A willowy brunette in a frilly gingham apron inscribed
Wade put down a golden brown cranberry bar. His frown was dark and angry. “Who’s saying that?”
Cindy looked uncertain. “You know how rumors are. Someone heard it from somebody else and pretty soon the buzz is all over town. Liz Latham said she’d heard from her hairdresser who had it straight from somebody in the mayor’s office.”
“That woman’s a menace.”
“Liz?”
“Neva Lumpkin. How’d she ever get elected? You’d think a tarantula could beat her.” He broke off another piece of the cranberry bar.
“Most tarantulas don’t have husbands with enough leases in the Barnett Shale to bring in forty thousand dollars a month. Who’s got the money to run against her? Anyway, you didn’t come home out of sorts because of Neva Lumpkin. What’s wrong, Wade?” She pushed the baking sheet with the rolls to the back of the counter. At the sink, she turned on the water, began to rinse utensils.
He pulled off his suit coat, hung it from the back of a kitchen chair, loosed his tie. “You know that trip you’ve been wanting to make to Tahiti? I looked at my calendar. I can get away the last two weeks of February.”
She turned off the water. Her eyebrows rose. “You said we couldn’t afford it.”
I scarcely breathed.
His lips curved in a lopsided grin. “If I look at the books like an accountant, we can’t. Right now, I don’t give a hoot. Book the tickets. If there’s something we want to do, something that matters to us, we need to do it now. Susan Flynn thought she had one more day. I spent Saturday at the office. I missed Billy’s birthday party, but I got her new will drafted. One more day, that’s all Susan needed. The will would have been signed and her grandson would have inherited her estate. Instead, she died Saturday night. I can tell you for sure she never committed suicide. Die and leave that little boy penniless? Not on your life. But maybe that’s what cost Susan her life.”
“Could she have accidentally taken too much medicine?” Cindy placed spoons in a draining rack.
“She would have had to be drunk or blind to have dumped that much digitalis in her hot chocolate. Sam Cobb asked me what I thought. Off the record.” Wade’s eyes narrowed. “I told him I think one of the heirs murdered her before she could sign the new will. Not Peg Flynn. Peg Flynn’s all right. I hope our kids would be as honorable. She wants the grandson to have her share. None of the others volunteered a penny. After Peg made her announcement and walked out, the rest of them hemmed and hawed and hung around, each one waiting for the others to leave. Finally, I asked if each one would like to speak with me privately. Will it surprise you”—his tone was sarcastic—“to learn each one wanted money? Jake Flynn wants to modernize the kitchen, said Susan kept putting it off, but Jake knew that fixing everything up would be exactly what Susan would have wanted. Tucker wants to buy the Nickerson spread. That will squeeze the McKinley ranch between the Nickerson ranch and Burnt Creek. Susan was good friends with the McKinleys and knew they would be worried about access roads if Tucker bought out the Nickersons. Tucker Satterlee eats, sleeps, and breathes Burnt Creek. He wants the biggest spread in the county. Gina Satterlee’s maxed out on five credit cards and she lost her job about three weeks ago and one creditor got a judgment against her. Harrison Hammond looked like a man reprieved from the gallows. He’s in big trouble with the housing crisis. He hasn’t been able to sell most of the homes in his new development and he’s up to his ears in debt to the suppliers. Now they’re all on easy street. Except Peg.” His tone was admiring. “If Susan had lived one more day, they would each have had to settle for two hundred thousand.”
Cindy stacked the rinsed cooking ware and utensils in a plastic dish rack. “Won’t the judge make some provision for Susan’s grandson?”
“She didn’t sign the will.” Wade looked morose.
I crossed Wade Farrell off my list. His sorrowful expression told me where I needed to go.
“So”—he came around the table and drew his wife into his arms—“make those reservations. Maybe all we’ve got is today, but if we make it to February, you and I are going to enjoy sea, sand, and sun. Merry Christmas, Cindy.”
“Oh, Wade, that will be wonderful.” Her laughter was a sweet cascade. “If you look at the books again and change your mind, that’s all right, too. I’m glad you want to go, whether we can or not.” She smiled and lifted her lips to his.
Kim Weaver sat in a maple chair with dingy green cushions. Her feathered haircut had been teased into a tousled look, as if she stood on a ship deck and the wind rushed against her. Her face was interesting, high forehead, high-bridged nose, high cheekbones. Her cold brown eyes were too calculating for beauty. The firmness of her jaw suggested a woman with a strong will.
With a dreamy smile, she leafed through an issue of
She was a woman waiting for something to happen. If she had Susan’s handwritten will, as I felt sure she did, she might have interesting plans for her evening. I glanced at a black leather tote on a small table by the front door. Unfortunately, her chair faced the door. I could not explore the contents of the purse as long as she remained there.
I checked out the single bedroom. Prints by Degas and Chagall and Pollock made even these dingy walls attractive. Quickly I searched the room and closet. I lifted the mattress, ran my hand beneath it. The bathroom afforded no hiding places.
Dimly I heard the ring of a cell phone.
I returned to the living room.
Kim looked at caller ID, shrugged. “Hi, Erin…Thanks, but I’ve seen it…Tonight? Nothing special.” Her smile was
