by Becki Willis
“I only recently learned that Brash bought some of that land.”
“Yes, it made perfect sense, since it butted up to our property. And I think it pleased Nigel, knowing it wouldn’t be chopped into smaller parcels and sold off to a dozen different people.”
“But Nigel sold some on the other side, too, I understand. What became of it? Do you know who bought it?”
“Of course. Tony Sanchez.”
“Tony Sanchez, as in the man invited to our reception? The football legend?”
Lydia nodded as she explained, “He and Brash were good friends around that time. A few years after Brash bought his land, Nigel sold a hundred acres on the other side, and Tony bought it.”
“Does he still have it?”
“Oh, yes. He and Nigel argue over the mineral rights on a regular basis.” She said it with a weary sigh, as if it were an old and tired argument.
“What do you mean? I heard Nigel kept all the rights.”
“He did, but there’s a clause in the deed about what happens to the rights upon his death. Half will revert to the land owners—in this case, Brash and Tony—but the other half will go to Nigel’s estate.”
“But what happens to his estate if he has no heirs?” Madison wondered aloud.
“That’s what the argument is about. Tony keeps pressuring Nigel to assign full mineral rights upon his death, or to sell them outright, so he can benefit from the money now. Nigel says he doesn’t need the money, but Tony says if Nigel dies without an appointed heir, the state could wind up being the biggest winner. Even if someone comes forward and claims heirship rights after his death, the case could be tied up for years in court. It’s a big mess.”
“What does Brash say about it all?”
“He says he knew the terms when he bought the acreage, and that fifty percent of the mineral rights is better than none. He thinks Tony is being greedy and Nigel’s being stubborn, and he’s staying out of it.”
“I always knew your son was a smart man,” Madison grinned. “And speaking of smart men—or shall I say sly men—Granny Bert informs me that your husband and my grandfather are some of the sliest.” She proceeded to rehash the pasture party tale, not at all surprised to learn that Lydia was in on the duplicity, as well.
“Sometimes, dear, you have to learn to go with the flow,” the older woman said with a sage smile.
“I’ll try to remember that,” Madison promised. “You may have to remind me a time or two, but I’ll do my best to heed your advice.”
Brash’s mother patted her hand. “Like they say, parenting isn’t for the faint of heart. Or spirit.”
While she was in the area, Madison decided to drop by Nigel Barrett’s house and touch base with the curmudgeon. It was almost five, so she tried the night side of the house. Sure enough, he opened the door at the far end on the right.
“Hello there, Ms. Reynolds. Wasn’t expecting you today, ‘specially so late in the evening. Might as well come on in, though. Excuse my stocking feet.” He stood aside so she could enter his TV room.
The room was everything he claimed, and more. Three giant, flat-screen televisions wrapped two walls like a surround-sound theater, all blaring the same action movie. Speakers came out from every angle, promising ample capacity to wake the dead. A third wall boasted three additional monitors, lined up for maximum multi-viewing. In one glance, Madison saw a basketball game, a stock market report, and a cable news show.
When Nigel barked the word “Hush!” all screens went instantly silent.
“I need one of those for my kids. Does it work on teenagers?” Madison asked with a hopeful smile.
“Teenagers? Thought you weren’t married yet.” The scowl on his face spoke volumes.
“My first husband died almost a year and a half ago. We were blessed with twins.”
“Sure moved on quick,” Nigel grunted. Dressed in his customary blue jean overalls and his socks, he shuffled over to a row of three leather-bound theater chairs and plopped down in the middle seat. Behind him on the fourth wall, Madison saw the kitchenette he had complained about.
Uninterested in explaining herself to the grumpy old man, Madison had second thoughts about her visit there today, even when he told her to have a seat.
“I can’t stay long. I came by to invite you to the wedding reception.”
“Just the reception?”
“The ceremony is private, but we’d like our friends and family to help us celebrate that evening. Here’s your official invitation.” She handed him the ivory envelope.
“If I don’t have a doctor’s appointment, I’ll try to come by.”
“It’s on a Saturday, so you should be good. We’re having barbecue and crawfish and all the trimmings, so come hungry.”
“I’m allergic to crawfish.”
“There should still be plenty to choose from.”
“I’ll try,” the old man said. “Do I need to bring a gift?”
Madison bit back a smile at his blatant gaffe. Subtlety was not his strong point. “Of course not, Mr. Barrett. Your presence there is gift enough.”
“My presents? Now I have to bring more than one?”
“Your presence, as in attendance. You don’t have to bring a thing. Just drop by and join us.”
He abruptly changed the subject. “Have you found anything in that Bible I sent home with you?”
“I’ve started looking through it. I’m trying to sort out your family tree so we can do a cross-reference with some of the possible DNA matches.” She hesitated a moment before asking, “Mr. Barrett, are we working with any time constraints?”
“What do you mean?” he demanded, but she noticed he didn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Are you in a particular hurry for the results?”
“Well, I don’t want you dragging your feet, if that’s what you mean! I’m eighty-six. Of course, there’s a time constraint.”
“I’ll do what I can, as quickly as I can, but these things take time.”
