“And I own property in Lee County. What of it?” I shot back, before Greyhound could shush me. He laid a hand over mine.
The sheriff held up a “stop” hand. “We’d be willing to write in a couple of exceptions on the geographic restrictions.”
Greyhound looked at me and then back at the sheriff. “I don’t like it. When you end up looking like the jackass to the public, that I mentioned you resembled earlier—”
I couldn’t help myself. “I believe you said horse’s ass, Greyhound.”
“You’re right.” He grinned. “The horse’s ass. For hurting a nice woman who happens to be a public figure, it’s going to be really bad for reelection, and if you ever want a job outside of Lee County, even worse.”
“Sounds like you’re threatening me, old friend.” He paused, but Greyhound just held eye contact with him without changing expression. The sheriff stood up. “She should pay me for this. Isn’t any publicity good publicity?”
“Maybe if you’re running for sheriff in Lee County,” I said. “But not if you use your good name as credibility for the nonfiction books that you write.”
He grunted. “Here’s my final offer. How about you, Ms. Hanson, sit down with my deputies every other day, starting today, and share with them all that you’ve uncovered in the research you’re doing for the book about Ms. Becker.”
“Is that what this is about?” I frowned. I already had been sharing. I’d told Tank and Junior all about the cup and stir stick and everything else. Well, not everything else. Especially not after today. “All you had to do was ask.”
“I’m asking now.”
“If I say yes, I can leave with Greyhound, and I won’t be charged with anything?”
“That’s correct.”
“And my name isn’t going to be in the papers tomorrow because you guys hauled me in here under arrest?”
The sheriff rubbed one cheek, like he was checking his stubble. “I am terribly sorry, but I’m not in control of the press in Lee County.”
Greyhound squeezed my arm. “I’ll make some calls.” He stood, and I did, too. “That’s it, right?”
The sheriff walked out without answering him, and Tank filled the bluster vacuum left behind. “Things aren’t as formal here as in the big city.”
Greyhound put two fingers in the center of my back as we exited. “That is an understatement of epic proportions.”
Half an hour later—after I’d finished debriefing Tank and Junior—Greyhound and I loaded ourselves in his black Porsche Cayenne with its GRYHND vanity plates, and he started it up. “How about we go grab a cup of coffee before I take you home?”
My stomach growled loudly. “Make it dinner and you’ve got a deal.” I thought back on the unopened cheese and sausage in my purse. “I haven’t eaten anything in”—I counted back—“twelve hours. And I started the day with a six-mile run.”
He shuddered. “Why would you go and do something crazy like that?”
When we were seated in the tiny Giddings Buffalo Wings & Burgers, I placed a hasty order at the counter. A dozen wings and blue cheese. Large fries. An iced tea. I felt qualified for the 5150 burger tonight, but passed even though a half ground-beef, half ground-bacon burger sounded pretty darn good. Another time. Greyhound ordered a coffee.
He set his glasses on the table and they went skittering across it and into my lap.
“Where’d you get the nickname Greyhound?” Obviously, it wasn’t because he was sleek, fast, or graceful.
“Rode up to my first law school class in a Greyhound bus.” He harrumphed. “It made a lasting impression.”
I laughed.
“We need to talk.”
I handed him his glasses. “Uh-oh.”
I was not in great shape for more bad news, and probably past being able to hide it. My mother had conducted herself according to her belief that emotion made others uncomfortable. Making others uncomfortable was bad manners. Thus, emotions were bad manners. I’d resisted her logic all my life, but now, I found myself turning to her guidance. I needed my mommy. I cast my eyes down so Greyhound couldn’t see my tears. I pretended to be busy with some Splenda packets.
When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “You’ve inherited quite a mess.”
I nodded, afraid to speak.
“The contest of the will you already know about. The hearing should be soon. I feel confident we’ll be successful with my testimony about Gidget’s mental capacity, but Attorney Little claims to have a witness on the ground up until Gidget’s final days.”
