Fighting for Anna

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Gidget, murdered? A chill came over me. Why would someone poison a sweet, harmless elderly lady? And if it was poison, it couldn’t have been on a whim. Poison took premeditation, and that meant a strong motive. I worried it around in my brain for a second, until I noticed the long silence.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m just gobsmacked. Do they have any suspects?”

  The waitress interrupted us. “Whatcha drinkin’, hon?” she said, smacking a piece of bubble gum. She had peroxide-blonde hair and wore it in a high ponytail that lifted the sagging skin around the edges of her face, pulling it ten years tighter.

  “Iced tea, please.”

  “Sweet or unsweet?”

  “Un.”

  “You doing the buffet?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  She blew a bubble that quickly popped, then nodded, tapped her order blank with a pencil, and said, “Be my guest.”

  I eyed Ralph’s Corona Light. “Oh, and a rocks margarita.”

  “You got it.”

  The buffet was enormous. One island for hot dishes: red, green, and white enchiladas, crispy beef tacos, fajitas, tamales, beans, rice, and queso. Another for salad and an entire three-cart string of desserts. I made it back to the table a full five minutes before Ralph. He had a plate in each hand and nothing green on either, except verde sauce and a small square of Jell-O nearly obscured by the mountain of whipped cream three times its size and dripping down its edges. He didn’t show any ill effects from the way he ate, though. His waist and hips were trim with no paunch. Possibly due to the well-worn New Balance running shoes on his feet.

  “Word is you put Gertrude’s eyeball back in her head as good as Dr. Miller could have.”

  I laughed. “Sounds like word gets around.”

  He bit into a crispy beef taco, the shell breaking and crumbling, and juice dripping down his fingers. He nodded, finished chewing, and said, “It does, especially when we have a famous author—heck, a celebrity—move right into our midst. But me, well, I’m just an old landman, retired. I don’t know much except what other people tell me.”

  I sipped my margarita through a straw. It was yummy. Having lived in Texas all my life, I was very familiar with landmen. They are the people who do the acquisition of subsurface mineral rights from landowners for oil and gas exploration, so that whatever company they represent will own any minerals they find in the ground. “Did you work around here?”

  He chased another bite with some milk. “For near to fifty years.”

  “That’s impressive. And you’re a runner.”

  He dipped his head. “Yep. How’d you guess?”

  I chewed some of my salad before I answered. “The tan line on your forehead, the shoes, and the fact that despite how much you eat you can squeeze between the booth seat and table.”

  He laughed. “Thank you.”

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. I finished my salad and moved on to tamales with meat gravy. They were moist and delicious.

  I paused between bites. “I’m still in shock that Gidget may have been murdered. She’s the reason I asked you to get together, of course.”

  Ralph shoveled in a forkful of enchiladas smothered in sour cream and cheese, then swallowed the bite whole. “That’s what your email said. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m hoping to get in touch with whoever is in charge of her estate. Family, if she’s got it, or—” I shrugged. “Anyone.”

  He pointed a thumb at his chest and took a bite of a sopapilla.

  “You’re family? I didn’t know you were related to Gidget.”

  He put the back of his hand against his mouth, talking as he chewed. “Nah, I’m the independent executor for her estate. Or her will, I mean.”

  “Is there any family?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “So you’re the one I need to ask about Gertrude.”

  “What about her?”

  “I have her. I need to know what you’d like me to do with her.”

  He set his fork down, and the rice he’d just dipped in chile con queso fell off onto his plate. “I was gonna call you anyway. Not about Gertrude, but about writing Gidget’s story. That really meant a lot to her—the thought of somebody helping her get it all down on paper.”

  “Yes, I could tell.”

  “After she met with you, I helped her gather her thoughts a little. She didn’t tell me her whole life story—we weren’t that close—but from what I know of it, she’s had a tough time.”

  A possible source of information. “Did you make notes?”

  “I wish we had.” He worked his rice back onto his fork. “We didn’t know we were going to run out of time.”

