Faithful Unto Death

by Stephanie Jaye Evans

  L. C. Tyler got put away and I stood up and peeked in the window. It looked like HD was sleeping, head cradled on his arms. His mouth was open.

  “Detective Wanderley wouldn’t let me in. Does he know you’re here?”

  “I’m sure he does by now. My bag of breakfast got more interested looks than a busty blonde. Someone will have told him.” She tried the door handle but it didn’t open. HD didn’t look up. “Do you know what he’s been saying?”

  “He said he killed Graham.”

  Big sigh. “That is plain crazy. That’s all it is. Daddy is a good two inches shorter than me. You knew Graham. Could any right thinking person imagine my daddy overpowering Graham? And exactly why would Daddy want Graham dead?”

  I said, “Detective Wanderley told me that HD mentioned something about Ash Robinson.”

  That hit Honey the way it hit me. Her eyes widened. All the expression and color flowed out of Honey’s face until I was looking through her eyes into anguish and terror.

  Wanderley rounded the corner. He had a young man and a woman in her thirties with him. He introduced the woman, who wore plain black slacks and flats, and had her sleeves rolled up, as Detective Cat Dortch. On asking, I found out the Cat was for Caterina. That’s a pretty name but she wasn’t in a pretty business and it was clear that Cat would serve her better as a police detective than her parents’ choice. The man was dressed in a suit and he addressed Honey, his hand outstretched.

  “Mrs. Garcia, I’m Jonathon Blake. Mr. Mathis got your message. He’s out of town and won’t be back until tomorrow, maybe the day after, but he sent me to represent your father. I assure you I’m experienced and competent to counsel.”

  Honey left his hand out there too long. She was staring into a possibility the young lawyer couldn’t see.

  “Walker Wells,” I said, and shook his abandoned hand.

  Wanderley gave Honey and me an assessing look and unlocked the door. HD’s head popped up at the sound and he drew a sleeve across his mouth. I started to follow into the room but Wanderley and Dortch both gave me inquiring looks.

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Honey, you’ll be fine?”

  “No, I won’t,” Honey said. “I want you here with me.”

  Dortch shook her head and Wanderley held the door for my exit.

  “Daddy.” Honey hadn’t gone to her father. She stood apart, clutching her bag of sausage biscuits. “Daddy, I want Bear here with me,” she said.

  HD waved me in.

  “I’m not saying a word unless Honey can have her preacher boy.”

  Blake broke in. “Mr. Parker, I’m Jonathon Blake, I work for Mr. Mathis. He can’t be here to advise today, so I’m standing in for him and I’d like for the two of us to have a private conference before another word is said.”

  HD gave Blake a once-over and a chin jut.

  “Nobody asked you to be here. I didn’t call Mathis.”

  “Uh, no. Mrs. Garcia called the Mathis home quite early this morning, and I—”

  “I guess you’re working for my daughter, then. You want to advise Honey, go right on. If I was looking for advice, I’d’ve made the call myself.”

  There ensued a thirty-minute argument, Honey and HD against Dortch and Wanderley, Blake trying to be lawyerly with a client who wasn’t looking for his services. I kept my mouth closed and started thinking like Annie Laurie—this was more than I was getting paid for.

  HD emptied the bag Honey finally passed over out on the table, found eight Styrofoam containers of sausage biscuits and three tubs of cream gravy. HD countered arguments as he uncapped the gravy tubs and slid sandwiches, plastic forks, and napkins to each of us at the table. Dortch and Wanderley stood behind their chairs, literally talking down to HD. I wasn’t using my mouth for talking so I ate my sausage biscuit and it was good. HD ate two, flooded with gravy, in between stating his position.

  “Honey wants him here. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Wanderley pinched his eyebrows together and gave his chair a shove. He picked up his sandwich container, poked the biscuit, closed it, and dropped it on the table. He fell in his chair and gave me his attention. Dortch took that as a signal and pulled her own chair out.

