I hurried from the medical center but I was still five minutes late to Downtown Methodist to meet Jack at our premarital couples class. We attended on Wednesdays, after work but before the hallowed hour—at least in Bible-thumping West Texas—of Wednesday night church. Jack hadn’t arrived yet either, so I unbuckled my seatbelt and got comfortable, waiting for him. I piddled on Facebook on my phone. Another five minutes passed. Then another. I checked my phone for emails, texts, or voice mails from him. No dice. Did it again. Still nothing. Not a word since he left this afternoon, not in response to what had happened to me or about missing our couples class. The emptiness I had felt that morning returned. The day was ending not too differently from how it started, and I could get tired of this new Jack in a hurry. Fury bloomed inside me, pushing out through my skin in hot waves. I shot him a quick text: I waited for you at couples class. You didn’t show. I’m out of here.
As soon as I’d pressed send, I regretted it. What if he’d had a wreck? What if he was dealing with an emergency with a client? What if he’d fallen unconscious like Phil?
I started typing again, but a text came in from him: Shit. I tried to text you earlier, but I just saw it didn’t send. I can’t believe what happened today. I’m glad you’re okay, but I’m worried about you, and I’m very sorry, I’ve been detained. Wish I could call or be there. Don’t wait up, this could run long.
I deleted the message I’d been composing—the nice, worried one—and threw the red Mustang into reverse. A horn blared, and I slammed on my brakes, throwing myself into the steering wheel. “Judas Priest,” I screamed, but Wallace and Nadine weren’t around to praise my game. The car that had honked cruised down the parking lot aisle, and I smashed the accelerator and lurched out of my space and out onto Polk.
I headed north, not really with a destination in mind, just wanting to escape my life. A week ago, I had an attentive fiancé and was close to adopting a little girl I love. I had a dear friend who was marrying another good friend, and celebrating a not guilty verdict and a new business. So much had changed, none of it for the better. I left town on Highway 287, deciding to just go with the flow. And it was a flow. I’d fallen into a line of light traffic, and as a few cars moved around me, I noticed a similarity between them all: Mighty is His Word and Christian fish bumper stickers.
“Well, how about a little Wednesday night worship with the holy rollers?” I muttered, and exited with the school of fish onto Reclamation Road. A few familiar turns later and I was in the parking lot on the Mighty is His Word church grounds. Here was the site of Phil’s breaking and entering, or, as he explained it to the jury, his entering. I’d been here during the discovery phase of his trial to walk the layout and see how his “mistake” had been made, when he’d ended up in the private residence. But I’d even been here once before that. I’d come here and watched Betsy when she first moved in with the Hodges. I’d seen the line of mismatched kids of all shapes and sizes waddling behind Trevon and Mary Alice. I’d been envious and coveted what they had.
It was nothing like I felt now, though. Tonight Technicolor emotions warred inside me. I was a human torch, burning from the inside.
I parked and watched as I blazed from inside the car. People disembarked and headed for the sanctuary. One after another, families of eight, nine, ten, and more kids passed by me. It was easy at a glance to tell the families were foster or adopted, because, like with the Hodges, the kids were every color of the rainbow. I’d focused so hard on the Hodges the last time I sat in this parking lot that I’d been blind to everyone else.
Tonight, the commonality was clear. Foster families. That, and a whole lot of camo gear. I slammed my car in reverse and sped out of the lot. I needed to talk to Wallace.
Chapter Twelve
“What can I get for you, ma’am?” the tall, skinny teenage barista asked. The poor kid had a blanket of acne over his cheeks, the purple kind that look like they hurt.
Roasters. 9:00 a.m. Jack had come home late, and I was already asleep. He’d shaken me awake and held me close. My brush with death had rattled him more than me, it seemed, and he’d peppered me with questions and pleaded with me to be more careful. I wasn’t at my best, physically or emotionally. Instead of letting him worry over me, I’d chewed him out for his absence, then been awake the rest of the night, sorry for how I’d acted. I fell asleep at dawn, and when I got up, he was already gone.
I shook my head and said, “You order for me,” to Wallace.