  The bald statement made my eyes sting. And to learn that there was no documentation was a blow. “I heard that she was dumped here penniless after spending most of her adult life in Houston.”

  “Yep. Of course, I only got to know her because Jimmy came to me. I guess you could say she hit me up first about her story, but I wasn’t what she had in mind. Then you came along.”

  A man stopped at our table, his thick, short body and dark aura familiar.

  “Deputy Vallejo, good evening,” Ralph said.

  The street clothes—jeans, roper boots, and a snap-front western shirt—had camouflaged Tank.

  “Ralph, good to see you.” Tank squinted at me. “Ms. Lopez, isn’t it?”

  “Michele Lopez Hanson, yes.”

  One side of his mouth puckered. “I hear talk that you’re poking around into Gidget Becker’s affairs.”

  “I’m not—”

  “If you were from around here, you’d know we don’t take kindly to folks compromising our investigations. Since you’re not, consider this your warning.”

  “You’ve got the—”

  “Have a nice night.” He nodded at Ralph and slipped through the tightly clustered tables away from us, without listening to my reply.

  “—wrong idea.”

  Ralph shook his head. “That boy has always been a hothead. Don’t let him get to you.”

  “He’s unsettling, that’s for sure.”

  Tank was leaning over a table, handing something to a man across from him. The man was several decades older, with darker skin but lighter hair by virtue of age. I drained my margarita with a few hard pulls on the straw.

  Ralph followed my gaze. “That’s his grandfather. He raised Tank. He’s about Gidget’s age, I’d guess.”

  “I wonder if he knew her.”

  “Hard to say. She left so long ago, she wasn’t much more than a tall tale to most folks.”

  “I guess she must have been in pretty rough shape when she got back.”

  “That’s true. Jimmy—he was friends with her back in the day, helps her out some—”

  “Oh, I’ve met him,” I muttered.

  “—says she’d improved a lot. It was her neighbor Lumpy that discovered her, though.”

  “What do you mean, ‘discovered her’?”

  “He saw signs of life at her old family place and dropped in. Said she was confused, couldn’t even figure out how to use her phone. Was talking nonsense. That the place was filthy and she didn’t have any food.”

  “She could have died.”

  “And probably would have. Gidget calls her former business partner “the crook.” Seems to be some real bad blood between them, and I got the impression getting dumped out here had something to do with him.” He tossed a few bites into his mouth and swallowed. Kind of like an overage frat boy with a beer bong.

  “But she never mentioned anyone besides this partner? No family? No friends?”

  He grunted an “uh-uh,” not bothering to stop eating this time. He scooped up the last of the refried beans on his plate then scraped up a little bit of the sauces and juices that had run together and added them to his mouth. He had four times as much food as me, and I was only half done. He turned to his dessert selections: pan dulce, arroz con leche with cinnamon, and lemon pie w
ith an enormous meringue.

  “You need another ’rita, Miss?” The gum-popping waitress stopped, hip jutted out, small drink tray overhead.

  “Um, no, thank you.”

  Ralph held up a finger. “I’ll take another beer.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Then Ralph shocked me by pausing with his fork poised above the plate. “That little dog saved her, you know.”

  It was my turn to talk with a full mouth, and I put my hand over it. “What do you mean?”

  “Jimmy gave her the pup a few years after she came home. After that, he said every time he went over there, a little bit more of the old Gidget was back.”

  So Jimmy had a greater claim to the dog than I did, although she clearly hated him, so I wasn’t going to feel guilty that I was exercising squatter’s rights. And Ralph’s explanation about Gidget and Gertrude made sense. Many studies showed that people who lived alone fared much better, both mentally and physically, if they had an animal companion.

  “How long had she had her?”

  “Well, I can’t say for sure, but as long as I’ve known her, which is over a year.”

  “What do you think will happen to Gertrude now?”

  He twirled his fork in his rice pudding. “Either someone will offer to take her, or she’ll end up at the pound.”

  I shook my head so hard, I flung my hair in my face. “I want her.” The dog had already made my life less lonely. Like she’d done for Gertrude.

