She tilted her head, then laughed. “Oh yeah. I nearly killed myself keeping up with you.”
“I’m glad it was hard for you, too, at least.” I motioned toward the house. “Come on in. Gidget left it a bit of a mess and I’ve made it worse, but there’s coffee and AC. Do you want to bring your dogs in?”
“Sit,” she called to them. They ignored her. “Janis, sit.” The smaller of the two dogs sat. “Woody, sit.” The second dog sat, as well. “If I ever start letting them out, they’ll always want to. Consistency is how I get them to stay put. But thank you.”
As we entered the house, I saw it for what it was—a dirty, unlikely hiding place of museum-quality art. “Sorry for the mess,” I said.
Maggie’s mouth gaped. “The art.”
“Spectacular, isn’t it?”
“Unbelievable. Is it yours?”
“Looking that way. Want a curated tour?”
I walked her through the house, sharing the information I’d gleaned during my art inventory and saving Gidget’s bedroom for last. Like me, those were her favorite pieces.
“If you ever want to sell this one, let me know.” She pointed to Front Porch Pickin’, which depicted a guitarist. It was melancholy and joyful at the same time. “I can’t believe I’ve been living this close to this house and had no idea her work existed. I didn’t even know she was an artist. I met her once, you know.”
“Out here?”
“No, about fifteen years ago, in Houston. I played an event at her gallery. She was fascinated with my last name, and it turned out she knew my parents. I never saw her again, although I’ve heard about her from the locals. My shop is a gossip magnet.”
“I saw it yesterday. Do you live there, too?”
She followed me back into the kitchen. “Yep. My record label went belly-up, and the owner gave me the place in lieu of payment on my last album.”
“You’re a musician?” I poured two coffees.
She bobbled her head. “Not professionally anymore. I blew it all on coke—I mean that literally. Everything. My career, my relationships, nearly my life. Came out here broke and alone. Learned I had a knack for junking. I’ve scraped by without having to sell my dogs, my truck, or my guitar, and I like the area. I grew up in La Grange, and my parents are getting older. It’s nice being close, but not too close.”
I handed her coffee. “Wow,” I said, at a loss for anything else.
She laughed, a deep-throated, rumbly sound. “I get that a lot.”
Now I laughed.
She pitched her voice to a high, squeaky tone and mimed holding a phone to her ear. “Have you heard about Maggie Killian, former darling of the Texas music scene and biggest screw-up this side of Lindsay Lohan?” She blew on her coffee then spoke in her normal voice. “Now I just get high off the paint thinner and varnish and the occasional tin cup of whiskey.”
I kept my face neutral, but I realized I’d heard of her. Ten years ago, she’d been a rising star. More like a shooting star. She’d gone down fast and faded out. But here she was, and she looked healthy, happy, and beautiful. “Good for you. I love your truck.”
“Bess. She’s awesome.” She sipped her coffee, then stopped, inhaling it deeply, a sensual appreciation. “I get a booth twice a year at the Warrenton/Round Top antique shows. That’s where I really make a killing. Have you been to the shows?”
I didn’t want to tell her that shopping wasn’t my thing and that anything crafty was even less so. “Not yet.”
“HGTV-obsessed urban women by the thousands flock to ’em in a buying frenzy so they can make their new city homes look more like old country ones.”
I blurted out my first thought. “Sounds like Hades to me.”
“It is. I just try to smile a lot, scan the credit cards quickly, and keep my mouth shut.” She set her coffee on the kitchen counter. “I get most of my junk these days from estate sales. The nearer they are, the cheaper for me. So, I run a clipping service online, looking for mention of estate or probate in the area.” She grinned. “I’m always on the hunt for window frames, doors, mantels, slabs of wood, furniture, old metal, windmill pieces, and car parts, especially trucks. That’s how I found you. Trolling for dead people. Sounds pretty smarmy, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds smart.” I took a sip of my coffee. “So you saw I’m inheriting this place.”
“I did, and I’d love to go through your barn, make you an offer if I see anything my buyers would like. There’s things in the house I could offer on, too, if you’re willing.”
