Best Kept Secrets

by Sandra Brown

  He hadn’t had much personal interaction with Celina Gaither, but he knew all about her through Stacey. The girls had been classmates through eleven years of public schooling. Even whittling away Stacey’s typical adolescent jealousy, he’d still painted an unflattering picture of a girl who knew she was beautiful, well liked, and who held all the boys in the class in the palm of her hand, including the only two who really mattered, Junior Minton and Reede Lambert.

  Too many times to count, Stacey’s heart had been broken because of Celina. For that reason alone the judge had despised her. And because this young woman was her daughter, he disliked her on sight.

  “How do you do, Miss Gaither.”

  Judge Wallace shook her proffered hand, but no longer than was necessary to serve propriety. He found it difficult to consider this fashionable woman his colleague. He preferred lawyers who wore white shirts and worsted wool, not chic, short-skirted suits and fur. Viable members of the bar should emanate the faint smell of cigar smoke and leather-bound tomes, not a delicate perfume.

  “Has District Attorney Chastain briefed you on why I’m here?”

  “Yes. This morning. But I heard from Angus last night.”

  She tilted her head, as though to say that that information was interesting and worth storing away for future consideration. He could have kicked himself for volunteering it.

  The truth was, he was rather dazzled. Angus Minton had been right. Alexandra Gaither was better looking than her mother.

  When she moved her head, a shaft of sunlight coming through the window blinds set her dark hair afire. The collar of her fur coat brushed her cheek, giving her complexion a glow as fresh and delectable as ripe apricots. Stacey had a similar coat, but it turned her complexion the color of cold ashes.

  “Could I have a moment with you in your chambers, Judge Wallace?” she asked politely.

  Needlessly, he consulted his wristwatch. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Actually, I just stopped by to pick up my messages. I’ve got an appointment out of the office for the rest of the afternoon.” Mrs. Lipscomb started with surprise, a dead giveaway that he was lying.

  Alex pondered the toes of her shoes for a moment. “I hate to insist, but I must. This is very important, and I’m anxious to get the investigation underway as soon as possible. Before I can move forward, I need to verify some facts with you. It won’t take very long.” The corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. “I’m certain your cooperation will be appreciated by my office in Austin.”

  Judge Wallace wasn’t stupid; neither was Alex. She couldn’t very well pull rank on him, but she could make him look bad with the Travis County D.A., who hobnobbed with the powers that be in the capitol.

  “Very well, please come in.” He shrugged off his overcoat, asked Mrs. Lipscomb to hold his calls, then followed Alex into his chambers. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  His stomach was burning in the center of his gut like a crashed meteor. He’d drunk two swallows of antacid on his way back to the courthouse, but he could stand another kick. Alex didn’t appear the least bit rattled. She sat down across the desk from him and gracefully shrugged out of her coat.

  “Let’s get to it, Miss Gaither,” he said imperiously. “What do you want to know?”

  Alex opened her briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. Inwardly, the judge groaned. “I’ve read the transcript of Bud Hicks’s hearing, and I have some questions about it.”

  “Such as?”

  “What was your rush?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bud Hicks was arraigned on a charge of first-degree murder and held without bail in the Purcell County jail. His competency hearing was held three days later.”

  “So?”

  “Isn’t that a rather brief period of time in which to weigh a man’s future?”

  The judge leaned back in his cordovan leather chair, which had been a gift from his daughter, hoping to impress the young attorney with his composure. “Maybe the docket was loaded and I was trying to clear it out. Or maybe it was a slack time and I was able to act quickly. I don’t remember. It was twenty-five years ago.”

  She lowered her eyes to the notepad resting on her lap. “You had only two psychiatrists examine Mr. Hicks.”

  “His retardation was obvious, Miss Gaither.”

  “I’m not questioning that.”

  “He was, to put it unkindly, the town idiot. I don’t mean to sound cruel, but that’s what he was. He was tolerated. People saw him, but looked through him, if you know what I mean. He was a harmless fixture—”

  “Harmless?”

  Again the judge could have bitten his tongue. “Until the night he killed your mother.”

