I bit my lip in thought. “You're right. I wonder if the police know that-”
“They took what was left of her dinner and put it into an evidence bag,” Candace said bluntly. “I saw diem. Unless they were just foraging for leftovers. And they'll have her stomach contents to analyze-”
“This is insane,” I said. “She can't have been poisoned. It's just too crazy. Plus, wouldn't she have been stricken a lot earlier?”
“It might not have affected her immediately,” Candace argued. “I don't know how long it takes a medication like that to affect someone. Neither do you.”
“I did ask the justice of the peace-who seems rather friendly with Uncle Mutt-about how long it takes to get toxicology results. She didn't even blink when I asked.” I rubbed my eyes, weary. “If Lolly was poisoned, the police'll find out. And then we'll all be questioned till we're blue in the face.” I stood up, leaving the warm comfort of her lap. The breeze through the window felt as gentle as an angel's kiss.
“Of course, maybe Lolly wasn't the target.” Candace continued talking to my back. “Did you tell the police about your Hallmark cards from hell?”
I related my conversation with Victor Mendez to her. Candace snorted. “So he's not making a move until he knows for sure whether or not it was natural causes?”
“It's not an unusual course of action, sweetheart.”
“The hell it's not. You've gotten death threats. What's wrong with this man?”
“He's investigating a potential murder in possibly the wealthiest family in the county.” I shrugged. “I imagine he doesn't want to make any mistakes. Period. Assuming there's a link between my letters and Lolly's death is a fair jump on little evidence.” I turned back to the window, watching the maze of stars shine over the bay.
I couldn't get Lolly's purpling face out of my mind. I had seen death before, by violence, and I know its signature- the eyes dimming of light, the curl of the lip in shock and dismay that the final moments are here, the pallid wetness of the tongue in the open cave of the mouth.
I wondered what Uncle Mutt thought of his little dramatic moment now.
Candace stretched and crawled off the bed.
“Good night, sug. Get some sleep. I'll be watching your room from down the hall.”
“I know you fancy yourself as the new Emma Peel, Candace, but you need sleep, too. I'll be fine. I won't be able to sleep if I'm worried that you're not getting any rest.”
I kissed her tenderly, reveling in the warmth of her lips against mine. Someday I would be dead, like Lolly, and whatever afterlife awaited me might not include the gentle pleasure of a kiss. I broke the embrace and nuzzled the top of her head.
“I love you, Jordan.” Her voice was low against my chest, her lips a gentle motion against my T-shirt.
“I love you, too. I think I'll go down to Mutt's library and find me a book. I completely forgot to pack one. I'll stay up and read awhile.”
She slipped off toward her end of the hall while I tiptoed down to the staircase. The house was dark; the family had called it an early evening. I saw rods of light beneath doors, so I knew not everyone slumbered, but we were all modestly tucked in. I did not hear the sound of grieving from any room, and I shivered.
The library was poorly lit, one lamp casting an inadequate glow from a side table. I felt a bit like an intruder, so I didn't turn on the ceiling lights. Plus, I didn't want to disturb the taciturn Deputy Praisner on the porch.
I moved toward one of the bookcases, running a finger along the volumes. Nearly everything seemed to pertain to either Texas history or true crime. The latter category lacked any appeal, given the day's events. But I paused, looking down the spines of an entire shelf. Uncle Mutt had amassed a rather fearsome collection of murder and mayhem. I turned back to the history offerings. I began thumbing through a thin biography of the Republic of Texas's second president-and my hometown's namesake, Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar. “Hello, Mirabeau,” I muttered to myself. “Reading about you should knock me unconscious.”
A voice boomed from a corner chair, “Mirabeau Lamar? He was a right sorry man.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. I reached over and flicked on another table light. Uncle Mutt sat in a plush leather chair, a glass of brandy nestled in his hand. I realized he'd been sitting silently in the near dark.