Before he could bark out a response—she could see it there in his face, all but bursting out—the telephone rang, and he jerked the receiver to his mouth. “Barrett here.”
She heard a gruff male voice on the other end but couldn’t make out the words.
“I told you I’d let you know when I decided, and not one minute before!”
Taking it as her cue to leave, Madison scooted toward the door. She waved over her shoulder as Nigel Barrett ground out another angry comeback to his caller. On her way out, she thought she heard the word ‘deed,’ leaving her to wonder if it was Tony Sanchez on the other end of the line. If so, she agreed with Lydia’s assessment of their relationship.
Tony Sanchez and Nigel Barrett definitely had an old and tired argument going.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“That, dollface, looks gorgeous on you.”
Madison stood in front of the mirror at a Woodlands department store, modeling the outfit Derron had selected for her. She would never have chosen the flared hem, but she had to admit, her assistant had great taste. The slight swish of fabric offered a hint of movement, softening the stiff lines of her tall, slender form. The rich, olive-green color went well with her skin tones but could have easily come off as dull, if not for the pearl necklace and ivory angora sweater he paired with it.
“Sleek and elegant, just like you.” He turned to the saleswoman and said, “We’ll take it.”
Madison started to protest. “I didn’t say—”
“Yes, you did.” He turned so that Madison couldn’t see him mouth the words a second time, but she saw him nodding vigorously to the other woman.
“Now trade those shoes for these, and the sweater for this jacket.” He handed her a pair of black heels and a silky jacket with just a hint of that same olive green among its many colors. When she was done, he stood back and admired the results, clapping his hands together in delight. “And just like that, you have one dress, two completely different looks. Both stunning.”
>
“I think you missed your calling,” Madison told the man.
“You’re saying I shouldn’t be your part-time receptionist, part-time handyman, part-time public relations manager?”
“No, but maybe you should become my part-time stylist, too.”
“I’ve been telling you that since we met, dollface. You’re a beautiful, vibrant woman, but you dress like an old lady.”
“I prefer to call my look classic,” she sniffed, stepping back inside the dressing room.
“Try the peach-colored dress next,” he called. “You really should wear more dresses, you know. I’d give anything to have legs as long and glamorous as yours.”
With his artfully styled blond hair, lively blue eyes, and wide, charismatic smile, Derron Mullins was a handsome man, but he came in petite size. His head barely reached Madison’s shoulder.
“The peach dress has flowers on it,” Madison complained. “And some sort of gauzy layers. You know I don’t like frou-frou.”
“Put the dress on, dollface. You’ll like it.”
Two minutes later, she glared at the smug look on her assistant’s face. He was an ungracious winner, loving it whenever he was right. So far today, he was three for three.
As Madison stepped back into the dressing room, Derron exchanged the outfits with new selections. “Try the pants on first, with all three blouses. Save the red blouse for last. It goes with the khaki capris, as well.”
“You know I can’t afford all of these outfits!”
“Just try the clothes on, Maddy. We’ll work out the details later.”
Later, they stood at the register with a huge haul. Three dresses, one pair of navy slacks, one pair of capris, three blouses, two pairs of shoes, and three sweater/jackets. Plus accessories.
“Will this be cash or charge?” the clerk asked.
They both answered at once.
“Charge,” Derron said.
“I haven’t decided which ones I’m keeping,” Madison explained. “Can you give me a tentative total?”
“We’ll take them all,” her companion said.
Her voice was firm. “No, we won’t.” She turned to Derron and hissed, “I told you, I can’t afford all these! I have to put back at least half of these.”
Derron reached into his wallet and produced a black credit card. “Like I said, we’ll take them all.”
“Yes, sir!” the clerk said with a wide smile. She slipped the card from his fingers before Madison could make a grab for it.
“Derron, you can’t do that!”
“Of course, I can. This is my wedding gift to you. Your trousseau, so to speak.” He bent with an elaborate bow.
“I can’t possibly allow you to do this. This is too much!” Madison sputtered in protest.
“Too much? Too much for one of my closest and dearest friends? Too much for my employer, the woman who gave me the opportunity to prove myself and my place in the community? Too much for the woman who allowed me to right some of my mother’s many wrongs? Too much for my mentor? I say it’s hardly enough, dollface!”
“You’re going to make me cry,” she accused.
When she dipped her head to wipe away an escaped tear, Derron motioned for the clerk to continue ringing up the purchase.
“You can’t reject a gift, Maddy. And that’s what this is. A gift from me, to you.”
Her voice was a choked whisper. “It’s too much.”
“That’s for me to decide, dollface.” He batted his long lashes and flashed his trademark smile. “But if it makes you feel any better, you can treat me to lunch. Or to a Chippendales show. Your choice.”
His outrageous comment brought a smile, just as he had known it would. “I think we’d better stick to lunch. But I will let you choose the restaurant, to show you how much I truly appreciate your gift. How much I appreciate you.”
“Now you’re going to make me cry!”
After a late lunch, they drove back to The Sisters, discussing the busy two weeks to come.
“Just eleven more days,” Madison said with a dreamy smile. “I can’t believe it’s almost here.”