  “No jury convicted him of that, Judge.”

  Judge Wallace wet his lips, chagrined. “Of course.” He tried to avoid her level gaze so he could collect his thoughts. “I felt that two psychiatric analyses would be adequate, in this particular case.”

  “No doubt I would agree with you, if the analyses hadn’t been so divergent.”

  “Or, if your mother hadn’t been the victim of the crime,” the judge said, getting in a shot.

  She bristled. “I’m going to disregard that, Judge Wallace.”

  “Well, isn’t that what this is all about? Or do you, for some reason unknown to me, want to question my integrity and undermine a judgment I made twenty-five years ago?”

  “If you’ve got nothing to hide, then you’ve got no reason to believe that your excellent record will be marred by my asking a few questions, do you?”

  “Proceed,” he said stiffly.

  “The two court-appointed psychiatrists disagreed on Mr. Hicks’s mental condition the night of my mother’s murder. This was the glitch that first intrigued me. After calling District Attorney Harper’s attention to it, he agreed that the case should be reinvestigated.

  “One psychiatrist clearly believed that Hicks was incapable of committing such an act of violence. The other said he was. Why didn’t you seek a third, tie-breaking opinion?”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “I disagree, Judge.” She paused a moment, then looked up at him without lifting her head. “You were golf partners with the doctor who ruled in favor of. The other psychiatrist was from out of town. That was the first and only time he ever appeared in your court as an expert witness.”

  Judge Wallace’s face became red with indignation. “If you doubt my honesty, I suggest you consult with the doctors themselves, Miss Gaither.”

  “I’ve tried. Unfortunately, both are deceased.” She met his hostile gaze coolly. “I did, however, consult with the last doctor to treat Mr. Hicks. He says you punished the wrong man, and has given me an affidavit to that effect.”

  “Miss Gaither.” He rose partially from his chair and slapped the top of his desk. He was angry, but he also felt naked and vulnerable. The soft knock on his door was a godsend. “Yes?”

  Sheriff Lambert strolled in.

  “Reede!” Alex wouldn’t have been surprised if the judge had rushed across the room and embraced him. He seemed that glad to see him. “Come in.”

  “Mrs. Lipscomb said you weren’t to be disturbed, but when she told me who was with you, I convinced her that I might be of service.”

  “To whom?” Alex asked tartly.

  Reede sauntered to the chair next to hers and dropped into it. Insolent green eyes moved over her. “To anybody who needs servicing.”

  Alex chose to ignore the double entendre and hoped he would ignore the mounting color in her face. She directed her attention to the judge.

  “Miss Gaither was curious to know why I ruled Mr. Hicks incompetent to stand trial. Since she didn’t know him, she can’t appreciate how easily he fit the criteria of being unable to understand the charges against him and assist in his own defense.”

  “Thank you, Judge Wallace,” she said, seething, “but I know the criteria. What I don’t know is why you made the ru
ling so hastily.”

  “I saw no need for a postponement,” the judge replied, obviously more at ease now that Reede was there. “I told you earlier that most people in town merely tolerated Hicks. Your mother, to her credit, was kind to him. Gooney Bud latched on to her, in a pathetic way. I’m sure he was often a nuisance, the way he followed her around like a devoted little puppy. Right, Reede?”

  The sheriff nodded. “Celina wouldn’t let anybody pick on him when she was around. He used to give her presents, you know, mesquite beans, rocks, stuff like that. She always thanked him like he’d given her the crown jewels.”

  “I figure that Gooney Bud mistook her kindness for a deeper emotion,” Judge Wallace said. “He followed her into the Mintons’ stables that night and, uh, tried to force his attentions on her.”

  “Rape her?” Alex asked bluntly.

  “Well, yes,” the judge said, flustered. “And when she rebuffed him, he couldn’t handle the rejection, and…”

  “Stabbed her thirty times,” Alex supplied.

  “You force me to be insensitive, Miss Gaither.” Joe Wallace looked at her reproachfully.

  Alex crossed her legs. Her stockings made a slippery, silky sound that drew the sheriff’s attention to them. She caught him staring at her hemline, but tried not to let it bother her as she continued to question the jittery judge.

