Beads of Doubt (26 page)

“If the resale market is good. Did they say anything about that?”

I shook my head. “One more thing to be checked out tomorrow. Maybe we could find the actual boat. It’s supposed to be huge, so you know it has to be at the coast—”

“We have the Bead Tea, remember?”

“I remember.” I had intended to enjoy tomorrow. The last day of any big event at the Manse is usually the most fun because everyone knows their jobs and there isn’t much to be taken care of. I had planned to shop in the tent, have tea, and visit with people. Instead there were a whole lot of other things I needed to do.

“Is there anyone else on your list of suspects?” Beth asked.

Probably half the alumni of the University of Texas belonged on the list, and surely one or two of the poker players had disagreed with Andrew on something, but I didn’t know those people so I could hardly suspect them. I’m not sure why, but learning that he and Houston had played poker together gave me an uneasy feeling. I’m a great believer in the subconscious—it sees all and hears all when the rest of our brain is busy worrying about something else entirely. I wondered if my subconscious had picked up something about that and I’d yet to move it to the upper regions of my brain where I could access it.

“What about Houston’s clients?” Beth asked. “Lauren said that she handled them, and then she started helping with research. Since Rebecca’s been sick, Houston hasn’t been involved, and if Andrew was investing their money and lost it . . . “ She paused. “Do you think any of them could have killed Andrew?”

Sometimes Beth and I still think alike; apparently this was one of those times, because that was something that had been bothering me, too. “I can’t say anything about Houston’s clients, but I have another idea. I know it’s going to sound crazy at first, but hear me out, okay?”

“You rarely sound crazy,” she said. “You do act crazy, but that’s another story. In fact, sometimes that’s kind of fun.”

“Thank you, I think. Here’s what I keep thinking about: what if Lauren was working with Houston’s clients, handling everything while he took care of Rebecca, and she did something, say, illegal. Andrew could have discovered whatever it was and threatened to tell Houston or the police. To stop him, she killed him.”

“She wasn’t even at the party, was she?”

I thought about that. “I didn’t see her particularly, but no one was checking. She could have been there.”

“It’s feasible, I think. I wondered about something, too,” Beth said. “Does Houston actually take in cash? Money that she could have stolen?”

“Cash isn’t something that shows up much these days for investments. I’m guessing, but it doesn’t seem to be the norm.” I thought some more, and a convoluted plan occurred to me. “Try this one,” I said. “What if she had access to all the investment records, which I’m sure she did, and what if she created an affidavit requesting the transfer of something to her name? Money or stock—something of value that she now owns.”

“Don’t those affidavits have to be notarized?”

“Yes, and don’t you think there are ways of faking that?”

“There’s an awful lot of conjecture in this,” Beth said.

“I’m just saying that Lauren ought to be on the list, that’s all,” I said. “Guilty until proven innocent, that’s my motto.”

“That’s not the American way.”

“Oh, really?” I said. “Check with the IRS. Or any other federal enforcement agency. If they say you could have done it, you done it. At least until you prove otherwise.”

“God, no wonder you left office.”

I took the onramp to Loop One South, more often called Mopac. It runs along the Missouri-Pacific railroad line, which is where the name Mopac came from. “You know how most streets are named after people?” I asked. “Cesar Chavez? Martin Luther King Boulevard?”

“Congress Avenue?”

“That one was named after a lot of people.”

“First Street? Second?” she suggested.

“You’re not cooperating. I mean, why not name streets after everyday people? You know, with names like Mary,” I said. “And Lamar. And Mopac.”

“Mopac?”

“Fred and Ethyl Mopac. They used to hang out with Lady Bird and LBJ.”

Beth barely smiled at what I thought was a pretty funny remark, but then I hadn’t laughed, either.

“Who else is on your list?” she asked as we drove through the night into Austin proper. The lights of the city were off to our left, and I still enjoyed seeing the capitol lit up. Like the one in Washington DC, it’s a symbol of all that’s right with people. It may not be successful all the time, but the government is still supposed to serve all the people. That deal of service to the people is what I believe in, and that’s what the capitol stands for to me.

