by Becki Willis
Finding Barbara’s children was even more difficult.
Dialing Granny Bert’s home number, Madison got the answering machine. Her grandmother answered her cell phone after several rings.
“Granny? What’s all that noise? Where in the world are you?”
“For some fool notion, I let Sybil talk me into going to a garage sale this morning. Not that either one of us needs any more junk, but she’s looking for a replacement to her canister set. I told her she should just buy a new one, but nothing doing; she’s looking for avocado green.”
“But what’s that noise?”
“They’re calling it music, but you couldn’t prove it by me. It’s some of that newfangled stuff. We’re here at Hugh and Joyce Darby’s house, and their grandson popped in for an unexpected visit and brought his band with him. Hugh thought it would be a good draw for the yard sale, so he talked them into doing an impromptu concert. They set up right in the carport, and now I can’t hear myself think.”
“Isn’t his grandson Todd Darby? His band is actually sort of famous. Cowboy Candyband. The kids play their music all the time.”
“That explains why they’re here in the front row, screaming their heads off with the rest of the neighborhood.”
“My kids are there?” Madison squeaked in surprise. She glanced around her office as if expecting to see them there, even though Bethani had spent the night with Megan and Blake had batting practice this morning.
She belatedly glanced at her phone, where she saw a message from Bethani.
Blake’s swinging by to pick up Meg and me. Got a few stops before coming home. LYB.
“Plus about half their classmates, it appears,” her grandmother confirmed.
“I guess that’s why I can barely hear you.”
“Nah, that’s Sybil. She likes the music almost as much as the kids do.”
“Maybe I should call you back.”
“I’ve moved further away, so try again. What can I do for you?”
“Did you ever find a name for Nigel’s niece?”
“Laura Jean.”
“I thought that was her mother.”
“No, her mother was Betty Jean, the one who ran off with a traveling salesman. They had the one daughter, Laura Jean.”
“Last name?”
“I hear she’s had a few. She was born a Thomas and married at least twice. Huddleston and Ruiz, but not necessarily in that order. Someone thought she married a third time, but I couldn’t confirm it. The name may have been Winston.”
“Well, that’s a start.”
“Oh, and one of the husbands was Eric.”
“Thanks, Granny. At least that gives me something to work with. You said she lives around Waco, right?”
“The general area, anyway. One of my sources said she was connected to the Ruiz family who owns that big furniture store in Chilton.”
“One of your sources, huh?” Madison couldn’t help smiling, once again amused by the terminology.
“Poking around in people’s lives can sometimes be a delicate thing,” her grandmother reminded her. “If I want people to confide in me, they need to know I’ll protect their identity.”
“Is that like honor among thieves?” Madison teased. “But in this case, honor among gossips?”
Granny Bert huffed out her indignation. “Do you want to know what else I found out, or not?”
“Sorry. Please go on.”
“It so happens that Hugh Darby is a musician of sorts, himself. He likes to play the fife. Guess where he was playing on Texas Independence Day?”
Madison perked up, sitting up straight in her white leather chair. The decadent office piece had been compliments of Home Again sponsors. “Washington-on-the-Brazos?” She dared to hope.
“Yep. He was right there when that cannon fella dropped.”
“Where do the Darbys live? I’d love to talk to him.”
Granny Bert rattled off the directions. Just before hanging up, she issued a warning to her granddaughter. “Be prepared. Hugh is so tight he makes Scrooge look like Santa Claus. He’ll expect you to buy something if you want any answers.”
“As long as it’s nothing avocado green, I think I can manage.”
Twenty minutes later, Madison had two paperback novels in her hand as she approached the man in the lawn chair. The band was taking a break, mingling with their fans and signing autographs, so it was no longer necessary to shout.
“How much are these?” she asked.
“Dollar each.”
She bit back a protest. Most paperbacks went for half that at garage sales. But if he had any information on Bobby Ray Erickson’s death, it would be well worth two dollars to hear.
As she dug in her purse for the bills, she broached the subject. “I understand your grandson gets his musical talents from you. I hear you play the fife.”
“Sure do,” the man said with a proud smile. “Taught the boy how to play his first instrument. Not many folks appreciate a finely tuned fife these days.”
“And you play in a militia reenactment group? I probably saw you, if you were at the Independence Celebration a couple of weeks ago.”
“I’m sure you did.” The man peered at her a bit closer, his thin face wrinkling into a squint. “Say, you’re the one marrying the chief of police. Ain’t that coming up soon?”
“A week from today, as a matter of fact.”
He nodded in remembrance. “I saw you there that day. Y’all tried to help Captain Erickson, but he was already gone when he hit the ground.” He clicked his tongue in regret. “I thought for sure we’d have a proper burial for him. I already had a tune picked out that I could play on the fife. The sweetest, most haunting melody you ever heard. It would have been beautiful. ‘Cept,” he practically spat, his face contorting into an angry scowl, “his widow didn’t give him a proper send off. And him a captain in the militia, and everything! It just ain’t right, her disrespecting him that way!”