“I can’t believe we have so much to do during that time. Besides all the wedding stuff, we have to squeeze in jobs for Merle Bishop and Dean Lewis.”
“You’re taking the one for Bishop, right? I can handle filling in at the insurance office, since it’s just one day. Did you finish typing the report for Murray Archer?” On occasion, In a Pinch did research and minor surveillance for a private detective based in Houston. Whenever he had a case that came near the Brazos Valley, he reached out to Madison for help. Not only did it come with a welcomed, if small, retainer fee, but if she ever decided to pursue her own investigator license, the experience would count toward her internship.
“I emailed it this morning,” Derron confirmed. “How’s the research coming along for Brash?”
“I think the official term is ‘stalled.’ I can’t think of anything else to do. Brash ran financials and a criminal background check, but Bobby Ray Erickson came back squeaky clean. There’s nothing in his past that hints at any reason to murder the man. I can’t even imagine it as a retaliation killing. He never served on a jury, never sued anyone, never consorted with known criminals. From what I can see and from what Collette tells me, Bobby Ray spent all his time either at work or with his Texian Militia group, playing soldier from the days of the Republic. Hardly murder worthy.”
“The widow?”
Madison sighed. “A little needy. I know I told her to call me whenever she needed to talk. Having been in her shoes, I meant it when I offered a sympathetic ear. I just didn’t expect her to take me up on the offer. Every. Single. Day. I know she’s lonesome, and I get it. But you’d think we were besties from way back.”
“I’m sure it will taper off soon. Like you said, she’s lonesome.”
“Yes, but I don’t think that’s necessarily because her husband died.”
Derron shot her a sharp look. “What’s this you say?”
“Theirs wasn’t a happy marriage. From what I can tell, they were more like roommates than husband and wife. She resented the fact he had a hobby he enjoyed, when all she does is work. I think calling me every day is more about wanting a friend than about needing emotional support.”
“You’d think she’d find someone closer to her area. She lives like an hour and a half from us.”
“I know, and yet she wants to come visit. We had lunch last week, she’s coming for the reception, and now she’s trying to talk me into giving her a tour of the house this weekend. I don’t have time to be giving tours right now.”
“Then tell her that.”
“I did. But she can be very persuasive.”
“No,” Derron corrected, “you can be very easily suckered in.”
Madison knew he was right, but she rolled her eyes anyway.
“Have you checked out his militia buddies?” Derron asked, his mind still in gear. “Maybe one of them had a grudge against him.”
“I thought of that. So far, all I get is how upset the group is with Collette, for not giving Bobby Ray a proper funeral. They were looking forward to a ritualistic musket gun salute befitting a fallen comrade. Apparently, they go all out when one of their own dies.”
“Hmm. I don’t suppose someone would go to the trouble of committing murder, just so they could play with the big guns?” He made it a question.
“I should hope not.”
“What about insurance policies?”
“He had a standard ten-thousand-dollar policy through his workplace and a token policy with the militia group. Nothing worth committing murder over.”
“What do you remember about that day?”
“Besides the fact that a man died ten feet in front of me?”
“About him, before he died. Did you see him come on the parade field?”
“Yes, they marched toward us and took their positions just beyond the rope barrier. We were standing in the very fro
nt, so we had an unobstructed view. I remember noticing how red his face was. It looked swollen and blotchy, but I thought he was just hot from marching in those tight, itchy clothes. He was one of the few men wearing a uniform jacket, and it looked like it was made from wool. He did seem to be having trouble taking a deep breath, but again, I thought it was the clothes.”
“Do you think he was having a heart attack?”
“Maybe, although Collette said he didn’t have a history of such. And Brash still isn’t convinced. He sensed something was wrong that day.”
“That yummy fiancé of yours is usually spot-on with his instincts.”
“I know. So either we’re missing something, or it’s one of those rare cases when Brash is wrong.”
Derron thought over everything she had told him before asking, “So, where does that leave us?”
Madison hefted out a sigh. “Stalled.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was Saturday morning, one week before her wedding, and Madison had a hundred things to do. Yet, here she was, working on finding Nigel Barrett’s family.
The older gentleman had shared his login credentials to MyFam.com with her, making it easier for Madison to navigate the information provided there. With over eight hundred potential genetic matches, she was now attempting to sort through them and find the ones most likely to be his nieces and nephews, but the distinction was far from clear. Unfortunately, Collette was right; the matches referenced as ‘cousins,’ and most were distant. Of the handful that looked promising, most had ambiguous user names. ‘Barb62’, ‘TXDancer’, ‘FlowerChild’ and ‘RR78’ didn’t offer much in the way of positive identification. The best she could do was send a request to connect and hope someone responded.
She typed Earl Barrett’s name into several search engines. According to the online obituary, Nigel’s only remaining brother died almost ten years ago, leaving behind two children and three grandchildren. His wife and a son had preceded him in death. It took another chunk of time to find leads on Earl’s kids. Of the three most likely possibilities for James Earl, none looked promising—one was incarcerated in the Louisiana state penitentiary, one was a patient in the Veterans’ Psychiatric Hospital, and one had passed away last year. Leads for Barbara Barrett vanished like a puff of smoke.
