Doggone Dead (3 page)

The next day, I dropped Zach over at his friend Billy Mason's house to go swimming. They had an in-ground pool in the backyard, and the boys would wear each other out splashing around all day. While my son was busy cooling off in the blue velvet of chlorinated water, I was to spend my day in the heat and humidity taking pictures out at Bonnet’s Farm. Bonnet, an old name around these parts was stressed on the second syllable, not the first. 

I had spoken to Lina Bonnet on the phone, and she seemed very nice. Hopefully this interview wouldn’t take too long. I had put off going for an entire week because of a slight possibility of rain, but today I was running out of time. A white sign edged in blue trim with “Bonnet’s Farm” proudly painted on it pointed me down a dirt road. People drove from miles around to come and help the Bonnet family pick their crops and pay them for it.

I pulled into the gravel parking lot in front of the main building. There was a large fruit stand with baskets overflowing with watermelons, tomatoes, strawberries and cantaloupe. Next to that structure stood a white shed with blue trimmed metal handles and hinges. Behind all of that, about a hundred feet back, I could see a pretty white farmhouse with the same blue trim. What a beautiful place to get to live.

Lina Bonnet, a woman with dark shoulder-length ringlets, came out from behind the fruit stand. She was wearing a red apron that edged her jean shorts and tan legs.

“Betsy Livingston. It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said as she extended her hand to me.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” I said, not getting to finish as a now familiar red Corvette came crunching down the driveway into the parking lot. Remembering my last encounter with this vehicle, I stepped back.

“Sorry, that’s Coop.” She tucked her arms into her sides. “He’s just getting back from town.”

Coop got out of his car and threw a lit cigarette into the gravel. He ground out the glowing butt with the toe of his black boot. He looked to be in his early twenties and had a reputation for some of the wilder nights in Pecan Bayou.

“Coop,” said Lina. “I was wondering if you could keep an eye out on the stand while I take Mrs. Livingston inside for a glass of lemonade. She’s interviewing me for the article in the Pecan Bayou Gazette.”

“Sure, I guess,” he answered, reluctance in his voice. “I have some stuff do in the shed for Dad, so I’ll listen for cars.”

“Thanks, dear,” Lina said, taking me by the arm and leading me to the house. I tried to imagine what her life must be like. A sturdy little chicken house with a fenced enclosure stood about twenty feet from one side of the farmhouse. It was nothing like the low-slung metal buildings used by the big production chicken farms down the road. The chickens squawked and scratched as we drew nearer to the house. Next to the chicken house was a fruit orchard in full bloom. Apple trees were bursting with green fruit as they were overshadowed by two rows of pecan trees. Pecan Bayou would never be at a loss for pie filling with this place.

We walked up the steps of the front porch. Pots of geraniums were situated here and there, and a comfortable cushioned rocker and settee looked like a great place for a glass of lemonade on a warm afternoon. On the other side of the house was a large oak tree with a rope swing. How many years had it been since Coop had played in that swing? About ten feet from the tree a slab of concrete held up a worn basketball hoop with a shredded net that stirred in the breeze.

“You must just love it out here,” I said.

“I guess,” Lina replied. “I’ve been here for so long I hardly ever think about it. You get used to it, like most things.”

“I suppose you do.”

We entered through a solid white front door, and I sighed as I felt the cool air rush over me. “Thank goodness for air conditioning.”

Lina smiled. “You said it. Follow me to the kitchen. I have some recipes for you as well as some cold watermelon parfait.”

“Great.” We walked through a den that looked comfortable, although it reeked of cigarette smoke and another smell I couldn't place. Even though there were no smokers in the room, the stale odor lingered in the furniture. I stepped into the country kitchen with a long counter loaded with a batch of home-canned jelly. On the tablecloth sat two parfait glasses overflowing with chunks of soft pink watermelon, each placed on a bright green napkin.

“Wow, how pretty,” I said. “Do you mind if I take a picture?”

“Not at all.” I pulled my digital camera from my bag and snapped a couple of quick shots.

Lina motioned to a chair for me to sit in and then grabbed a small stack of paper from the counter.

“Here are the watermelon recipes I’ve collected over the years. We published them in a little cookbook to give out to the groups that visit. It encourages people to buy more.”

“That’s very smart of you. I’ll try to include something about the booklet into with article. Do you have a website? It would probably be a lot cheaper just to put the booklet there so people can print it out themselves.”

“No, Clay will want us to print them out and charge a dollar for them. That’s what he has done with all the other little booklets I’ve come up with over the years.”

“I see.” I took a pen out of my purse. “Well, then we’ll put the low price of one dollar into the article instead.”

The phone on the kitchen wall rang.

“Excuse me.” Lina stood and went to the phone. “Hello. She’s here now. Yes ... yes ... I’ll be sure to tell her that.” She looked at a slim black watch on her arm. “Okay. I’ll hurry ... I promise.”

She placed the phone back into the receiver. “Sorry, I’m going to have to cut this short. Clay is coming and bringing in a new load of produce and needs my help. A big group of tourists is coming out in the next little bit. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I was just digging into my watermelon parfait and the sweet taste lingered on my tongue. I wasn’t sure if I was more upset with the shortness of the interview or the fact that she was hurrying up my dessert. “Um ... Rocky from the paper wants me to take a few pictures of the grounds, if that’s okay.”

“Sure, no problem.”

I gathered up my things and looked down at my half-eaten parfait.

“Oh, please finish your parfait,” she said. “I really have to apologize. Sometimes Clay gets riled up about stuff, and we all have to go along.”

“That’s probably why this place is so successful,” I said, spooning up the remainder of the delicious pink parfait and trying not to drool juice down my chin. I obediently slurped it up and clanked the spoon into the glass. “All finished.”

