Mel’s grin died. He thought of the claim that Kitt had borne Cal’s child. He said, “What about Trina Gilroy?”
“I called the constable in Bee Tree. He’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. I fed him a line and he took it.”
“And?” Mel prodded.
“Gilroy was born and raised in Crystal Creek, never finished school, married young. She moved to Bee Tree fourteen years ago. Only job she’s ever had is driving the school bus. She was never a nurse in Dallas or anywhere else.”
Mel felt a deep, secret jubilation at this news. Trina Gilroy had never held that baby in her arms. That baby, he was certain, had never existed except in the woman’s malicious imagination.
“Why the curiosity about Gilroy?” DeJames asked. “I thought you said she was a waste of time.”
“Just double-checking,” Mel said. “She had nothing.”
“You sure?” DeJames sounded disappointed.
“Absolutely.” He fingered the cassette tape. “I stopped taping her after five minutes,” he lied. “She’s a nutcase.”
“Well,” DeJames said philosophically. “I tried. You can never tell.”
“That’s right. Thanks, Big D. Can you connect me with Fabian?”
“He’s feeling bad. He’s not taking business calls.”
Mel ground his teeth. Fabian was always feeling bad. He had serious health problems, and his chronic ailments caused much of his waspishness. “This is an emergency. Tell him to disobey the injunction and get somebody to shore up that dam, pronto. Or it could cause him big trouble.”
“His engineers have guaranteed him that dam will hold. You know that.”
“Tell him to get a second opinion fast. It is, I repeat, an emergency.”
“I’ll do what I can,” said DeJames. “But no guarantees.”
When Mel hung up, he picked up the cassette tape and tapped it against his palm. He didn’t want DeJames to know about it because he didn’t want Fabian to know. In a mean enough mood, he might use it, for spite if nothing else. Mel decided he needed to protect Fabian from himself. He was almost sure that everything Trina Gilroy had said was false. But why had she done it? Money? Malice? A combination of both?
She had claimed that Nora had blackmailed Ken Slattery into marriage—most certainly another lie. Yet, he’d like to know more about Nora and Ken, to judge for himself. And he’d also like to know why Trina Gilroy so hated these people—including Kitt Mitchell.
Kitt Mitchell. He wished like hell he could get her off his mind. He couldn’t. He touched his mouth, remembering her kiss. Keep your distance from her, he warned himself. But he wasn’t sure he could do that, either. Not sure at all.
AT NOON Kitt found the Longhorn packed.
Disappointed, she supposed she’d have to go back to the hotel pub, which was never as crowded. Here, every seat was filled.
But then she saw an opening—only one.
Mel Belyle sat a table for two in the far corner, his head bent over a folder. He held a mug of coffee.
Her stomach took an odd, swooping dip. Both her legs went strangely jelly-like. A faint but pleasant humming filled her head, blocking the hubbub of voices in the room.
The last time she’d seen this man, she’d ended up in his arms. Not only that, but she’d enjoyed it shamelessly. If she had any discretion, she’d turn and flee.
No. He’d like that. Discretion wasn’t the better part of valor. She would march right up to him as if she was unfazed. She was not some fainting maiden to be fended off by a kiss.
Kitt collected herself, squared her shoulders, and thought, No guts, no glory. She made her way through the maze of full tables, smiling and greeting people. Then there she was in the back corner, standing across from him.
He didn’t look up. “Hello, Mitchell,” he said, resignation in his voice.
She was taken aback. “I didn’t think you saw me come in.”
“I didn’t,” he said in the same tone. “I felt it.”
“Are you saving this seat for someone?” she asked.
“Only my own privacy,” he said. He finally glanced up and the deep blue of his long-lashed eyes jarred her, as always.
“Odd to try to preserve your privacy in the busiest spot in town,” she said lightly. “The truth is nobody wants to sit with you. Right?”
“Think what you like,” he said.
She thought that there were people who would sit and gladly talk business with him, all right. They just wouldn’t do it in public. Ralph and Gloria Wall were in the café, and so was Bubba Gibson. Each carefully avoided looking Mel’s way.