I blurted out, “What do you mean, witness on the ground? She had someone here spying for them?” My anger helped me put aside my other, messier emotions for a while.
“That would be the conclusion I’d draw.”
“Those bastards.”
“I’ll have to testify, and I’ll call Ralph and Jimmy. It may delay probate some.”
“Fine. As long as Gidget’s daughter gets what she’s entitled to.” My voice only cracked a little.
“If there is a daughter.” He cleared his throat. “Little claims the pipeline contract is valid regardless of whether their will is upheld or ours is. She said that Lester had authority to enter contracts on Gidget’s behalf under the power of attorney she gave him. I filed for a temporary injunction against the pipeline and the Houston Arts Trust, but it’s possible Little will succeed on this point.”
“The POA is rotten.” I couldn’t argue with his logic, but I knew in my gut that Lester had taken advantage of Gidget.
“Probably, but hard to prove.”
If Greyhound and I put our heads together, I felt sure we could find something to discredit his version of events. Even though I’d given Greyhound the brief version at LCSD, I told him the story from beginning to end now, about Lester, Diana/Darlene, and Scarlett.
“Do you think we can we fight it with any of that information?”
“It’s promising for casting doubt. Even better if someone would testify Gidget didn’t execute the power of attorney until after the aneurysm. Or that she was incapacitated with substance abuse issues when she did it.”
“I’ll circle back with Darlene Hogg.” I took a sip of my water. “She’s not going to like hearing from me, but that’s tough.”
A waitress appeared with my food. She looked like the young mother I’d seen in the library with her twin boys. I dug in without so much as a thank-you.
“She’s crazed.” Greyhound explained to her. “Hunger.”
The woman shook her head as she left. “Been there myself.”
Greyhound reached for one of my fries, knocking the ketchup over. I caught it in my left hand. “There’s more, unfortunately. Attorney Little told me she has a client who’s filing an injunction to keep you from writing the book. She promises that if you do write it, and it ends up mentioning her client, they’ll sue.”
I stopped chewing and spoke through a mouthful. “What? Isn’t all publicity good publicity?”
Greyhound sipped his coffee, swirled it in his cup, and sipped again. I held both hands out, loose and ready, just in case, until he set his cup down. “The funny thing is that potential defamation is not a winning argument. There’s been no harm. And there’s absolutely no proof that you have, will get, or will use information that’s not true. I have to warn you, though, the downside is that without Gidget here to prove her side of the story, you’re vulnerable later. I recommend you get corroboration knee-deep for anything you write.”
“I would’ve anyway.”
“Excuse me.” A very young male voice interrupted us. Adult, but barely.
We turned toward him. He was skinny and pimply with horn-rimmed glasses and a big cowlick in the front of his short dark hair. He had on country professional attire, which meant his Dickies khakis had creases in them, and his shirt had a collar.
“Yes?” Greyhound said, his voice polite but disinterested, like he expected the young man to launch into a Jehovah’s Witness pitch.
&n
bsp; “I’m wondering if I might have a word with the two of you. I’m with the Giddings Times and News. I wanted to follow up on Ms. Hanson’s arrest earlier today for the murder of Anna Becker. Any comments?”
My mouth flew open. My tension meter skyrocketed to redline in a tenth of a second. I was ready to lash this pip-squeak with my tongue. Luckily, Greyhound beat me to the punch.
“Young man, your name?”
He puffed his frail chest. “Brett Upton, reporter.”
“May I have a card?” Greyhound held his hand out. His voice was velvety smooth.
The pip-squeak blanched. “Uh . . . I didn’t bring them with me. Uh . . .”
Greyhound’s expression seemed like one a mountain lion would make, right before pouncing on an injured Bambi. “That’s all right, son. Ms. Hanson and I won’t be making any comments other than she has been released with no charges filed and is pleased that the sheriff’s department recognizes that she had absolutely nothing to do with Anna Becker’s death.”
The young man turned to me. “Would you—”
Greyhound shook his head, putting a hand up. “I said that would be all. Have a nice day.”
