Faithful Unto Death

by Stephanie Jaye Evans

  “Take a breath,” I said. He did, then continued.

  “When I can get Jo calmed down to the point where she stops repeating over and over, ‘He killed my daddy, he killed my daddy …’”

  I sniffed.

  Wanderley looked surprised.

  “Bear, don’t go soft on me, you’re not dead yet, old man.”

  “Allergies,” I said.

  “Better be,” Wanderley answered. “As I was saying, when I can get Jo to speak like the intelligent and thoughtful girl she is, I learn that when she hears the gunshot, instead of running like hell the way I would expect an intelligent and thoughtful girl to, she rushes in the direction of the gunshot and physically attacks the man with the gun. Didn’t you teach your daughters about ‘stranger danger,’ Bear?” Wanderley sounded outraged.

  I sighed. “I did. Waste of breath, but I did.”

  Wanderley shakes his head in disapproval. “I gotta hope I do a better job with Molly.”

  I suppressed a snort and felt a wicked delight curl up in my insides. “May God be as good to you as He has been to me.”

  I get a kick out of young people. I really do.

  “Bear, your changeling daughter did a number on poor old Dr. Fallon. I think I have now officially encountered the kind of girl who was once labeled a ‘spitfire’ and a ‘firebrand.’”

  This day was full of revelations!

  I grinned. “Oh, my gosh, Wanderley, you’re a closet romance reader.”

  Wanderley blushed.

  “So did you arrest that old man?” I asked.

  “For shooting you? No, we gave him the keys to the city. I always carry a spare pair.”

  I wasn’t amused. I was still hurting.

  “Yes, we arrested him. He’s in jail. HD is out, by the way. He isn’t being charged with obstruction because we’re not sure if he was trying to take a bullet for Alex, or if he was so confused and jumbled that he thought he really had killed Garcia. I incline to the latter. So I only have one old man in jail right now and he’s not talking. I mean, Fallon’s not talking at all. I haven’t heard the man say a word. I don’t even know if he’s talking to his lawyer.”

  “I’m not sure I can press charges,” I said. “The man is a member of my church.”

  Wanderley did a mock double-take. “Are you crazy? Is this some ‘turn the other cheek’ business?” He gave a laugh and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter whether you press charges or not, Bear. It’s against the law to shoot people, even really annoying crazy people, who went off and did exactly what they’d been told not to do. There were a few minutes there, Bear, when I felt like shooting you myself. Damn, you’re a glory hound.”

  I tried to explain, but Wanderley cut me off.

  “His lawyer is already making noises about ‘self-defense,’ and since you were in the man’s house, big no-no in Texas, Bear …”

  “He invited me in,” I said.

  “Your say-so. And since it does look as though you tried to launch yourself over his desk, that might get the guy off, but going on what you said while you were taking happy pills, we decided to compare Dr. Fallon’s prints and DNA to what was found on the Big Bertha that killed Garcia. I think we’ll find a match.” Wanderley nodded in satisfaction.

  I said, “Why don’t you sit down again? You’re giving me an ache in my neck, looking up at you.”

  “That’s a new one for you, huh, Bear? Looking up to other people?”

  “I said I’m looking up at you.”

  “Same thing.”

  It’s not. But Wanderley sat down.

  “What about Mai?” I said. “How is she? She didn’t know, about her dad, I mean. I don’t think she knew.”

  “In less than twenty-four hours, that woman had four brothers and a slew of sisters-in-law, nieces, and nephews running opposition for her. I had a five-year-old try to stare me down when I went to Fallon’s house to talk to her. Kid was a tough little bugger. He didn’t come right out and say so, but he was doing his best to communicate that he could take me down if it came to that. I think there’s a strain of pit bull in that family.”

  I said, “I think that family protects its own, Wanderley. I think that’s all Dr. Fallon was trying to do. I don’t believe he meant to kill Graham Garcia.”

  “It’s not up to you to decide, Bear. That’s going to be in the hands of twelve Fort Bend citizens, all honest and true. As for Mai, even after talking to her, I don’t know if she knew her father had killed Garcia, but I think she suspected.

  “Mai swears her dad couldn’t have killed Garcia, but not with a whole lot of conviction. More like it’s an article of faith, not like she’s a true believer. Mai can’t bring herself to believe that her hero, her savior, killed the man she loved best in the world. She can’t make the pieces fit. Anyway, I don’t think it’s likely the prosecutor will try to pull her into this.”

  I had a thought.