“May I join you?” she asked, pulling out the empty chair.
He slapped his folder shut so she couldn’t see its contents. “Didn’t I warn you not to follow me?”
“Who’s following? This is the only free seat. You joined me in a crowded restaurant in Dallas.”
He sighed in resignation. “I was under the mistaken impression that you were a normal human being.”
She sat down. “I never had such delusions about you.”
“Remember what I said about your smart mouth?” he asked.
Her face burned at the recollection. For a moment she relived the sensation of his lips on hers, his arms enfolding her body. But she lifted her chin in disdain. “You overestimate the power of your hot lips. I’m still talking.”
He gave her a look that clearly said, Maybe I’ll have to see what I can do about that. It gave her that odd, fluttery feeling in her stomach, but she forced herself to speak as blithely as possible. “So—what did you spend the rest of your morning doing?”
“Losing you,” he said. “And you?”
“An interview,” she answered. She didn’t add that it had been a highly unsatisfactory interview. “And what brings you to the Longhorn? For a guy like you, isn’t this slumming?”
“Hiya, sweetie. Welcome,” Nora said as she swooped Kitt’s side and set down a mug of coffee. She placed a steak and salad before Mel. Then she put one hand on her hip and looked down fondly at Kitt. “Half a turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich, just like old days? Lettuce, tomato, dill pickle?”
“Exactly,” Kitt grinned. “I can’t believe you still remember.”
“Coming over tonight?” Nora asked. “I’ll make pizza, just the way you like it.”
“I’d love to. But I have an appointment with—” Kitt saw the naked curiosity in Mel’s eyes and caught herself. “I have an appointment at six. I might be late.”
“So we’ll eat late,” Nora said. “No problem. Give me a call when you’re on your way.”
“Is that an open invitation?” Mel asked, startling both women.
Nora’s blue eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“I asked if the invitation to your place is open. I know I’m a stranger, but Kitt and I have been getting to know each other—” he gave Kitt a look freighted with meaning “—better and better.”
Clearly he’d flustered Nora. Kitt was both appalled and intrigued by his boldness. Nora looked at her for guidance, and Kitt raised her eyebrows and gave a helpless shrug that said I have no idea what to tell you.
Nora, ever resilient, recovered herself. “You’re welcome to join us,” she said. “But it won’t be anything fancy, I’ll warn you.”
“There are better things than fanciness,” Mel said, gazing at Kitt.
Nora, watching, smiled an odd little smile. “About eight o’clock? Can you make it by then, Kitt?”
“I—I think so,” Kitt said, trying to read the look on Mel’s face. She saw conflict in his eyes, as if contrary emotions warred deep within him.
“Nora!” Bubba called loudly, “Hey, girly—I need more coffee.”
“Duty calls,” Nora said. “So I’ll see you both tonight?”
“I’ll be there,” Mel assured her.
“Absolutely,” Kitt answered. But as soon as Nora had scurried off, she clenched the edge of the table and leaned across it. “You’ve got your
nerve,” she accused. “What do you mean, inviting yourself like that?”
He ignored her tone and cut into his steak. “You asked what I was doing in the Longhorn. I’m not slumming. I wanted to check the place out.”
“Why?” Kitt demanded. “Does Fabian want to buy it, too? Is that his secret desire? To get away from his vaults of money and become a fry cook?”
He tasted the steak. “Mmm,” he said with an approving tilt of his head. “Good. This is a busy place. Your cousin must work hard at it.”
“My aunt,” she corrected. “She does work hard. Too darn hard.”
“She doesn’t seem old enough to be your aunt,” Mel said. “Excellent food, though. I can see why this place is an institution.”
“And why do you want to come to Nora’s house?”
“I have my reasons,” he said with his old maddening vagueness. “Now, you tell me. Who are you going to see at six o’clock?”
“No comment,” she replied with satisfying malice. “And I know better than to ask where you’ll be spending the afternoon.”
