by Becki Willis
“I’m so sorry,” Collette apologized again.
“Don’t worry about it. I can always print another copy of the papers, and the table doesn’t appear to be harmed in any way.”
“For what it’s worth, I don’t think those were very promising matches. Oddly enough, the only viable possibility was the one that didn’t get destroyed.” She pushed the single paper her way. “See these lines? That indicates a very strong familial match, more so than the others.”
“Really? They all looked basically the same to me.”
“Oh, no.” She spouted off a mouthful of technical jargon, none of which made sense to Madison.
“You’re saying this RR78 looks promising?”
“Extremely. I would say there’s a strong possibility—at least 80% chance or more—that this person is a close relative of your client. Basically, you can forget those others and concentrate on this one.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Absolutely,” Collette smiled, obviously pleased that she had helped.
“Oh. I didn’t tell you where I was earlier.”
“Where was that?”
“I was at Hugh Darby’s house.”
“Is that a name I should know?” Collette asked in puzzlement.
“You aren’t familiar with it?”
“Should I be?”
Madison shrugged. “I thought you might. He’s a musician with the same militia reenactment group your husband was a part of. He plays the fife.”
“Oh. That’s the flute thing that marches alongside the drum, huh?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“And he lives nearby?”
“Just outside of town.”
Collette sniffed in derision. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal. A bunch of grown men, traipsing around the state playing soldier. They even sleep in tents and cook over an open fire. They like to be authentic, right down to their skimpy bedrolls.”
Madison hid a smile behind her glass. “I have to agree. That part doesn’t sound very fun.”
“I always told Bobby Ray he was born in the wrong century. He enjoyed every minute of it.”
“It’s important to keep our traditions and legacies intact, though,” Madison said. “He and his fellow enactors are doing us a service, keeping history alive.”
“I suppose. But it’s one thing to watch on special occasions. It’s another to have to live with the props and the relics. Every. Single. Day.” She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I’ll be glad when the appraisers finish, and I can clear out the bedrooms. That junk took up two whole rooms! Three, if you count all the stuff piled up in his bedroom!”
That one statement told Madison what she had already suspected—the couple had not shared a bed. At least it made that part of his death easier for the new widow. Collette was already accustomed to sleeping alone, just as Madison had been when Gray died.
Madison was still seeking information to support Brash’s suspicions of murder. “I imagine some of his collection must be quite valuable,” Madison remarked.
“If it’s half as valuable as he always claimed, I should make a nice little profit off this whole ordeal.” Collette looked so pleased, dollar signs all but floated in the air around her head. She never seemed to notice that ‘this ordeal’ was the death of her husband.
Generously overlooking the gaffe, Madison’s inquisitive mind was busy. “Did other people know about his collection?”
“Yes.” Collette rolled her eyes and hefted an exasperated sigh. “He was always bringing people over to the house and showing off his ‘treasures.’” Air quotes suggested that was his definition, not hers.
Madison debated on how to proceed, but she ultimately decided to tell Collette what was on her mind. Previously, she had remained silent in deference to the woman’s all-too-fresh grief. She knew everyone had their own grieving process and timeline for healing, but Collette seemed to be handling the situation better than most. Surely, she was strong enough to handle the truth.
“There’s something I haven’t told you, Collette.”
“And what is that?”
“I know it’s not pleasant to think about, and I didn’t mention it at first because I knew you were still in a state of shock. But Brash… Brash is very good at what he does. And for what it’s worth, Brash believes Bobby Ray didn’t simply die of natural causes. He believes your husband was a victim of foul play.”
Collette stared at her for a long moment, her eyes wide with surprise. “You’re saying he thinks someone murdered Bobby Ray,” she finally said, her voice blunt.
“Well… yes.”
“Why on earth would he think that?” Instead of sounding shocked, she sounded irate.
“I’m not sure. In fact, he’s not entirely sure,” Madison admitted. “But he has a gut feeling about it, and believe me, his hunches are rarely wrong.”
“They are this time.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Why would anyone want to murder Bobby Ray? The man was as dull as tarnished silver, but he was completely harmless. He didn’t have a single enemy. No money, either, at least none I ever saw. What would anyone have to gain by killing him?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps to gain his collection? If several of the pieces were authentic, it truly could be worth a fortune.”
“Then someone would steal it,” Collette pointed out, “not kill him.”
“Maybe they hope to buy the collection when you put it up for sale.”
When Collette stared at her as if she had lost her mind, Madison tried a different angle. “Hugh mentioned that one of the men in their group was envious of his promotion. Perhaps it got out of hand.”
“They’re volunteers, Madison.” Her voice was hard. “It wasn’t a paid promotion. Hardly something worth killing a man over.”
“Jealousy makes people do strange things. I’m not accusing his friend, of course, but it might be worth looking into.”
“It’s not,” Collette said flatly.
“Aren’t you even a little curious? What if someone did kill your husband? Wouldn’t you like to see justice served?”
“Just like an autopsy, it wouldn’t bring him back.”
