Best Kept Secrets

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,