“And you didn’t hear what he was mad at Hartley about?”
“I was around on the back when they got into it. All I heard was what I told you.”
“And where was Eric?”
“Right beside me. It was over as quick as it started. A few words, one punch. That was it, Mr. Dwight. I swear.”
“Who else was with y’all?” Dwight asked.
I didn’t recognize either of the other two names, but Dwight jotted them down on a scrap of paper, then said, “Okay. Thanks, Stevie. We’ll run you back to your dorm.”
“That’s it?”
“Unless you saw or heard something else I ought to know?”
“Nope, that’s it.” His face shone with holy innocence, but I’d seen his palpable relief an instant before.
He immediately turned to Dwight and said, “If you’ll let me out, I’ll walk back to the dorm.”
“Stevie—”
But Dwight had opened the door and stepped out, and Stevie didn’t linger. “‘Night, Deborah. ‘Night, Mr. Dwight,” he called, already halfway across the parking lot.
“Now what do you suppose he thought Eric didn’t tell us?” I asked as we watched Stevie take a shortcut through the inn’s lobby.
“Whatever it was, he’ll probably be on the phone to Shaw in five minutes, getting their stories together.”
CHAPTER 11
SUNDAY EVENING
We stopped for supper at Las Margaritas in Garner, and the waiter, mistaking our relationship, seated us in a secluded booth made romantic by candlelight. I pushed the candle over to the side while Dwight ordered a Dos Equis for himself and a frozen margarita for me. There were years that I couldn’t face them, but I tried one again last spring and it was so refreshing that it’s back in the lineup now. Dwight likes burritos or chiles rellenos. I usually get the taco salad with extra guacamole. (I might not have been tempted had the serpent offered me an apple, but if it’d been an avocado, don’t bet the Garden.)
I was concerned about Stevie, but he’s a basically sensible kid and maybe when he’d had a chance to think about it, he’d realize that murder isn’t a game where you get to decide what to tell and what to withhold, especially when it’s the murder of a cousin. And even though he didn’t yet know Brazos Hartley was a cousin, blood still counts for something in our family.
“So,” I said to Dwight as our drinks came, “how come you’re not out with Sylvia tonight?”
He shrugged. “Sylvia and I are finished.”
“Really? What happened?”
He took a swallow of his beer and gave me a rueful look. “I guess she decided a divorced lawyer with monthly child-support payments was a better prospect than a divorced lawman with monthly child-support payments.”
“
That was so preposterous that I thought he had to be kidding. “Reid put the moves on her when he drove her home Friday night?”
“He was still there yesterday morning when I dropped that damn dog off.”
“Oh, Dwight.” Relieved to hear that his moodiness was due to Sylvia and not to anything I had or hadn’t done, I reached across the table and patted his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he said. “It wasn’t going anywhere with us. I was just waiting for her to realize it.”
I had to smile. “A gentleman to the end.”
He shrugged. “I learned a long time ago that things end better if the woman thinks it’s her decision.”
I can relate to that. I’ve dumped and I’ve been dumped and I know which hurts and humiliates more.
“Reid never could resist a challenge,” I said, “but if Sylvia Clayton thinks she’s going to get him to the altar...”
“I don’t know,” said Dwight. “Sylvia’s a nice person. And maybe he’s tired of window-shopping. I know I sure as hell am.”
“Me too,” I sighed.
Our food arrived and our talk turned to courthouse gossip and eventually back to the murder.
“I keep wondering why his mouth was filled with quarters.” I dipped a piece of my taco shell into the guacamole. “What’s the symbolism there? Put your money where your mouth is? Money talks?”
“Or keeps someone
“The Ameses both say he was obsessed with money.”
