by Becki Willis
Refusing to feel guilty, Madison brushed off the rebuke. She glared at her grandmother over the cup’s rim as she took a big gulp of coffee. The sting of hot liquid didn’t burn nearly as badly as did her grandmother and her shenanigans.
“That’s another thing,” Madison grumbled, still on a roll. “You used to hear the words ‘plotted’ and ‘in cahoots.’ Now the buzzword is ‘colluded.’”
“Folks do seem to get good mileage out of the word.”
“The thing is, there’s no definitive proof Nigel was killed. For all we know, it was a needless accident. They’ve charged Tony on nothing but circumstantial evidence.”
“Then it will be up to the prosecutor to prove he’s guilty.”
“I know that’s the way our forefathers designed it, but that’s not the new reality.” Madison’s observation was jaded and sad. “These days, people rush to judgment. There’s no such thing these days as innocent until proven guilty. There’s only guilty because someone else said so.”
“Sad, but true,” her grandmother agreed. “When I took Sybil to the Tuesday/Thursday Clinic for a refill on her blood pressure medicine, I overheard the office staff talking. They already had poor Tony behind bars and had thrown away the key. One of the receptionists is a friend of Sharese Werner’s, and she was repeating the lies Joel keeps spouting. She started in on Brash, saying how he would make more money than anyone would on Nigel’s death. Said she wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t arrest him next.”
“They were saying this in front of the entire waiting room?” Madison asked in dismay.
“They were talking among themselves, but their voices carried. Especially once Sybil and I moved to that little cubicle where they take your blood pressure. Good thing the doc didn’t take mine that day; it would have been sky-high! But don’t worry,” her grandmother added with a satisfied sniff. “I got even with that nosy Rosemary.”
“The neighbor?” Madison guessed. When her grandmother nodded, Maddy gave her a stern look. “Granny Bert, what did you do?”
“As we were leaving, I caught her in the hallway, texting on her phone. So I pretended I didn’t know how to use one, and asked her to send me a text so I could see how it’s done.”
Madison looked skeptical. Her grandmother was a quiz on the smart phone. “And she believed you?”
“Why not? I’m just a poor eighty-one-year old woman who grew up with one of those phones shaped like a candlestick. We had to ask the operator to connect us every time we wanted to talk. We didn’t have these newfangled gadgets with all the confusing buttons and those smiley yellow faces and a choice of beeps or whistles.” She laid it on thick, looking every bit the part of the overwhelmed senior citizen, confused with modern technology. “We thought we were something, getting our rotary dial phones. Made listening in on the party line so much easier. Why, the only running water we had was when we threw the wash water out the back door and watched it run downhill. We shared electricity with the folks next door, so we could only use it on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Neither of us used it on Sundays, as it was the Lord’s Day. We—”
“Okay, okay.” Madison waved her hands as if they were white flags. She called a truce, putting an end to the wild exaggerations. “I get it. You convinced her not only that you couldn’t use the modern cell phone, but that you grew up a hillbilly. Neither could be further from the truth, but she obviously doesn’t know you’re a skilled actress, not to mention borderline con artist. What I don’t get is how you got even with her.”
Instead of looking insulted by the description, Granny Bert looked as pleased as if she had won an Emmy. “It’s nice to know my skills are appreciated. I do work on them, you know. And as for getting even, by having her text me, I now have her telephone number. Which I promptly shared with every telemarketer that has called the house in the past two days. I then called a half dozen vehicle warranty places, timeshare resorts, and health insurance companies to request information, leaving her number as a callback.” She thumped the table with a satisfied smirk. “That ought to keep her busybody-self occupied for a while!”
It would only encourage her grandmother, but Madison couldn’t keep from laughing. “Oh, Granny, what are we going to do with you!”
“There is no wrath like a grandmother scorned.”
Madison laughed again, pleased that her grandmother already considered Brash a member of her family. For Bertha Cessna, family ties meant everything. “Mess with one, you mess with all,” she often claimed.
“People should watch what they say and where they say it,” Granny Bert continued. “Now. Tell me what the plan is. How are we going to stage our counterattack?”
“Counterattack?”
“We all know Joel Werner was the one to sic the press on this story. He’s gunning for Brash’s job and will do whatever it takes to get him out of the picture. I told you I could dig up some dirt on him, so yesterday I made a few other calls. Your fifth cousin Ray Cessna is retired from the Pasadena police force. It just so happens Wormy Werner was under his command, and it turns out our boy spent a good deal of time on probation. Ray couldn’t go into the details, but there was an incident where Werner was suspected of tampering with evidence. It must have been something big, because he cut some sort of deal with Werner. He wasn’t kicked out of law enforcement entirely, just out of Harris County.”
“So he came north to Huntsville,” Madison murmured. “And now to The Sisters.”
