Uncertain Future

by Eve Gaddy

  Tessa watched him walk to his truck, sighing a little over his long-limbed easy stride. She still wasn’t sure of his plan, but she decided she didn’t care. Dinner with Will McClain wouldn’t be a hardship, even if he had a potful of ulterior motives.

  STRAINS OF ERIC CLAPTON’S “I Shot The Sheriff” issued from the truck’s radio. Appropriate, Will thought, though strangling Fielder with his bare hands might give him more satisfaction. He pulled into the police parking lot behind the jail and jammed the gearshift into park. Unfortunately, as an officer sworn to uphold the law, he could do neither.

  His mood dangerous, he stalked inside the building. Thelma Ridell, the evening clerk, sat at her desk, playing solitaire with a deck of greasy cards. Apparently computer usage in the Uncertain Sheriff’s Department didn’t extend to card games. Deputy Masters was nowhere to be seen. Will assumed he’d taken off for the night. He didn’t bother asking for the sheriff. Will had already discovered the widowed Fielder spent most of his time closed up in his office at the station.

  “Sheriff said not to disturb him,” Thelma called out, laying down another card with military precision.

  Ignoring her, Will opened the office door and smiled grimly. He intended to do a lot more than disturb the sheriff.

  Feet propped on his desk, Fielder looked up when Will entered, his normally taciturn expression turning harsh. His finger marking the spot in the magazine he read, he closed it. “What the hell do you want now, McClain? Don’t you ever go home?”

  “Not when I have business to take care of. Like having you booted out of office for incompetence.”

  Fielder’s face turned a mottled red and the magazine fell from his grasp. A fly fishing magazine, Will noticed, surprised. He would have figured the man for a gun enthusiast.

  “Incompetence?” His boots hit the floor with a bang. “Why you—”

  “I’ve been out to Beaumarais. To the site. You didn’t bring in experts to process that murder scene. The place reeks of amateurs. Who did you use? Ditchdiggers?”

  Fielder shot to his feet, anger twisting his features. “Now see here, McClain, we don’t have the kind of resources to merit paying some so-called expert a fortune. My boys did their job the best they could. You got no call to interfere.”

  “Like hell I don’t. Have you even looked at the place since your ‘boys’ got through with it?” The expression of chagrin that crossed the sheriff’s face was all the answer Will needed. Too bad the man would have to step a lot further over the line before Will could do more than threaten. “I didn’t think so.”

  “I’ve been out there,” the sheriff blustered. “And I didn’t see a problem.”

  “No problem? It looks like a Mixmaster tossed the site. Your actions and those of your men have compromised this investigation. At least as pertains to the site where the body was found. There’s no way of telling, particularly now, whether the murder was committed on site or the body taken there following death.”

  “The initial report—”

  “I’m aware of the initial report. I’ve read it. It leaves that conclusion open to further study. Which is now impossible, thanks to you and your wonder boys.”

  “What difference does it make where he did it? So what if he did kill her someplace else? Her bones were found there. On Beaumarais.”

  Will grimaced and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sheriff, have you investigated a murder before?”

  “Of course. They don’t happen every day, but we’ve had several over the years.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t you use proper procedure on this one?”

  He flushed, then glanced away. “Just because it don’t suit you, don’t mean it’s not a perfectly good way to go about it.”

  “You know proper police procedure. My God, you’ve been sheriff here for more than twenty years—you can’t help but know. But you didn’t bother. You were too damn lazy, or maybe too damn cheap, to do it right, because you’re convinced you’ve already got the perp sewn up.”

  Fielder slammed his fist down on his desk. “I do have the perp sewn up! Jed Louis is guilty as sin. I know it, you know it. Even if you won’t admit it.”

  “I know you have circumstantial evidence against him. I also know you have no hard evidence other than hearsay and gossip linking Jed Louis to the crime. Unless you’ve kept something from me, or unless some of those missing papers are proof positive, then you don’t have enough to charge him.”