“Very good,” he said. “You’re catching on.”
“And how will you make conversation at Nora’s?” she challenged. “Since you make a career of never saying anything?”
“That,” he said, “you’ll have to wait and see. By the way, why did you leave high school here and transfer to Stobbart in Dallas? Just a few weeks into the new school year?”
She straightened up and felt herself go pale. “No comment,” she said, again using his own line against him.
“Okay,” he said. “I won’t push you on the subject. If you’ll do a little something for me.”
Her head jerked higher and she eyed him with suspicion. “What?”
“Let me take you to Nora’s tonight. You ride out there with me—and back.”
She straightened in her chair, her face suddenly wary. “Why?”
He looked at her steadily, as if drinking her in. “The truth is I don’t know why,” he said. “I guess I want to find out.”
CHAPTER TEN
KITT’S AFTERNOON PASSED in a jumble of frustration.
Mayor Douglas Evans postponed his appointment for two days. This both worried and puzzled Kitt.
When she’d phoned Evans from New York, he’d seemed friendly, eager to talk. Now she sensed he was dodging her. But why? What had changed? Was Mel Belyle the one who changed it?
Dan Gibson, Bubba’s nephew, politely declined an interview. He and his wife didn’t like being in the public eye, he said. He wished Kitt luck, but had nothing more to say.
Lynn McKinney Russell also declined to talk. “I don’t completely agree with Daddy on this subject,” she said over the phone. “I don’t completely disagree, either. It’s best I don’t speak out. I might say the wrong thing and hurt him. I love him too much for that.”
Blood is thicker than water, Kitt thought with resignation. Especially McKinney blood.
She had hoped Dr. Claire Turner, the pediatrician, would give her the viewpoint of a newcomer to Crystal Creek. But no, the good doctor said, very nicely. She wasn’t an expert on the town, and she’d liked to stick to what she knew: doctoring. She was pleasant, but firm.
Kitt sighed and scratched the woman’s name off her list. She was going to have to count on Howard Blake.
REVEREND HOWARD BLAKE HAD AGED WELL, thought Kitt. The blue eyes still sparkled, his bass voice was just as thrilling, and he was still strong enough to give her a bear hug in welcome.
Now they sat in the Blakes’ cozy living room, drinking ginger ale.
“So people don’t have much to say to you, eh?” he asked. He was settled into the big, flowered sofa, his latest fox terrier asleep in his lap.
Kitt shook her head. “Nobody was discourteous. It was just clear—they weren’t comfortable talking to me.”
Howard settled his glasses more firmly on his nose. “That doesn’t surprise me. And it won’t surprise me if J.T. won’t open up. He’s a very private man. He’d rather that the lawyers did the talking.”
“The problem is that lawyers talk lawyer-talk,” said Kitt. “I want to hear people talking people-talk.”
He smiled at her. “My dear, you’re a woman of the world. Surely you understand that you’re not an ordinary listener. You’re a reporter. For a national magazine. It makes people nervous.”
“Does it make you nervous?” she asked, hoping he would say no.
“Yes,” he said wryly, “it does, I’ll admit. We’re not sophisticated folk here. Nobody wants his or her words distorted by the media.”
“I wouldn’t distort,” Kitt said. “It’s not my way.”
“I know it isn’t,” he said. He leaned sideways and tapped the magazine rack. It was neatly filled with back issues of Exclusive. “I read your pieces,” he said. “They have integrity—because you do.”
She smiled, touched by his compliment.
“But even the honest press can beget monsters,” he said. “You know that.”
“Will you talk to me?” she asked.
His face went solemn. “I’ll answer as frankly as I think seemly,” he said. “I’d like to speak under anonymity—”
“That’s easily arranged,” she said.
“—but it wouldn’t be right. A minister shouldn’t speak his opinion if he’s afraid to put his name to it.”
The unvarnished honesty of the man made her feel chastened. She had bent the truth lately—only a little, here and there. But Howard Blake was a man who would never do so.
“I should have known you’d say that,” she murmured.
