face as his stunted height would allow. “Not yet. And why not? Because you’re a lousy shot, probably. Because Chief Moncrief here caught you before you could snuff out that poor young thing’s life. What is it that spawns your violence against women-folk, Poteet?” He was about to see what spawned my violence toward balding, onion- breathed lawyers.
Junebug intervened. “Stop it, Billy Ray. Jordy, you take two steps back and don’t pay him heed.” There was a snapping noise and I saw Junebug pulling on plastic gloves. “Billy Ray, Jordy was on the phone with me immediately before all this happened. He wouldn’t have had time to get over here, trash this room, and shoot Shannon.” “We are not talking about running across Houston here, Junebug. We are talking about being three streets over. He would have had plenty of time.”
Billy Ray fumed, the struggle of doing such calculations draining his energy. Junebug began picking through the debris of Beta Harcher’s den carefully, not looking at Billy Ray. “Nonsense.” He told Billy Ray about me finding out what Beta had told Josh, bolstering the theory that Beta was using blackmail to build funds for her proposed church.
Billy Ray didn’t care for that theory. He turned back on me. “You’ve spun a might tricky web here, Poteet,” he sneered. “I guess you think havin’ lived in the big city, you’re going to outfox us reg’lar folk.
Let me just divest you of that notion, mister. You’re going to have a lethal injection pumped into you if Shannon Harcher dies, and even if you don’t, you’re gonna have one for killing Beta.” “I bet my uncle Bid could sue you for saying something like that to me,” I said hopefully. My temper was in full force now. I’d seen a lovely young woman lying near death and now this little minnow of a barracuda had the audacity to accuse me, with no proof. “Of course I wouldn’t sue you as an officer of the court. The people of Bonaparte County suffer enough every time you open your mouth as their representative of law and order. I’d see about suing you just as you. Of course, what could I ask for as restitution? I have no burning need for cheap suits, and I just don’t think that I want a cardboard diploma from a mail-order law school with a post-office address.” Billy Ray showed he had some hot blood by having it all rush right to his face. One big vein popped up on his forehead and I wished for a shrimp deveiner. The little lunk might have actually tried to hit me. Our arguing had brought the pale-faced young deputy back into the room, but Junebug kept shuffling through the dross of Beta’s den. The young deputy stepped between Billy Ray and me, but it was hardly necessary. I wasn’t going to stoop to hitting the worm and he wasn’t about to strike me and get a rep for slapping around taxpayers and fellow civil servants. “Jordy,” Junebug said in his regular, polite, slow drawl, “what was the name of Eula Mae’s first book?” The question was so unexpected Billy Ray and I quit glaring at each other and turned to him. Junebug stood, setting an open Bible on a table. A yellowed piece of stationery was in his hand, and he peered at it like it held the wisdom of the ages. I had to think over Eula Mae’s impressive publishing credentials. “ The Rose of San Jacinto,” I finally said. “And she published it, right?” Junebug said. “Not a vanity press if that’s what you mean,” I answered, misunderstanding. “It was published by one of the big New York houses.” Junebug chewed his lip. “Y’all better look at this.” I nudged in front of Billy Ray and scanned the aged letter Junebug held in his hand. My breath caught at the end: 411 Blossom Street Mirabeau, Texas 78957 January 12, 1975 Ms. Eleanora Parkinson Parkinson Literary Agency 200 East 52nd Street New York, New York 10022 Dear Ms. Parkinson: I’ve written a romance novel, set during the Texas Revolution. The working title is The Rose of San Jacinto. It’s the story of a young woman who is torn between her arranged marriage to a Mexican officer and the gallant rebel that she loves. The book is in finished form and is around 100,000 words. I haven’t been published before, but my sister thinks it’s good. Please let me know if you would be interested in representing this novel to publishers. Sincerely, Patty Quiff “Patty? Who the hell’s Patty?” Billy Ray muttered. I found my voice. “Eula Mae’s sister. Her older sister. She died in, oh, about 1976. Cancer.” Billy Ray drew in a long breath, like a bloodhound scenting a deer. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting?” Junebug pulled a plastic bag from his back pocket and eased the document inside. “Doesn’t prove anything yet, Billy Ray.”
Billy Ray coughed. “Kind of indicates to me ol’ Eula Mae’s been pulling the wool over the literary eyes of not just Mirabeau, but New Yawk as well.” She was working on her latest book when we got there.
