by Becki Willis
“You say you’ll have something other than seafood? Because I don’t eat anything that swims under water.”
Madison bit back a smile as she pulled into traffic. That was the cantankerous old man she had come to know and tolerate. “There will be plenty of other choices, including barbecue brisket and chicken.”
“Like I say, seafood and me don’t get along. Especially crawfish and the like. Looking back, I think that’s what killed Eli.”
“That’s your brother, the one who choked to death?” Madison clarified.
“Mama thought he stuffed his mouth too full, but later on, I came to realize he was probably allergic to shellfish, same as me.”
“I’ve heard allergies are often inherited.” Madison nodded in agreement, as she switched lanes and prepared to turn at the next exit. “Did any of your other brothers and sisters have sensitivities to anything?”
“Not to food, that I recall. But I seem to remember a lot of sneezing and huffing and puffing from just about all of them.”
Given that three siblings died during a dust storm, asthma seemed a likely culprit. Her heart ached at the thought of losing a single child, much less three at one time. She focused on asking her next question, rather than mourning the ancient deaths.
“What happens when you eat shellfish? How does it feel?”
“That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t eat it!”
“Yes, sir, I understand that. But if you were to take a bite, what would happen? You must have had a reaction in the past, to know you have an allergy. Do you remember how it affected you?”
“Well,” Nigel said, scrunching his face together as if to squeeze out the memory, “I recall my throat getting all tight. My chest hurt a bit, and my breath came out sounding like a strong north wind through a poorly chinked log cabin. Seems I was a mite dizzy, too, but I’m not sure. It didn’t take but two times for me to realize what was causing it. I haven’t touched seafood in over sixty years.”
Hearing his description, it seemed reasonable that Bobby Ray Erickson could have died from anaphylactic shock. Maybe there hadn’t been foul play involved, after all.
Lost in her thoughts, Madison pulled onto Highway 6 and headed south toward home. The divided four-lane highway wasn’t busy this time of day, so she set the cruise control and adjusted the lumbar support on her seat. On the other side of the car, her passenger was already nodding off.
Not for the first time, she wondered how sick he truly was. It wasn’t uncommon for a man his age to sleep during the day, particularly in a car, but his face was paler than usual. That, too, could be attributed to fatigue or giving blood, but she worried it was something more serious. From what she understood, his trips to the doctor were becoming more frequent, and she suspected he came to this particular clinic because he needed a specialist.
Perhaps, she decided, she could bring him to his next appointment and do some research in the McLennan County Courthouse archives while she waited. If his sister and brother had settled nearby, at least some of their offspring probably lived in this area.
A flashy burnt-orange sports car came up in the other lane, traveling faster than the posted speed limit. It slowed as it drew up beside them, and Madison glanced over to see it had dark-tinted windows. As dark as they were, she idly wondered if they were legal, but soon the car sped up, moving out of sight and out of mind.
After passing through the small town of Riesel, they were the only vehicle on the southbound road. When they came upon an older model pickup truck pulling a trailer, Madison moved into the left lane to pass. She stayed there when she saw rough patches in the road ahead. It wasn’t like there was anyone else on the road to need the passing lane.
Within a few miles, a car appeared in the rearview mirror. Madison started to move over, but the same orange sports car from earlier approached at a high speed and already occupied that side of the road. She wondered if the car had gotten off in town and was now back on the road, trying to make up for lost time. It was certainly driving fast enough. She would let it pass before moving back into the right lane.
Another glance into the mirror revealed the car veering into her lane. Madison pressed her foot on the accelerator to scoot out of its way. Once she was clear of its bumper, she could get over and let it have as much of the road as it wanted.
Apparently, it wanted the entire thing.
The car kept coming, crowding into the lane with her. Madison wasn’t sure how it missed nicking her bumper, so she floored the gas pedal and tried moving into the right-hand lane. The sports car jerked back to the right, so Madison whipped left.
“Crazy driver!” she shouted.
Nigel Barrett awoke with a start, grumbling about all the swerving.
“That orange car is all over the road!” Madison defended her driving. “I’m trying to get out of their way, but they can’t decide which lane they want to ride in.”
“Looks like they want to ride smack dab in the middle of the road,” the old man said, peering into his side mirror. He turned around in the seat, twisting his body to get a better look. “Too close to even see their license plate number.” He glared over at her as he turned back around. “What’d you do to piss them off?”
“Nothing! It passed us earlier but must have gotten off at the last town.” She put on her blinker, indicating her effort to move right, but the sports car ignored it. It still straddled the line, refusing to relinquish either lane.
“Make sure your seatbelt is on,” Madison cautioned.
“It is.”
“This may get bumpy.” The warning came seconds before their left tire hit the rough strip of pavement edging the road. The twins called them ‘drunk bumps,’ claiming they were there to keep drunk drivers between the white lines. If the orange car wouldn’t let her move right, she would move left and give it plenty of room to pass.
The orange car moved left with them, pressing ever closer. When it rammed her bumper, she cried out and almost lost control of the steering wheel. “Hang on!” she warned her passenger.
