to mention it to him myself.” With that, I turned for the door. Matt didn’t permit me the last word. “Don’t interrupt him, Jordy. He’ll be busy reading you your Miranda rights.” Then low, bitter laughter. I slammed the porch door and headed for my car.
5
A brilliantly splitting headache hit me after my confrontation with Matt. As I drove back into town from the Blalock farm, I massaged my temples and reviewed my predicament. I’d always rather liked Matt, although I didn’t know him very well. He had a reputation in the town for being a smart aleck and a loudmouth, but I’d seen him face down Beta’s abuse without ever sinking to her level. What surprised me was the depth of his venom; he abhorred Beta Harcher as much as she did him. I’d thought he’d be above that, with his concern for baby seals and whatnot. I wondered what the autopsy on her body would show; could the blow have come from someone seated? If so, Matt made a prime candidate. I turned from the farm road onto Mayne, still a bit outside the city limits. I wasn’t making too spectacular a debut as an investigator. I had some possibly meaningless Bible verses and a list of suspects: a Baptist minister’s wife who seemed too mousy to say boo (but maybe wasn’t); a used-car salesman who wanted to protect me (but maybe didn’t); and a bitter, antagonistic activist (no doubt there). I didn’t place any of them above suspicion. Unfortunately no one was understudying my unwanted role of prime suspect. I hadn’t eaten lunch, so I swung toward home. I took the long way around; instead of going right onto Lee Street for the straight shot I turned early, driving down Gregg Street. Beta Harcher’s house sat at the end of the road.
Gregg would have gone farther, but a hundred yards beyond Beta’s backyard the land tumbled down to the Colorado. I drove slowly past the house, deciding to look like any gawker. A TV van from one of the Austin stations was parked by the curb. An immaculately groomed blonde with a microphone chatted with a heavy, elderly woman who’d put on her Sunday best for the cameras. In olden days, vultures attended sudden death; today we have the media. On impulse, I U-turned and headed to the library. There were a couple of official-looking cars there, but no cameras or lollygaggers. I steered homeward, hoping that there wouldn’t be cars I didn’t want to see. I wasn’t entirely lucky.
Candace’s Mercedes was perched in the driveway. I sighed, parked, and went in. Mama was animated, telling a politely nodding Candace about her marriage. Nuptial bliss wasn’t Candace’s favorite topic of conversation, at least in public. Candace had changed clothes, wearing a stylish Banana Republic T-shirt, faded (and nicely snug) jeans, and a fancy belt studded with silver conchos. She looked gorgeous and I reminded myself again that she was a co-worker. As I walked in, she jumped to her full if diminutive height. “And where the hell have you been? Excuse my language, Mrs. Poteet, but I’m mad at your son.” Mama assured herself I was her son with a glance and seemed satisfied.
“Uh-Out,” I answered. What was I supposed to say? Sleuthing?
Interrogating suspects? “Well, I want you to know what I’ve had to go through to protect your good name,” Candace said archly. I raised a hand to fend off the oncoming torrent. “Where are Sister and Mark?”
“They’ve run to the grocery store,” she paused. “The police called Mark to confirm you were here last night. I came here ’cause I got tired of hunting you down and-I needed to see you, after this morning’s shock.” I swallowed. She needed me? I deflected a blush by asking a question. “What happened at the station?” “You’ll be delighted to know I wasn’t body-searched,” Candace huffed, “although I wouldn’t put it past Billy Ray. Honestly. I told them what little I knew, and that nasty Billy Ray kept trying to hint that you’d killed Miss Harcher. I repeatedly-mind you, repeatedly-told him that was utterly ridiculous, but he didn’t get the hint. What a moron! Wouldn’t surprise me a bit if his family tree didn’t fork.” “He’s still trying to implicate me?” I wanted details. Candace threw her hands up in the air. “Tried, but I set him straight. I gave him a piece of my mind and then some.” “Thanks, Candace,” I said, happy that she was on my side.
She smiled then and I felt a bit awkward. I didn’t want to encourage her. After all, she’s my assistant and we have to keep our relationship professional, not personal. “I don’t understand any of this,” Mama said, looking to Candace. Candace heaved air, horrified at what she’d said in front of my mother. “Now, Mrs. Poteet, don’t you worry about Jordy, I’m going to take care of everything. The police are just misguided. It’ll all get settled.” She patted Mama’s hand.
“Would you like some lunch?” Mama shook her head. “No. I want a nap.”
