Best Kept Secrets (8 page)

"Do you?"

"What, like your name?"

"No, bring flowers here often."

"Oh, that. Only on holidays. Angus and I usually bring something out on her birthday, Christmas, Easter. Reede, too. We split the cost of having the grave tended."

"Any particular reason why?"

He gave her an odd look, then answered simply, "We all loved Celina."

"I believe one of you killed her," she said softly.

"You believe wrong, Alex. I didn't kill her."

"What about your father? Do you think he did?"

He shook his head. "He treated Celina like a daughter.

Thought of her that way, too."

"And Reede Lambert?"

He shrugged as though no elaboration was necessary.

"Reede, well ..."

"What?"

"Reede could never have killed her."

Alex settled deeper into her fur coat. The sun had set, and it was getting colder by the moment. When she spoke, her breath fogged the air in front of her face. "I spent some time in the public library this afternoon, reading back issues of the local newspaper."

"Anything about me?"

"Oh, yes, all about your Purcell Panther football days."

As he laughed, the wind lifted his fair hair. His was a much lighter blond than Reede's, and it was finer, better controlled. "That must have made for some fascinating reading."

"It did. You and Reede were cocaptains of the team."

"Hell, yeah." He crooked his arm as though showing off muscled biceps. "We thought we were invincible, real hot snot."

"Her junior year, my mother was the homecoming queen.

There was a picture of Reede kissing her during halftime."

Studying that photograph had made Alex feel very strange.

She'd never seen it before. For some reason her grandmother had chosen not to keep it among her many others, perhaps because Reede Lambert's kiss had been audacious, full-fledged, and proprietary.

Undaunted by the cheering crowd in the stadium, his arm had been curved possessively around Celina's waist. The pressure of the kiss had angled her head back. He looked like a conqueror, especially in the muddy football uniform, holding his battle-scarred helmet in his other hand.

After staring at the photograph for several minutes, she began to feel that kiss herself.

Coming back to the present, she said, "You didn't become friends with my mother and Reede until later on, isn't that right?"

Junior pulled up a blade of grass and began to shred it between his fingers. "Ninth grade. Until then, I attended a boarding school in Dallas."

"By choice?"

"By my mother's choice. She didn't want me picking up what she considered to be undesirable habits from the kids of oil-field workers and cowhands, so I was packed off to Dallas every fall.

"My schooling was a bone of contention between Mother and Dad for years. Finally, when I was about to go into high school, he put his foot down and said it was time I learned there were other kinds of people besides the 'pale little bastards'--and that's a quote--at prep school. He enrolled me in Purcell High School that fall."

"How did your mother take it?"

"Not too well. She was definitely against it, but there wasn't much she could do about it. Where she came from--"

"Which is?"

"Kentucky. In his prime, her old man was one of the most successful breeders in the country. He'd bred a Triple Crown winner."

"How did she meet your father?"

"Angus went to Kentucky to buy a mare. He brought it and my mother back with him. She's lived here for over forty years, but she still clings to Presley family traditions, one of which was to send all the offspring to private school.

"Not only did Dad enroll me at Purcell, he also insisted that I go out for the football team. The coach wasn't too keen on the idea, but Dad bribed him by promising to buy new uniforms for the team if he'd take me on, so . . ."

"Angus Minton makes things happen "

"You can bank on that," Junior said with a laugh. "He never takes no for an answer, so I went out for football. I'd never even touched one, and I nearly got the crap kicked out of me that first day of practice. The other boys naturally resented me."

"For being the richest kid in town?"

"It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it," he said with an engaging grin.' 'Anyway, when I got home that night, I told Dad that I hated Purcell High School and football with equal amounts of passion. I told him I preferred pale little bastards any day of the week over bullies like Reede Lambert."

"What happened?"

"Mother cried herself sick. Dad cussed himself into a frenzy. Then he marched me outside and threw footballs at me till my hands bled from catching them."

"That's terrible!"