“The guard, Charlie. At the tent.”

“He’s security! Aren’t they bonded and screened, or whatever they do?”

“Absolutely. They are also often from the military, and they know things about combat and such. Not only that,” I went on, “he was outside and could have killed Andrew at any time. We don’t know when that happened.”

“And the candlestick?” Beth asked.

“Who would question a man in a security uniform if he walked into the house and picked one up?”

Beth was not convinced. “Let’s not dwell on that. Who else is on your list of possibilities?”

I moved on. “Bruce. The owner of Accurate Construction. I like him, but he’s certainly strong enough to use a candlestick as a weapon. Maybe even his wife, Delphine, could have done it. If Andrew took all their money—”

“But she’s little. She’s not even five feet tall, is she?”

I was nearing the Manse, which was a good thing. My brain was somewhere close to empty, and my body was in need of a recharge as well.

“She’s little, but she’s tough. You should have seen her out there the day that Bruce and his crew were tearing the roof off the house behind us. There were something like four layers of roofing, and they are heavy, but she was loading them in a trailer. Not only that, the woman is a black belt and she used to have her own dojo. What are those things they fight with? Pikes or something?”

“They use a lot of different weapons.”

“Well, I’m betting that candlesticks could be one.” I turned into the driveway, and I could feel myself mentally slumping. An awful lot had happened, and I wasn’t up to all of it. I was grateful to be home.

The Manse was dark except for a light at the back door and a soft glow coming through the windows from the nightlights strategically placed around the house.

The big teal and white tent looked forlorn, like it had accidentally been forgotten when the circus left town. There was a slight wind, and the big trees behind it were moving gently. I pulled into the driveway and parked the car close to the garage, careful to lock it after Beth got out.

Maybe it had been all the emotional ups and downs of the day that had drained me. I didn’t seem to have the energy to do much more than drag myself out of the Land Rover. The guard came out of the tent and waved before going back in again.

Beth was facing the street we’d just come from, and her expression went from tired to shocked.

“Kitzi! Look.” She pointed, and I turned in time to see a large black SUV cruise very slowly by the entrance to the driveway.

We were both in our pajamas; Beth was on the
rocker in my room, and I was sitting on the bed. Beth wore the expression of someone who was shell-shocked or beyond exhaustion. Since it was almost two in the morning, that was understandable.

“It had to have been the same one. He followed us all the way here,” she said.

I shook my head for the umpteenth time. It seemed to be getting heavier. “We still don’t know that. There must be thousands of big black SUVs in Austin, and to me, most of them look the same. And you still haven’t answered the why. Why would someone follow us all the way home, and then not stop? If it was Gregg, making sure that we got home safely, he’d have pulled into the driveway, so we wouldn’t worry. It couldn’t have been Granger—”

“He drives some white cop-looking car.”

“Which only supports my point. It was a coincidence. Someone was lost. Or on their cell phone—”

“Which is why you checked three times to make sure the alarm was on. And why you asked the guard to be extra watchful tonight.”

I rubbed my forehead. “I have a headache.”

“I have a very bad feeling,” she said. “If we wake up dead—”

I tried to shake my head, but I didn’t have the strength. Luckily my mouth was still working just fine. “Only the good die young—I’ll be here until I’m at least 112. So, if you wake up dead, come and tell me.”

She stared at me for a good minute. I think it was just because she couldn’t think of a comeback. Finally she said, “You’re tired. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“See? We’ll be fine. You just said so.”

 

When I woke up, alive and well, there were voices
coming from downstairs and the pounding of little feet. Sinatra, who sleeps on the foot of my bed, rolled over and looked at me, as if for protection.

“Too late,” I said. “But you could hide under the bed.” He let out a yowl and disappeared there only seconds before my three grandchildren burst into the room.

“Gran Kitzi!” said Gabrielle, our three-year-old mistress of all that is righteous. “You’re still sleeping.”

“No, she’s not,” Cliffie said. “She’s wide awake. She’s just in bed.”

