Nuts and Buried (4 page)

Hunter shook his head, still not looking at the man. “That it is. Maybe you should get going. We'd like the house cleared out so our techs can work the areas they have to work. And then there are the two grieving women upstairs. Don't worry about Lindy. She's waiting for her family . . .”

Peter Franklin gave a half snort. His face was red. “I'll ‘get going,' as you say, as soon as I've finished my conversation with Miss Blanchard. I assume that's all right with the police?”

Hunter's face was red, too, and Hunter pissed off was a sight to see. The red went straight up into his hairline and his ears looked like a pair of red earmuffs. His bottom lip came out the way I remembered back when we were kids swimming naked in the Colorado and he got his foot tangled in the rope and swung back and forth over my head while I laughed at him.

“You wanna leave, Lindy. Go on,” he said, stressing my first name. There was a kind of male claiming territory note
in his voice. “I'll take Miss Amelia back to Rancho en el Colorado when she's finished with Miss Elizabeth.”

“I think my mama can handle it, Hunter.”

He nodded and turned slowly back to Peter Franklin. “You're a stranger here, aren't you?”

“From Boston, originally. A friend of Elizabeth Wheatley's and now, I hope, of Lindy's.”

Hunter made a face. “Never saw you around before.”

“I suppose you wouldn't since I was never here before.”

“You staying in town?”

“Yes, I'll be in town awhile. As I said, I'm at the Columbus Inn if you need to reach me, but I won't be of much help. I was at the buffet table when I heard the shot. Awful thing. I'll probably stay a few more days.”

“You don't need to, you know. Long as we've got a number where we can reach you.”

To put an end to what should have been a flattering male display of power, I said, “Think I'll get going. I'll call Mama and Meemaw later.”

“Walk you to your truck,” Hunter said to me while looking pointedly at Peter Franklin. He stepped between me and the other man, taking me by the elbow.

“Lindy . . . eh . . . Ms. Blanchard, I'll call you tomorrow. I'd like it very much if we could get together for dinner. Be to both our benefit.”

Hunter's hand was on my back and pushing until we were out the front door and across the drive. I stepped aside, looked up, and glared at him, forcing him to back off. “Hey,” I said. “I'm going to trip on this thing.” I held up one corner of my shroud.

“Dumb outfit,” he half growled.

My truck was parked back behind a clump of mesquite trees. I got in then turned to thank Hunter for walking me out.

“I'll be over to the Nut House in the morning. After I get through here, I've got to find a place for a mongrel I picked
up out on the highway. He's in my car. Pound's closed. You don't want to take him with you, do you?” He motioned toward where he'd parked, in the circular drive.

I gave him a “not on your life” look.

“Didn't want to say in front of that man, but I've got to interview you. You were in the gun room—wish you hadn't gone in there. Even though it was probably an accident, people rushing in messed up the scene.” He shook his head at me and rested his hands on the car door after I slammed it shut. I knew he had more to say. I turned on the motor and waited.

“I don't like that guy.” He gave me one of his narrow stares that usually warned me not to push back.

“He's a scientist,” I said. “I don't get to talk to many people in my field.”

“You going to let him into your greenhouse?”

Feeling I was being manipulated, I made a noncommittal face. “Maybe.”

“You don't let anybody in there.”

“He's not just anybody.”

“That mean you're going out to eat with him, too?”

“If he's buying.”

He shook his head and stepped back from the car door.

“Don't forget your dog,” I yelled out the window and drove off a little faster than I should have. I was mad. An old friend just died—well, somebody I used to know. Two women were suffering. And here were two men playing silly mating games over me.

I started back toward Riverville and my apartment, trying not to let myself take even a little pleasure in the spectacle I'd left behind.

The Nut House was full of Rivervillians when I came down from my apartment over the store, dressed for a day back at the farm in torn jeans and an Alamo T-shirt. I was looking forward to not thinking of much beyond investigating a specialized genome I'd read might work with my trees. The feeling of a day to myself was like tasting freedom and I was ready for it.

Tongues were wagging up and down the aisles of the store; aisles filled with sugared pecans and Pecan Sandies and pecan brittle and boxes with all kinds of good pecan things in them. And, of course, bags of our supreme Texas pecans all by themselves.

I thought a tour bus must have stopped, something Miss Amelia depended on for a good season, but the faces were familiar: neighbors and pecan farmers standing in circles, whispering away at a great rate. Ethelred had her own little clique around her. Freda Cromwell, Queen of the Riverville
Gossips, stood beside Ethelred with a frustrated look on her quirky little face.