Lina grinned again, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Looking into them, I saw sadness more than subterfuge. She lived in a beautiful place and ran a successful business, but still something was strange about her. As I walked out onto the porch, feeling the blanket of heat closing in around my air-conditioned body, thoughts of Lina’s well-being melted from my brain.

Clay Bonnet was coming down the gravel drive steering an ancient white pickup with raised sides. He was in his late forties with a little sun-bleached ponytail sticking out of the back of his weathered ball cap. The truck was nearly full of large green melons, and he jumped out of the driver’s side, pulling on a pair of tan work gloves.

“Miss Happy Hinter! Glad to meet you.” He slipped off a glove and extended his hand for me to shake. “Sorry to have to be rushing you out like this, but I’m sure Lina here supplied you with all you need.”

“Yes, yes she did,” I answered. He still held my hand, and I tried to release it from his grip. Finally, he let go. “I’m just going to take few pictures and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Take your time. Mi casa, su casa.” Somehow I didn’t feel like he really meant it, unless his Spanish words really translated to “get your pictures and then get the hell out of here.”

“Thanks,” I turned back to Lina, now walking behind me. “How long have you lived out here?”

“Oh, about ten years I guess. Clay built the sheds and redid the barn. I fixed up the house,” Lina said.

Clay took hold of my arm with his gloved hand and whispered to me. “We opened the farm to the public about eight years ago when we figured out we could make a lot more money if we had all the city folks picking the fruit. Best decision we ever made.”

“That is if you like everybody in the state of Texas driving up your driveway,” Coop Bonnet said as he came out of the shed. He was cleaning what looked like oil from his hands with an old rag.

“Those folks are personally paying for your college education, young man. Don’t forget that,” Clay added, his grip on my arm tightening.

“How can I? You remind me of it all the time.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed it takes money to live these days.”

Lina stepped in between her husband and son. “All right, you two. Let’s not argue in front of our guest ... our guest from the newspaper.” She emphasized the last word as if I were going to run back into Pecan Bayou and start the first gossip column the Gazette had ever published. I felt embarrassed to be standing in the middle of it all, but really it was just a little father-son squabble. Nothing unusual in any family.

As if to emphasize that point, my own father showed up in his police cruiser. The Bonnets and the police had a history, and I was just glad he hadn’t pulled up with the lights and siren wailing. He opened the door, putting on his Stetson and oh-so-insincere grin.

“Morning, folks.”

Clay Bonnet straightened his back and smirked. “What can I do for you, officer?”

“Oh,” my dad’s eyes scanned the landscape, “just thought I’d take a little look around, that’s all. A fellow can never be too nutritious, you know.” He spied Coop Bonnet’s red Corvette and walked over to it. “That is a fine vehicle, young man. I’ll bet you can get some awesome speed on this baby.”

I remembered telling my dad about Zach’s near accident a few days ago.

“Cut the crap, you aren’t here to buy fruit,” said Coop Bonnet.

“Coop! I’m sure the officer is visiting us for all the same reasons as everyone else who comes out to the farm,” said Lina.

“Yeah, right.”

“Are you worried about my being here?” My father tilted his head to one side, his gaze fastening on Coop.

Coop Bonnet cleared his throat. “Uh, no, I don’t care where you are, old man.”

“Coop!” his mother repeated.

“Well, maybe I’m here not to check up on you,” he turned toward me, “but my daughter.”

All eyes rolled to me.

“This is your daughter?” Coop said.

“Sure is.”

Lina Bonnet extended her hand as the thought of the newspaper article probably re-entered her thinking. “Well, welcome to our farm, sir.”

My dad reached out and shook her hand. Clay Bonnet stood back and didn’t extend his hand.

My dad continued as if the slight hadn’t occurred. “And thank you very much for that kind, if not delayed, welcome. Do you mind if I look around a bit?”

“Sure, we have a fresh load of watermelons in.”

He glanced over at the fruit stand. “I can see that. What do you keep in those two sheds back there? More produce?”

Clay Bonnet stepped up and put his arm around my father’s shoulder and guided him toward the bulging baskets of watermelons. “Just farm equipment. The modern farmer requires more gadgets every day. Makes me kind of miss the good old days with a John Deere tractor and a gallon of gas.”

I glanced at my watch. Despite all the tension in the air, if I wanted to get the pictures and turn them in to Rocky, I would have to get to work. “Well, I need to get back to town so I’ll just take my pictures.” I turned and took Lina Bonnet’s hand in mine. It was cool on my skin. Not what I expected in the record-breaking heat of late June. “Thanks for all your help and information.”

“Sure.” She squeezed my hand. “Really hoping for a good write-up for our business. I do the books, and sometimes even I’m not sure how we make it, but we always seem to get by.”

I stepped over to the field surrounding the house and outbuildings and took a picture as I felt the sun beat down on the back of my neck. The field held rows and rows of green striped melons, their various rounded shapes poking out from the tangle of vines. The property was edged by a thick forest of trees in the full bloom of summer. The picture would be beautiful in the online edition of the newspaper. It would have all of the beauty, and without any of the heat. That’s the way to enjoy Texas.

I stepped over to get a shot of the farm from a different angle. The colors were so pretty and beautifully highlighted the old farmhouse. I walked to the side of the lot with the two sheds lining up like soldiers in my pictures. More people were walking around now, either buying watermelons at the stand or going out to the field to pick just the right one. Coop Bonnet had gone back to whatever he had been doing in the shed, and my father had gotten away from Clay Bonnet. If I had to interpret my father’s actions, he was definitely snooping around Coop Bonnet’s car. What was he looking for, the blood of his last victim? I snapped another picture of the people milling around, hoping it would lead to more sales for the farm.

“Excuse me? Aren’t you Mrs. Livingston, the Happy Hinter?”