Best Kept Secrets (13 page)

"But it was somebody's idea. Yours, Reede?"

"So what if it was?"

"So," she said, drawing out the word in an effort to ignore the chip he carried on his shoulder, "thank you."

"You're welcome."

Trying to temper the animosity between them, she smiled and said teasingly, "Now that we're in the same building, I can keep a closer eye on you."

He pulled the door shut as he backed out. "You've got it backwards, Counselor. I can keep a closer eye on you."

Alex tossed down her ballpoint pen and vigorously rubbed

, her chilled arms. The electric space heater she had bought at

: the hardware store was on full blast, but it wasn't helping I much. The square little office was frigid and seemed to be the only dank, damp spot in this otherwise arid climate.

Earlier she had bought office supplies: paper, pencils, pens, paper clips. The office was hardly comfortable, but at least it was functional. It was also much more centrally located than her room at the Westerner Motel.

After checking to see that the heater was indeed working at its maximum, she bent over her notes again. It had taken all afternoon to compile and arrange them according to the individuals involved.

Beginning with her profile on Angus, she reread the briefs.

Unfortunately, they were no more concrete or factually based than they had been the first dozen times she'd read them.

What she had was conjecture and hearsay. What few facts she had, she had known when she left Austin. So far, this trip had been a waste of taxpayers' money, and almost a week of Greg's deadline had elapsed.

For the time being, she decided to let the question of opportunity wait. She had to establish motives. All she had learned so far was that the three men had adored Celina.

Adoration was hardly motivation for murder.

She had nothing--no evidence, not even a viable suspect.

She was certain that Buddy Hicks hadn't killed her mother, yet she was no closer to discovering who had.

After spending time alone with Angus, Junior, and Reede, Alex was convinced that getting a confession would be tantamount to a miracle. Contrition and repentance didn't fit their personality profiles. Nor would one testify against the other. The loyalties were solidly forged, though it was obvious their friendship wasn't what it had once been, which

in itself was a clue. Had Celina's death splintered their clique, yet kept them bound to one another?

She still hoped that the person who had called a few nights before was an actual eyewitness. She had waited for days for

another call, one that hadn't come, which was a strong indication that it had been a prank.

Apparently, the only people near the stable that night had been Gooney Bud, the killer, and Celina. Gooney Bud was dead. The killer wasn't talking. And Celina--

Alex was suddenly inspired. Her mother couldn't talk--

at least, not in the literal sense--but she might have something valuable to tell.

The idea made Alex sick to her stomach. She propped her forehead on the palms of her hands and closed her eyes. Did she have the fortitude to do it?

She groped for alternatives, but came up empty-handed.

She needed evidence, and she could think of only one place to look for it.

Before she could change her mind, she switched off the heater and left the office. Avoiding the unreliable elevator,

she jogged up the stairs, hoping that she would catch Judge Joe Wallace before he left for the day.

She anxiously checked her wristwatch. It was almost five o'clock. She didn't want to put this off until tomorrow. Now that her mind was made up, she wanted to act on her decision before she had the time and opportunity to back out.

The corridors on the second floor were deserted. Jurors had been dismissed for the day. Trials were in recess until tomorrow. Her footsteps echoed loudly as she made her way toward the judge's chambers adjacent to the empty courtroom.

His secretary was still in the anteroom, and none too pleased to see her.

"I need to speak with the judge immediately." Alex was out of breath after quickly climbing two flights of stairs, and her voice was tinged with desperation.

"He's fixin' to leave for the day," she was told with a lack of apology. "I can make an appoint--"

"This is vitally important, or I wouldn't bother him at this time of day."

Alex wasn't intimidated by Mrs. Lipscomb's censorious stare or the retiring sigh she emitted as she left her desk and moved to the connecting door. She knocked discreetly, then went inside, closing the door behind her. Alex paced impatiently until she returned.

"He's agreed to see you. Briefly."

"Thank you." Alex rushed past her and into the chambers.