Thank God for Greyhound. Anything I could have said in my current state would have only made things much worse. I grabbed a wing. I needed to polish them off before they got cold.
The young man shuffled away.
Greyhound called after him. “Oh, Mr. Upton?”
He turned back, bright-eyed. “Yes?”
“I wanted to caution you about what you and the Giddings Times and News print about Ms. Hanson. Do you know who I am, son?”
The young man shook his head. “Ms. Hanson’s husband?”
I gasped, dropping a wing back on my plate and splattering buffalo sauce on my filthy linen top. My filthy, ruined linen top.
Greyhound grew somber. “Oh no. Ms. Hanson’s husband died a year ago. Murdered. Which you would have known if you’d Googled her right quick before you accosted her for an interview. That’s the minimum I would have done if I were a professional journalist.”
Red crept up the cheeks of Brett Upton. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I dipped my head to acknowledge his apology.
Greyhound beamed at the terrified reporter. “I’m Greyhound Smith. Are you familiar with that name, Mr. Upton?”
All the red drained from the reporter’s face as quickly as it had appeared. He licked his lips, swallowed, and nodded. “Everybody knows who you are, sir.”
“I expect they do. So, when I tell you that you should be very cautious about what you print about Ms. Hanson, do you understand what I mean? Do you fully understand?”
“Oh, yes, sir.” Upton straightened his collar, then his shoulders. “Thank you, sir.” He fled out the front door.
Greyhound raised his eyebrows. “Some bastard in here called the paper.” His eyes roved the room looking for signs of conspiracy.
That or Greyhound’s vanity plates facing the main drag gave us away.
I glanced after Upton. A beige Land Rover was parked near the street, empty, in the lot that serviced only the stand-alone restaurant. My pulse accelerated, and I glanced around us, looking for a light-skinned, dark-haired, medium-height man. I saw three of them. All were eating alone, and they ranged from Annabelle’s age to mine to Greyhound’s. And a fourth one was walking to the parking lot: Upton.
The hairs on my arms stood at attention. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten the Land Rover. Then again, my afternoon had gone downhill fast and hard. And even though this beige or taupe or tan or whatever it was Rover was parked here, that didn’t mean it had to be the one—or one of the ones—I’d seen earlier. Or that it was following me.
Didn’t mean it wasn’t, either. I grabbed my glass and gulped a large drink.
Greyhound helped himself to another of my fries. “That kid’s going to be way too scared to do you damage.”
Upton drove away in a red Prius. That left the men in the restaurant. None of them were watching me. Maybe because none of them were following me?
“Michele?”
I shook my head to clear it. I couldn’t let myself drop my basket for the second time in one day. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
Chapter Twenty
Greyhound dropped me off at my Jetta. The sun was setting, and the entire western sky was orange and pink through the trees behind the house. A forest ablaze. Gertrude met me at the gate, her nose and paws covered in dirt. Our yard, behind her, looked like a prairie dog town. Just then, Gertrude stiffened. She ran with her nose to the ground, then stood with her head low, quivering. After a few seconds, she readjusted her position and started digging frantically.
“No!” I cried.
She stopped mid-dig, posed. It took me a second, but I realized she was digging for moles. That she had actually heard the little tunnelers underground. When I didn’t repeat myself, Gertrude started digging again.
“No, no!”
She backed away from her site, dirt clumps falling out of her facial hair.
“Good girl!”
She wriggled her long body toward me, gecko-like. I swept her into my arms, dirt and all, but I held my face away from her attempts to slather it in kisses. I squeezed her, and she grunted. I was relieved to see that her water bowl was still in the shade and over half full.
I hefted Gertrude onto my hip and walked to the door. It was slightly ajar, and I jumped back from it like it was a copperhead. I pivoted around to call out to Greyhound, but the Cayenne was three-quarters of the way to the road and kicking up dust. I shouted and waved but it did no good.
“Will this day ever let up on me?” I set Gertrude on the ground. “Not good. Not good at all.”
