by Sandra Brown
Unwilling simply to wait for whatever happened next, she decided to pay a visit to the sheriff’s office and see if there were any concrete answers to be had. However, to salve her conscience, she had stopped at the cemetery first. Delray’s grave was disturbingly fresh, but the flowers were beginning to wilt in the unbearable heat. She suggested to David that they divide them among Grandpa, Grandma Mary, and Daddy’s graves. “Don’t you think Grandpa would like to share his flowers with them?” she asked. Sullenly, David nodded.
The task took the boy’s mind off Jack temporarily, but Anna’s was spinning around the question of whether or not Jack could have done what the authorities obviously suspected him of doing.
They wouldn’t have come for him unless they believed he was responsible. Did they have evidence linking him to the poisoning? How could he have done something like that? And for what reason?
She searched for a possible motive, but came up empty.
Jack had looked her in the eye and denied the accusation, but was he lying? Ordinarily she could read people very well. Had her attraction to Jack blinded her? Had she missed something in his face, his eyes, his mannerisms, that would have signaled an unsavory inner character?
If he were completely innocent, why had he acted so skittish when Ezzy Hardge came to the house last evening? As soon as she identified the caller at the door, Jack had told her he had things to do and had left through a back door.
She had hoped he would return after Ezzy left. She had hoped they would resume what had been started before the former sheriff’s inopportune visit. She had hoped Jack would kiss her.
Last night when she finally gave up hope of Jack’s returning, she had resented Ezzy’s bad timing. Perhaps it had been a blessing. It might have prevented her from becoming involved with a man who was cruel, heartless, and devious enough to poison a rancher’s herd.
But she couldn’t believe it of Jack Sawyer. She wouldn’t believe it until he confessed it to her. She wanted to ask him point blank if he had done this horrible thing, and if so, why. She wanted to ask him herself while looking into his eyes. She wanted to know. She had to know.
But the clerk at the reception desk in the sheriff’s office was being uninformative and inflexible. He was polite but firm in refusing her and David’s request to speak to Jack, telling them only that Jack Sawyer was unavailable, and that he didn’t know for how long he would be held.
She also got the distinct impression that he was talking down to her because of her handicap. She had written everything out on a notepad, not wanting to rely strictly on David’s interpretation for something this important. The man spoke to her as he would to a child—a child who wasn’t very bright.
On her pad she wrote, “I don’t wish to press charges against Mr. Sawyer. Not until I’ve spoken to him and am convinced that he’s guilty.”
“It’s not for you to say, Mrs. Corbett.”
“But it was my cattle,” she wrote. “My father-in-law chose to handle the incident himself.”
“Don’t matter. If Sawyer broke the law, it don’t matter none what you want to do about it. The state’ll prosecute him.”
Her usage of English was far superior to his; that made his condescension even more infuriating. He used an incoming telephone call as an excuse to tell her that she would be notified of any progress on the case. He suggested that she “go on home now”—“like a good little girl” being implied. Then he started speaking into the phone and ignored her as though she weren’t there.
Anna left, practically having to drag a protesting David along with her. Outside, the heat was intense, but she stood on the sidewalk and considered what to do next. There seemed to be nothing she could do for or about Jack Sawyer. David was cranky and whiny. A long afternoon spent trying to entertain him in his current frame of mind held no appeal. A movie? She checked her wristwatch. Too early even for the matinee showings. Lunch? Still too early.
As Anna glanced up and down the street indecisively, something caught her eye. She had seen it before, of course. But now it leaped out at her like a gaudy neon sign, luring her inside. Giving David’s hand a firm tug, she marched smartly down the sidewalk.
The shop was cool, quiet, and well maintained. Keeping a close eye on David to see that he didn’t meddle with the expensive merchandise, Anna shopped the new generation of cameras and lenses.
The store had opened several years ago. Anna had been curious about it, although until now she had never ventured inside. She had barely allowed herself to glance at the display windows, fearing the temptation would be too strong to resist.
Because it was the only store in Blewer that specialized in photographic equipment, the inventory was extensive and pricey. The array of gadgets and accessories was mind-boggling. She longed to test the cameras locked inside the glass display cases, but knew they were priced well beyond her budget. Until she was earning some money with her photographs, she must be content with her outdated equipment.
Her only purchase was a few rolls of black-and-white film and a recently published book on technique.
“… have to send that film off to be developed,” said the man attending the cash register. She hadn’t caught his first words. “Can’t get black-and-white film developed anywhere in Blewer any longer.”
She nodded.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before. I know most of my customers.”
She motioned David over and signed for him to explain to the man that she was deaf. When he did, the man wasn’t embarrassed or put off as people frequently were. He didn’t look askance and stammer an apology. Instead his face lit up around a broad smile.
“What’s your name? You aren’t by any chance Anna Corbett?”
Flabbergasted, she smiled and reached across the counter to shake his hand.
“Pete Nolen,” he said, grinning from jug ear to jug ear while he pumped her hand. “I’ll be switched, if this doesn’t beat all. Wait’ll the wife hears. Always wanted to meet you and thought I’d never get the chance. Come over here.”