  “What about that lawyer fellow? Did I tell you I found a lawyer guy, what’s his name, in Graham’s study? Day of the funeral. Guy was going through Graham’s desk. Is that guy in jail, too?”

  Wanderley blew air out his nose.

  “No, he didn’t kill anybody. Not that I know of.”

  “Yeah, but there was some serious malfeasance—”

  “If there was, that’s a civil case. And there’s not going to be any case. Any evidence there might be is in Honey Garcia’s hands, and I don’t think she’s going to be making any noise about it.”

  “What do you mean, she won’t—”

  “Bear, her husband was a partner in that law firm. That partnership is worth a lot of money. When a partner dies, his share of the partnership goes to his estate, goes to Honey. If that partnership goes bust, Honey gets nothing. Worse, if there are claims against the partnership, the plaintiff could and would go after Garcia’s estate, along with the rest of the partners. Honey could owe money she doesn’t have. She’s got a girl in college and a boy still at home and a very, very sweet life. What with insurance and her share of the partnership, not to mention HD Parker’s money, Honey is not ever going to go hungry. You hear me?”

  I grunted.

  “Before you get all judgmental, see this from Honey’s view. It was Dr. Fallon who killed her husband, not one of Garcia’s law partners. I doubt she even understands the ins and outs of the so-called malfeasance, and for all she knows, even without the perjury, the trial could have gone the way it did. And if she makes a fuss, she could be destroying not only her own life and livelihood, but those of other men and women, and their husbands and wives and kids, people Honey has known for years. Partnerships are close, Bear. And only one of those people did anything wrong. You get that, Bear? So don’t be laying down heartache on Honey when you see her. Hear me? I don’t know the Bible the way you do, but I know right from wrong, and I’m telling you that would be wrong. It’s none of your business, so back off. You listen to me this time.”

  I said I would.

  “You, to get back on track, you’re going to be a star. Talk about a primo witness. A local Church of Christ minister—you’re already a media darling, Bear. Get this, your daughter Merrie tells me that Amazon is showing an increase in sales of that boring book you wrote.”

  I said, “Yeah? Which one?” That was good news. Sales had settled down to a slow trickle. “Listen, Wanderley, I had a reviewer call my third book ‘lively.’”

  “For a theological tome, Bear. It might be ‘lively’ for a theological tome. Your book is probably required reading for some poor seminarians, but that’s not a real fast crowd we’re talking about. You’re no Stephanie Meyer.”

  “Stephanie Meyer?”

  Wanderley shifted in his chair and looked away from me.

  “Vampire books. Never mind. Anyway. I gotta go. You have to rest.”

  He stood up and sent the chair spinning back to knock over a potted palm that had been looking dejected among all the tropical blossoms.

  I said, not feeling real comf
ortable with it, but feeling like I needed to ask, “You want to pray with me, Wanderley?”

  Wanderley stopped with his hand on the door and his amazing eyebrow did its most amazing trick to date.

  “Uh, that’s going to be a no, Bear.”

  He opened the door and stepped out, then stuck his head back in and gave me a hard look.

  “And don’t be praying for me behind my back, either, preacher. That’s seriously not kosher.” He left.

  I prayed for Wanderley anyway. It’s all kosher to me.

  Before they wheeled me out of the hospital, I asked them to take me to see Miss Lily. Annie Laurie said, “Bear, Miss Lily’s gone. But before she died, one of her visitors told her about the shooting. She cried and said, ‘Tell Bear I’m going to pray him all the way home.’”

  I said, “Did she mean Heaven or Sugar Land?”

  “Where will I be driving you to?” Annie asked.

  “Sugar Land,” I said.

  “Well, all right, then,” Annie answered.

  I was on the levee with Baby Bear, walking home in the warm, moist twilight. We weren’t jogging. It would be some time before I’d be up to jogging again.

  Merrie was home for the weekend and she had promised me a game of chess. I told Jo I would read her the first four chapters of The Jungle Book. It’s required reading. I like that book. It wouldn’t be too bad. Then I would read her a chapter out of Hurlbut’s Story of the Bible. Miss Lily left me her copy.

  And Irene Hayden had baked me an entire lemon chiffon pie, all for myself, and that’s what I was going to have for dinner. Jo said she would have a small piece if I could be persuaded to share. Madame Laney says she’s going to have to build up some muscle mass if she’s going to make it through the American School of Ballet program—so my Jo is actually eating. No meat. But still. Imagine. Pie for Jo.

  I looked down into the lit houses that backed onto the levee. There was happiness and heartbreak going on in those houses that I would never know about. It wasn’t on me. And that was good.