No question about the cause of all the heated gossip. Like anywhere in the world, death brings out speculators and spectators. I imagined a little bit of sorrow, some regret and sympathy, a dose of fear, and a smidgen of relief in all that talk. Relief that it wasn't one of them, cleaning a gun, getting distracted, and being taken out by their own bullet.

Meemaw saw me and left her assistant baker, Treenie, in charge of the cash register. She rolled her eyes and took me by the hand, leading out to the kitchen, while she huffed and puffed and mumbled under her breath. When the doors swung shut behind her, Meemaw went to one of her bottom cabinets without a word and pulled out a couple of industrial-sized stainless steel pots, got a gigantic spoon from a utensil drawer, and gathered the ingredients to make a batch of filling for her pecan pies.

“See what's going on out there?” She gestured with her spoon, her pale eyes rolling. “Like a war starting up. Most of it's about jealousy. Just 'cause the Wheatleys got so much money. Makes me sick to my stomach. Disgusting. Every mouth going a mile a minute. I suspect some are talking just to hear themselves talk.”

She banged around the stove then got out her measuring cups for the sugars and spices, measured everything, poured things into the pot, added a whole lot of Karo Syrup, melted butter, and a bunch of beaten eggs. She turned the fire low and started stirring like mad.

“Special pies?” I asked because she wasn't saying anything, just stirring like her arm could fly off.

“'Course it is. Everybody in town will be wanting one. Especially all the good church folks. Just to get 'em through this terrible thing that's happened to 'em.”

“Want me to break out the Garrison Brothers?”

She nodded to a cupboard that surprised even me when
I opened it. Bottle after bottle of Garrison Brothers Texas Straight Whiskey. I pulled one down and took it to Meemaw, who measured out the whiskey, poured it in the pot, and then added an extra dollop straight out of the bottle.

She followed that with a pile of pecans, stirring until the filling was ready for the pie shells she'd made earlier, all waiting to be filled and baked. I helped her fill the unbaked shells then get them into the industrial-sized oven.

“There.” She shut the door with a loud thunk. “Pie for any Texan's soul. Going to only those people who deserve it.”

She looked over at me and gave me a smile that was full of the devil. “None for Ethelred and none for that Freda Cromwell. They may be friends of mine, but there's no solace going to either one. I don't care if Ethelred begs. The thing about Ethelred is, she won't get any nicer all liquored up so no use wasting the Garrison's.”

I dug in for the cleanup at the big, deep sink. I was used to helping. Been in the kitchen since I was a kid when I stood on a chair to wash dishes. I had all her recipes memorized though baking wasn't something I'd ever be good at. I wasn't a baker, nor a chef, and had little interest in working with anything other than dirt. The only thing I loved smelling was fresh water coming out of my overhead sprinklers in the greenhouse; and my trees; and sun on the bare earth in my test garden; and maybe the smell of the muddy Colorado River in the spring.

And what I liked seeing best wasn't cooling pecan pies but the catkins hanging from the pecan trees and then the little green blossoms that meant there was going to be a bumper crop of nuts.

And what I liked best of all was being around my family and Hunter and standing out in the groves, under trees that towered over me, and feeling the cool shadows they made on warm fall days.

That's who I am and Meemaw tells me it's all right to be
the way I am and to love different things than other people love. Mama just rolls her eyes and says, “Whatever, Lindy,” to me. Bethany says I'm nuts myself. But Justin, my quiet brother, knows. He knows that loving pecan trees and the land and the river can run right through your blood.

Meemaw pushed her steely gray hair back from her face with her wrist, finally took off her Rancho en el Colorado apron, hung it on a hook, and looked hard at me. “We've gotta talk.”

I nodded. There would be no getting away early.

Meemaw motioned for me to go sit at the enameled table at the back of the kitchen. I knew I'd get a slab of pie for breakfast and a cup of coffee. The one thing about Meemaw, she never remembered I was a tea drinker. Tea for breakfast wasn't right, to her way of thinking, so I got coffee—strong, black coffee, and I didn't say a word.

We sat over our pie and coffee. She pushed the milk pitcher toward me, knowing I was one to pour an awful lot of milk in my coffee, hoping to kill the taste.

“Hunter was here first thing this morning,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Before I even opened the store. He thought you'd be up. Had some things to tell us, and some questions to ask. Then he got a call and left. Should be back anytime now.”

“What's he want? What kind of questions? We don't know any more than anybody else there.”

“You went in the gun room.”

