by Becki Willis
She turned directly toward Joel Werner, pinning him with her intense gaze. “Sir, we are not a bunch of backwoods hillbillies, too ignorant to see what you’re up to. You want Brash deCordova’s job. If that last picture is to be believed, you want to be Brash deCordova! And you’ll stoop to whatever means it takes to worm your way in.”
She could have said so much more. She could have referenced the disparaging photos of Werner and his wife or pointed out that all pictures shown were in the public domain and readily available on the internet. She could have gone on about taking things out of context and making mountains out of molehills. It was, in fact, what the crowd expected of the older woman, who was well known for her outspoken opinions.
Instead, Granny Bert turned back to the city council seated on the floor, and to the crowd in the stands. “And that, my friends,” she said, effectively dismissing the farce by giving it no further comment, “is enough about that.”
When the cheers from the crowd quietened, someone on the floor made a hasty motion to table further discussion concerning the chief’s status. The motion unanimously carried and within minutes, the meeting adjourned.
Madison grabbed her grandmother’s arm before they were swept away in the crowd. Already, people were filing out of the bleachers to come down and congratulate Brash and to offer their support.
“Granny!” she hissed. “What did you do to that video?”
“I didn’t do a thing,” she assured her granddaughter. “Wanda Shank’s grandson lives next door to Myrna and just happens to be a whiz on the computer. Somehow, their internet connections often get all tangled up, and he was able to tap into her presentation. Honestly, I had nothing to do with it, but I couldn’t have been prouder of the results if I had.”
“Thank you for what you said up there. And for organizing this whole, amazing response. Your ‘sources’ really came through.”
“Let’s just hope that wormy weasel crawls back under the rock he came from.”
But something told Madison it wouldn’t be that easy. As rewarding and vindicating as the evening had been, she couldn’t help but worry.
Joel Werner wasn’t the type to take public humiliation lightly. The look in his eyes was nothing short of chilling, and a shiver worked its way through her shoulders as she imagined what lengths he might go to seek his revenge.
Not to mention the lengths he had gone in setting up this evening—this entire campaign, in fact. His attack had been well planned and well executed, from the slow building of public distrust to garnering Myrna Lewis’ help, from the printed promotional items to getting the press involved. This had taken many hours of thought and preparation.
A nagging question haunted her mind.
Was the man capable of murder? Had killing Nigel been a small part of his overall scheme?
If so, what might he do next?
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Tony Sanchez’s arraignment was Friday. He was released from jail on his own recognizance and a token bail. The reporters followed the story closely, but oddly enough, made very few references to his arresting officer or their long-standing friendship. When Brash’s name was mentioned, it was in reference to last evening’s outpouring of love and support by his hometown community.
Snippets from the night ran on the national news, heralding it as ‘how a small town in Texas supports its hometown hero.’ The focus shifted from Brash’s playboy ‘sans shirt’ lifestyle to his good ol’ boy appeal, depicted by the handmade posters, homemade baked goods, and heartfelt community support. The latter angle wasn’t nearly as exciting as the first, and interest in the story took a steep tumble.
Somewhere in the Midwest, another politician was accused of sexual misconduct, and just like that, the press had a better story. If Madison didn’t know better, she would have suspected her grandmother had something to do with the shift in attention, but even Granny Bert wouldn’t stoop so low. That was definitely more Joel Werner’s style.
It had been a stressful week, but the weekend was on its way. The teens would be in from their ski trip late that evening. Having missed them terribly, Madison freshened all three rooms and planned a big weekend brunch to celebrate their homecoming.
With an hour to spare before her two o’clock meeting with Barbara Motte, Madison joined Derron in the office.
There was no way to verify the woman’s relationship to Nigel before the meeting, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that a lonely old man would be laid to rest with mourners standing over him, at least one of whom had possible familial ties. The courts would decide who controlled his fortune, but it had fallen upon Madison and Brash to control his last rites. For this, any claim of kinship was better than no claim at all.
Madison leafed through the old Barrett family Bible once more, deciding she would ultimately give it to the person who inherited his estate. It was too early to assume Barbara from Lake Whitney was that person, but Madison hoped she was. Finding just one confirmed relative was enough to make her feel as if she hadn’t let Nigel down completely.
Belatedly remembering Frank Fuller’s reference to notes in the old Bible, she wondered where she might find them. Supposedly, they established a legal claim to land sold a hundred years ago.
“Dollface?” Derron called from his desk, interrupting her perusal of the thick tome. “Can I delete these photos in the folder marked Erickson Death? These are just duplicates, right?”
“Right.” In lieu of an official photographer on the day of Bobby Ray’s death, Brash had asked her to take photos on her phone while he interviewed the ensemble cast. She had forwarded the photos to the police department but kept an online copy, just in case.
With his death officially ruled natural causes and the case now closed, there was no need to keep the pictures. “Yeah, go ahead,” she said, waving her hand in dismissal. She closed the Bible and set it aside, thinking she would come back to it later. “You know what?” she said, changing her mind. “Wait on deleting those. Let me take one more look at them, and then I’ll do it myself.”