Shelby came to pat my hand. “Are you sick? Oh my gosh! Your hair!” She started giggling. “It’s orange.”

I reached up to touch it. I’d forgotten that little detail. “Yes, I’m sure it is,” I said.

“Did it make you sick?” Gabrielle asked.

“No, honey,” I said, climbing out of the bed and moving to the rocking chair. “I was up very late last night. You all look very nice. Where have you been?”

Shelby, who doesn’t particularly like dresses, had on a short denim skirt, an orange knit top, and sandals with white flowers on the front. Her long blonde hair was pulled up into a ponytail that was braided. Little Gabrielle, who likes anything her mother likes, was wearing what used to be called a springtime frock in a print of pink and pale blue flowers. She was even wearing a hat and carrying a small pink purse that matched her ruffled socks.

Cliffie had on khaki pants, a white golf shirt, and semiclean athletic shoes. Quite a feat for a five-year-old boy.

“We went to church,” Gabrielle said. “While you were sleeping.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I was out late last night, while you were sleeping.”

Katie came into the room just as Shelby said, “Did you win the poker tournament last night?”

“The—what? Your—” Katie wasn’t her usual articulate self.

Shelby spun around. “Mom! You shouldn’t sneak in like that. It’s not polite.”

I’ve seen my all-too-perfect daughter nonplussed before, but this time she was actually spluttering. She had one finger pointed at me. “Your—your—”

I smiled at her. “Are you all right? It’s just hair, Katie. I’ll admit it’s a little bright, but it is a rinse.”

She swallowed hard. “It will come out? I mean, before the corporate meeting this week?”

“Well, I think so. If it doesn’t you can just pretend you don’t know me.” I turned to look in the mirror, and I had to admit she had a point. Amazing how intense red hair can be in the daylight. It didn’t help that most of it was now flowing upward in a way that suggested I was the victim of a wind tunnel gone bad. “I see what you mean. It is a bit, well, let’s just make concessions since this is early morning.”

“No, it’s not,” Shelby said, pointing to my clock. “It’s almost—”

“Enough!” I put my hand over her mouth. “I have to take a shower and get dressed. Then I have a lot to do today, including some sport shopping in the tent for beads and a lot of research.”

Cliffie came out of the bathroom holding the empty box that had contained my Spicey Nice rinse. “Is this what you put on your hair?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

“Look what it says.” He read slowly but surely, “’If this shade is darker than your nat . . . nat . . .”

Katie grabbed the box. “Natural hair, it will not come out in twenty-eight shampoos.’ ”

Cliffie looked at me. “I guess that means you’ll have orange hair for a long time,” he said.

“Could be,” I said.

“Kewl!” Shelby grinned. “Unless you wash your hair twenty-nine times.”

“Yes, well, I don’t think I’ll do that today. Okay, everybody out and let me get dressed.” I got up from the rocker to find I’d been sitting on the outfit I’d worn the night before, which didn’t help its appearance. I shook out the sweater, then the pants.

Katie’s eyes widened. “You wore those? Those lime green and hot pink . . . pants?”

“Yes, I did, but you’re not seeing the best part.” I went to the closet and put on the earrings and the lime shoes. I came out modeling them. “Well?”

The kids started laughing, while Katie turned pink, I assumed with embarrassment at her mother. She said, “Okay, kids, let’s go downstairs and let Gran Kitzi get dressed. I’m sure it’s going to take her a while to get ready.”

“I could just throw those on,” I said, pointing to the clothes on the rocker.

“Don’t you dare.”

 

I had no idea whether twenty-nine shampoos was the
magic number to change me back to a blonde, but it wasn’t two. By the time I was showered, dried off, and had my makeup on, I still had red hair. At least it was not quite as brilliant as it had been earlier, and the style was a lot better. It was my normal one: neck length with soft waves that sometimes broke into curls.

I chose black cotton slacks and a teal blouse. The teal looked wonderful with my hair. Not only that, I decided I had definitely lost a pound or two, since the slacks fit quite nicely. I finished the outfit with a teal-and-rose crystal necklace Beth had made me and went downstairs.