For a moment I was taken aback, but then again, she was a junker, and direct. I liked direct. “Be my guest.”
“I’d like to be the first one you let through, too.”
I thought about the competitive woman in the pool. Of course she wanted to be first in. “No problem. Want to take a peek now?”
“I’d love it.”
We walked out, releasing the dogs to come with us. Gertrude strutted in front of the goldens, showing off her place. I rolled one side of the barn doors back, and Maggie drew in an excited breath.
“A treasure trove.” She strolled through, trailing her fingers over things, stopping to admire others. “Someone’s already been here picking?”
“What?”
“You’ve already had someone through?”
“No. I’m basically the only one in here since Gidget died. She had a guy who helped her around the place some. Jimmy Urban. But I don’t think he took anything.”
“Someone has.” She showed me dusty outlines and disheveled trails through the hay on the floor.
“That’s disturbing.”
A man’s voice interrupted us. “Hello? Michele Lopez Hanson?”
Maggie and I looked at each other.
My mouth turned downward in annoyance. I glanced toward the voice. It wasn’t the Internet guy. “Yes?”
“I’m Gerald Cooper from Cypress Surveying. The guy on the roof said you were out here.” He walked toward me, arm out, card in hand.
I took it. “That was quick.”
“The guys called me right after they talked to you. They said you claimed to be the person living on Anna Becker’s property in Lee County. I was in the area, so I decided to drop by.”
“Not claiming.” I heard the edge in my voice. “I actually do live here.” I gave him the short version of my tenancy and inheritance.
Maggie touched my elbow. “Excuse me, y’all. Michele, do you want me to step out?”
“How about you come back later this week? This may take a while.”
She frowned, disappointed, then reversed it and nodded. “I’ll be in touch. Great meeting you.”
“Sounds good. You, too.”
Maggie whistled for her dogs. She walked out, hips slinging, and Gerald tried to hide the fact that he was ogling her. I would have, too, in his place. Ogled and tried to hide it.
When she was gone, I resumed. “Help me understand.”
He leaned against the gate to a stall. “We were retained by Lonestar Pipeline.”
Ding, ding, ding. A bell of recognition went off in my head. Lonestar Pipeline, as in HOU-TO-AUS LONESTAR PIPELINE, the sign on the neighbor’s fence, and the one I’d heard about in town. “And how does this affect me?”
“Well, according to my contact, the attorney for Ms. Becker’s estate granted permission to run the pipeline across her place.”
I’m a little teapot, short and . . . angry. Water started to boil inside me. Greyhound had given permission for Lonestar to run the pipeline here? That’s why surveyors had come today? But he knew I was inheriting. If this happened before Gidget died, he should have told me. If it happened after, he should have let Ralph handle it, and Ralph should have asked me. Ralph. Ralph was a landman. Doubt rippled through me. Could he have a hand in this?
The pressure built inside my kettle and steam whistled through the spout. “Greyhound Smith?”
“Not him.”
“Ralph Cardinal?”
&nbs
p; “No, I think it’s a woman.”
“Can I get the name, please?”
“Um, I’ll have to get back to you with that.”
“Please do.”
I followed him out, dispensing with pleasantries. I was pissed. When he’d driven away, I hit Ralph’s number in recents. Voice mail answered, and I closed my eyes. “Call me. It’s an emergency.”
A low-rumbling growl at my feet made my eyes pop open. Gertrude was standing beside me, watching Gerald’s truck as it turned onto the road.
“Exactly how I feel, girl.” And inside my mind, Itzpa stretched her wings, flexed their knife tips. Only she looked exactly like Tlazol. I felt a surge of something elemental, vital. “And when I find out who’s behind this, they’re not going to like me very much.”
Chapter Fourteen
Greyhound’s secretary transferred my call to him as I marched toward the house, my pulse a military cadence.
“Greyhound Smith speaking.”