“Whatever, boss lady. Just trying to clear up some space in the cloud. The internet is like molasses today.”
“I’ll go through them now.”
She pulled up the file on her computer and clicked on the first photograph. It was of the fallen man, a much closer shot than she felt comfortable taking, but one she knew was necessary for proper documentation. Against the pallor of death, his cheeks were still blotched and ruddy. She detected welts against his neck and along the side of his face. She had seen similar marks on Nigel’s skin, reinforcing the assumption that both men had died of a severe allergic reaction.
There were more photos of Bobby Ray, but it seemed somehow sacrilegious to study them too closely. She clicked off them, moving on to images of the crowd. She had snapped photos at random that day, catching expressions of shock and surprise, even boredom, in the faces of the crowd.
Brash sometimes coached her in the art of surveillance, particularly when she worked a case for private detective Murray Archer. He had once told her that you never knew when you might catch someone unawares, capturing their innermost thoughts on camera with a random shot. More than one case, he claimed, had been solved in such a happenchance manner. Taking that advice to heart, Madison had panned through the crowd that day, forcing time to a standstill, one frame at a time.
Glancing through the pictures again, she saw nothing amiss this time, either. She and Brash had studied the photos many times over the last few weeks, hoping to catch a gleam in someone’s eye, or a smirk of satisfaction upon a vengeful face. There was nothing.
Derron paused behind her as he dropped a file onto her desk. “The file on all things upholstery,” he explained, glancing at her computer. “Ooh, love that shade of chartreuse.” He tapped the screen, pointing to the arm of someone in the crowd. “Wonder how it would look on me?”
“Don’t you already have a shirt that color?”
“No.”
&
nbsp; Madison scrunched her face in contemplation. “I know I’ve seen that color somewhere.”
“Not on me. But you may soon,” he added with a saucy grin. “I feel another shopping excursion coming on.”
“Hmm. Oh, well, doesn’t matter.” She closed the folder and would have hit the delete button, but noticed she had a new message. Eager to see what RR78 had to say, she abandoned the folder in favor of reading his reply message.
I’m in Central Texas. Little podunk town called Marlin, just south of Waco. Can meet today at 5. Leave town tomorrow for a job, be gone a month or so.
Madison knew she couldn’t meet Barbara at two, plan Nigel’s memorial, drive north to Marlin, and be there by five. However, if he was leaving town for an extended time, it sounded as if today was the best opportunity to meet with him. And his location certainly fit the general area of Nigel’s family, making him an even more likely candidate as a relative.
She was contemplating her choices when the telephone rang. Not recognizing the number, she answered with caution. The media had miraculously stopped calling, but she never knew when a stubborn reporter might linger around, looking for a mop-up story.
“Hello?”
“Hello, this is Detective Donald Peters with the Whitney Police Department. Is this Madison Reynolds?”
“Yes, this is she.” Madison was too stunned to correct him with her married name. Why was someone from the Whitney Police Department calling her? Was he calling to warn her that Barbara Motte was a fraud? A known con artist?
“I think you may have had plans to meet with one of our local residents this afternoon, if the circled notation in her address book is to be believed. Are you acquainted with Barbara Motte of 1379 Morning Glory Circle?”
“I have an appointment with her this afternoon,” Madison confirmed.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to change your plans, ma’am. I’m calling to inform you that Mrs. Motte was attacked in her home last night and is currently undergoing surgery at a nearby hospital.”
“What?” The word left her mouth with a gasp. “Is she—is she all right?”
“From what I understand, she’s in serious condition. That’s all I’m at liberty to say. How well do you know Mrs. Motte?”
“Not at all. I was meeting her for the first time.”
“So, you have no clue as to why someone would brutally attack her in her home?”
“N—No,” Madison said. The officer told her little else, other than the fact that the scene was quite violent. He gave her the name of the hospital and advised her to call there for further updates, even though they weren’t likely to release any information without written consent from the patient.
But as Madison hung up the phone, she suspected she did know why Barbara had been attacked. Somehow, someway, this was related to Nigel Barrett.
“Are you okay?” Derron asked, noting her pale color.
“Not really. The lead I had on Nigel’s next of kin was brutally attacked in her home last night and is in surgery as we speak.”
“That’s horrible!”
“I can’t help but think it has something to do with Nigel and her connection to his estate.”
Derron nibbled his lower lip in worry. “What are you going to do about it?”
“The first thing I’m going to do,” she decided, turning back to her computer, “is reply to my other lead, RR78. How do you feel about a quick trip to Marlin?”
RR78 agreed to meet but only if she came to him. He cited a busy evening, preparing for his departure the next day.
“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Derron whined as they neared their destination.
“Maybe not, but it’s too late to turn back now.”
“Weren’t you somewhere near here when that car ran you off the road last week?”
“Yes, but that had nothing to do with the man I’m meeting today.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely. Ninety-five percent,” she assured him. “I’m sure that was a random incident. At any rate, if it was aimed at me personally, it was most likely a man name Petey Vansant. PV. This guy today is RR.”
