A Killing at Cotton Hill (30 page)

He doesn't mention the Underwoods at all, as if they are erased from his line of sight. Which they might as well be. Rumor has it they've moved on to Dallas and have put their farm up for sale.

I call the real estate outfit in San Antonio that put me onto their trail and have a chat with them about the racetrack in case they might have a need to know. It's fair and square all the way around as far as I'm concerned.

 

Jenny and I have a fine time in Houston. The Astros win, and the rooms at the Four Seasons are so plush that I feel like I have to tiptoe around in mine. At dinner we work out the details of how Jenny's going to let her horses into the pastureland where I've got the tank, and then we get onto other subjects. We laugh a lot and drink a good bottle of wine and I have a better time than I have in many weeks.

The only awkward time is when we finish our dinner and head for our penthouse floor. Jenny seems a little uneasy on the elevator and I know what it's about. I see her to her door and we stop outside. We both start to say something at the same time. I let her go first.

“This has just been the nicest gift anybody could give me. I just don't want you to think anything more will come of it.”

“Jenny, you are a first-rate woman. Getting to know you has been one of those silver linings they talk about in a cloudy situation. But I'm not looking for a girlfriend.”

She breaks into a big grin and her cheeks are pink. “If I was out for a man, you'd be right up there at the top.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek, not having to bend down far. She's a tall woman. “I'll see you at breakfast.”

I don't sleep that well because something has been nagging at the back of my mind, a loose end I haven't wanted to pick up. But the job won't be finished until I do.

 

A couple of days after the ballgame, when the crew that's going to be putting my house right is set up and ready to begin, I need to get out of there for a few hours. I give Dora Lee's best and oldest friend, Ida Ruth, a call. She tells me she has time to see me this afternoon.

When she opens the door, she says. “I wondered when you would be calling.” She leads me inside and sets us up with iced tea and homemade cookies. She goes over and turns off the television before she sits down.

“I'm thinking Dora Lee confided in you,” I say, when we are all settled.

“Yes, she did. People don't think an old woman can keep a secret in a small town, but they're wrong.” Her eyes glint in defiance, but her voice is tinged with regret.

I am beginning to grasp the truth of that. “I'm trying to make sense out of Dora Lee's story with artist William Kern.”

“I guess I can help you with that. Dora Lee once told me if it ever came to it, you're the one person I could talk to. She trusted you, but she couldn't bring herself to tell you what happened.”

The story goes back to when Dora Lee's family moved to Austin for a time. Ida Ruth says she doesn't know how they met the artist, William Kern, but he was a frequent visitor in their home. “He was one of those typical starving artists you hear about. Dora Lee's mamma bought the painting from him to tide him over. They didn't have money to speak of, but her mamma was a sweet woman, and she wanted to help him out. If she'd have known what it would lead to, she would have sent him packing.”

“So Kern and Dora Lee took up with each other?”

“I don't know that it was like that right away. She was fifteen at the time. All I know is that they did take a shine to each other. After Dora Lee's family moved back here, Dora Lee pined away for him, and he lit out to California for a number of years. So Dora Lee married Teague. I guess you know how that turned out. He was a mean man, no doubt about it.”

“That's a fact.” I don't know if she is aware of the whole of it, but I'm not about to bring it up.

“Anyway, eventually this Kern fellow came back to Texas. This was in the days when all that ‘free love' stuff was going on out in California. When he came back, he brought some of those ideas with him.”

I nod, remembering when Jeanne and I went out to San Francisco in the seventies and became aware of social changes we wanted no part of.

The phone rings, but Ida Ruth just looks at it until it stops. “At any rate, Kern came back and got in touch with Dora Lee. She and Teague were married and Caroline was a little girl.” She looks at me, as if pleading for me to understand. “It's sometimes hard on a woman living out on a farm, and with somebody like Teague. I expect Dora Lee had kept the idea of this man in the back her mind, him coming to rescue her, some romantic notion. I don't know exactly what happened, whether he called her, or just showed up here. She didn't tell me the details. I didn't really want to hear them. All I know is that Julie was the end result.”

I bow my head, thinking that Greg has come by his talent in a way he may never know about. I, for one, will keep it to myself.

Ida Ruth crosses her arms and the scar at the side of her head has reddened. “I don't judge Dora Lee and I hope you don't, either. She was a good friend to me. I try to leave those judgments to the Lord.”

Who would have thought this old Baptist woman would take that forgiving attitude? “You were a good friend.”

Ida Ruth dabs at her eyes with a tissue. “It was a terrible burden. She couldn't carry it alone. I wisht she hadn't have told me. But I swore I would keep it between her and me, and I did.”

“She was awful lucky to have you.”

Ida Ruth and I sigh at the same time, and then smile at each other. I wonder in that moment how many secrets lie hidden in our small town that I can't even guess at. We sit for a time, quiet with our own thoughts. Then Ida Ruth's phone rings again and she tells me she's expected down at the church. I can't help thinking what the Reverend Duckworth would make of all this. Maybe I've underestimated him; he might know secrets that he keeps to himself as well.

I get up and put my hat on and tell Ida Ruth I'll see her around. I get in my truck and head back to my place.

The crew that came in to repair the fire damage is well into it now. They say it will take two weeks to finish. I'm planning on having Tom and his family come to see me then. I'll take them to a football game and maybe we'll go eat Mexican food.

I'm looking forward to the time I can start putting my art back into place. There will be new pieces to find a place for. George Manning is sending somebody to bring me that little picture I saw when I was at his gallery. I think Jeanne would have liked it, and she'd like the idea that I'm continuing the interest we pursued together. I'll also be hanging a couple of pictures I bought through George, wanting to help out a certain artist I'm betting will make it big in the future.

The generous support of my fellow writers cannot be exaggerated. Special thanks to my writing buddy Susan Shea, who dispenses encouragement and elegant suggestions. My writing groups critique, praise, and nudge me in the right proportion—thanks to John Gourhan, Martha Jarocki, Ruth Hansell, and Carole Taylor in the Wednesday night mystery writers group; and to my “everything prose” group members—Laird Harrison, Robert Luhn, and Anastasia Hobbett (who is always with us, no matter how far away she is). To the late mystery writer and editor Marilyn Wallace for her unfailing encouragement: you owe me a glass of champagne. And a shout-out to writer Judy Greber for the famous Price Club talk.

Thanks to Sherry Fields, Carol Valk, Mary Ann Boddum, Anne Poirier, and the hiking group—the best cheering squad any writer could have.

Deep appreciation to my agent, Gail Fortune, for believing in me, and to my editor, Dan Mayer, for spinning the brass ring in my direction. This is only the beginning.

A special salute to my grandfather, Sam Gaines, for not going along with the posse. To my dear departed friend Charlie Boldrick, as upright a man as Samuel Craddock, thank you for allowing me to channel your crusty opinions. My love to Geoffrey, a constant source of pride and joy. And abundance of love and appreciation to David, who, along with his many other qualities, indulges my writing habit.

TERRY SHAMES
grew up in Texas. She has abiding affection for the small town where her grandparents lived, the model for Jarrett Creek. A resident of Berkeley, California, she lives with her husband, two terriers, and an eccentric cat. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America.