I know. It couldn't be helped. It was business."
"Was it? What about the airfield? Was that business, too?
That wasn't Dad's impression."
Reede remained stonily silent, neither admitting or denying
anything.
"Jesus," Junior breathed, drawing his hand down his face.
"Is it happening again? Are we falling in love with the same
woman?"
Reede walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.
Forty
Stacey Wallace slid her father's half-eaten tuna salad out of
the way and replaced it with a bowl of fruit cocktail. ' 'I don't
think we'll have her to worry about much longer," she said
with assurance. The topic of conversation was Alexandra
Gaither. "Did you hear about her accident?"
"From what I understand, it wasn't an accident."
"All the more reason for her to want to leave town."
"Angus doesn't think she's going to leave," the judge said
as he toyed with the cherry floating in the viscous syrup. "He
says she's convinced somebody wanted to scare her into leaving
before she exposed the killer."
' 'Do you take everything Angus says as carved in granite?''
Stacey asked with exasperation. "How does he know what
she's going to do?"
"He's going by what she told Junior."
Stacey laid her fork aside. "Junior?"
"Hmm." Judge Wallace sipped his iced tea. "He sat with
her yesterday."
' 'I thought she left the hospital and was back at her motel.''
"Wherever she is, Junior's been her only contact with the
outside world." The judge was so caught up in his own
worries, he didn't notice Stacey's suddenly preoccupied gaze.
He pushed away from the table. "I'd better go or I'll be
late. We've got a jury selection this morning and a pretrial
hearing for that character who shot a man out at Nora Gail
Burton's the other night. I'm expecting a plea bargain, but
Lambert's got Pat Chastain pushing for attempted murder."
Stacey was only half listening. Her mind had lodged on a
mental picture of the beautiful Alex Gaither languishing on
her motel room bed while Junior waited on her hand and foot.
"By the way," the judge said as he pulled on his overcoat,
"did you get that message I left you yesterday?"
"To call Fergus Plummet?"
"Yes. Isn't he that evangelical preacher who raised Cain
because they had bingo at the Halloween carnival last year?
What'd he want with you?"
"He's canvassing support to keep pari-mutuel gambling
out of Purcell County."
The judge snickered. "Does he know he'd just as well try
and hold back our next dust storm?"
"That's what I told him when I returned his call," Stacey
said. "He knows I belong to several women's organizations and
wanted me to plead his case with them. I declined, of course."
Joe Wallace picked up his briefcase and opened the front
door. "Reede is convinced that Plummet was responsible for
that vandalism out at the Minton ranch, but he's got no evidence
to hold him." The judge didn't think twice about discussing
cases with Stacey. She had earned his confidence years ago.
"I don't think Plummet has the sense to pull off something
like that, not without somebody directing him. Reede has
been harping on it, but right now, Plummet is the least of my
worries."
Concerned, Stacey caught her father's arm. "What worries,
Dad? Alex Gaither? Don't worry about her. What harm could
she possibly do you?"
He faked a smile. "Absolutely none. You just know how I
like things neat and tidy. I've got to run. Goodbye."
Wanda Gail Burton Plummet happened to be sweeping off
her front porch when the postman arrived. He handed her the
stack of mail and she thanked him. She sorted through it as
she made her way back into the house. As usual, all the mail
was addressed to her husband. It was mostly bills and church-related
correspondence.
One envelope, however, was different from the others. It
was made of high-quality beige paper. There was an embossed
return address on it, but it had been exed out on a
typewriter, making it illegible. Their address had been typed
on, too.
Curiosity won out over her husband's strict instructions
that he was to open their mail. Wanda tore open the envelope.
It contained only a blank piece of paper, folded around five
one-hundred-dollar bills.
Wanda stared at the money as though it was a message
from an alien planet. Five hundred dollars was more than the
offering plate contained after a well-attended revival service.
Fergus only took out a pittance to support his family. Almost
everything collected went to the church and its "causes."
No doubt this money had been sent by a donor who wanted
to remain anonymous. For the last several days, Fergus had
been calling up folks on the telephone, asking for volunteers
to picket at the gates of the Minton ranch. He solicited money.
He wanted to place full-page antigambling ads in the newspaper.
Well-publicized crusades were expensive.
Most people hung up on him. Some had called him ugly
names before slamming down their receivers. A few had
listened and given halfhearted pledges to send a supportive
offering.
But, five hundred dollars.
He'd also spent time on the phone in secretive, whispered
conversations. Wanda didn't know what these covert calls
were about, but she suspected they had something to do with
that business at the Minton ranch. One of the hardest things
she'd ever had to do was lie to her old friend, Reede. He
had known she was lying, but he'd been gentlemanly enough
not to accuse her of it.
Afterward, when she had expressed concern to Fergus
about her sin of lying, he had told her that it had been justified.
God didn't expect his servants to go to jail, where they would
be ineffectual.
She timidly pointed out that Paul had spent a lot of time
in prison, and had done some of the most inspired writing in
the New Testament while behind bars. Fergus hadn't appreciated
the comparison and had told her that she should keep
her mouth shut about matters that were too complicated for
her to comprehend.
"Wanda?"
She jumped at the sound of his voice and reflexively
clutched the money to her sagging breasts. "What, Fergus?"
"Was that the postman at the door?"
"Uh, yes." She glanced down at the envelope. The money
was surely related to those furtive telephone calls. Fergus
wouldn't want to talk about them. "I was just bringing you
the mail."
She went into the kitchen. He was seated at the Formica
dining table that served as his desk between meals. She laid
the stack of mail on the table. When she returned to the sink
to finish washing dishes, the fancy envelope and its contents
were in her apron pocket.
She would give it to Fergus later, Wanda promised herself,
as a surprise. In the meantime, she would fantasize about all
it could buy for her three kids.
Alex had had thirty-six hours to think about it. While
nursing her debilitating headache, she'd lain in bed, reviewing
everything she knew and filling in what she didn't know with
educated guesses.
She couldn't continue to run around in circles indefinitely.
She was probably as close to the truth as she was ever going
to get, short of taking desperate measures. The deadline Greg
had set was imminent. It was time to force someone's hand,
to get aggressive, even if she had to bluff.
Days ago, she had reached the heartbreaking conclusion
that she had been the catalyst for Celina's murder, but she
didn't plan to bear the burden of that guilt alone for the rest
of her life. Whoever had done the actual deed must suffer
for it also.
That morning when she woke up, she still had a headache,