“As in Road Rage?” Derron suggested dryly.
Madison wrinkled her nose, trying to hide the fact his assessment rattled her nerves. “What’s the 78 for?” she taunted.
“The number of people he’s run off the road?”
“Okay, so I’m ninety percent sure the two aren’t connected.” She pursed her lips as she took the exit. “Definitely eighty percent.”
“You aren’t making me feel any better, dollface,” he pointed out.
“Look, I owe it to Nigel to find his next of kin. The thought of burying him all alone, with no one to mourn his passing, just breaks my heart. If I can find at least one person related to him, I’ll feel like I didn’t let him down completely. He may never have gotten to meet his family while he was alive, but perhaps some of them can at least attend his funeral.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the part where you suspect one of his relatives may have been responsible for his death? For all you know, you’re walking into a trap.”
“If this RR78 killed Nigel,” she reasoned, “he would hardly plan to meet with him today, would he? He thinks he’s been corresponding with the man. Plus, he didn’t answer my message until after Nigel died.”
“So, if the Barbara woman isn’t responsible for his death and neither is RR78, then who do you think is?”
“I’m working two different theories at the moment. If it’s a family member, I’m hoping RR78 can tell me about some of his other relatives. One of them may have been aware of their connection to Nigel and decided to cash in on it.”
“And the other theory?”
“It may sound crazy, but I haven’t ruled out the possibility that Joel Werner may have done it, simply to frame Brash.” She snuck a glance at her passenger. “Does that sound absolutely insane?”
“Honestly, no. After seeing Werner’s face last night at that meeting, I wouldn’t put much past that man.” Peering through the windshield to read street signs, Derron pointed to their left. “The directions say to turn here.”
Two minutes later, they pulled up in front of a well-kept modular home at the end of a quiet street. The lawn was immaculate, but Madison had the distinct impression that several things had been recently removed from the yard. A lonely flagpole stood amid a stand of bluebonnets, its ropes conspicuously bare. A large patch of trampled brown grass suggested something large and heavy once sat upon it. Near the front door, a few springs of taller grass edged a round, barren spot on the ground. Perhaps a flowerpot once resided there, she thought.
Something else had been removed from near the gable of the house. At first glance, the vinyl siding didn’t appear faded, but there was a distinct Texas-shaped image on the side of the house, its color a few shades darker and more vibrant in relief.
The entire setting gave off a forlorn vibe, one just short of abandonment. Madison wondered if this RR78 weren’t moving altogether, rather than leaving for only a month. She glanced at the car in the driveway and saw that it was completely packed, crammed with boxes and suitcases and an assortment of odds and ends. She spotted a lampshade stuffed into the back window, with a winter coat crammed in beside it.
She couldn’t explain it, but she felt apprehensive about going inside. The doublewide home was nice enough, and certainly well kept, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.
Turning to her assistant, she faked a bright smile. “Ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” With a sigh, he stepped gingerly from the car and shut the door behind him. “The place looks almost empty,” he noted. “I feel like I should be tiptoeing.”
“You, too, huh?”
They exchanged shrugs as they climbed the steps to the small porch.
“Oh, look. Someone’s a fan,” Derron pointed out. The entire porch was a mosaic of the infamous Texas ‘Come
and Take It’ flag. Madison knew the skirmish at Gonzales was a precursor to the Texas Revolution, when Mexican forces tried taking a cannon from the Texians and met unexpected resistance. In light of recent gun law debates, the historic flag enjoyed new popularity today.
Madison knocked on the door and waited for a response. On the second try, she heard the safety chain rattle and a woman’s voice float through the narrow opening. “Yes? May I— Madison! What are you doing here?”
“Collette?” She stared at her friend in surprise. “What—What are you doing here?”
The other woman laughed and opened the door more fully. “That’s supposed to be my question. I live here. What are you doing here?”
“I’m supposed to meet someone here.” Her brow wrinkled and she looked around, clearly confused. “Is this 1835 Milam?”
“Oh, yes. Bobby Ray insisted we buy this exact lot because his hero, Ben Milam, was killed in the Siege of Bexar in 1835. He claimed it was kismet, or some such nonsense.” She rolled her eyes before motioning them forward. “Come on in.”
Madison felt as if she had stepped into the twilight zone. Nothing made sense. Even as she allowed Collette to tug her by the arm, her mind protested that something wasn’t right. Why had RR78 instructed her to meet him here, of all places?
“But…” She sputtered the protest, even as she stepped through the door.
“Hello, Derron,” Collette said. Like the time she greeted Frank Fuller, the smile never quite reached her eyes. “Now tell me,” she continued, once they were both inside. “Who were you meeting here?”
“Actually, RR78 reached out to me today. He asked that we meet here.” Even as she heard herself say the words, they made no sense.
“RR78? Isn’t that Nigel Barrett’s next of kin?”
“There’s a good possibility he’s kin,” Madison agreed.
“I told you,” Collette said, her voice suddenly sharp. “He was the only positive match on there. The others were very distant, if at all.”