“We have family in Walker County, too,” Granny Bert continued. “Your great uncle Travis was a professor at Sam Houston and his granddaughter Lacey is on the Huntsville police force. She didn’t have much nice to say about Wormy Werner. Neither did your cousin George, who was a Walker County sheriff’s deputy, or my friend Bentley, who was assistant DA for many years. All say that Werner was known for using excessive force, turning in shoddy evidence and shoddy reports, and was somehow tangled up in a suspicious death of a local landowner. There was never enough evidence to make a case, so it was eventually ruled a suicide. But I could tell they all still had their doubts, and they all suspected that Wormy Werner was somehow involved.”
Madison gave her grandmother a sharp look. “What are you saying? That Joel Werner had something to do with Nigel’s death?”
“I’m saying Wormy Werner is a sleaze ball with a shady past. He brags about being a Walker County deputy, but he didn’t mention that he was low man on the totem pole and relegated to duties no one else wanted. I’m saying he can’t rely on his resume to get him a new job in law enforcement, so he’ll find another way in.” She rapped her knuckles on the table. “Mark my words. Joel Werner is not to be trusted.”
“Still…” Madison’s expression was skeptical. “To suggest he would stoop to murder, just to frame Brash…”
Granny Bert held up her hands. “Mind you, I’m not accusing the man. I’m just saying it’s worth looking into.”
“Maybe,” Madison said, still doubtful. “I do agree that, even if he didn’t have anything to do with the crime itself, he is definitely using it to his advantage. And I agree that Werner was probably the one to ‘sic the press’ on this story, as you say.
“But,” Madison added, and it was a big, heavy ‘but,’ pushed out on a resigned sigh, “it’s taken on a life of its own. The press has sunk their teeth in, and they aren’t letting go, anytime soon.”
“Not,” her grandmother agreed, “until they get a better story.”
Madison frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean it’s time to buckle down and get them a better story.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“I hate to bother you, dollface, but I need to come in today.”
Even though he couldn’t see her, Madison frowned at her employee through the phone. “Why would that bother me? That’s what I pay you for.”
“But this is your honeymoon,” Derron pointed out. “Staycation or not, you’d probably like a little privacy.”
“You’re absolutely right, I would. But the reporters camped out on my lawn and the cable news channels make that impossible. You may as well come on down and join the circus.”
“Do you need to clear it with the hubby first?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe you should call down to the police station and ask him.”
“Ouch. No need to get snarky, girlfriend.”
Madison’s reply was weary. “Just be careful turning in the gate. Granny Bert nearly ran over a reporter earlier.”
“Was she trying to?”
“Well, yes, but let’s not give them something else to find fault with. And for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk to any of them!”
“Not unless it’s that yummy Gavin from Channel 22. He’s just too cute to ignore.”
“Solidarity, Derron,” she reminded him. “We need to put up a united front. No one talks to the press.”
“Okay, okay,” he sulked. “But I can still preen for them, can’t I?”
“As long as your lips remain sealed.”
“You’re no fun. But you can’t stop me from wearing my favorite shirt.”
“Both the peacock shirt and the red silk are a bit much, don’t you think? Wear the blue. It brings out the color of your eyes and looks much more like spring.”
“Good idea, girlfriend. See you in a few.”
With Derron coming in to the office, Madison decided to join him. No use rattling around in the big old house when she could be working.
Her office had been Phase One of the remodel. Madison was still awestruck each time she entered the room, knowing this gorgeous space was hers. Originally the home’s formal library, built-in cabinetry and exquisite burled-walnut paneling wrapped the room in timeless tradition. The extensive woodwork could have felt dark and drab, but Kiki Paretta was a genius at decorating. HOME TV’s style guru brightened the room with a variety of light sources: subtle track lighting, sconces, lamps, multiple chandeliers, and natural light streaming through gauzy white curtains. She used cream-colored upholstery and accents to contrast against the wood, giving the room a fresh, inviting look. A tufted leather executive chair sat behind the antique desk, coordinating with two groupings of chairs; one clustered around the fireplace, the other within the nook of the turret. The cream color paired with dusky blue to continue in the decadent piled rugs, afghans, and artwork.
The true wonder of the room was the state-of-the-art computer center, concealed within a custom-built cabinet. Like everything else new in the room, it came compliments of the show’s sponsors, and was ground zero for the impressive alarm system installed on the property.
Derron’s desk, a wonderfully done smaller version of hers, sat near the French doors off the east porch. In a Pinch clients used this door to access the business, bypassing the heart of the home. Madison stopped at his desk before proceeding to hers, firing up both computers.
She skimmed through her email messages, quickly determining which needed answering, which could wait, and which could be deleted. The majority fell in the latter category.
One message in particular caught her eye. She wasn’t familiar with the sender’s address, but the subject referenced MyFam.com and RR78. Clicking on the message, she read:
Got your note. Yeah, looks like we’re kin. Would be willing to meet and talk.
Madison sent back a reply, asking RR78 his location. She hoped he wasn’t in far West Texas or down in South Texas; she didn’t relish a seven-plus hour drive to meet in person. Depending on his answer, a virtual meeting might have to suffice.