He sniffed. “You don’t remember, do you?”
“I do.”
To the barista, he said, “She doesn’t know her own order, and she’s in here once a week.”
I studied my phone and pretended not to pay attention to him. I took after my father, mostly, but in some unfortunate ways I was my mother’s daughter, and this was one of them. I couldn’t remember phone numbers, shoe sizes, coffee orders, case cites, or birthdays. Luckily, these were all things I could look up. Or let Wallace handle.
“She’ll have a large café breve with sugar-free hazelnut and I’ll have a caramel macchiato, large please, with whipped cream. And a cup of extra whipped cream.”
The barista took my credit card. I was treating Wallace in return for the pleasure of his company, and information on the wacky Mighty is His Word families.
“Good grief,” I said, not quite under my breath.
“I ran ten miles before I met you here. I deserve it. What did you do?”
I waved my hand from head to toe, like I was my own personal Vanna White.
“I forget. The former Miss Rodeo Texas has standards to keep.”
“First runner-up.”
“Honestly, I think you could start a consulting business. You know, like Boots, Batons, and Bikinis: We help your little rodeo princess claim her sash.” He grabbed his drink and extra cup of whipped cream from the counter. “You have to pay me a commission if you use the name, though.”
I took my café breve and we claimed our usual table, the one with the direct line of sight to the pronghorn antelope head mounted on the wall. The Amarillo Globe News blared LOCAL MAN SLAUGHTERED BY BOW MARKSMAN from our tabletop. “I’m thinking no.”
“Pageants are huge these days. What was the name of that girl that had the reality show?”
“Honey Boo Boo.” Which made me think again of debutante Lena compared to me from the wrong side of the trailer park.
“And there was one just about pageant moms.”
“Toddlers & Tiaras. Here Comes Honey Boo Boo was a spin-off.”
“My God, you really watch this stuff. You’re into it. You want to be a beauty pageant consultant. That’s why you’re straightening those teeth, even if you shouldn’t be. I knew it. Girl, I’m going to help launch you. Maybe we can get you a reality show.”
“You’ve got to stop doing meth for breakfast, Wallace.”
He shushed me with a wave of his hand.
“How’s Ethan?”
“Ethan is fantastic. I’m taking him home to Mama next month.”
“Shut the front door.”
“You know it.”
“So he’s not still mad at you about the whole couch fiasco?” Wallace had Ethan’s couch re-covered as a birthday gift, only it turned out that his deceased grandmother had done the original upholstery for him. Ethan had cried and yelled at Wallace for two days.
“He’s over it. Finally. So sensitive.”
I laughed and spewed a little breve in his direction. “Look who’s talking. And you chopped up his favorite grandmother.”
“Not his grandmother. His grandmother’s upholstery.”
“Tell that to Ethan.”
“Anyway—watch as our hero deftly changes the subject—we wouldn’t dream of missing your wedding in New Mexico.” I’d told Wallace that I hadn’t been able to find the word No, even if I hadn’t said Yes either, to Jack’s date request. “We’re working around it.”
“Thanks. Now, about why I bought you the extra whipped cre
am with your caramel macchiato—”
“Betsy.” He sighed.
“No.”
“Really?”
“Well, sort of not Betsy.” He grimaced. “It’s about the Mighty is His Word church members. I was visiting there last night—”
“Not again.”
I kept going like he hadn’t interrupted me. “And I noticed that every family there has like a bazillion kids of different races and ethnicities, obviously not birth kids. Like the Hodges.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, that’s all you’re going to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“That it’s freakin’ weird. That you know why they’re doing it.”
One side of his mouth scrunched up. “I don’t know why. All I know is that they single-handedly foster fifty percent of the kids that come through our system, and nearly ninety percent of the special needs kids. You may not like them, but they are a godsend to the youth in need in this town.”
I didn’t have an answer for that. Wallace flipped his blond highlights off his forehead and proceeded to read me the riot act for my judgmental ways. My eyes watched his lips move, but I didn’t hear another word he said.