Candace volunteered to take Mama upstairs and get her settled, so I made turkey sandwiches, with lots of mayonnaise, tomato, and lettuce on wheat bread. I dumped a small bag of corn chips on each plate and popped two cold cans of Dr Pepper. I put the plates on the table and sat down with my lunch and my ruminations. Holding true to the rule that I get little peace in my home, Candace rejoined me before I was half through. “Now, Jordy,” she said, pulling up a chair, “I want the truth. Where have you been?” She dug into her sandwich and, after the first bite, smiled. I guess I’m not a bad cook for a bachelor. I told her about my interviews with Tamma Hufnagel, Bob Don Goertz, and Matt Blalock. Candace was quite prepared to be my Watson. “Aha! That Tamma Hufnagel. Probably a crazed killer. You always have to look out for the quiet ones,” she asserted. “She acts timid, but I think there’s a toughness underneath. Maybe she’s too quiet.” “My point exactly. Or there’s Bob Don. I’d never buy a car from that crook.” “You’d never buy American, Candace, and he doesn’t sell imports.” “Well, if I get the sudden urge for a Chrysler, I’m going to Honest Ed’s in Bavary,”
Candace announced. “He seemed to have a secret, but he also seemed inclined to help me.” I finished my sandwich. “Of course.” Candace slapped her forehead. “He wants to find out how much you know ’cause he’s the killer. Makes perfect sense. Stay away from him, Jordy.” “Bob Don didn’t get nearly as upset as Matt Blalock.” “Warped by his wartime experiences,” Candace intoned. “Poor guy. Beta made him snap and he saw her as a Vietcong. Probably called her Charlie right before he whacked her.” The phone rang and I reached for it, grateful for the interruption. Candace grabbed it away. “Reporters,” she hissed, as though there were lepers on the line. She spoke guardedly into the receiver: “Poteet residence.” A moment’s silence, then a “May I ask who’s calling?” Was it suddenly cooler in here or was it just me? “Let me see if he’s available.” The cold front swept through, as swift and sure as one from Canada. “Ruth Wills for you.” I took the receiver, hoping the frostbite would be minimal. “Thanks, Candace.” She made no move to give me privacy. Ruth sounded amused. “I see you have an answering service these days, Jordy.” “Um, yes. Just for today.” “I’m not surprised you’re screening calls. I hear you discovered the late Beta Harcher this morning. Are you okay?” The amusement left her voice to be replaced by husky softness, a murmur to be heard on the next-door pillow. Not a voice you’d expect to hear inquiring about your emotional well- being. “Fine, thank you. Did you hear that from Junebug?” “Yes, I did. He stopped by the hospital this morning to talk with me.” She paused again. “I need to speak to you. In person. Could we have dinner tonight?” I was a little taken aback. Finding Beta dead and Ruth Wills asking me out? Fortune’s wheel was spinning every which way today. “I don’t know-” “Please say yes, Jordy. Look, I’m still on duty. I wanted to see you sooner, and not under these circumstances, but please, please meet me tonight.” The voice had me, like a pipe enchanting a snake. “Okay. When?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Candace stiffen. “Seven? Meet me at Rosita’s?” That was a nice Mexican restaurant in Bavary. “Fine,” I said. “Thanks.” She hung up without a goodbye, and I replaced the phone in its cradle. “What did Ruth want?”
Candace examined the last of her corn chips with profound absorption.
“She wanted to discuss some… library business with me. Maybe regarding Beta.” I shrugged. “No big deal.” Candace measured me on some internal scale. She tented her cheek with her tongue and looked at me again. I felt awkward. Why did she always do that to me? It was damped annoying. Suddenly I wanted her gone. “I have some other matters to attend to today,” I said, but Candace didn’t let me finish.
“You go and do that. I’ll stay here and keep an eye on your mom.”
“That’s not necessary, Candace. Really. I’ll wait for Sister to come home.” “I don’t mind. I’ll watch TV. Arlene should be back soon. Go talk with Ruth or whatever it is you have to do.” I decided not to mention that Ruth invited me to dinner. Best to beat a diplomatic retreat out of my own house. Leaving, I shook my head at my own cowardice. A tall, bronzed teenager who was my third cousin tended the dense flower beds that made up most of Eula Mae Quiff’s lawn. He was almost hidden in the wild explosions of rhododendrons, roses, daisies, and every other odd mixture of flower that Eula Mae favored.
Her garden had as much order and as much color as her novels. Hally Schneider, his tan face damp with sweat, looked up and favored me with a friendly smile. “Hey there, Jordy. You lookin’ for Miz Quiff?”