  “Not one word, Wells.” Wanderley wasn’t happy with me. I wasn’t all that happy with me. I knew I didn’t have any business in that room. I had plenty of my own obligations to attend to. I had things of my own I wanted to talk to Wanderley about, though it looked like those would have to wait until our appointment. However, Honey felt like she needed me and I didn’t like to walk out on her request.

  “Got it,” I said.

  “That was two more words than you are allowed. I don’t even want to see body language.”

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin and held my palms up in concurrence.

  “That’s the sort of thing I’m talking about. Sit on your hands if you have to. I don’t want so much as an eyebrow twitch. Understand?”

  I didn’t look at him. I didn’t respond in any way.

  “Good. Keep it that way.”

  There were four of us facing Wanderley and Dortch. HD sat directly across from Wanderley, Blake was on HD’s left, Honey on his right. I sat next to Honey. Wanderley and Dortch looked like they could take us even with the two-on-one odds. Dortch was a good-looking woman, especially if you liked your women on the tough side. She played down her handsome looks and I thought that was a pity, that to get along in some professions, some women had to distract from their attractiveness and …

  Dortch let me know she had noticed my scrutiny and I moved my eyes somewhere neutral.

  There ensued a long, boring schmoo while Wanderley and Dortch went through the digital camera and recording business and all the establishing who was who business—they cut most of that stuff out for the television shows. When I was asked to name myself for the record, I looked to Wanderley for permission to speak and got an eye roll worthy of Jo.

  Wanderley finally got around to the reason we were all gathered around a conference table watching Breakfast Klub sausage biscuit sandwiches grow cold.

  “Mr. Parker, tell us why you came to the station this morning.”

  Blake did some whispering in HD’s inattentive ear. HD jerked his head away and ignored Blake, who picked up his iPhone and did some frantic thumbing until he caught Dortch’s eye on him.

  “My name is HD Parker.”

  We’d already established that.

  “I am eighty-eight years old next month.”

  That, too. Honey was staring fixedly at the pile of food and detritus in the middle of the table. She was waiting for HD to say the words.

  “And I’m the reason Graham Garcia is dead.”

  Honey swung around on HD and took him by the lapels, forcing him to look at her. Honey’s face, free of cosmetics, was fierce and bleak. “Daddy—you look at me now.”

  Dortch sprang up to intervene, but Wanderley put a hand on her arm and she sank back into her chair.

  “I want my old daddy here, not whatever phony HD you’ve been putting on for the last couple of years,” Honey demanded.

  HD took his daughter’s forearms in a gentle grasp.

  “It’s always only me here for you, Honey. It’s the way it’s always been. No different.”

  She shook her head.

  “You tell me, forget the rest in the room”—she made an encompassing gesture—“you tell me, Daddy, did you have Graham killed?”

  Everything I’d seen of HD so far gave me the impression that he was a crazy old coot. Not now. In this craziest of moments, HD’s voice was tender and his eyes were full of love. HD squeezed Honey’s arms.

  “See this, Honey? How skinny you’ve gotten? You’re almost all gone. You’ve eaten yourself up trying to make that cold stick love you.”

  Tears poured down Honey’s cheeks. She shook her head.

  “Tell me, Daddy.”

  “Your mama and me, we come over to dinner now and then and you keep his house so fine. You giv
e him Jenasy, pretty and smart, and Alex, a fine, fine boy. And that man can’t even look at you. You think we haven’t noticed that? The harder you try to get his attention, the more we see him turn his face, give you the cold shoulder. I tell you, your mama and me, we have cried in our beds after a night at your house. Graham sits there in the house I gave you, talking about clients I sent his way, and he gives Cruz more attention and respect than he can muster for his own wife. In front of her daddy. You sail on as if everything is fine and you get skinnier and your eyes get bigger and your mouth is getting bitter, Honey. You’re getting that bitter face women get when they’ve been hoping, and not getting, for too long a time.”

  “Daddy, please.”