***
I gave Jack the evil eye later that morning as he walked backwards in front of my desk toward the office door. Snowflake stood beside me, and she joined in staring him down. I hadn’t even had time to tell him about my conversation with Wallace, and here he was running away again. I was getting downright peeved about how he was acting, whether I’d been in the wrong the night before or not, and I was tired of playing nice.
“Just a few errands to run,” Jack stuttered, his eyes faltering under my glare.
My tone was sweet as pure cane sugar. Jack knew me well enough to understand that meant he was in big trouble. “Anything I can help you with, Jack?” The phone rang on my desk. “Quiet,” I said to Snowflake, pointing at her. She barked anyway. “Williams and Associates. Emily Bernal speaking.”
Jack’s eyes cut to the door and I shook my head and held up my index finger.
“Yeah, I need to talk to a lawyer,” a male caller said.
“What’s this in regards to?”
“A murder.”
Normally I screened calls like this before I handed them off to Jack or to his voice mail, or even referred them to another lawyer. This time, I held the phone out to him. “It’s for you,” I announced loudly, without putting the caller on hold.
Jack pulled at his shirt collar.
“Jack?”
He took three quick steps toward me and I slapped the phone into his hand.
“Jack Holden speaking.”
I hit speaker. Jack’s golden eyes widened, but he didn’t protest.
“You the lawyer?”
“I am an attorney, yes. Who am I speaking with?”
“Good. I need one.”
“Have you been arrested?”
“Let’s say someone got kilt and the police were looking into it. How long before a feller’s free and clear of it?”
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
“Can you say that in plain English?”
“Never. A feller’s never free of it.”
I put the back of my hand over my mouth to cover my automatic smile. I can’t forget I’m mad at this man.
“Shit. Okay, well, I need a lawyer.”
“So you say. Have you been arrested?”
“I cain’t afford to pay much.”
“Have you been arraigned?”
“There you go talking fancy again.”
“Are you out on bail?”
“What do you charge, anyway?”
Jack’s nostrils flared. “More than you can afford. And I don’t represent people who won’t answer my questions.” He slammed the receiver into its cradle on my desk.
I jumped in my seat. Jack acted this way maybe once in a blue moon. Served the guy right, but more than that it said something about Jack’s state.
“Well then,” I said, raising my brows.
“I have to go,” he growled.
“To do what?”
“Work on a case.”
“Which one?”
His mouth opened. No dimple. No lifted brow. No leftie smile. “An old one.”
“That’s how Judith described it to me, too.”
He grunted and stomped to the door. “See you in a few hours.” Then he was gone.
Snowflake flung herself to the ground, her feet in the air.
I nodded. “Exactly.”
In a bad mood anyway, I decided to deal with something that had been nagging at me since the previous week. I hated these stupid braces. Everyone important to me seemed to like my smile the way it was. I was tired of spewing food and saliva every time I tried to eat. If I never heard another reference to the horsey look they gave me by pushing out on my lips when I ate, it would still be too soon. I dialed.
“Dr. Parks’s office.”
“Yes, I need to make an appointment to get my braces off.”
“What’s your name, dear?”
“Emily Bernal.”
“Oh, hello, Emily, this is Mrs. Parks. You aren’t due to have them removed for another six months or more.”
“I know. I’ve changed my mind.”
“Oh my. That’s a little unprecedented.”
She waited for me to answer. I waited longer.
Mrs. Parks’s voice rose to a wheedling pitch. “I really think you should talk to my husband before you do something so rash.”
“I understand. But I want them off. How soon can you work me in?”
Snowflake cocked her head at my tone. Whatever she saw made her jump into my lap and press into me. I stroked her back. My dog, my conscience. But that wasn’t really true. She was Jack’s dog, and his daughter’s before him.
Mrs. Parks lowered her voice. “You do know we can’t give you your money back, right?”
I hadn’t even thought about that, but I tried to sound less pushy while still pushing. “That’s okay. When can Dr. Parks do it?”
I heard some clicking, and I imagined her scrolling through the days of the calendar on her computer. “How about next Wednesday, bright and early? We come in at seven on Wednesdays and that’s the only time we have.”