Innocent until proven guilty, innocent until proven guilty. “This is Michele Lopez Hanson. There are pipeline surveyors here on Gidget’s property today. They said Gidget agreed to let them route the Houston-to-Austin pipeline across her place, and they have permission to access the property from ‘her attorney.’”
“Not from this one. What’s going on?”
The whistling slowed to a hiss. I started from the beginning and told Greyhound the whole story. I gave him the contact information for Gerald Cooper.
An intercom buzzed. I couldn’t understand the first word she said, but then heard “Herrington here for you, Greyhound.”
“I’ve got a client here, Michele, but after that, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
We hung up. I set the phone down on the couch beside me and drummed my fingers. Was this Herrington Boyd or one of his relations? It was mind-blowing that a man of Greyhound’s connections represented Gidget. That Ralph knew him in the first place to refer her. He seemed a couple of rungs higher on the food chain than either of them. I sagged back against the couch cushions, putting the back of my hand against my forehead. I felt a little feverish.
Not now, I said to my immune system. Do your job.
I looked around. I’d had more people through this place in the last few days than in the last year in my Houston house. It was in shambles, and it was time for me to quit blaming Gidget. I went into the kitchen and started washing the dishes by hand, making a mental note to go get the coffee cup I’d left outside, later. I was putting up the dishes after drying them when someone knocked on my door. Again.
It was the installer. I’d forgotten he was here. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to come back later this week. I don’t have a part I need.”
Four hours. Four hours and now he doesn’t have a part? My smile hurt. “So, no Internet for me?”
He shuffled his feet. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll call you when the part’s in.”
There was nothing to be done. I shut the door behind him, leaning against it. The feverish feeling increased. My phone dinged. I went to the coffee table and picked it up. Ralph. Good. I needed answers from him.
“Family emergency. Driving to El Paso. Granddaughter coming to live with me for school year. Can you cover for me with Gidget’s estate for a few days? Very sorry.”
Now didn’t seem like the time to grill him about whether he’d had anything to do with Lonestar Pipeline sending surveyors out to Gidget’s place.
“No problem,” I typed.
His personal situation sounded dicey, but my throat constricted anyway. My little internal kettle had boiled up all its water, and it was time to take it off the burner. Meanwhile, Brian had emailed for help with the quarterly Archery Collector’s Edition. He’d given it to a junior editor, and it had come off the rails, big time.
I needed free Wi-Fi and a change of scenery. The library promised sanctuary, and after I grabbed coffee and a Voodoo Burger from 290 Grind, I fled for the Giddings library. I spent the rest of the afternoon there, trying to hold myself steady and get work done, only leaving when a librarian I didn’t recognize needed to lock up. As I drove home eating the other half of my burger, chips, and fruit, I passed by Jimmy Urban’s chicken farm. He was sitting on his front porch, drinking something out of a Mason jar. He lifted a hand, so I waved back. I made the left turn on the road leading to Gidget’s place, lost in thought about the pipeline and who I could trust. I didn’t see the deer jump out in front of the Jetta until it was too late. I slammed on the brakes and braced for an impact, but it didn’t come. The deer bounded into the woods on the other side of the road, unscathed.
Gasping for breath, I put my hand over my throat. My heart hammered into my palm. I had to get myself together. Right now that meant focusing on my driving and getting home alive. I eased off the brake and put my quivering hands on the wheel. I looked both ways, half-expecting a herd of deer now, but I was alone.
That was not the case when I got back to Gidget’s, however.
***
There was a Lee County Sheriff’s Department Tahoe parked at the house, with no one in it. Gertrude met me at the gate, which I hit at full speed. She looked sad, like she’d failed me somehow. I didn’t slow down to console her. I opened the front door so hard that if the window hadn’t already been broken, it would have shattered then.
Tank and Junior were in the kitchen. Both had on gloves, and they were bagging and stashing items in a large black satchel. The residue of black fingerprint powder was everywhere and the cabinets were all ajar. The drawers were open and half of their contents set out on the counters. So much for cleaning up earlier today.
Tank’s hand went to his holstered gun. Junior took a step back, farther into the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
Gertrude skidded to a stop beside me, and I slammed the door.
