It took only minutes to change into jeans, a fitted tee, and her old western boots. She brushed her hair into a ponytail at the back of her neck, and once it was done, she felt marginally better, more like herself. She packed an overnight bag with an extra pair of jeans, a couple more tees, and a flannel shirt. It was early May, but the nights could still be chilly in the Hill Country. She added underthings and her toiletries. She traded purses, exchanging the frivolous suede poof for a worn, hand-tooled leather pouch that more closely resembled a saddlebag than a handbag, and then, before going downstairs, she sat on the side of the bed and called Winona, anxious for her to answer. But she didn’t.
“Winona,” Lily said when the voice mail picked up, and she couldn’t help the quaver in her voice. “Something’s happened—” Bad. She started to add that but didn’t. “I’m on my way there, to the ranch, but when you get this, will you call me? If you see AJ, tell him—tell him I need to speak to him right away. Okay?” Lily blinked at the ceiling, thinking of how much she felt like the child she’d once been, sorely troubled, first by her mother’s untimely death, then as a very young woman when there’d been all that terrible business in Arizona. Winona had been there for her then, too, holding Lily close, murmuring comfort . . . “Vas a estar bien, querida . . . Ahora estoy aquí.”
Lily brought her glance down. “I should be there around four,” she said. Ending the call, she thought about calling her dad. But no. She wouldn’t tell him she was coming. He’d know something was up, and she didn’t want to be trapped into giving him the news over the phone. Hearing AJ was in trouble—again—might just break him.
Downstairs, Lily got into the car, and after setting her tote on the passenger seat, she got her phone out of her purse and tried AJ’s number, willing him to answer. But there was only a sequence of rings, one . . . two . . . six, and this time not even his voice mail picked up.
2
Dru’s cell phone played through a range of notes as she was pulling the second pan of lemon bars from the oven. She could let the call roll to voice mail, or she could shout for Shea to come take it. But no. Some snaky sense of dread had her setting the pan on the counter and reaching for her phone. Her heart eased when she saw Amy’s name in the caller ID window.
“We’re running out of time to change the menu,” Dru teased.
“Oh, Dru, I’m not calling about the luncheon.” Amy sounded upset. “I just heard some news from Ken—it’s not good.”
Ken Carter was Amy’s brother and a patrol sergeant on the police force in Wyatt.
“What’s happened?” Dru’s dread returned.
“I don’t even know how to tell you, and when I think of Shea—”
Dru liked Amy; she really did. They’d met while Dru was still teaching sixth grade full-time at Wyatt Elementary, and even then, Amy, a kindergarten teacher, could take forever to get to the point. “Just say it, okay?” Dru suggested.
“The police in Dallas found Becca Westin dead this morning in an apartment there. Ken said she was murdered.”
There was a moment of utter, blind incredulity, then Dru’s startled “What?” And on its heels, “Are you sure? What was she doing there? She’s in town here. Shea told me just the other day Becca was staying in Wyatt for the summer with her folks.”
“They found her car and her purse and identified her from her driver’s license, Ken said. It’s going to kill Shea, isn’t it? Becca being her bridesmaid and all.”
“Yes, but my God, I’m thinking of Joy and Gene.” Dru named Becca’s parents.
“I think someone, one of the deputies here in Wyatt who knows them, is on his way to tell them.”
“But who would do such a thing? Do they know? Becca was—was so sweet and quiet, a little—”
“Angel,” Amy supplied.
“Yes,” Dru said, although she’d been thinking mouse, that Becca had always been as quiet as a mouse. “She was over here a day or two ago, helping us with wedding things—”
“Mom?”
Dru met Shea’s anxious gaze. “Amy, I’ve got to go. Thank you for calling. The luncheon Friday, it’s still on, right?” She wasn’t really asking so much as she was delaying the moment when she’d have to face Shea. Dru knew the annual year-end event to honor Wyatt Elementary’s teachers would take place. As heartless as it seemed, it was the nature of life for those who were outside an immediate zone of calamity to go on with their business, their routines.
Amy confirmed Dru’s expectation and the date of the occasion.
“What happened?” Shea asked when Dru ended the call.
“That was Amy.” Dru paused, searching for words, as if there might be some that were better. Finally, she just got it over as quickly as possible. “Honey, there’s no easy way to tell you. Amy heard from Ken—her brother in town who’s a patrol sergeant?—that police in Dallas found Becca dead this morning in an apartment there. Someone—she was murdered.”
Dru held Shea’s stare, and when she said nothing, when the color had drained from her face, Dru guided her to a chair in the breakfast nook, brought her a glass of water, and sat across from her, taking her hands. They were trembling, and Dru chafed them.
“I don’t understand,” Shea said.
“Well, I don’t, either. Wasn’t she home with her folks for summer break?”
“She was home for good,” Shea said. “She wasn’t going back to Dallas.”
“Really? You didn’t tell me that.”
“Culinary school was only an experiment for her, a way to get out of Wyatt. She never liked to cook. You saw her. She’d come over, and I’d be all up to my elbows helping you with some job, but she never got into it with us.”
Dru thought about it. “You’re right. It never occurred to me before.”
“Mama, are they sure it was Becca?”
“They found her car there. Her purse with her driver’s license was in the apartment.”
“But she was sick yesterday, in bed at her parents’. She didn’t even go with us when we went to pick up the jars.”