  “Let me make sure I understand. It’s your contention that the murder wasn’t premeditated, but a crime of passion?”

  “As you said, it’s conjecture.”

  “Okay, but for the sake of argument, let’s say that’s the way it was. If Bud Hicks was acting out of extreme provocation, outrage, uncontrollable lust, wouldn’t he have utilized a pitchfork, or a rake, or something else that was handy? What was he doing with a scalpel if he didn’t enter that stable with the intention of killing her?”

  “That’s easy,” Reede said. Alex looked at him sharply. “A mare had foaled that day. It was a difficult birth. We called the vet in to assist.”

  “How? Did he have to do an episiotomy?” she asked.

  “In the long run, no. We were finally able to pull the foal. But Doc Collins’s bag was right there. The scalpel could have fallen out. I’m guessing, of course, but it’s logical to assume that Gooney Bud saw it and picked it up.”

  “That’s a very broad assumption, Sheriff Lambert.”

  “Not so broad. As I’ve told you, Gooney Bud collected all kinds of stuff like that.”

  “He’s right, Miss Gaither,” Judge Wallace hastened to say. “Ask anybody. Something as shiny as a surgical instrument would have attracted his attention the moment he went into the stable.”

  “Was he in the stable that day?” she asked Reede.

  “Yes. There were people coming and going all day, Gooney Bud among them.”

  Alex wisely decided that it was time to retreat and regroup. She gave the judge a peremptory thank-you and left the chambers. The sheriff followed her out. As soon as they’d cleared the anteroom, she turned to confront him.

  “From now on, I’ll thank you not to coach whoever I’m questioning.”

  He assumed an innocent look. “Is that what I was doing?”

  “You know damn well it was. I’ve never heard such a flimsy, farfetched explanation of a murder in my life. And I would eat alive any attorney who attempted to defend a client with it.”

  “Hmm, that’s funny.”

  “Funny?”

  “Yeah.” She was subjected to another sly, arrogant once-over. “I was thinking you were the one who looked good enough to eat.”

  Blood rushed to her head. She attributed it to outrage. “Don’t you take me seriously, Mr. Lambert?”

  His insolence dissolved along with his insinuating smile. “You’re damn right I do, Counselor,” he whispered fiercely. “Damn right I do.”

  Chapter 5

  “Calm down, Joe.” Angus Minton was angled back in his red leather recliner. He loved this chair. His wife, Sarah Jo, loathed it.

  When he spotted Junior standing in the doorway of his den, he waved him inside. Covering the mouthpiece of the cordless phone he whispered to his son, “Joe Wallace is in a tizzy.”

  “Now, Joe, you’re jumping to conclusions and getting upset over nothing,” he said into the mouthpiece. “She’s just doing what she thinks is her job. After all, her mama was murdered. Now that she’s got a law degree and a high-falutin’ job as a prosecutor, she’s on a crusade. You know how these young career women are.”

  He listened for a moment. No longer cajoling, he repeated, “Goddammit, Joe, calm down, you hear? Just keep your mouth shut, and all this will blow over. Leave Celina’s daughter to me, to us,” he said, winking at Junior.

  “In a few weeks she’ll go back to Austin with her tail tucked between her pretty, long legs and tell her boss she struck out. We’ll get our racing license, the track will be built on schedule, you’ll retire with a perfect record, and this time next year we’ll be sitting over drinks, laughing about this.”

  After saying good-bye, he tossed the portable phone onto the end table. “Jesus, he’s a pessimist. To hear him tell it, Celina’s daughter put his scrawny neck through a noose and pulled it tight. Fetch me a beer, will ya?”

  “Pasty’s in the hall waiting to see you.”

  That piece of news did nothing to improve Angus’s sour mood. “Shit. I guess now’s as good a time as any. Go get him.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him. He’s shivering in his boots.”

  “For what he did, he ought to be,” Angus grumbled.