  “Not yet.”

  Arguing about Jed got them nowhere. Will pushed it aside to deal with later. “The fact remains, you did a crappy job on the investigation because you were complacent. You didn’t want to look any further because it was easier to blame it on Jed. I can take this to the city council, and you’ll be out on your ass faster than you can blink.”

  His expression thunderous, Fielder glared at him. “I got friends on the council, so I’d watch who and what I threatened, McClain. They know the budget I operate under. Nobody will blame me for trying to save the city money.”

  “Saving money isn’t the issue. Botching a murder investigation is. If you couldn’t handle it, you should have called in other resources. Like the Rangers, for instance. Or hell, you had an archaeologist sitting around twiddling her thumbs. Why didn’t you make use of her expertise? Instead, it looks like you might have screwed up on purpose.”

  Fielder took his seat, folding his arms across his chest. Regarding Will for a moment in silence, his bushy gray eyebrows lifted. “Mighty strong words, especially from someone who ain’t walking a straight line himself.”

  Will’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

  He smiled, a smile full of cunning and malice. “I got an idea you didn’t tell your captain all the details about this case.”

  Will didn’t speak, waiting for Fielder to go on, though he suspected what came next.

  Fielder continued, his expression indicating he knew he had the upper hand. “Wonder what your Ranger captain would say if I was to tell him Frannie Granger was your foster mother? And that Jed Louis, the prime suspect, is your foster brother? Sounds like conflict of interest to me.”

  Returning the smile, Will picked up the phone and handed it to him. “Go ahead. Call him. Captain Roger Sterling.”

  “You’re bluffing.” He took the phone, fingers poised over the buttons, eyes on Will.

  Will’s smile widened. “Try me.” He gave him the number and waited.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Fielder slammed down the receiver. “You actually told him?”

  Will nodded. “The captain’s aware of the background. All the background.” He knew of no quicker way to get on his captain’s bad side than by concealing something pertinent about a case. Besides, not telling Captain Sterling about his past would have laid him wide-open to an attack like the one Fielder had just made.

  “He knows and he still assigned you this case?”

  “That’s right.” He didn’t mention the captain’s parting injunction. “You’d better not screw up this case, McClain,” he’d said. “Because if you do, my ass will be in the sling along with yours.”

  Will had no intention of screwing up.

  The hostility between the sheriff and him was impeding the case. Murder took precedence over an ancient feud. They would never get anywhere if they kept going at cross-purposes. It was up to him to figure out a way they could work together, because Fielder obviously wouldn’t make the first move. “Look, Sheriff, the way I see it, we both want the same thing here.”

  “Do we?” he asked, disbelief evident in his voice.

  “We both want to solve the murder. I’m going to find Frannie Granger’s murderer and bring him in. Whoever killed her will pay for it.”

  Fielder’s gaze met his. “You know, I can almost believe you mean that.”

 
“Believe it.”

  Fielder pursed his lips and studied him. “And what do you mean to do if Jed Louis is guilty?”

  “I intend to bring in Frannie Granger’s killer. No matter who it is,” Will said.

  And pray God it wasn’t Jed.

  Chapter Five

  “THAT’S A RESTAURANT? It looks more like someone’s home,” Tessa said as Will pulled into a gravel lot packed with cars, trucks and SUVs. Across from it stood a plain whitewashed wooden building with green trim. Though it had been painted recently, a home improvement loan still seemed in order. One of the walls leaned inward and shingles flaked from the roof. A small sign proclaimed it to be Santiago’s.

  A smile played over Will’s lips. “They live behind it. Years ago Carlita’s mother-in-law fed people from her kitchen. When the operation grew too big for that, her husband and sons added a real dining room.” He glanced at her and grinned. “They never claimed to be in construction.”

  “It’s awfully crowded,” she said, noticing the line of people spilling out the door, down the steps and winding along the side of the building. “Are you sure we can get in?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Best Mexican food in East Texas,” Will promised. He paused before getting out of his truck. “We can go someplace else if you’d rather.”