Rounding the counter, he guided her toward a wall where dozens of framed photographs were on display.
“Here you go! Right there!” He tapped a black-and-white enlargement of a photo Anna immediately recognized as one of her early works.
Making certain she could see his lips, he explained. “A year or so ago I was trying to sell some new equipment to the photography department up at the junior college. Spotted this hanging on the wall and thought it was excellent. I asked the professor if he knew the photographer, and he told me about you. About you being deaf and all? He said it was a shame you quit school, ’cause you had more talent in your little finger than most of his students could ever hope to have. It took some persuading, but I came away with this picture.”
He gazed at the photo with obvious appreciation. The subject of it was an old house. It stood in silhouette against the overexposed western sky at sunset. It could have looked foreboding, except that light shone through every window and projected soft pools of it onto the front porch.
“It just says ‘home’ to me, ’cause I grew up in a farmhouse that looked about like that one. It’s been on this wall ever since I got it. People respond to it. Relate, you know? It gets a lot of comment. I could’ve sold it a hundred times over, but it’s my only Anna Corbett, so I wouldn’t part with it. You ought to do more work.”
She lifted the sack containing her purchases and shook it slightly.
He caught her meaning and grinned even wider. “Good! I’d like to see ’em when you shoot ’em.” He plucked a business card from his wallet. “Number’s right there. Here and home. You need anything in the way of supplies, call me. Or if you just want to talk photography, I never tire of the subject. Can’t tell you how pleased I am to finally meet you, Mrs. Corbett.”
* * *
Emory Lomax belched into his white paper napkin, wadded it up, and tossed it down onto the bone pile that had formerly been a slab of baby bac
k ribs. “Was I lying about the food? This boy knows ribs, doesn’t he?”
There were three of them, Connaught and two vice-presidents, sharing the booth with Emory. Connaught and one of the flunkies sat facing Lomax, while the third shared his bench.
So uptight they squeaked when they walked, they murmured agreement that it was indeed superb barbecue. Playing his role of host to the hilt, he signaled the waitress and ordered another round of longnecks. Usually he didn’t drink anything stronger than iced tea at lunch, but this was a special occasion. Beer wasn’t a very sophisticated beverage. Not like the martinis and single malts they were probably accustomed to. But beer went with barbecue, and he had brought the suits to the best barbecue shack in East Texas.
They had flown up from Houston in a sleek company jet that looked like something the villain of a James Bond movie would use to flit around Europe. Emory picked them up at the Blewer County Municipal Airport, which was a clearing in the middle of what was, essentially, a cow pasture without the cows. It was nothing more than a buckled runway, a rusty tin hangar, and a cramped office with a couple of fuel pumps out front.
“This is one of the first things we’ll need to revamp,” Emory remarked as he escorted them to his car, his pride-and-joy Jag. “As soon as Phase One gets underway, I see us modernizing this airport for the weekenders flying in. What do you say?”
Taking their cue from Connaught, the other two nodded in sync like a duo of puppets, which was the manner in which they acknowledged almost everything. They were tight-lipped and noncommittal, but Emory wasn’t put off. He understood. It was SOP. It was the way moguls conducted their business affairs. There was a lesson to be learned from them.
Now that they’d finished eating, Emory sensed their impatience. Connaught occasionally would glimpse disdainfully at the jukebox, which had blared forth throughout their meal. He also gave the extravagant, diamond-studded gold timepiece on his left wrist a frequent glance. As soon as the waitress transferred the four frosty longneck beer bottles from her tray to their table, Emory got down to business.
“It’s sewn up. The Corbett place is as good as ours. As long as Delray was dying, he couldn’t have picked a better time.” He shot them smiles all around. “Meaning no disrespect, of course.”
“What about Mrs. Corbett?” one of the puppets asked. “Did she inherit?”
“Everything.”
“Isn’t that a problem?” Connaught asked. “You told me she was as set against selling as her father-in-law.”
Emory leaned back and stretched his arm along the back of the booth. “That might have been the case of the matter as long as he was alive. Honor thy father-in-law. She didn’t want to cross him.”
“But you believe she’ll come around now?”
“I’m sure of it,” he replied with a casual confidence. “How’s she going to run that ranch alone? She can’t. She’s a deaf mute. Won’t take long for her to see the light. Give her a week, two at the outside, and she’ll realize there’s no way she can handle it. And of course”—he paused to insert a chuckle—“I’m going to be right there reminding her of all the hardships she’ll face if she tries to go it alone. I’ll be encouraging her to sell before y’all change your minds and start looking for another property.”
The suit across the table from him pushed his untouched beer aside. “What makes you think you wield any influence over her?”
“Well, there’s the note the bank’s holding. I can use that as leverage. Then she’s already had that one scare with the herd.” Snickering, he added, “There could always be another unfortunate mishap.”
“Is this Mexican of yours trustworthy?” asked the man sitting beside him.
“Long as you pay him, Jesse Garcia would screw his own mother with twelve people watching.”
“You’re sure the poisoning can’t come back to you?”
“Absolutely. In fact, even as we speak, somebody else is being booked for the crime.”