"Well, what is it this time, Miss Gaither?" Judge Wallace barked at her the instant she crossed the threshold. He was pulling on his overcoat. "You seem to have a nasty habit of showing up without an appointment. As you can see, I'm leaving. My daughter Stacey doesn't like to hold dinner, and it would be rude of me to expect her to."

"I apologize to both of you, Judge. As I told your secretary, it's urgent that I talk to you this afternoon."

"Well?" he demanded cantankerously.

"Could we sit down?"

"I can talk standing up. What do you want?"

"I want you to issue a court order to have my mother's body exhumed."

The judge sat down then. Or rather, he dropped down into the chair in front of which he was standing. He stared up at Alex with undisguised dismay.

"I beg your pardon?" he wheezed.

"I believe you heard me, Judge Wallace, although if it's necessary to repeat my request, I will."

He waved his hand. "No. Good Lord, no. Hearing it once was bad enough." He cupped each knee with a hand and continued to stare up at her, apparently thinking she was certifiable. "Why would you want to do such a ghastly thing as that?"

"I don't want to. I wouldn't ask for a court order if I didn't think exhumation was absolutely necessary."

Having recovered some of his aplomb, he ungraciously indicated a chair. "You might as well sit. Explain your reasons."

"A crime was committed, but I can find no incriminating evidence."

"I told you you wouldn't," he exclaimed. "You didn't listen. You came charging in here, slinging unfounded accusations, bent on getting vengeance."

"That's not true," she denied evenly.

"That's how I read it. What does Pat Chastain have to say about this?"

"The D.A. is unavailable. It seems he's spontaneously taken a few days' vacation and gone hunting."

The judge harrumphed. "Sounds like a damn good idea to me."

It sounded cowardly to Alex, and she'd been ready to chew nails when the aloof Mrs. Chastain had informed her of it.

"Will you permit me to look for evidence, Judge?"

"There is no evidence," he stressed.

"My mother's remains might provide some."

"She was autopsied when she was killed. That was twenty-five years ago, for crissake."

"With all due respect to the coroner at that time, he might not have been looking for clues when the cause of death was so readily apparent. I know an excellent forensic specialist in Dallas. We use him frequently. If there is anything to be found, he'll find it."

"I can guarantee you that he won't."

"It's worth a try, isn't it?"

He gnawed at the corner of his lip. "I'll take your request under advisement."

Alex recognized a brush-off when she saw one. "I'd appreciate an answer tonight."

"Sorry, Miss Gaither. The best I can do is think about it overnight and give you an answer in the morning. Between now and then, I hope you'll change your mind and withdraw the request."

"I won't."

He stood up. "I'm tired, hungry, and damned perturbed that you've put me in this awkward position." He aimed an accusatory index finger at her. "I don't like messes."

"Neither do I. I wish this weren't necessary."

"It isn't."

"I believe it is," she countered stubbornly.

"In the long run, you'll be sorry you ever asked me for this. Now, you've taken up enough of my time. Stacey will be worried. Good night."

He marched from the room. A few seconds later, Mrs.

Lipscomb appeared in the doorway. Her eyelids were fluttering with indignation. "Imogene told me you'd mean trouble around here."

Alex swept past her and returned to her temporary office, only long enough to retrieve her belongings. The drive out to the Westerner took longer than usual because she got caught up in Purcell's rush hour. To further complicate the snarled traffic, it began to sleet.

Knowing she wouldn't want to go out again, she picked up a box of carryout fried chicken. By the time she spread the meal on the round table near the windows of her room, the food was cold and tasted like cardboard. She promised herself that she would buy some fruit and healthy snack food to supplement her unbalanced diet, and maybe a bouquet of flesh flowers to brighten the dismal room. She debated taking down the lurid painting of the bullfighter that dominated one wall. The swirling red cape and slavering bull were real eyesores.

Loath to review her notes again, she decided to switch on the TV. The HBO movie she watched was a comedy she didn't have to think about. She was feeling better by the time it was over, and decided to take a shower.