With the orange car pushing them, Madison’s car left the pavement altogether and hit the grassy median between the lanes. She wrestled with the steering wheel, fighting to avoid the ruts from a previous vehicle. Getting stuck meant the orange car would ram them for sure, but crossing the median meant being thrown into the oncoming lane. She didn’t need to see the approaching eighteen-wheeler to know that was a bad option.
“Cut back to the right!” Nigel advised. “Get back on the road and floor it!”
“I’m trying!”
“Try harder!”
The car’s wheels churned in the grasses, plowing through a thick blanket of bluebonnets. “It’s illegal to pick them. Hope it’s not illegal to run them over,” she muttered darkly, as the car bounced up and down, chomping its way across the state flower.
Behind them, the orange sports car barely grazed her bumper. Matching her bump for bump through the flowers, it stayed steady on their tail, not allowing more than a few inches between them. Any moment now, she expected it to pitch upward and come down on top of her.
“Watch out!” Nigel cried. “There’s a bridge ahead. Pick a side of the road and floor it, girl!”
“There’s an eighteen-wheeler on that side!”
“Then cut it sharp to the right and get back where we came from. Do it before the guardrail starts. Take your foot off the gas while you turn, then gun it as you come out of the fishtail.”
“What about the orange car?”
“They can fend for themselves!”
There was no time to think it through. Madison jerked the steering wheel with all her might, sending them into a careening skid. She struggled to keep the wheel turned deep. It took every bit of her strength, but, with a helping hand from Nigel, she fought to control the helm. Her locked wheels slid atop the grasses, skating ever closer to the traffic on the northbound side of the highway. The eighteen-wheeler driver blared its horn and moved into the far lan
e, just as she felt her back driver-side tire scrape against the lip of asphalt. Her car jerked at the resistance, but it was enough to stop their forward progress. The second her tires bit into the earth with a hint of traction, Madison stomped her foot onto the gas pedal and straightened out the steering wheel.
Madison gunned the motor just in time to avoid a direct hit by the orange car. Its grill scraped against her back bumper as it lurched forward, seconds too late. The force worked to their advantage, helping aim Madison’s car in the right direction.
She was too busy trying to avoid the sudden drop-off on her right and keep them out of the water below to see what became of the other vehicle. She barely missed the guardrail as she bounced out of the median and onto the pavement of the southbound lane.
“Don’t slow down now!” Nigel scolded her. “Go, go, go!”
“But—”
“Don’t give ‘em a chance to come back and finish the job!” he snarled. “Get the hell out of Dodge!”
“But…”
“The orange car made it across. Do you want them to come back?”
“I—I’m leaving the scene of an accident,” she protested, but not enough to slow the car. “I need to call 9-1-1.”
“Give me your phone.”
“I’ll have to find my purse. I don’t know what happened to it.”
They located it on the floor at Nigel’s feet. While he reported the incident, Madison kept a close watch in her mirrors for any flash of orange.
Dispatch advised them to continue to the next town, where a local deputy would meet them and escort them to the police station. By the time they exited the highway in Marlin, Madison’s nerves were strung taut. The excitement and brush with near death seemed to have energized her passenger, but it had the opposite effect on her. Walking into the station, Madison’s legs were wobbly and weak.
After taking their statements and hearing the full story, the officer had them wait in his office. He returned with questions. “And you have no idea what prompted the other driver’s road rage?”
“None.”
“You didn’t get the license plate number, is that correct?”
“I couldn’t even see the plate, the car was so close.”
“Fortunately for us, other drivers reported an orange sports car driving erratically and a truck driver called in the incident, corroborating your story. As it turns out, the orange vehicle is registered to Cornelius H. Booker from Mart. Does that name mean anything to either of you?”
Madison shook her head. “Not me.”
“Never heard of him,” Nigel echoed.
“Less than an hour ago, the car was reported stolen from the Department of Veterans Affairs Medical Center in Waco.”
“That’s where we just came from!” Madison exclaimed.
“Do you recall seeing the car there, Mrs. Reynolds? Did you perhaps cut it off as you were exiting the parking lot, or provoke the driver in some way?”
Perhaps it was her nerves, but Madison bristled at the wording of his statement. “You make it sound as if this is somehow my fault, Officer Denton. The fact that the other person was driving a stolen car should tell you something.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything, ma’am. Just trying to make sense of what could have been a very ugly situation.”
“Wasn’t too pretty, the way it was,” Nigel harrumphed.
“You’re right, Mr. Barrett. Are you sure neither of you need medical attention?”
“Are you kidding? My blood hasn’t flowed this good in twenty years!” the elderly man claimed.
“I asked a deputy to take a look at your car, Mrs. Reynolds. Other than some damage to your back bumper and a broken tail light, it appears to be fine. Do you feel comfortable driving, or do you need to make arrangements for someone to pick you up?”
Her hesitation was slight. “If I can have just a moment more, I should be fine.”
“Feel free to wait here as long as you like, ma’am. Can I get either of you some water? Coffee? There’s a vending machine around the corner.”
“I’m fine, thank you. But, may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly.”
“I’m working as a private consultant for The Sisters Police Department in Rivers County. I was in Waco to speak with friends of Bobby Ray Erickson, who I believe was a resident of your town. Did you know Mr. Erickson?”