Madison recalled her conversation with Derron earlier in the week. They had assumed no one would stoop to murder merely for the opportunity to conduct an authentic militia-style burial service, but Hugh Darby’s reaction had her wondering if they were wrong. He seemed genuinely irate.
“Did he act unusual that day? Did he seem distressed, or in pain?”
“Not that I recall. His wife came with him that day, which was unusual in itself. My Joyce goes to all my reenactments, but Captain Darby’s wife is an odd duck. I remember he ate a quick bite with her before our last demonstration. It must’ve given him indigestion, because he seemed to have a little heartburn after that. Beat on his chest a time or two, and his face turned sort of red and puffy.”
“Do you think he was having a heart attack?”
“It didn’t strike me that way at the time, but ten minutes later, he was dead. So maybe so.”
“Do you remember him ever complaining of chest pains? Even before that day?”
“Not that I recall. Seemed to be in good health, other than his allergies.”
“He had allergies?”
“To just about everything, it seemed. Cats, dogs, horses, trees, grass. For a man who liked to be outdoors so much, he was mighty allergic to it.”
“He was standing right beside the cannon when it went off. I’m surprised all that smoke didn’t bother his allergies.”
“Probably did, but that was his position. He’s usually our Number 3 or Number 4 man. His job was to either load the cannon, or to cover the vent hole and prick the charge. Captain Erickson was a true professional, no matter his personal preferences.”
“For a volunteer position,” Madison pointed out.
“Being a professional can’t always be measured by being paid,” Hugh pointed out.
“What did you mean, Number 3 or 4?”
“We have a cannon crew of five men. Each one has a specific job, just like they did in 1836. ‘Course, we don’t use cannonballs, but we do use real gunpowder.”
“Who p
repares the charges for the cannons?”
“The gunner.”
“I suppose the charges are prepared beforehand?”
“That’s right. We prepare them the old-timey way, with black powder and canvas bags. We keep them in a special limber box so they won’t be exposed to the elements or dampness. And so they won’t explode, neither,” he added with a grin.
“Always a plus,” Madison murmured.
“Say, that’ll be two dollars. Sure you don’t want more books than just those?”
“I’ll be lucky to find time to read these.” As she handed over the money, she asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, isn’t there a reenactment group you could join around here that was closer than Waco?”
“Sure, but I have buddies in that one. Royce Bazajou, Dom Ringer, and I go way back to our Army days at Ft. Hood. When they invited me to join their group, I jumped at the chance.”
“Is there anything else you can think to tell me about that day? Did anyone have an argument with Bobby Ray, or hold a grudge against him?”
“Well, Petey Vansant wasn’t too happy when Bobby Ray got promoted to captain. Sometimes he would make a snide remark about it, but I don’t recall any arguments that day.”
He said something else, but a deafening roll from the drums drowned out his words. Madison leaned in and asked him to repeat it, but when the steel guitar kicked in, she knew their conversation was over.
“Thank you for the help,” she practically yelled.
“That ain’t The Help,” he yelled back, “but I think we got that book somewhere. It’ll be two dollars, though, as they made a movie out of it, and it’s one of my wife’s favorites.”
“No, thank you for the information.”
“Transformation? Never heard of that title, but look through that box over yonder. It might be there.”
Giving up, Madison simply waved and turned away.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As she pulled through the gated entry and into the driveway of the Big House, Madison saw an unfamiliar car parked along the curb. She was halfway to the front steps when she heard someone call her name.
To her surprise, Collette Erickson crawled from the waiting car and stood just on the other side of the foot gate, politely waiting for Madison to invite her forward.
“What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you today.” With her To-Do list running through her head, Madison found it difficult to infuse any real warmth into her smile.
“I know we never finalized our plans, but I thought I’d take a chance and drive on down. I have nothing better to do today.” Collette added just enough gloom in her voice to make Madison feel guilty.
“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a very busy time.”
Collette’s eyes clouded, and for one terrible moment, Madison was afraid her uninvited guest might cry.
“But I suppose I have time for a glass of iced tea,” she was quick to amend. “I hate that you drove all this way for nothing.”
Derron was right, she acknowledged to herself. I’m too easily suckered in.
“It was a nice day for a drive.” Collette shrugged. She was suddenly smiling as she followed Madison up the cobblestone path, her eyes taking in the splendor of the grounds and the stately old mansion. “This is just so lovely! My friend Marjorie will be so jealous when she finds out you invited me here.”
Resisting the urge to point out the fact she hadn’t invited her, Madison unlocked the door. “You’ll have to excuse the mess. With the wedding just a week away, I still have so much to do.”