She had just dried off and wrapped her wet hair in a towel when someone knocked on her door. Pulling on her long, white terry cloth robe and knotting the tie at her waist, she peered through the peephole.

She opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.

"What are you, the Welcome Wagon?"

"Open the door," Sheriff Lambert said.

"What for?"

"I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"I'll tell you when I get inside." Alex didn't move. "Are you going to open the door, or what?"

"I can talk to you from here."

"Open the friggin' door," he shouted. "I'm freezing my balls off."

Alex slid the chain out of its mooring, then pulled the door open and stood aside. Reede stamped his feet and brushed off the ice pellets that were clinging to the fur collar of his coat.

He looked her up and down. "Expecting someone?"

Alex crossed her arms over her middle, a gesture meant to convey her annoyance. "If this is a social call--"

"It isn't." He caught his finger between his teeth and pulled off one leather glove, then the other. He slapped the felt cowboy hat against his thigh to shake off the sleet, then ran a hand through his hair.

He tossed the gloves into the crown of his hat, set the hat down on the table and lowered himself into a chair. He eyed the remains of her supper, then took a bite out of an untouched drumstick. Munching, he asked, "You don't like our fried chicken?''

He was slouched in the chair, looking like he had settled in for the night. Alex remained standing. She felt absurdly exposed in the robe, even though it covered her from jaw to ankles. Having a motel towel wrapped around her head didn't help boost her self-confidence.

She tried to appear indifferent to him and her own dishabille.

"No, I didn't like the fried chicken, but it was convenient.

I didn't want to go out to eat."

"Smart decision on a night like this. The roads are getting treacherous."

"You could have told me that over the phone."

Ignoring that, he leaned far to one side and looked past her at the television screen, where an unclothed couple were carnally involved. The camera moved in for a close-up of the man's lips against the woman's breast.

"No wonder you're mad that I interrupted."

She smacked the power button with her palm. The screen went blank. "I wasn't watching."

When she turned back around, he was looking up at her, smiling. "Do you always open your door to any man who knocks on it?"

"I didn't open my door until you swore at me."

"Is that all a man has to do, talk dirty?"

"You're the highest-ranking law enforcement officer in this county. If I can't trust you, who can I trust?" She was thinking she would trust a used car salesman in a green polyester suit before she would trust Reede Lambert. "And was it really necessary to strap that on when you came calling?"

He followed the direction of her gaze down to the holster riding just below his belt. He stretched his booted feet far out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. Templing his fingers, he peered at her over their tips. "I never know when I might have to use it."

"Is it always loaded?"

He hesitated, his eyes lowering to the vicinity of her breasts. "Always."

They were no longer talking about the pistol in his holster.

But more than what was actually being said, the tone of the conversation made her distinctly uncomfortable. She shifted her weight from one bare foot to the other and dampened her lips, only then realizing that she had already removed her makeup. Somehow, that made her feel even more vulnerable.

That, and his motionless, broody stare.

"Why did you come here tonight? What couldn't wait until morning?"

"An urge."

"An urge?" she repeated huskily.

He languidly got up out of the chair and moved forward until he stood only inches in front of her. He slipped his rough hand into the parting of her robe and encircled her neck with it. "Yeah, an urge," he whispered. "An urge to throttle you."

Uttering a frustrated grunt Alex removed his hand and stepped aside. By choice, he let her go. "Judge Wallace called me tonight and told me about the court order you asked him for."

Her heart, which had been beating furiously, slowed down, but she muttered a curse of aggravation. "Isn't anything private in this town?"

"Not much, no."

"I don't think I could sneeze without everybody within the city limits offering me a Kleenex."

"You're in the spotlight, all right. What do you expect, going around asking to dig up a body?"

"You make it sound so whimsical."

"Well, isn't it?"

"Do you think I'd disturb my mother's grave if I didn't think it was a vital step toward solving her murder?" she asked heatedly. "My God, do you think it was easy for me to even voice the request? And why did the judge feel it necessary to consult you, you, of all people?"