“Bobby Ray? Sure. It was a dang shame, him dying so young.” The officer squinted his eyes. “Why are you investigating his death? I heard Bobby Ray died of a heart attack.”
“There’s no official investigation,” she was quick to say, “but an eye witness to Mr. Erickson’s death did raise some questions.”
“What kind of questions?”
Madison didn’t give a direct answer. “I spoke with his militia reenactment group earlier. They suggested I speak with Pete Vansant, who also lives here in Marlin. Do you know how I would get in touch with Mr. Vansant?”
“They didn’t give you his number?”
“No.” She didn’t elaborate as to why. “Do you know him?”
“I know Petey Vansant.”
It was the way he said it. Slow, with an abundance of caution. A sliver of disapproval.
“You have his telephone number?” she asked hopefully. There was no listing for him in the phone book.
“I have his number, all right. Zero. You’d be better off asking your questions elsewhere.”
“Fine. I’ll ask you. If Petey Vansant had a problem with someone, would he be the type to act on it?”
The officer looked her over, taking in her disheveled hair and her still-trembling hands. “Ma’am, you just had a dangerous and stressful experience,” he reminded her. “Do you really want to take on another?”
Madison refused to be patronized. She lifted her chin and replied coolly, “Are you saying Pete Vansant is dangerous?”
“I’m not saying anything.” He stood from his chair and walked around the desk. “Feel free to stay as long as you need. As you know, the roads out there are dangerous.”
“What was that about?” Nigel wanted to know. No longer sleepy, he had listened to the exchange with open curiosity.
“Come on. I’ll tell you about it on the drive home.”
It was his turn to eye her skeptically. “Are you sure you’re up to driving just yet?”
“Just come on. The sooner we get back home, the better.”
Once they were back on the highway, Nigel wanted to know who Petey Vansant and Bobby Ray Erickson were.
“Both men are part of a historical reenactment group. Bobby Ray was the man who died a couple of weeks ago at Washington-on-the-Brazos during a cannon exhibition. We were there when he dropped dead of what most people are calling a heart attack, but Brash suspected there was more to the story. Petey Vansant was his friend, but it sounds as if they may have been adversaries, as well. Petey resented Bobby Ray for getting a promotion, but no one will go into any particulars.”
“You’re thinking he may have had something to do with this Bobby Ray fella’s death?”
“I can’t rule it out, because I haven’t been able to talk with him. He left the meeting today before I arrived, and no one will give me his number.”
“Does he know you’re looking for him?”
“I’m sure one of his buddies has told him.”
“He don’t drive an orange car by chance, does he?” Nigel half-jested.
Madison glanced into the rearview mirror, still leery of being in the clear. It was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to her. If Petey Vansant had something to hide, would he go to such lengths to frighten her away? And what, other than hiding his involvement in murder, could warrant such dire means? No one needed to remind her that today could have ended much differently. “I hope not,” she mumbled.
“So, if you’re working on this other case, is that why you haven’t found my kinfolk yet?” Nigel asked.
“No, sir, that’s not it at all. I haven’t f
ound your kin because it’s not as easy as you may think. I’ve reached out to a likely candidate, but he hasn’t replied so far. But I do have a bit of good news for you. I discovered the name of your niece.”
“I truly do have a niece?” His wrinkled face lifted, looking at least ten years younger.
“It appears so. Betty Jean had one daughter, Laura Jean. I’ll do my best to find her for you.”
“Let’s hope your best is good enough,” he growled. He fidgeted in his seat before making a reluctant admission. “That’s wasn’t bad drivin’ back there. Not bad at all, girl.”
From Nigel Barrett, that was high praise.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Genny and Cutter insisted on hosting the rehearsal dinner as one of their gifts to the couple.
The wedding party itself was small. Megan, Bethani, and Blake were the only attendants for their parents’ nuptials. The guest list for the rehearsal dinner was only slightly larger, reaching out to include parents and grandparents, Matt and Shannon, and the preacher and his wife.
Cutter grilled steaks and bacon-wrapped quail outside, while Genny worked her magic in the kitchen, putting her warming drawers and dual ovens to good use. Even before the couple admitted their feelings for one another, Cutter had remodeled the kitchen with Genny in mind, seeking her input for the design. She had helped him create her dream kitchen, wondering what lucky lady would ultimately reign over it. A few short months later, here she was, and she had never been happier in her life.
On this night, she whipped up one delectable dish after another, and topped the evening off with red velvet cupcakes and her special rum-laced tiramisu. As they gathered for coffee and conversation, the three teenagers announced they had a special treat for their parents.
“Mom, Mr. de, we know you two have taken a long, twisted path to get to one another, but we wanted you to know that the three of us,” Blake pointed to his sister, himself, and Megan, “couldn’t be happier that you’ve found your way back together and that you’ll finish your journey in life, side by side. Just in case you’ve forgotten some of the highlights, we thought we’d offer a little stroll down memory lane, as we so humbly interpret it.” Wiggling his eyebrows, the show master flashed a bright smile. “Guys, welcome to our version of This Is Your Life!”