“No, but it might give you peace of mind.” Madison used a gentle tone to point out the obvious.
“I had peace of mind,” Collette said coldly. “Right up until you shared your boyfriend’s silly notions.” She stood, grabbing her purse from the sofa cushions. “The investigating officers were satisfied with their findings. They said Bobby Ray died of natural causes. Stop trying to grandstand and make this into something it’s not.”
“I’m not grandstanding,” Madison insisted, biting back a flash of anger. She reminded herself that Collette was still hurting. Perhaps she wasn’t strong enough to handle Brash’s theory, after all. “I’m concerned. And I’m just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for your help.”
Madison made one last effort. “I think you should reconsider having that autopsy done.”
“You’re not listening to me,” Collette ground out. “No one killed Bobby Ray. He was fat and lazy, and the only exercise he got was marching around in his scratchy old clothes, playing with a bunch of overgrown little boys and their precious old guns. He ate one too many burritos, and it killed him. End of story.”
She stopped at the edge of the porch and took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm herself. “Thank you for the tea.” Collette’s voice turned contrite. “I’ll see you at the wedding.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It wasn’t that she had an abundance of time on her hands. She didn’t.
It wasn’t that she had nothing better to do. She did. Her wedding was now just days away. As impossible as it seemed, the To-Do list seemed to grow, rather than shrink.
It wasn’t even that an impromptu trip to Waco allowed her to kill multiple birds with one stone. It did. Driving Nigel Barrett to his doctor’s appointment qualified as a g
ood deed, filled her car with gas (the least he could do, he claimed, if she wouldn’t accept pay) and allowed her ample time to grill him along the way.
However, the spur-of-the-moment trip did give her the perfect opportunity to question some of Bobby Ray Erickson’s friends. With the investigation stalled, Collette refusing to ask for an autopsy, and time running out, Madison suspected it was now or never.
It so happened she chose a perfect day to perform her good deed. The local reenactors had a meeting scheduled at a restaurant not far from the hospital. With a bit of cajoling on her part, they agreed to meet her after their business concluded. She had ample time to drop Nigel off at the clinic, drive to the restaurant, question Bobby Ray’s peers, and still return in time to pick up the older gentleman.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” she told the group. Judging from the empty seats and dirty dishes littering the table, several members had left before her arrival. She hoped they weren’t her key witnesses.
“A few of the fellas had to leave.” A heavyset man noticed her eying the vacated chairs and offered an explanation. “Some come on their lunch breaks and have to get back to work. I’m Royce Bazajou.” He nodded to the other four men and two women still seated at the table, introducing each by name.
“As I explained to you over the phone, I’m a consultant for The Sisters Police Department, and was actually an eye witness to Bobby Ray Erickson’s death. My condolences on the loss of your friend.”
There were murmurs around the table of what a fine man Bobby Ray had been. Some mentioned his dedication to the group, others his finesse on the faux battlefields. One admired his knowledge of Texas history and his collection of artifacts and antiques.
“I understand he has quite the collection,” Madison said, turning to the person who spoke. She thought his name was Dennis.
“Very impressive. He has a letter that was signed by Stephen F. Austin himself, and a cane that once belonged to ole’ Sam. General Houston had a bum leg, you know, and had to use a walking cane.”
“I take it you’ve seen his collection?”
“Oh, many times, many times,” Dennis assured her. “He even loaned a few pieces to the university from time to time, and to the state museum in Austin. Bobby Ray had an eye for authenticity.”
“I imagine some of those must have been quite valuable?” She posed it as a question.
“He never confirmed it, but I heard he paid over six grand for a knife rumored to be a Jim Bowie original.”
Madison’s brows pulled together. “I understood Bobby Ray worked at a tire factory. I didn’t realize they paid so well.”
Another man laughed and nudged the man talking. “Tell her about Stony.”
“Stony?” Madison asked.
“Bobby Ray’s stepfather. He bought a scratch-off ticket and hit pay dirt. Nice fella, but he blew the whole thing within a couple of years. Spent most of it on Jeannie, Bobby Ray’s mother, but gave plenty to the boy. Stony was part of our group, you see, before the cancer got him. They shared a love for history, so when Bobby Ray found the knife, Stony was more than happy to give him the money to buy it.”
Madison jotted down a few notes before asking, “Were all of you present the day Bobby Ray passed away?”
When even the women nodded, Madison tried to remember if she had seen them there. “You were on the parade grounds?” she clarified.
“I tuck my hair under a cap and play one of the soldiers,” the thinnest of the women supplied. With her athletic build and rather plain features, and under bulky, nondescript clothes, Madison imagined she could pull off the charade quite convincingly.
“I was back at camp,” the other said, “so I didn’t see the incident.”
“But the rest of you? You all saw Bobby Ray fall?”
Of the remaining six, only two had actually seen him stagger and fall.
“I was standing on the other side of the cannon from him,” Royce Bazajou confirmed. “When he turned away so quickly, I knew something was wrong. It wasn’t like Bobby Ray to abandon his post.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Not that I recall, but standing so close to the cannon like we do, my ears ring for a good five minutes after a blast.”