I got my phone out, considering a call for help. But for what? For all I knew, I’d forgotten to lock the door, and it had popped open when the AC cycled on. Gertrude had been here, and she didn’t seem concerned. And who would I call? Ralph was out of town. I didn’t know anyone else. Well, Lumpy or Jimmy, maybe. Maggie wouldn’t add any muscle unless she brought firepower. I was outside the city limits, which meant the sheriff’s department would respond if I made it official. No, thank you.
So I decided to check it out first. I wanted a weapon, and the shotgun was leaning against the wall in the bedroom. The trees in the yard had flimsy branches that would be worthless. I settled on the Jetta’s tire iron. I tested it in my hand. If someone was in the house and meant me no good, it would do.
I walked back to the house, reassuring myself. If anyone had been in there, the Cayenne pulling up had surely alerted them. They’d’ve hightailed it. I threw the door open. It banged against the wall inside. I quickly stepped in, looking around for movement, stopping to listen for the sound of footsteps, a window, or the back door. But it was completely silent. Even Gertrude, at my feet, seemed to be holding her breath.
“Hello?” I called.
Gertrude huffed. No answer. Like anyone would, if they were hiding in the house. Jeez, Michele.
“Whoever you are, I’ve dialed 911 so this is your last chance to take off.” I hadn’t, but they didn’t know that.
Still nothing. The house was quiet as a grave except for the brushing of Gertrude’s fluffy tail as it wagged against the floor. I stomped around the house, slamming and bumping into things to make noise. When I got to the bedroom where the safe was, I stopped in my tracks. New cutting wheels and a fresh pile of metal filings lay on the floor. Ants crawled all over my body, and eyes bored through the back of my head. I whirled, slapping at my arms and legs. No one there. No ants. But someone had been here. Moving faster, I tugged on the safe door—still locked–checked the closet in there and in Gidget’s room, then rushed into the bathroom and flung back the shower curtain.
Nothing. At least, nothing else.
Except that I’d only checked the house. I fished my phone from my purse and typed in 911. Armed with that and the tire iron, I took off for the barn, leaving Gertrude closed in the yard.
She informed me it hurt her feelings, but I blocked her out. About the time I yanked the sliding door open, I remembered the shotgun in the house. A flock of bats erupted past me with an explosion of wings and the stench of urine. I screamed for long seconds until my voice cracked, and I ran out of breath. The bats were gone. I poked my head into the barn. I could see no one, and if they were hiding in the loft, then good on them. I’d run out of desire to sleuth about ten thousand bats ago.
I leaned against the outside wall of the barn and stared at the sky. I was an idiot. What was I doing living out here alone, not even smart enough to grab the perfectly good gun sitting beside the bed?
Someone had been here, trying to get into the safe. Probably the same someone as before. Could it be the beige-Land Rover guy? Had he followed me all the way home today? Or followed me from home this morning? Maybe we’d seen him at dinner, but he could have been out here earlier. While I was in custody. He could have gone to the wings restaurant for nothing more than food. Or to terrorize me.
It could be him.
Or it could be anyone.
I stood, brushing the dirt off the back of my pants. The outfit was history, kaput. My phone dinged, and I glanced at it, then did a double take. I hadn’t checked my messages since—well, since sometime earlier that day. Probably not since the parking lot of Catalina Coffee. God, was that only today? It felt like a week ago. I had eighteen texts, four voice mails, and fifty-seven emails.
The most recent message was a text from Papa: “Hope you haven’t caught anything but animal pictures on your wildlife cam.”
The wildlife cam! Papa had put it in the side yard where it would catch the front and back of the house. I sprinted to the yard, vaulting the fence. I popped the camera cover open and ejected the memory disk, leaving the cover ajar in my rush. Fearful and excited at the same time, I ignored Gertrude dodging in between my ankles and got my laptop out of the Jetta. I opened it on the front hood and pushed the disk into its slot. The photo software started importing the pictures too quickly for me to see the images. When the import had finished, I clicked to save them on the disk, in case anything went wrong, and started scrolling through them.
Fighting for Anna Page 22