  His tone was neutral, but she had an idea he really wanted to stay. And so did she. She heard music in the background, and laughter, and the aromas drifting from the building teased her senses. Relaxing. Fun, she thought. “No, this is fine. I like Mexican food. Besides, I’m not dressed for anyplace fancy.” She’d taken him at his word and wore blue jeans and one of her new purchases—a pale green scoop-necked summer-weight sweater. Luckily, he couldn’t know she’d changed seventeen times before settling on the first thing she tried on.

  Tessa didn’t know how Will did it, but with a touch here, a word there, he slipped past the line and walked right up to the hostess.

  Small, dark haired, with deep brown eyes the color of chocolate, she looked both capable and harried. She handed a set of menus to a waitress, then turned to Will, obviously annoyed. Her eyes rounded, she shrieked, “Will!” and launched herself into his arms.

  He caught her and swung her around, laughing as a torrent of Spanish spilled over him. Eventually he set her down and managed to get a word in. “Hola, Isabella. ¿Cómo estás?”

  “Muy bien.” She flashed her left hand at him, showing off a gold-and-diamond wedding set. “Very well,” she repeated with a satisfied smile.

  Will answered her in Spanish, something about her breaking his heart, and they both laughed. “¿Dónde esta su mama?” he asked.

  “En la cocina. Come and see her. She’ll be so happy!” With a quick word of instruction, she handed the menus to another woman and motioned Will to follow her. Will grabbed Tessa’s hand, pulling her with him.

  Towed along in his wake, Tessa listened to the jumble of rapid-fire words coming from the woman who’d greeted him. From what Tessa heard, she conveyed years’ worth of information about weddings, babies, jobs and various scandals in a couple of minutes. Tessa hid a smile at the sharp-eyed glance the woman aimed at her before ushering them into the kitchen.

  A welter of delicious smells assaulted her, instantly making her mouth water. A slightly older version of Isabella stood at one of the three stoves, snapping out orders, stirring pots of refried beans and sizzling fajita meat, and shouting at half a dozen children who ran in and out of the large room. Will hooked an arm around the older woman’s waist and gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. She drew back as if she meant to slap him, but then she squealed, threw her arms around his neck and hugged him, much as her daughter had done.

  Tessa couldn’t make out her words over the babble of voices, the clanging of pots and pans, running water, and the Latin music blaring in the background, but the woman was plainly thrilled to see him. She hugged him, kissed him, exclaimed over him in voluble Spanish, and then she hauled off and boxed his ears.

  “Ow!” Will rubbed his ears, eyeing her warily. “What was that for?”

  “That’s for not coming to me when Frannie disappeared.” Her expression suddenly serious, she put her hands on his arms and gazed up at him. “We would have made you ours, hijo.”

  Will touched her cheek and said something in a low voice Tessa couldn’t hear. The woman caught his hand and pressed it against her cheek, her eyes bright. After a moment he said, “Lo siento, Mamacita. Forgive me?”

  Regaining control, she turned her nose in the air and sniffed. “Es possible,” she allowed. As if just realizing all activity had stopped with Will’s entrance, she shouted at everyone to get back to work.

  Will took Tessa’s hand to pull her forward. “Carlita, this is Tessa Lang. Tessa, this is Carlita Santiago, the best damn cook in all of East Texas. I spent a lot of hours in her kitchen as a kid.”

  “Corrupting my Rico and flirting with my girls,” Carlita added with a smile. “So happy to meet you, Señorita Lang. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “Gracias, señora. Tessa, por favor. Your restaurant is lovely,” Tessa continued in Spanish, adding a comment about the delicious smell of the food. Will’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, then he smiled.

  Carlita beamed, answering her in a flood of the same language. Then she escorted them to a small table near the kitchen. The best seat in the house, she informed them, giving Will a wink. “You will have beer,” she announced. “And don’t worry, Señor Policía, my liquor license is up to date.”