“Was there anything different about that day? About that particular blast?”
Royce bunched his lips together in thought, reminding Madison of a bulldog. “I do recall there was a peculiar odor that day. Both cannonballs had it, come to think of it.”
“What did it smell like?”
“Can’t rightly recall,” he said, “just that it wasn’t normal. To be honest, I remember thinking Bobby Ray had passed gas. Forgot all about it, until just now.”
“You smelled this odor both times?” she confirmed. “What did it smell like?”
He threw his hands into the air. “Like the farts!” he huffed.
Madison noticed a tiny line form between his bushy brows, even as some of his friends chuckled. “You remembered something else?” she asked hopefully, recognizing the expression of doubt appear in his face.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Maybe. I do remember thinking it smelled like someone had eaten crab legs. It was pretty rank.”
“Couldn’t have been Bobby Ray,” Dom Ringer pitched in. “He was allergic to fish.”
“I saw him eating shrimp off Petey’s plate,” the thin woman contradicted.
“Would that be Petey Vansant?” Madison asked. “I was hoping to speak with him.”
Dom nodded. “He had to get back to work. He drives over from Marlin, just like Bobby Ray did. They work together at the tire factory.”
“Worked,” someone reminded him.
With a slow, mournful shake of his head, the man murmured, “I still can’t believe Bobby Ray is gone.”
Though she empathized with him, Madison had more questions. “Were the two of them good friends?”
“Well, sure. We’re all like family.”
“I understand that Mr. Vansant may have resented the fact Bobby Ray was promoted to captain.”
Seven pairs of eyes turned to her with skepticism. “Who told you that?”
“Uhm, I heard it somewhere,” she said vaguely.
“Must have been someone from a different brigade,” the man identified as Louie supplied. “No one from this brigade would say such a thing.”
Madison noticed he stopped short of saying the two men got along well, just that no one from their group would deny it.
“So, did Petey resent Bobby Ray?” she asked pointedly.
“You’d have to take that up with Petey,” Royce told her. There was a note of finality in his voice.
“Do you have his telephone number?”
“What exactly,” he asked, eyes narrowing, “are you looking for?”
“The truth.”
“The police said Bobby Ray died of an apparent heart attack.”
“I take it that all of you had known Bobby Ray for several years. Was anyone aware of any issues he had with his heart?” Madison’s gaze slowly traveled around the group, waiting for each person to deny or confirm the question. Every single person shook his or her head with a negative response.
“Generally speaking, would you say he had been in good health?”
“Other than being a little overweight like the rest of us, I’d say he was,” Royce volunteered.
“Other than his allergies,” Dennis volunteered. “He always seemed to have a stuffy nose and itchy eyes.”
“So, if he was in good health, and didn’t have known problems with his heart, there’s a possibility he didn’t have a heart attack,” Madison pointed out. She stopped short of suggesting he had been murdered. “But something killed him, and we’re trying to find what that was. Does anyone remember anything odd about Bobby Ray’s behavior that day? Did he seem to be having trouble breathing… difficulty concentrating… staggering when he walked…” She threw out the suggestions with hand gestures. “Anything out of the ordinary
?”
“Besides his wife being there?” Dennis quipped. “That always seemed to irritate the heck out of him.” He and the man beside him chuckled.
“The two of them never did seem like a matched pair,” the second woman agreed.
“How well do you know Collette?” Madison asked the group.
“Well enough.” It was the tone of the statement, not the words themselves, that expressed disapproval.
“I understand she seldom came to your events?”
“I don’t recall her being at more than two or three reenactments in all the time Bobby Ray was a member,” Royce confirmed. “She came to about as many meetings and banquets.”
“She did come to Bobby Ray’s promotion ceremony,” the thin woman recalled.
“Yeah, but she won’t even give him a proper burial!” Dom Ringer grumbled, setting off a round of similar murmurings along the table.
“It’s not right,” Louie all but whined, echoing Hugh Darby’s sentiments, “not giving a captain like Bobby Ray a proper send off.”
“We believe in honoring our fallen.” This came from Royce. “When Stony passed on, we gave a three volley salute with our muskets. We would’ve done no less for Bobby Ray.”
“Last question, and I’ll let you ladies and gentlemen go about your day. Is there anything you can think of that might help us solve the mystery of Bobby Ray’s death?”
When no one could offer a single suggestion, Madison thanked them and left.
As Granny Bert would say, there was no use in beating a dead mule.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Madison arrived back at the clinic to find Nigel waiting for her outside on a bench.
“I would have come in,” she told the man as he settled in and buckled his seatbelt. “You didn’t have to wait out here.”
Instead of complaining as she expected him to do, the elderly gentleman shrugged. “I didn’t mind, it being a pretty day and all. My nurse came down with me, made sure I got out here.”
“It is a lovely day,” she agreed. “I just hope the weather holds for this weekend.”
“What’s this weekend?”
“My wedding, remember? You’re planning to come, aren’t you?”