  Acknowledgments

  My family is a family of storytellers. As a child, my parents gave me and my sister Lisa more books than toys, and more cautionary tales than lectures. We were allowed to read anything, age-appropriate or not, if it was well written. I’m grateful for that. I am grateful for the faith my parents shared, and for how they taught me to make my own.

  Ten or so years ago, Niti Nguyen told me a remarkable story. I asked her if I could use it if I ever managed to get a book written, and she said I could. A fictionalized version of that story is in Faithful Unto Death—I thank her.

  Author and editor Sarah Cortez was my first writing mentor—a gentle and encouraging teacher.

  Roger Paulding and the entire Houston Writer’s Guild—good readers and good listeners, all of them.

  Dr. Mary McIntire conceived of the Rice University Master of Liberal Studies program. Thanks to Dr. John Freeman, I was accepted as a member of their first class. The first version of Faithful Unto Death was my capstone project for the program—Drs. Dennis Huston and David Schneider were my mentors, and they couldn’t have been more generous with their time and their helpful, pointed, funny, and frequently snarky comments. Every professor I ever had at Rice University was the best professor I’ve ever had. I am profoundly grateful to my professors and classmates at Rice, who didn’t change just my life, they changed me.

  My sister and brother-in-law, Lisa and Michael Nicholls, have believed from the beginning. They have been relentlessly supportive—in addition to the celebrations at each milestone, they bought me my first laptop so I would not have to write in seclusion, they gave me my Rice class ring—engraved “It’s never too late” inside so I would never forget. I never will.

  Friends and neighbors Dr. Tim Sitter and Dr. Fae Garden helped me kill Graham Garcia in such a way that I would not forever scar little Jessica Min. They tell me they are keeping the phone messages that begin, “Okay, can you help me out? I want to kill a guy …” Thank you.

  Michelle and Kathi and Terri and Audrey and Lisa listened to interminable book questions and took them all seriously—unless it was time not to, and then they helped me laugh it off.

  Michelle Pinkerton wrote my French for me. Online translators have their limitations. Michelle doesn’t.

  In March 2010, Harriette Sackler of Malice Domestic called to say that I had won a William F. Deeck—Malice Domestic Grant for Unpublished Writers. Thanks to Malice Domestic, and the magic train of events they started, I arrived at the convention a year later with a book deal. Harriette Sackler and Arlene Trundy of the grants committee, wise, witty, and wonderful women, have continued to be friends and mentors, and if you are an aspiring mystery writer, you cannot have better.

  At the 2010 Malice Domestic Convention, I met the inimitable Janet Reid, of FinePrint Literary Management. She is my fairy godmother who made all my dreams come true when I clicked my heels three … no. That’s not right. There was no heel clicking. There was a good deal of rewriting and reworking and very strict instructions to be followed. At a very low period, Janet wrote me a short e-mail that so heartened me, that I would have the entirety of that e-mail tattooed on my body if I weren’t so worried about what my sons would think of their mom. But at the end of the road, there was a book deal, just as Janet had said there would be. She tries to come off sharky (and she can be) but she is true-blue, the right stuff, and thank you, God, for bringing me to her attention. What a gift.

  And then Janet brought me to my editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez of the Berkley Publishing Group, who is beautiful and very scary and the most careful reader in the entire world, and no, I am not excepting the scrupulous people who compile the Oxford English Dictionary. Shannon’s comments, cuts, and changes have made this a richer, deeper book—and also saved me from a timeline error that would have haunted me for as long as the book is read.

  Glenn Pinkerton, Winn Carter, and Walter Cicack answered legal questions on a host of topics. (“Did your murderer bring the golf club, or find it there?”) I thank them for their advice.

  My meticulous copyeditor, Joan Matthews, went out of her way to assist me and provide useful information. Cover designer Judith Lagerman captured Sugar Land for me.

  W.J., Evans, and Charlie Cicack, my three sons, answered my questions about current vernacular, and football and architecture and technology and trucks, and high school and murder and the Norman French and … who needs Wikipedia. But mostly, they have supplied me with a host of unbelievable-but-true boy stories to use in future books. It was my sons who taught me that if I hadn’t specifically forbidden them to shoot off fireworks in the bathtub, well, then.

  The biggest thank-you of all is for my spooky-smart husband, Richard Box. He kept my writing schedule on a spreadsheet, fended off visitors and phone calls, proofed and edited one thousand versions of the novel, brought me flowers and wine and a gold locket like Jo’s. He believed in the book. More important, it was Richard who made me believe. Faithful unto death, Richard.