"Not really. He had my interests at heart. He knew, even if I didn't, that out here, you've got to play, eat, drink, and sleep football. Say," he interjected, "I'm rambling on.

Aren't you cold?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Want to go?"

"No, I want you to keep rambling."

"Is this a formal interrogation?"

"Conversation," she replied, tartly enough to make him grin.

"At least put your hands in your pockets." Taking one of her hands in each of his, he guided them to the deep pockets of her coat, tucked them inside, and patted them into place.

Alex resented the intimate gesture. It was presumptuous of him and, considering the circumstances, highly inappropriate.

"I gather you made the football team," she said, deciding to ignore his touch.

"Junior varsity, yes, but I didn't play, not in a single game, until the very last one. It was for the district championship."

He lowered his head and smiled reflectively. "We were down by four points. A field goal wouldn't have done us any good. There were only a few seconds left on the clock. We had the ball, but it was fourth down and miles to go because of penalties. Both the A-and

B-string wide receivers had

been injured in the previous quarters."

"My God."

"I told you, football's a blood-drawing sport out here.

Anyway, they were carting the star running back off the field on a stretcher when the coach looked toward the bench and barked my name. I nearly wet my pants."

"What happened?"

"I shrugged off my poncho and ran out to join the team in a time-out huddle. Mine was the only clean jersey on the field. The quarterback--"

"Reede Lambert." Alex knew that from the newspaper accounts.

"Yeah, my nemesis. He groaned audibly when he saw me coming, and even louder when I told him the play the coach had sent in with me. He looked me right between the eyes and said, 'If I throw you the goddamn football, preppie, you fuckin' well better catch it.' "

For a moment Junior was silent, steeped in the memory.

"I'll never forget that as long as I live. Reede was laying down the terms."

"The terms?"

"Of our becoming friends. It was then or never that I had to prove myself worthy of his friendship."

"Was that so important?"

"You bet your ass. I'd been in school there long enough to know that if I didn't hack it with Reede, I'd never be worth shit."

"You caught the pass, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't. In all fairness, I can't say that I did. Reede threw it right here," he said, pointing at his chest, "right between the numbers on my jersey. Thirty-five yards. All I had to do was fold my arms over the football and carry it across the goal line."

"But that was enough, wasn't it?"

His smile widened until it germinated into a laugh. "Yep.

That marked the beginning of it."

"Your father must have been ecstatic."

Junior threw back his head and howled with laughter. "He jumped the fence, hurdled the bench, and came charging out onto the field. He swooped me up and carried me around for several minutes."

"What about your mother?"

"My mother! She wouldn't be caught dead at a football game. She thinks it's barbaric." He chuckled, tugging on his earlobe. "She's damned near right. But I didn't care what anybody thought about me, except Dad. He was so proud of me that night." His blue eyes shone with the memory.

"He'd never even met Reede, but he hugged him, too, football pads and all. That night was the beginning of their friendship, too. It wasn't too long after that that Reede's daddy died, and he moved out to the ranch to live with us."

For several moments, his recollections were private. Alex allowed him the introspective time without interruption.

Eventually he glanced up at her and did a double take.

"Jesus, you looked like Celina just then," he said softly.

"Not so much your features, but your expression. You have that same quality of listening." He reached out and touched her hair. "She loved to listen. At least she made the person talking think she did. She could sit so still and just listen for hours." He withdrew his hand, but he didn't seem happy about it.

"Is that what first attracted you to her?"

"Hell, no," he said with a leering smile. "The first thing that attracted me to her was a ninth-grade boy's adolescent lust. The first time I saw Celina in the hall at school, she took my breath, she was so pretty."

"Did you chase after her?"

"Hey, I was dumbstruck, not crazy."

"What about this mad crush you had on her?"

"She belonged to Reede then," he said unequivocally.

"There was never any question about that." He stood up.

"We'd better go. Regardless of what you say, you're freezing.

Besides, it's getting spooky out here in the dark."