“You first,” Tank said, and tapped the badge on his chest.
“I’m renting the place from the estate. Which you’d know if you’d sought permission to enter.”
“Aren’t you lucky.” He ignored the bit about permission.
I scowled at him. “I’m paying rent. And you may recall I’ve inherited it.”
“I recall.” He crossed his arms. “I wonder if you’re as surprised as you claim to be about that.”
“Oh, please. Now it’s your turn. What are you doing here?”
“Ms. Becker’s death was officially ruled a homicide. We have a crime scene to process.”
“Do you have a warrant?”
Tank used a singsong voice. “It was open. Front door was ajar. We had an obligation to make sure everything was okay. We didn’t know anyone was living here.”
Liar. I fumed. Well, anything they tried to use would be inadmissible. Their problem, not mine. “You’re gonna find my fingerprints all over everything and probably about eight or nine other people, too. I’ve been sleeping in her bedroom and showering in her bathroom. I’ve touched everything in the house, because I did an inventory for the estate. I’ve even given the barn a pretty thorough going-over.”
Tank and Junior looked at each other. Tank looked disgusted. Junior looked concerned.
“And you guys better not have bagged up any of my things.”
“How are we supposed to know what’s yours or hers?”
“I think it’ll be pretty easy to tell. I’m the forty-year-old who brought a suitcase with brand new things and a laptop. Everything else is hers.”
Junior nodded. “If it’s yours, ma’am, you’ll get it back.”
“Wait a second.” I grasped the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Weren’t you guys already out here once to collect evidence?”
Tank’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t process crime scenes when there’s no crime.”
“Don’t take offense,” I said. “It just looked like you had when I moved in.”
Tank sneered. “Did you see crime scene tape anywhere?”
I sighed. “You�
��re making this so difficult.”
“And you’ve been messing with our crime scene.”
“I live here.” I laughed with no mirth. “And you just told me it wasn’t a crime scene until now.”
“How convenient for you.”
“You’re missing my point, Deputy. I saw things here on the day Gidget died that weren’t here when I moved in. The back door was unlocked, and someone had tried to break into Gidget’s safe.”
Tank dropped an evidence baggy into their satchel. “It’s only your word about any of it.”
“I didn’t move the things I saw. Ralph didn’t. I asked Jimmy Urban about them, and I don’t think he did. So, if you guys didn’t, then who did?”
Gertrude tiptoed to the other side of the table and put her feet on the chair. Tank didn’t seem to notice her. She gave the satchel a good sniff. Junior looked at me, then the dog, then back at me.
Chapter Fifteen
After the deputies left, I locked the doors and jumped in the shower. I felt dirty. Even if it was the cops, having someone in the house without permission gave me the willies. When I had washed the feeling away and was in a clean T-shirt and shorts, I checked my phone. Brian had emailed me around six thirty. It was seven thirty now.
Emergency meeting tomorrow about the Archery Collector’s Edition. Can you be here at 8? I know that’s early, but I need you to carry the ball.
I had a voice mail, too. I’d turned my ringer to silent while I was in the library, then forgotten to turn it back on again when I left. It was from Greyhound. I pressed play.
“A Houston attorney just filed a protest to Gidget’s will. I’m guessing she’s the same one that gave the pipeline the go-ahead. Her name is Nancy Little, and she’s claiming to be Gidget’s attorney and to have a will. I gave her a call. I’m going to send you the rest of this electronically. Also, I tried to get ahold of Ralph, but he hasn’t called me back. If you talk to him, let him know.”
I stared at the phone. My stress meter ratcheted up, up, up. I didn’t want to read this email. I didn’t want to deal with this issue. I got up and got a glass of water and took several long swallows. Finally, my brain had enough oxygen to process thoughts. What bastardo was contesting Gidget’s will and trying to block her last wish? I felt a cleansing rush of adrenaline and anger. What pendejo would send pipeline people here? I wanted to bash some heads. I felt ready for Greyhound’s email and pulled it up.
Fighting for Anna Page 17