He saw no point in telling them about the worrisome hired hand, who was too cagey- and competent-looking for Emory’s comfort. His first impression of the cowboy was that he was an arrogant son of a bitch who might go poking his nose into other people’s business. Emory couldn’t risk having anybody around Anna Corbett undermining the sound advice he was going to be giving her. He needed to be rid of the hired hand.
And then there was Garcia. Despite what he had told them about the Mexican, he made Emory nervous, too. What if somebody offered him more than fifty dollars to finger the person who had hired him to poison the salt lick in Corbett’s pasture? It wasn’t the Mexican’s standard practice to rat out his clients, but who knew? He might be having a bad year and need the money.
So what had Emory done? He had conveniently taken care of the two niggling problems at once. As the banker whose collateral was in jeopardy, he had called the sheriff’s office and shared with them his concerns about the senseless killing of valuable stock and the coincidental hiring of a new hand. They had assured him they would check into it.
As easily as that, he had removed himself from the poisoning by casting suspicion on someone else. The sheriff’s office would be occupying the cowboy while they conducted an investigation. It could take a long time. Time in which Emory would work on Anna without interference.
It was goddamn brilliant if he did say so himself.
“Trust me,” he said, “I’ve got all the bases covered. Garcia is a genius. I’ve even thought about using him again. Anna Corbett dotes on her kid. Which opens up several avenues of possibility. For the right price, I’m sure Garcia could get real creative.”
The three men from EastPark exchanged an uneasy glance. Noticing it, Emory quickly added, “Of course I’d rather not apply that kind of pressure. That would be a last-resort tactic, to be used only if absolutely necessary, and only after discussing it with you beforehand.”
“We hope you understand, Mr. Lomax,” one of the veeps said, “that if your name is ever connected to a crime, EastPark will disavow all knowledge of it. We never sanction criminal activity.”
Bullshit. Connaught probably conducted a handful of criminal activities before breakfast. Emory knew it, and Connaught knew that he knew it, but Emory agreed. “Of course. I’m just talking off the top of my head. Most of these options won’t be exercised. What I’m counting on most, what will be most effective, is our personal relationship.”
As hoped, that piqued interest. You could practically see Connaught’s ears pricking. “Your personal relationship with whom?”
“Mrs. Corbett.”
“I wasn’t aware you had one.”
Emory lowered his arm from the back of the booth and shrugged self-consciously. “I didn’t want to let on about it. In case y’all misinterpreted my interest in the project. I pride myself on keeping my business affairs separate from my personal life. But from both points of view, I think Mrs. Corbett—Anna—will be making a mistake she’ll regret forever if she declines your offer. I’ll hammer that point home. If she won’t listen to me as a financial adviser,” he said, winking, “I’ll simply have to use some other form of persuasion.”
Again the men exchanged concerned looks. “Mr. Lomax, the laws on this type of land acquisition are very strict. Furthermore, they’re carefully monitored by the federal government.”
“I’m well aware of that, yes,” Emory said, pulling a somber face.
The suit sitting next to Connaught said, “It’s imperative that you keep your involvement with us separate from your responsibilities at the banking institution with which you are affiliated.”
Who did these assholes think they were talking to? Emory Lomax knew the rules of this game; he’d been playing it for years. Although miffed by the implied insult to his intelligence, he maintained his solemn, obsequious expression. “Of course. That’s been understood from the beginning.”
“It’s even more important that nothing unethical or, God forbid, immoral—”
“Hey, y’all!�
� Emory interrupted, holding up both hands. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Reducing his voice to an undertone, he leaned across the red plastic basket in which his order of ribs had been served. “It’s not like I need to seduce the woman. Anna is… Let’s see, how can I phrase this delicately? Since she’s been deprived of normal language skills, she’s found another way to communicate. Get it?”
“You’re saying that the two of you already have a relationship of an intimate nature?”
Emory was fed up with the high-flown language. “No, what I’m saying is that I’ve been fucking her for a couple of years now. Almost to the day I started handling their accounts. At first I thought the old man was slipping it to her. That’s what the gossips said and, as far as I know or care, they were right. But she came on to me something fierce, so I thought, hell, why not? I’m single. She’s a knockout. And…” He inched forward as far as the booth allowed. “Know the best part? She can’t talk. Now, I ask you, is that a dream fuck or what?”
That drew a smile even from iron-ass Connaught.
Emory said, “Stand by for further developments, gentlemen. Should be in the bag any day now.”
That brought the meeting to a close. Emory left enough cash on the table to cover four rib dinners, eight beers, and a miserly tip. Back-slapping and glad-handing his guests to the door, he repeatedly assured them that he had the situation under control, all the while springing gushers of sweat from his armpits and wondering how in hell he was going to make good these boasts.
He was so preoccupied with his dilemma he didn’t notice the diner seated back-to-back with him in the next booth.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When family and friends paid compliments to her photography, Anna had dismissed them as biased. But Pete Nolen’s opinion of her work was valid. He was a professional who could differentiate good work from bad. He had understood exactly what she was trying to say with that photograph of the farmhouse. Of course Jack—