  Ralph beamed and gathered up a nice big bite of lemon meringue pie. “That would be just great.” He chased his pie with some rice pudding.

  I beamed back. “Thank you. Oh, and Gidget gave me a big box of her old photographs and stuff when we met. I still have it. I was supposed to use it to help me in writing her book.”

  He nodded. “Good, she has loads more where that came from.” There was a dab of meringue from his lemon pie beside his smile.

  “So, you still want me to go forward with the book?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “It was her last wish, after all.”

  The project made no rational sense, yet I’d so desperately wanted to hear those words. Tank’s dark face flashed in my mind. To hell with Tank. This wasn’t any of his business, and I wasn’t interfering in their investigation. I was fulfilling Gidget’s last wish.

  Ralph pushed his plate back with two bites of pie still on it and patted his stomach. “What brain cells she didn’t fry doing drugs in the seventies and eighties weren’t helped by whatever was wrong with her health. There may be nothing at all to her story. Then again, she’s generated some pretty interesting rumors over the years. You never know.”

  “You never know,” I repeated, although it didn’t matter to me. I wanted her story for me and for her. If anybody else read it, that would be the cherry on top. “Can you give me access to her place so I can make copies of things?”

  “No problem. One thing, though, her attorney called me today. He’s giving me a copy of the will tomorrow. I don’t know who’s going to inherit, but he helped her with it. He’s a good guy. I sent her to him. If anything changes, I’ll let you know.”

  “Sounds good.” I took out my wallet and a credit card. “Now, you came because I asked you for help, and I’m picking up dinner.”

  He grinned. “Well, why didn’t you tell me that on the phone? I would’ve picked somewhere a little fancier.”

  I laughed.

  ***

  When I opened the door to the Quacker, Gertrude shot out like a musket ball from a rifle. Apparently she was rather excited to see me. That, and she had to water the plants. I stood with the door open, waiting for her. I remembered what the heat would do to the air conditioner, but only after it shut itself down.

  “Oh no.” My voice sounded whiney, and I couldn’t afford the emotional dip. I was about to get on Skype with the kids and Papa. Luckily, I’d stopped at Tractor Supply to get some small fans on my way home, so I could keep air moving, at least. Think positive.

  Gertrude scrambled inside. I plugged one fan in on each side of the trailer and turned both on high. Sweat ran down my torso within minutes. I lifted my hair off my neck, catching a whiff of myself as I did. I needed a shower, but first I had to set up the group Skype, and if I was going to be on time, I’d have to hope the laptop gods would intervene to accelerate the start-up sequence. Five minutes later, I answered the call, which I was supposed to have initiated; one of my eager-beaver, tech-savvy kids beat me to it.

  I heard voices and laughter before I saw faces. It was so good to hear them that my heart hurt, both with the good kind of pain that comes from loving, and the bad kind from missing, like with my mother and Adrian.

  “Mom, where were you?” Sam asked, and Annabelle said, “I thought I was the one who was always late.”

  Papa said, “Hello, Itzpa.” He had become so frail, so quickly, after my mother died. His almond-colored skin sallowed and his clothes hung from him, but tonight his eyes were less glassy. More clear and attentive. Beside him on the screen, Sam was a two-generations-diluted version of his grandfather. With skin a bare shade lighter, Sam’s dark hair had the sun streaks that Papa’s used to get when he worked outside.

  “How’s baseball camp?” I asked.

  “It’s super awesome being a counselor. All the kids think I’m awesome. Terrence is a counselor, too, and he treats me so awesome,” he said, referring to an older kid he’d lifeguarded with at the pool near our Houston home, “like I’m his age or something. It’s like, I don’t know, super awesome.”

  We all laughed.

  “You are super awesome,” I said. “And Belle, what about you? Are you settled in?”

  A face appeared behind her blonde poufy halo of hair. Jay, her boyfriend. He was a good-looking young man with a buzz cut orangish from constant chlorine exposure. He waved at me.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hanson.”

  “Hi, Jay.”