“Sorry, boy. Didn't mean to startle you.” Uncle Mutt's voice was low and raspy. “But Mirabeau Lamar was a turd. He would've killed ever' damn Indian in Texas with a snap of his fingers. Only smart thing he ever did was build the Texas Navy.”
“Oh, you didn't startle me,” I lied. “I just didn't realize that you were there.” I thumped the Lamar biography against my hand, suddenly at a loss for words.
“You may borrow the book, Jordan,” he said softly.
“I-I-” I realized my entire vocabulary had deserted me. I swallowed. “I didn't mean to be poking about in your library, it's just I forgot to bring anything to read with me and I couldn't sleep and so I…” I trailed off.
“Oh, for God's sake. You act like I'm radioactive, boy. You want to sit down and have a brandy with me?”
“Uncle Mutt-Mr. Goertz-I'm really sorry about your sister. I don't want to intrude on your grief. And I'm so sorry that you're sick…” My voice evaporated into the dark air.
“You're not intruding, son. And I told you not to call me Mr. Goertz. I'm your uncle, so you call me Uncle Mutt.” He mouthed his brandy, rolling the liquid in his cheek before swallowing. “I don't figure we've done much to make you feel comfortable.”
My God. He'd lost his sister tonight. He'd told his family he was dying. And he was concerned for my comfort? I wasn't sure if I felt touched or puzzled at his priorities. But then, I didn't know what a dying man's priorities were. “Please don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'm sure I'm still a shock to y'all.”
“We've faced far worse shocks as a family, trust me. And it ain't healthy for a dying man to sit in the dark, thinking about his death or anyone else's. So you'll have a brandy with me?”
“Sure.” I sat in another comfortable reading chair, facing him across a low coffee table. He fiddled with glasses at a side bar and returned, handing me a snifter with a generous dose of brandy. He kept his face slightly averted as he offered me the drink. I could see his eyes were rimmed with red and soft with grief. I glanced away, not wanting to embarrass him. Men don't want other men to see them mourn.
I swirled the amber liquid in the glass and sipped cautiously. My tongue burned and an agreeable sensation began a slow exploration of my limbs.
“Good, ain't it? It's French.” Uncle Mutt grinned.
“It's very good,” I said. I wouldn't know good brandy from bad, but it certainly wasn't making me feel worse.
“You think maybe your library could use these books?” Mutt gestured at the shelves. “I ain't gonna need them when I'm dead.”
“That's very generous of you.” I surveyed the depths of my brandy, took another hefty gulp, and when I looked up, Mutt was staring at me intently.
I glanced away in discomfort and he spoke. “I know. I'm sorry, son. I haven't seen you in a long, long time and I just can't get over how much you remind me of other folks in our family. Ones that ain't here with us no more.”
“Long time? But you've never seen me-”
“That's not entirely true. You see, Jordan, your father and I are about the only half-normal people in this bunch. And when you came along, Bob Don needed someone to unburden himself on. That was me.” He paused and watched the brandy in his glass. “I've known about you since the day you were born.”
“Bob Don never told me you knew.”
“Your father's not a man to admit that he needed a kind shoulder. Many years ago, Lolly and I visited him in Mirabeau. We went to a junior-high baseball game, Mira-beau versus Smithville. You played shortstop. You didn't have a particularly good game, and your team lost, but Bob Don didn't care. I could tell he was nearly bursting with pride, just to watch you.”
My throat felt heavy. The brandy burned a pleasant trail to my stomach. “I remember that game. Smithville stomped us, and I was fit to be tied. You and Aunt Lolly were there?”
“Sure were. Lolly didn't know about you, though. She just thought that Bob Don and I, being men, couldn't go three days without attending a sporting event.” He chuckled softly. “Oh, Lord, Lolly didn't want to be at that game, kept asking when it would be over. But if she'd known Bob Don's son was playing on that field, you couldn't have moved her off those bleachers with a bulldozer.”