  “We tried talking to him, your mother and me, both. Not ugly talk, either. I know a man can be tempted. I didn’t hold myself righteous over him. I wanted to know what the problem was, how maybe me and Beanie could help. He told us to mind our own business. That’s exactly what he said to me, word for word. ‘HD, mind your own business.’ Right out, he said it.”

  “Daddy.”

  “And, Honey, we both talked to you, too. You know we did. Told you to leave his sorry ass, let him have the damn house and come on with the children and live with us. We’re rattling around like two peas in that house. You wouldn’t budge.”

  “Graham was going to come back to me. He was going to love me again.”

  “No, Honey, he was not. He didn’t have it in him. You were going to walk the heartbreak mile all the way to your grave.”

  “Please tell me, Daddy. Please just say it.”

  “Honey, my precious one, I am eighty-eight years old. It was the last big gift I could give you. I set you free.”

  Honey cried out and curled over in her chair.

  “Daddy, I loved him, I loved him!” She was sobbing as if she and HD were the only people in the room.

  HD had tears in his own eyes. He smoothed her back with the palm of his hand.

  “I know you did, Honey. And now you’re free to love someone else. Someone who can love you back. There’s going to be lots of good men for you to choose from.”

  Honey staggered from her chair. HD reached out a hand to steady her but she pushed him away. Her glance swept across the table—she didn’t seem to see us. The door sighed closed behind her.

  HD pulled out a linen handkerchief and sniffed into it.

  He said to the table, “She’ll be okay. She’s gonna be all right. It’s all for the best.”

  Blake leaned over to Wanderley. “I’d like you to note down that Mr. Parker has not confessed to any crime here. His words were ‘I set you free,’ which cannot be construed as—”

  “Oh, I had Graham killed,” HD said. He tucked the handkerchief in a pocket and ran a hand over the top of his head. He looked bemused. “The golf club was a surprise.”

  Jonathon Blake slapped his forehead and stood up.

  “Mr. Parker, I’m going to tell Mr. Mathis that you have unequivocally declined the services of the firm. Is that what you want?”

  HD gave the guy a tight grin.

  “Why don’t you take that bee out of your butt and scamper on out of here? I know what I’m doing.”

  Blake blew air and stopped next to Wanderley’s chair. “We’ll see you Friday, then?”

  “I’ll get word to you. We’ll see,” Wanderley said. Blake touched his shoulder and walked out of the room. I filed the exchange away to ask about later.

  “Would you start from the beginning, Mr. Parker?” Dortch’s voice was smooth and low, a little husky.

  It brought to mind Kathleen Turner. I love that woman’s voice. Not only the Body Heat and Jessica Rabbit voice, I liked her in Romancing the Stone and Undercover …

  I glanced up to find Wanderley’s eyes on me.

  “I should leave,” I said.

  “Stay.” HD reached over Honey’s empty chair and patted the back of my hand. “Honey will want someone she trusts to report back to her. She likes you, I don’t know why.”

  Wanderley’s eyes went heavenward.

  Dortch made a business of straightening the papers in front of her to get everybody’s attention again.

  “From the beginning, Mr. Parker?”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, I wasn’t going to let Honey live her life the way it had been going there, you heard, how Graham had been treating her, and you can bet there was a lot worse, because that was only when he was in front of me and Beanie.”

  She asked, “Beanie?”

  “Belinda. Honey’s mama. That’s Beanie.”

  Her voice sharpened.

  “Did Mrs. Parker know about your plan to have Graham Garcia killed?”

  HD slapped his hands down on the table. “Lord, no! Why would I tell Beanie?” He was really asking the question.

  Dortch said, “You didn’t think this was a decision that would involve her?”

  HD tilted his head at Dortch, the way a dog does when he doesn’t understand what you’re saying.

  “Goodness, no. She would only worry and fret. It’s just best not to tell Beanie a thing. She’s happiest that way. Anyway, old Beanie has been getting a little”—he tapped his temple—“you know. She’s getting loose in her moorings.”

  Belinda Parker was at least fifteen years younger than HD.