Billy Ray had tried to send me home, but Junebug said I could stay. He told Billy Ray that Eula Mae was a friend of mine and I could talk to her perhaps a bit easier than either of them. Eula Mae greeted us with her usual civility and charm. Today she wore some long dashiki-type of robe, speckled with bright purples, oranges, and blacks like the plumage of a tropical bird. Her eyes darted from face to face, as though we were predators of the rainforest. She bade us sit down in her living room, for which the operative word was wicker. I hadn’t seen so many swirls since my teenage job in an ice cream shop. Junebug and I settled on a couch with a back of dizzying arabesques, and Billy Ray perched next to us on a straight-back chair. “Y’all wait just one second and I’ll get us some tea,” she trilled, heading into the kitchen. “You ought to have someone watching the back door,” Billy Ray hissed at Junebug. “She might try and go over that rose hedge in the back.” “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Billy Ray,” Junebug said mildly. The cat I hadn’t befriended the other day wandered in and eyed our merry band. He regarded me with disdain, Junebug with curiosity, and-perceptively-Billy Ray with contempt. He hissed at the assistant D.A., arching his back (probably the only time Billy Ray has seen a back arch in his presence), and scurried from the room. I liked cats better all of a sudden. Eula Mae returned with a tray of iced-tea glasses, each topped with a sprig of mint from her garden. We made momentary small talk as she served us. Nervousness hit me like a rock and I sipped at my tea, for once not wanting to say anything. Finding Shannon wounded had dulled me; reading the letter by Eula Mae’s sister had stunned me; and now I sat in my friend’s parlor, with Law and Order on each side, to debate fraud and murder. God, I wanted a cigarette. Eula Mae sat in a comfortable chair next to the wicker sofa, across the coffee table from Billy Ray. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Junebug raised a warning hand to Billy Ray, and for once Billy Ray leashed his tongue. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard that Miz Harcher’s niece was shot today at her house,” Junebug said. Eula Mae’s face crumpled. “Oh, my Lord! No, I hadn’t heard.” She paused. “I didn’t even know Beta had kinfolks still around here.”
“Girl’s from Houston,” Junebug replied. “Someone shot her in the face.
Don’t know yet if she’ll live or not. Young girl, too, early twenties.” “How horrible.” Eula Mae shook her head, then looked uncertainly at me. “Jordy found Shannon Harcher,” Junebug said, as if that explained my presence. “He also found another witness that said, basically, that Beta was extorting money from folks to finance a church she planned to start over in Houston.” I saw the fight for control on her face. The wrinkled corners of her lipsticked mouth jerked, just once. Her silver bracelets, choking with charms, tinkled as she smoothed out her skirt. “And why are y’all telling me this?
Trying to give me the plot for my next potboiler?” She laughed, and it sounded jagged. “We think Shannon Harcher walked in on someone ransacking the house. Looking for something, maybe something Beta was holding over their head and using to get money,” Junebug explained.
“So answer me, Junebug,” Eula Mae’s voice rose. “I don’t know anything about Beta getting killed or this Shannon girl getting shot. Why are you here to see me?” Junebug set his mouth in a thin line. “We found a letter there, Eula Mae. A letter apparently from your sister to a literary agent, asking about representing a book she’d written called The Rose of San Jacinto. ” Eula Mae did not withstand adversity as well as her heroines. Her face blanched, the lines in it seeming to darken as she frowned. One hand flew up to her forehead, like a startled bird returning to roost. “I-I-,” she stuttered. I saw Billy Ray starting to uncoil like a striking rattler. “Perhaps, Junebug,” I suggested, “Eula Mae should have some legal representation present if you’re going to accuse her or-” “No!” Eula Mae thundered, and I fell silent. “No lawyers,” she whispered, and her eyes flicked across each of our faces. “No one else. Who else knows about this, Junebug?” “Just the three of us,” he answered softly. “I-I want your help. Each of you, please,” she whispered. This woman seemed crushed; not like the Eula Mae who always tried to run the library board meetings, who played her local fans like a string quartet, who had beaten the odds to make a living as a writer. Even her curly, uncontrollable hair was listless. Her eyes, usually sparkling with gossip and merriment, stared at the floor. “What kind of help?” I asked. “I want you to help my sister,” she said, which left us all silent. Eula Mae waved a tired hand and began an explanation. “A few weeks back the Baptist church committee came by looking for items for their rummage sale. I gave them a box of old books that had been my sister Patty’s. I didn’t think to look through them-they were just old books of hers, writers she’d admired as a teacher. Welty, Balzac, Thoreau, Turgenev, Robert Penn Warren. I gave them those books and never gave it a second thought.” “Till Beta paid you a visit,” I said, finishing her sentence for her. Eula Mae stared at me and through me. It didn’t matter what I’d said. “She’d gone through the box I donated, and found a letter Patty wrote to an agent-about her book.” Eula Mae’s tongue flickered across her lips. “I never knew Patty even wrote a draft of such a letter. She never sent one. She was a wonderful writer, but she was just too afraid of rejection. I kept urging her to send it, but she didn’t want to hear anyone say no to it. Then she thought people around here would tease her for writing a