  Junior returned a few seconds later. Pasty Hickam shuffled along behind him, head bowed in contrition, battered cowboy hat in hand. He had come by his nickname by imbibing a whole bottle of Elmer’s glue on a dare. His real name had been long forgotten. The deed must have occurred at some point in elementary school, because Pasty had forsaken education before reaching the ninth grade.

  He’d ridden the rodeo circuit for several years, but never successfully. What purses he won were small, and quickly expended on drink, gambling, and women. His job at the Minton ranch had been his first venture into gainful employment, and it had endured for almost thirty years, a surprise to everybody. Angus tolerated Pasty’s occasional binges. This time, however, he’d gone too far.

  Angus let him stand and sweat for several interminable moments before he barked, “Well?”

  “Ang… Angus,” the old ranch hand stuttered, “I know what you’re gonna say. I… fucked up sumthin’ royal, but I swear to God I didn’t mean to. You know how it’s said that all cats look gray in the dark? Well, damned if it ain’t true of horses, too. ’Specially if you’ve got a pint of Four Roses sloshing around in yore gut.” He smiled, revealing that what few teeth he had remaining were black with decay.

  Angus wasn’t amused. “You’re wrong, Pasty. That isn’t what I was going to say. What I was going to say is that you’re fired.”

  Junior shot up out of the leather love seat. “Dad!” Angus shot him a hard look that quelled any further interference.

  Pasty’s face turned pale. “You cain’t mean that, Angus. I’ve been here nigh on thirty years.”

  “You’ll get fair severance pay—a damned sight more than you deserve.”

  “But… but—”

  “You put a colt into a paddock with ten high-strung fillies. What if he’d mounted one of them? That one from Argentina was in there. Any idea what that horse is worth, Pasty—over half a million. If she’d been injured or come in foal by that randy colt…” Angus blew out a gust of air. “Jesus, I can’t even bear to think about the mess that would’ve put us in. If one of the other hands hadn’t caught your mistake, I could have been out millions, and the reputation of this ranch would have been shot to hell.”

  Pasty swallowed with difficulty. “Give me one more chance, Angus. I swear—”

  “I’ve heard this speech before. Clear your stuff out of the bunkhouse and drop by the office at the end of the week. I’ll have
the bookkeeper draft you a check.”

  “Angus—”

  “Good-bye and good luck, Pasty.”

  The old cowboy glanced plaintively at Junior, but knew before looking that there would be no help coming from that quarter. Junior kept his eyes lowered. Eventually Pasty left the room, tracking mud with each step.

  When they heard the front door close, Junior got up and headed for the refrigerator built into the paneling. “I didn’t know you were going to fire him,” he said resentfully.

  “No reason you should.”

  He carried a beer to his father and twisted off the cap of another for himself. “Was it necessary? Couldn’t you have yelled at him some, taken away some of his responsibilities, docked his pay? For crissake, Dad, what’s an old guy like that gonna do?”

  “He should have thought of that before he put the colt in that pasture. Now, let’s drop it. I didn’t enjoy doing it. He’s been around here a long time.”

  “He made a mistake.”

  “Worse, he got caught!” Angus shouted. “If you’re gonna run this business, boy, you gotta grow steel balls. The job isn’t always fun, you know. There’s more to it than taking clients out to fancy dinners and flirting with their wives and daughters.” Angus took a swig of beer. “Now, let’s talk about Celina’s girl.”

  Junior, resigned to accepting Pasty’s harsh punishment, even if he didn’t agree with it, dropped into an easy chair and sipped at his bottle of beer. “She went to see Joe, huh?”

  “Yeah, and notice that she didn’t waste any time doing it, either. Joe’s jittery as hell. He’s afraid his spotless tenure as judge is about to be flushed down the toilet.”

  “What did Alexandra want with him?”

  “She asked some questions about why he rushed up Gooney Bud’s incompetency hearing. Reede came to Joe’s rescue, which was a smart move on his part.”

  “Reede?”

  “Never asleep at the switch, is he?” Angus removed his boots and dropped them over the padded arm of his chair. They hit the floor with a heavy thud. He had gout, and his big toe was giving him trouble. He massaged it thoughtfully while looking at his son. “What did you think of the girl?”