She knew she shouldn’t, but Madison gave in to the temptation and clicked on her social media account. Pictures of Tony and Brash filled the page. The most popular was the one of Brash ushering a handcuffed Tony into the backseat of the cruiser. There were photos of the men in their football jerseys, side by side at fundraising events and sports galas, and a particular favorite of the men and their dates at some black-tie event. Two beautiful women clung to their sides, dressed in evening gowns that were tasteful but skimpy. Their hairstyles were the only timestamp the photos needed. The images served as a reminder that the two men—the accused and his arresting offer—had a long history of friendship.
There were more photos of Brash. While most were of his now infamous bare chest, many included other people in the shot. All were beautiful women, famous people, or both. The theme was easy to detect. Brash deCordova was depicted as a womanizing playboy with connections. He was comfortable being in the spotlight and had many rich and powerful friends. A heavily “liked” photo was one of him and a handful of state lawmakers on a pheasant hunt, the governor of Texas among them. The men posed with their shotguns and a bag of the day’s harvest. Madison knew the significance of the photo was to exploit his friendship and accessibility to influential decision makers. One rendition of the photo came with the caption ‘Mockery of the justice system. With friends like these, jury’s in the bag!’
Never mind that Brash hadn’t been accused of any wrongdoing. Not officially. But that didn’t stop the reporters and the social media jury from jumping to conclusions.
“Trial and jury by social media,” she muttered aloud. Her scowl was like thunder.
“Talking to yourself?”
The sound of Derron’s voice startled her. She had been so engrossed in the nonsense on the computer, she hadn’t heard the alarm’s beep and him coming in.
“Better than yelling at the computer, unlike someone I know,” she replied.
“It’s a proven fact that yelling at the computer screen releases endorphins and lowers stress levels.” The blond-headed man leaned over and air-kissed her cheeks.
“Another of your highly unscientific studies?” she guessed.
He shrugged his sculpted but petite shoulders. “Perhaps. But I stand by the results.”
“What urgent business required you to fight your way through the mob outside?” Madison asked, as Derron settled at his desk. Even though he left everything in impeccable order at the end of each day, it always took him a good five minutes to arrange things to his liking the next time he sat down.
“Besides the fact that I lost Gorgeous Gavin’s number and hoped to see him again? I needed to consult the calendar. New Again Upholstery in Navasota called and wanted us to fill in during paternity leave for one of the webbers.”
“How long is that?”
“Two weeks.” At her raised eyebrows, he explained, “It’s one of the dads.”
“Do you know anything about upholstery?”
“I was hoping you did.”
A two-week gig was always good for the bottom line. Pursing her lips, Madison admitted, “Depending on how many other jobs we have scheduled, one of us may have to learn.”
Derron pulled up the schedule so they could review upcoming projects. They spent the next ten minutes plotting potential conflicts, holes in the calendar and therefore holes in the budget, and possible upcoming projects.
“Before we accept, you’d better make a few calls. Dean Lewis mentioned needing me again next month when they attend a conference in Florida, and Jolly Dewberry wanted you to build his wife a closet.” For all his flamboyant ways and his finesse as an executive assistant—not to mention a fashion stylist—the man was an exceptional carpenter. Like everything else he did, Derron managed it in style, most often wearing a frilly work apron and using decorated tools.
With Derron on the phone, Madison returned to her computer. Before she closed the window for social media, she saw someone had sent a private message.
I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Barbara Barrett Motte. The local funeral home suggested I contact you concerning services for my uncle, Nigel Barrett. Are you the person in charge of arrangements?
The question hit her hard. In truth, Madison had given no thought to Nigel’s service. She supposed that if anyone organized such an event, it would most likely be her and Brash. I bet Joel Werner will love that, milking it for all it’s worth!
The mo
ment the thought ran through her mind, she felt guilty. The man deserved a decent burial, no matter how the critics chose to construe it. Overseeing Nigel’s final farewell didn’t prove she and Brash had close ties to the man; it proved he had no one else to take care of the matter for him. The thought was sobering, making Madison’s heart bleed for him.
The significance of the message slowly sank in. At least now, perhaps Nigel would have family at his side as his body was lowered into the earth.
Of course, given all the attention his death garnered, this could be a fortune-seeker posing as his niece in order to claim his estate. The news hadn’t yet revealed the fact he had no heirs, but they repeatedly mentioned his assumed fortune. It was the only tenuous tie they had to Tony and would become even more important if—when—they tried implicating Brash in Nigel’s murder. It was surprising that more people hadn’t already lined up, claiming a stake in the Barrett fortune.
Or, perhaps this was Earl’s daughter, the Barbara she had been looking for. Again, given all the attention his death garnered, it was entirely possible the woman had heard about it on the news and wanted to say a proper goodbye to the uncle she had never known.
A third possibility occurred to her, and she couldn’t type her reply fast enough. Obviously, this Barbara person had known all along that Nigel Barrett was her uncle. Madison had no idea how she could have managed it—had she paid someone to put the shrimp on his plate? Poisoned him before the reception? Crashed the party and slipped the shrimp into the sandwich herself?—but this could be the person most likely to benefit from Nigel’s death and, therefore, be the person most likely to have killed him.
Arrangements are pending. Do you live nearby? Perhaps you could help plan his memorial.
She saw the dancing bubbles, telling her the other person was typing.