“Do you want to use a tape recorder?” he asked. “I don’t mind.”
“I’d like that, yes. I was going to ask you.” She took the recorder from her backpack, switched it on and set it on the coffee table between them.
She took a deep breath, then said, “Reverend Blake, the Texas media’s heard about the Concerned Citizens’ side of the controversy. But few people outside the county have heard about townsmen who take the other side. There are such persons, aren’t there?”
He nodded. “Yes. There are.”
“Which side are you on?”
“I haven’t taken sides,” he answered. “I have parishioners in both camps. I don’t want people to think the church is endorsing one view or the other. I don’t want to polarize folks.”
“I know why people don’t want Bluebonnet Meadows. But why are some people in favor of it? What do they have to gain?”
He smiled, as if he knew her question was falsely naive and that she didn’t fool him. “Ah, my girl,” he said. “What do you think?”
“Profit,” she said. “There’s money to be made. Certainly by property owners. That’s clear. A man like Bubba Gibson could be a millionaire, many times over.”
Howard nodded and petted his sleeping dog. But he said nothing.
Kitt continued. “And the merchants here would profit if Bluebonnet Meadows is built. Crystal Creek has seven thousand residents, right?”
“Seven thousand and fifty-seven,” he supplied.
“A thousand new families would mean a lot of new customers for people like Ralph Wall,” Kitt said. “For the grocery stores and the bank. For the hardware store and beauty shops and restaurants—”
“Including the Longhorn,” commented Howard.
Kitt nodded reluctantly. Nora already had as much business as she could handle. What would she do with more? Expand? Or stubbornly keep the Longhorn as it always had been?
She pressed on. “A thousand new families would make huge demands on the water and power companies. On the schools, the hospital, the fire department…”
“True,” the minister agreed. “And those families would also pay the taxes to upgrade the very same things.”
“Right,” Kitt said. “And there’d be more construction, more jobs. That could be good. This town has hardly grown in twelve years.”
“It’s a hold-out,” Howard Blake said, watching he
r expression closely. “The Hill Country around Austin is transforming. Every day. But not Crystal Creek. It’s resisted change.”
She asked him the question that was at the heart of the story she must write. “Yes. It’s resisting change. Is that good or bad?”
He picked up his glass and swirled his ginger ale so that the bubbles danced. “That, my dear, depends on your perspective.”
A fruit bowl sat on the coffee table. He took an orange from it and placed it on the latest copy of Exclusive magazine. He said, “On one hand, we have a beautiful countryside, a slow-paced and old-fashioned town. It’s friendly, it’s familiar. It has little traffic, less crime, no pollution. It’s a bit of Texas paradise, almost perfectly preserved. Who’d want to spoil such a thing?”
Resentment tightened in her throat. Brian Fabian wants to. And Mel Belyle’s here to speed the destruction.
Howard reached into the fruit bowl and took out a shiny red apple. He set it beside the orange. “On the other hand,” he said, “the town hasn’t prospered because it hasn’t grown or changed. It’s lost population. There are few jobs for young people—or anyone else. The teachers are overworked and underpaid. So are doctors, nurses, the police—on and on.”
He paused and sighed. “Heaven knows this town’s had its share of money woes. But has it ever worked to attract more business and industry? No. Never.”
He studied the two pieces of fruit he’d placed on the magazine. “So some will say that Crystal Creek has been wise. It’s hung onto its past. Others will say it’s foolish, because it hasn’t provided for its future.”
Kitt looked into his kindly blue eyes. “Then which side is right?”
He smiled sadly and picked up one piece of fruit in each hand. “That’s what I’m getting at, my dear. Who can say with certainty? It’s like comparing apples and oranges.”
“What do you think?” she asked. He was a fair and kindly man, and she wanted to know his opinion.
“Quite truthfully,” he said, “I see both sides.” He set the pieces of fruit back on the copy of Exclusive, side by side.
She said, “Right now the people who want to save the old ways are more organized. And more vocal.”
A Little Town in Texas Page 15