“So? All I touched was Jeannie. Trying to get her out of there.”

She gave me one of her long, thinking looks. “Said he's feeling a little bit out of his depth here. Especially with Elizabeth Wheatley so ready to come after them and all that money behind her. Sheriff's feeling the same thing.”

“Over an accident? We get lots of gun accidents around here. What are they worried about?”

“Think now, Lindy.” She raised an eyebrow at me. “There's that pistol he must've been working on, down by his feet. First of all, that little gun didn't make the big hole in his body like Hunter told me about. Second, you saw where the bullet went in and where it came out. Shot through the back, am I right? Can you tell me how, or why, Eugene reached around and shot himself in the back? Hunter said it was straight through—where arms don't reach.

“Me and Hunter talked for half an hour or so. What we came up with was that someone with a powerful rifle shot him. Could've been from the back doorway—a gun like that. The forensics people are looking at trajectory, but I think that's clear enough. Hunter's thinking the same thing. He's pretty shook up. Talked to Elizabeth and I guess she won't take anything but accident as the reason her brother's dead. Makes you feel sorry for her. Been through an awful lot. Still, truth is truth. Hunter's worried about her bringing in her own specialists and lawyers, the way she's threatening. That's gonna muddy everything they're trying to put together.”

I wanted to moan. Poor Jeannie. Poor Elizabeth. But then I took back the “poor Elizabeth” because I didn't like the woman and she'd embarrassed me—but what the heck. This was about a man dying, not about a catfight.

“Elizabeth's going to have to face facts,” I said. “Can't cover up a murder and, I'll bet anything, by this morning she won't want to.”

She shrugged. “You know Elizabeth. Enough to scare any man when she's on a tear, and I'll bet anything the idea of her brother being murdered isn't something that's going to go down easily. You know she idolized the man.”

“Too bad she never got married. Been better for Eugene not to have his sister running his life the way she does . . . eh . . . did. Better if she got married and ran that man's life. Not a bad-looking woman. I never understood—”

“Maybe Elizabeth's been around more than you think. And I don't mean ‘around' here.”

“Gossip?” I gave Meemaw a wicked grin.

I sipped the coffee and felt the chlorogenic acid hit my gut. I'd be in the bathroom soon.

“I think Hunter and the sheriff are gonna need my help, Lindy,” Meemaw was saying. “I got a feeling . . .”

“You mean you're going to get mixed up in this mess? Wheatleys are Wheatleys. I'd stay away, if I was you.”

“Tough, sometimes, for the police to get answers. But you know how it is with women my age. People talk to us like we can't really hear, or they think nobody will listen to us anyway. A habit for listening's not a bad thing.”

“I don't see you getting involved. Just end up with Elizabeth mad at all the Blanchards and, Lord knows, you know she was mad enough at me to start with. And remember what happened when the historical society wanted to erect that plaque on Carya Street? Honoring the ranchers and farmers? Mad as a wet cat because they didn't put her name on it.”

She shrugged, thinking. “A lot of those people there last night weren't even from Riverville. I probably don't know any more about them than the sheriff does. Still . . .”

She stirred her coffee and looked past me, one of her faded blue eyes moving off a little, as if on a thought of its own. “I told Hunter I'd do what I could. Maybe just stand back and look at what he digs up. You know, for the most part, I see good things in people. And then sometimes I see the evil, too. Not that I like it, but an eye for evil comes in handy once in a while.”

She waited until I nodded, as I knew I had to.

“And wouldn't you say that an eye for evil is the very thing lawmen need when it comes to murder?”

I nodded again.

“And an ear. If I can listen to somebody talking and know they're lying, or look into their eyes and see the cruelty
there? Wouldn't you say those are good things to have on your side?” She took a deep breath. “So what would you have me do, Lindy? Not help when I know I can?”

I nodded because I knew she wasn't really talking to me but to herself. If she wanted to use her eyes and ears, and maybe her nose, to help find a killer, that was fine with me. Just as long as Hunter kept her safe.

“I wasn't saying not to—”

“You expect me to be like these people who keep their heads in the dirt and don't say anything because they don't want to hurt somebody's feelings or don't want anybody mad at them? Well, just forget that. I know what I know and I see what I see and I put things together maybe other people don't know to put together. And I'm gonna use these very fine abilities I've got for good.” She nodded fast, winning this argument with herself.

“So you're jumping in, and taking me with you, I suppose. My Supermeemaw. ‘Truth, Justice, and the American Way.'”

We were both laughing when Hunter came back, stuck his head in the door, and frowned hard at us.