  “She’s been losing stuff lately. Misplaces things. I was looking for one of my guns the other day and found the whole gun cabinet was cleaned out. When I asked Beanie about it, she got all flustered and said she couldn’t say where they were. If I hadn’t happened upstairs when Juana was changing out the hall air filter, I likely would never have found them. Juana never says a word about Beanie’s spells. But there the guns were, lying on the floor of the air vent all higgledy-piggledy, and thick with dust—took me several hours to get them cleaned and oiled again.

  “Poor Beanie was so embarrassed, she took herself off to La Madeline for a quiche and a carafe of wine. I wanted Fredrick to take her, I don’t like Beanie driving when she’s had a tipple, but she said no, she wanted Fredrick to stay right by me and give me a hand.”

  A significant look was passed around the table. Dortch had her pen woven between her fingers and she paddled it up and down, making irritated tapping noises on the table.

  Wanderley produced a guitar pick from somewhere and slipped it in his mouth. He rested his elbows on the table and clasped his hands, calm and relaxed except for the sound of that pick making its way over his pretty orthodonticized teeth.

  “Now then. Mrs. Parker didn’t know about your plans. How did you put these plans into effect?”

  “Okay, I got myself a hired gun—”

  “Who was this person?”

  “We never exchanged any names.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I had to give him Graham’s name, of course.”

  Dortch took over again.

  “How did you find this hired gun?”

  “I got him from the classifieds.”

  “The classifieds?”

  “From the Houston Press.”

  Everybody sat up straighter.

  “For real?” I said. The Houston Press is Houston’s alternative weekly paper. If it had a slant, it would be a left-leaning slant. I’ve seen some interesting classifieds in the back of the Houston Press, but they tend to be of the peculiar-people-looking-for-peculiar-partners nature. If the Houston Press was printing classifieds for assassins, that was a departure.

  “Bear.” Wanderley worked his eyebrow at me and turned back to HD.

  “Really, Mr. Parker? You found an advertisement for a gun for hire in the Houston Press?”

  I said, “I’ve heard of such things in Soldier of Fortune, but the—”

  Wanderley said, “Wells!” and HD said, “That’s it!” at exactly the same time as I remembered why Wanderley wanted me to keep my mouth shut.

  Dortch put her pen down with a hard clack and gave me a look that was intended to wither my organs, and I did feel some shrinkage. I pick
ed up a cold sausage biscuit and rolled some bread pills.

  “It was that Shoulder of Fortune magazine. I mixed it up with the Houston Press because their covers are so similar.”

  They are not. They aren’t even the same format. Soldier of Fortune is a magazine and the Houston Press is a tabloid. Nothing at all alike. And you wouldn’t find the two publications at the same place, either. The Houston Press is free—you can pick it up at restaurants and stores. I don’t know for sure, but Soldier of Fortune probably comes to your home in a brown paper wrapper.

  Dortch and Wanderley must have had the same misgiving. There was a long, thoughtful pause.

  Wanderley exchanged a look with his comrade and got back to HD, who was sitting there straight-backed, looking mildly discomfited, but steady-eyed and holding his own.

  “Riiiight. So you contacted someone out of the ‘Shoulder’ of Fortune Magazine, and you got lucky and didn’t happen to call one of the ringers the FBI and CIA plant. Could we please see the number you called?”

  “I lost it.”

  “Of course you did. How much money did you pay?”

  “Around five thousand.”

  “Around five thousand? What, five thousand five hundred? Five thousand twenty-six dollars? What’s ‘around’ five thousand, specifically, if you can.”

  HD looked at the ceiling and pulled on a thumb joint. There was a pop and he did the same to his other thumb.

  “I don’t remember exactly.”

  “But when we check your bank accounts, we’re going to find a recent withdrawal of around five thousand dollars.”

  “Yes, you will.”

  Wanderley and Dortch got more focused.

  “Unless I took cash from the house. I might have done that. I don’t remember.”

  Dortch said, “You keep five thousand dollars in cash around the house?”

  “I do. For emergencies.”

  “If we drive over to your house right now, can you show us five thousand dollars in cash?”