“Perfect. See you then.”
I hung up the phone. I wasn’t mad at Mrs. Parks. I was peeved at Jack and growing angrier by the second even with the soothing warmth of Snowflake huddled against me. What the heck was going on with him? Even if he couldn’t choke out the words “I love you,” he had been a contender for world’s best fiancé until a few days ago. Now? Now he was furtive and evasive and distant.
I ran through possibilities. Another woman? I doubted it. The only other women in his life were his deceased wife and daughter. The old case he mentioned? I was his right hand. I couldn’t imagine him not telling me about it if that’s what it really was. The list of possibilities grew worse from there. Gambling. Drugs or alcohol. Money troubles. A secret medical problem. I clutched my stomach. Oh God. I hadn’t even given him the benefit of the doubt. What if his evasiveness was to protect me from bad news? What if he was going to chemo? Phil’s pale face flashed through my mind. Or dialysis. Jack was a tough guy, and he never complained.
But he looked so dang healthy. And performed like an eighteen-year-old. My cheeks warmed. No, he couldn’t be sick.
Well, whatever it was, while I was more than tired of it already, I still worked for him, and our clients depended on me. Nadine especially. I looked at the stack of files on the right-hand side of my desk, begging for my attention.
“Time to get down, girl.” I lifted Snowflake and leaned over until my stomach touched my knees to set her gently on the floor. She whined, but after a long second of plaintive looks, she walked to her bed, circled three times, and flopped down. Her eyes closed immediately. The snores followed almost as fast.
I rifled through my client files.
A DUI that came in last week. A marijuana possession charge, where the defendant was a seventy-five-year-old cancer patient. I hoped the poor guy could move to Colorado. A vehicular homicide against a young guy who’d hit a bicyclist. That hit close to home, given that Wallace was an avid road bicyclist. The list went on, and these were just the Texas cases. But there were no deadlines looming, and only one client in imminent danger: Phil. I pulled my slim file for Phil’s case off the top of the stack and centered it in front of my laptop. When I opened it, the notes on top scolded me. My interview with Phil’s mother, and the lead on his ex-wife. I hadn’t done a thing on it since I talked to Manuela.
I Googled for liquor stores in Sanford, Texas. Manuela had been right. There was only one. Joe’s Liquor and Smokes. No website. Open Monday through Saturday, 10:00 a.m. through 7:00 p.m.
I called the number.
“Joe’s,” a man’s voice growled.
Quickly, I made a mental adjustment. Time to pull out my thickest accent and shine a light from my dimmest bulb. “Um, yeah, hi, is Cecilia there?”
“She ain’t supposed to be getting personal calls at work.”
“Oh, sorry.” Thinking fast, I added, “I’m her cousin, and I was going to be in town this weekend. I haven’t seen her since we were, like, in elementary school, and this is the only number I have.”
The man sighed. “I keep telling her to get a phone but she says nobody calls her that she wants to hear from.”
“I’m sorry. I sure wish I could find her.”
“She’ll be in tomorrow. You can call her then, but keep it short, will ya? I’ve got a business to run.”
“Thank you so much. I promise I will. God bless, and have a nice day, sir.”
“Yeah, yeah, same to ya.”
He ended the call.
I wrote Joe’s, Friday after 10:00 a.m. on a fresh sheet of paper and felt lighter as I shoved it in the file.
Chapter Thirteen
Snowflake whined from the backseat of the rental Mustang as we cruised north with Wallace at seventy-five miles per hour along Highway 136. The bright morning sunshine splashed over waving grass on each side of the road, near waist-high and green as a go light. Yellow and white flowers lit up the rolling fields broken only by the occasional barbed-wire fence as far as the eye could see. We’d just passed the town of Fritch, and I saw the sign ahead for FM 687, which would take us to the teensy town of Sanford. I thought it would be best to surprise Cecilia, so I hadn’t called ahead. Hopefully this trip wouldn’t be in vain.
Hell to Pay (What Doesn’t Kill You, #7): An Emily Romantic Mystery Page 13