Alex, still befuddled by his last statement, let him assist her up. She turned to brush the dry grass off the back of her skirt and noticed the bouquet again. The green waxed paper wrapped around the vivid petals fluttered in the brisk wind.

It made a dry, rattling sound. "Thank you for bringing the flowers, Junior."

"You're welcome."

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness to her over the years."

"In all honesty, I had an ulterior motive for coming here today."

"Oh?"

"Uh-huh," he said, taking both her hands. "To invite you out to the house for drinks."

Seven

She had been expected. That much was evident from the moment Junior escorted her across the threshold of the sprawling two-story house on the Minton ranch. Eager to study her suspects in their own environment, she had agreed to follow Junior home from the cemetery.

As she entered the living room, however, she couldn't help wondering if perhaps she was being manipulated, rather than the other way around.

Her determination to proceed with caution was immediately put to the test when Angus strode across the spacious room and shook her hand.

"I'm glad Junior found you and convinced you to come,"

he told her as he helped her out of her coat. He tossed the fur jacket at Junior. "Hang that up, will ya?" Looking at Alex with approval, he said, "I didn't know how you'd take our invitation. We're pleased to have you."

"I'm pleased to be here."

"Good," he said, rubbing his hands together. "What'll you have to drink?"

"White wine, please," she said. His blue eyes were friendly, but she found them disquieting. He seemed to see beyond the surface and lay bare the emotional insecurities she kept heavily camouflaged with competency.

"White wine, huh? Can't stand the stuff myself. Just as well be drinking soda pop. But that's what my wife drinks.

She'll be down directly. You sit there, Alexandra."

"She likes to be called Alex, Dad," Junior said as he joined Angus at the built-in wet bar to mix himself a scotch and water.

' 'Alex, huh?'' Angus carried a glass of wine to her. ' 'Well, I guess that name suits a lady lawyer."

It was a backhanded compliment, at best. She let her thank-you suffice for both the remark and the wine. "Why did you invite me here?"

He seemed momentarily nonplussed by her directness, but answered in kind. "There's too much water under the bridge for us to be enemies. I want to get to know you better."

"That's the reason I came, Mr. Minton."

"Angus. Call me Angus." He took a moment to study her. "How come you wanted to be a lawyer?"

"So I could investigate my mother's murder."

The answer came to her lips spontaneously, which astonished not only the Mintons, but Alex herself. She had never verbalized that as being her goal before. Merle Graham must have spoon-fed her doses of determination, along with her vegetables.

With that public admission also came the private realization that she was her own chief suspect. Grandmother Graham had said she was ultimately responsible for her mother's death. Unless she could prove otherwise, she would carry that guilt with her for the rest of her life. She was in Purcell County to exonerate herself.

"You certainly don't mince words, young lady," Angus said. "I like that. Pussyfooting is a waste of my time."

"Of mine, too," Alex said, remembering her concurrent deadlines.

Angus harrumphed. "No husband? No kids?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Dad," Junior said, rolling his eyes, embarrassed by his father's lack of tact.

Alex was amused, not offended. "I don't mind, Junior, really. It's a common question."

"Got an answer to it?" Angus took a swig from his long-neck.

"No time or inclination."

Angus grunted noncommittally. "Around here, we've got too much time and not enough inclination." He shot Junior a withering glance.

"Dad's referring to my failed marriages," Junior told their guest.

"Marriages? How many have there been?"

"Three," he confessed with a wince.

"And no grandbabies to show for any of them," Angus grumbled like a foul-natured bear. He aimed a chastising index finger at his son. "And it's not like you don't know how to breed."

"As usual, Angus, your manners in front of company are deplorable."

Simultaneously, the three of them turned. A woman was standing in the open doorway. Alex had painted a mental picture of what Angus's wife would be like--strong, assertive, feisty enough to meet him toe to toe. She would typify the coarse, horsy type who rode to hounds and spent more time wielding a quirt than a hairbrush.