  Annabelle wrinkled her pert nose with its light dusting of freckles, and her green eyes shone. “I moved in and we started summer school classes today, or whatever, and I had my first practice with the team. No coaches because it’s summer, but everybody’s getting together for workouts and stuff.” She giggled. “It’s super awesome!”

  “Ha ha,” Sam said.

  We continued chatting. The kids were high-spirited and mostly oblivious to Papa and me. When they had finished telling us about everything that was super awesome, I asked, “Okay, you three, so who’s coming to visit me first? I could use a support team for my bicycle race this weekend.”

  Annabelle said, “Jay’s taking me to see Luke Bryan, or I would totally come.”

  “So, Belle will be shaking it for the catfish way down deep in the creek. She’s out. Papa?”

  Papa frowned. “You know how it is in the summer.” His practice partner still had kids at home, so Papa covered most of summer weekends. Suddenly, I remembered I’d posted a message looking for my brother that morning. I wanted to tell Papa about it, but now wasn’t the time.

  “And you already know I can’t come because of camp,” Sam added.

  “Convenient excuses, all of you,” I said. “But that’s okay. I have friends who will be there.”

  Annabelle piped in, “That guy Rashidi who’s been texting you?”

  You could have heard a pin drop until Sam and Papa exclaimed, “What?” at the same time.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I held one hand up in the stop gesture.

  Annabelle said, “So, is he coming or not?”

  “He lives in St. Marcos. You know, the island? Across the ocean.”

  “That’s not an answer,” Annabelle pointed out.

  “Did I tell you I’m writing a book? It’s about the woman who died Sunday.”

  “Don’t try to distract us, Mom.” Sam scowled at me.

  Papa nodded. “They’re smart kids, Itzpa. Answer the question, or we’re going to think you’re hiding something from us.”

  Sam crossed his arms. Ann
abelle crossed hers, and then Papa wiggled his eyebrows and crossed his arms, too.

  “He’s going to be in College Station,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean anything. He’s a friend of Katie’s.”

  “It’s okay with us.” Annabelle smiled to match her halo, small and sweet. “You should be happy.”

  I couldn’t be happy without Adrian, just less unhappy, and none of them understood that. I didn’t expect them to, so it was okay.

  Papa nodded, his face thoughtful. “It’s time, Itzpa. It’s time to live again.”

  The kids started bobbing their heads, too, but I shook mine. “I’m not discussing this.”

  Papa smiled and held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

  We rung off with an agreement to Skype again the following Monday and stay in touch in the meantime. My software made the signing off noise three times—one for each of them—leaving me alone again. Gertrude hopped up beside me and put her head on my leg. Well, not completely alone. I stroked underneath the soft hair hanging over her eyes, and she wagged her ragged tail.

  “What are we going to do, girl?” I asked Gertrude. “It’s only eight o’clock.”

  She kept wagging her tail and watching me, expectantly, as if I was going to answer the question for her.

  “Fine. I have an idea.” I jumped up and made a cold compress and held it on her eye, ignoring her chuff, while I let my mind float freely. It settled on an appreciative thought toward my new roomie. “Thank you for not pushing me about Rashidi.”

  Gertrude wiggled out from under the compress to lick me.

  I tossed the wet gauze toward the sink. It almost made it. The fans had done a good job, but it was getting pretty hot. I shooed Gertrude down and lifted our seat. There was another breaker panel, just like Jimmy had said. And one switch in the off position. I snapped it into place. I left the seat up and tried the AC switch. It roared to life, and I shut the seat.

  “Hallelujah.”

  Gertrude jumped back onto the cushion. I joined her, and without consciously making a decision, my fingers found the keys of my laptop and took me to the dashboard of my blog. Although I tried to forget it most of the time, I did have one, forced on me by Juniper’s former publicist, an evil witch named Scarlett. I’d barely done anything with it, but her firm had posted as me to promote My Pace. I poked around the admin area a little. The PR firm had built up quite a following. Thirteen thousand people, strangers with an interest in triathlon. Or Adrian, more likely.