  “Trust Carlita to have already heard the news,” Will said, watching her go. “They weren’t even surprised to see me. Probably knew I was back before I did.” He glanced around, his expression thoughtful. “This place has sure grown since I was here last. The dining room and kitchen used to be all there was to it. They only had a handful of tables, and you had to go through the kitchen to get to the dining room.”

  “I like it,” Tessa said, looking around at the colorful prints and Mexican blankets gracing the walls, the lush potted plants scattered here and there. A three-man mariachi band made the rounds of the tables, belting out traditional fiesta music. “Great atmosphere.”

  “Yeah, looks like it’s been discovered.” He waved a hand at the crowd. “Good for business, but I miss the way it used to be.”

  “Things change. How long has it been since you were last here?” The minute she asked the question she wished she could retract it. To hear the gossip, he hadn’t been back since his foster mother’s disappearance.

  “A lifetime,” he said, his eyes turning gray and melancholy.

  Not wanting to add to his dark mood, she hastily changed the subject. “What’s good to eat?” she asked, studying the menu.

  “The special. A little of everything, and then some. Unless that’s changed, too.” Taking her menu, he set it aside with his and motioned the waiter over. “So, where did you pick up Spanish?” he asked after giving their order. “You speak it like a native.”

  “So do you. You tell me first.”

  He seemed to debate with himself, then shrugged and answered her. “I grew up speaking it. Where I lived, you heard more Spanish than English. Then when I came here, I fell in with Rico, Carlita’s oldest son.” One side of his mouth lifted. “He tried to beat the crap out of me when I first moved to town. We spent a lot of time in detention together.”

  “You made friends with someone who beat you up?” Tessa knew she was a bit sheltered, but sometimes men really were unfathomable.

  Will looked surprised. “Sure, why not? If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have had any friends. Back then I was always fighting.” At her look of complete bafflement, he laughed and added, “Don’t worry, I grew out of it.” He paused and smiled. “Mostly.”

  Their beers and chips appeared, served by another of Carlita’s daughters. The Santiagos clearly considere
d Will one of the family. Tessa wondered what it would be like to be welcomed so unreservedly. She didn’t remember anyone ever being that happy to see her. Her grandmother, perhaps. But then, her parents were not given to expressing emotion. Her mother in particular considered any show of emotion vulgar.

  “I thought you grew up in Uncertain?” Tessa asked after the waitress left.

  He shook his head. “Not exactly. I didn’t come here until I was thirteen.” He chose a chip, loaded it with hot sauce and popped it in his mouth.

  Tessa tasted the sauce more cautiously. Even that small taste burned her tongue and had her reaching for water. “I picked up the language in Central America,” she said after a moment. “I spent a lot of time there in my teens.”

  “You didn’t grow up there, though. Or Texas, either. That’s no Texas twang you have. Your accent’s from the South. Makes me think of magnolias.”

  She smiled at the description. Apparently her youthful accent hadn’t totally deserted her. “Good ear,” she said. “Georgia. I lived with my grandmother in Atlanta until I was twelve.”

  “What happened then?”

  “My grandmother died and I went to live with my parents.” And spent the worst year of her life following her parents around the globe like so much lost luggage.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Simple and sincere. She liked that about him. “Yes, so was I.” But she had adapted. The first year had been the hardest. After that she learned to live with the grief, the loneliness, the homesickness for Atlanta and her grandmother’s comforting embrace. To hide her true feelings and become the person her parents expected her to be.

  “How did you end up in Central America?”

  “My parents were both archaeologists. My father died a few years ago, and now my mother is an administrator for archaeological expeditions.” Big, prestigious digs, she thought with a grimace. “But back then they were both field archaeologists, and I went with them wherever they happened to go. We lived longest in central Mexico, but I also spent time in Brazil, Chile and Venezuela. Then we went to the Middle East, but we didn’t stay there long.” Thank God, she thought, repressing a shudder. The conditions on that dig had been the most brutal yet.