While Madison had empathy for Collette’s new status as a widow, she found herself growing short on patience. She readily acknowledged that much of the problem was timing. She simply had too much on her plate right now, without devoting excessive time and energy to a new acquaintance. She wasn’t certain Collette even qualified as a friend just yet. She wondered if Collette Erickson weren’t a bit like some relatives; visits on holidays and special occasions were nice, but anything more grew weary.
“Can I have the grand tour?” Collette asked, eagerly looking around the foyer with its stunning staircase.
“I’m sorry, Collette,” Madison said firmly. “Now is not a good time. I’m working today, so that I can spend the rest of the week concentrating on the wedding. I barely have time for that tea I suggested.”
Collette pouted prettily. “Not even a little peek?”
“You’ll see the dining room and butler’s pantry on the way to the kitchen,” she relented.
“I can’t wait to see the dining room mural! Is it really a Seymour Addison original?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
It took four times longer than normal to reach the kitchen at the back of the house. Collette stopped to snap pictures and exclaim over even the smallest features in each room. Madison quickly prepared glasses of iced tea and directed her back to the front parlor.
Normally, she and Genny would curl up in the breakfast nook just off the kitchen or take their refreshments through the back hallway into the family room. Even her office was more comfortable than the parlor, but this visit was less about comfort, and more about being polite.
No matter how poor the timing, no proper Southern hostess could turn away a guest without offering a quick refreshment and a cordial attempt at conversation. And the woman has just lost her husband, Madison reminded herself, not for the first time. She could afford to give her thirty minutes of compassion.
She led her back to the front parlor, the one they seldom used because of its stuffy formality. Unlike the cozy family room, or even the ladies’ parlor tucked away at the foot of the stairs, the formal setting did little to encourage long, comfortable talks. For today’s visit, however, the room was perfect.
“How’s your search coming along for your client?” Collette asked. “Have you located his family?”
“I’m making strides,” Madison conceded, settling onto the velvet sofa beside her guest. That was another reason she avoided this room. The pale blue, brushed-velvet pile was much too prone to stains and signs of everyday use. “No definite connections yet, but getting closer.”
“My mother-in-law was interested in ancestry. She came from a small family, but she wanted to know more about her ancestors.”
“Did she do a DNA test?”
“Yes. I tried to help her understand how it all worked, but I’m afraid we didn’t get very far before she passed away.”
“I’ve been using a combination of DNA results, online birth records, and a healthy dose of small-town nosiness,” Madison admitted. “So far, it seems to be working, slowly but surely.” She would like to be working on her newly acquired information now, but manners dictated she at least give her guest time to finish her tea.
“I’d be happy to help, if you like,” Collette offered.
“Thank you, that’s very generous of you. But I’m sure I’ll muddle my way through.”
“You do realize when it refers to someone as a second or third cousin, it could just as easily mean aunt or uncle, or niece or nephew.”
“So I’ve realized.” Madison hesitated, wondering if what she considered doing was a breach of confidentiality. Nigel, however, was searching for his family and posted on a public forum to find connections. Surely, it would do no harm to ask for Collette’s help. Especially if she redacted his name from the papers.
“Actually,” Madison admitted, “I could use your help on one particular area. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I would be delighted.”
“Wait here, and I’ll get the papers.”
“I can come with.”
“No, you stay and enjoy your tea. I’ll just be a jiffy.”
She hurried to her office, where she quickly located the reports in question. She had printed them out earlier and took a moment now to make certain Nigel’s name was not visible on them. Satisfied she was protecting his identity should he even care, she dashed back to the parlor. She found Collet
te busy taking selfies.
“Sorry,” the woman said with an embarrassed smile. “I thought this might help me make up with Marjorie, after I kept Bobby Ray’s death from her at first. She’s a huge fan of your show.”
Her smile a bit weak, Madison took a seat next to her guest again. “I thought you might be able to explain this to me. I’m not sure what all these percentages tell me, especially the identical and half-identical markers. Like on this person, for instance. The prediction is second cousin. Could that be a niece, you think?”
“Possibly. Let me take a look. Also, if you can look up the other person’s profile and see her year of birth, it might give you a better idea.”
The telephone rang as Madison handed over the papers. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll grab that and give you a minute to look at these.”
With no need for new health insurance, Madison wasn’t on the phone for long. When she returned to the parlor, she found her guest with a stricken look upon her face.
“Collette?” she asked in concern. “Are you all right?”
“I—I—” At a complete loss for words, Collette shook her head. “I’m sorry, Madison, it was an accident.”
“What was an accident?”
Belatedly, she noticed the soggy papers upon the table. The tea glass was empty and all but one of the printouts was destroyed.
“I’m such a klutz!” Collette wailed. “I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to spill my drink all over your table and your papers. I don’t think any got on the rug,” she was quick to add.
“I’ll get some paper towels.” A quick trip into the butler’s pantry, and she was back with a full roll.
