“Your scissors. I haven’t forgotten.”
“B-but…” Criminy. At least Mrs. James had a potential motive. I hadn’t even known the man.
“Blackmail,” he said, a smirk on his face.
The word spiraled through my head. “You think he was blackmailing me?”
“No, Harlow. Relax. Your damn scissors are a pain in my ass, but I don’t think you killed the guy. Blackmail, meaning Macon Vance was hittin’ the Jameses up for a hefty sum.”
“Oh!” I released the anxious breath I’d been holding. Damn him for scaring me like that.
“I’m just not sure what he had on them, and they’re not talkin’. But everybody’s got some dirty laundry, don’t they, Harlow? Even a senator and his wife. Even… you.”
There it was, the big ol’ white elephant in the room. What did he know, and how did he know it? “I don’t know what you mean, Gavin,” I said.
He dropped his knee again and leaned forward, steepling his fingers and propping his chin on them. “No matter how hard you try, it’s tough to keep things a secret in a small town.”
“And…?” I schooled my expression, doing my best to mask the fact that I had no idea what he was talking about, but my mind raced. “Gavin, if you have something to say, just spit it out, would you?”
He narrowed his eyes, and I could tell he was trying to read me. He angled his chair so he could drum his fingers on the desk. “We found a rough drawing of a family tree in Vance’s house,” he said. “It was right there. The intersection of two family lines. Butch Cassidy was with Etta Place around the same time he was with Texana Harlow.”
Gavin nodded, looking smug. “Seems our deceased golf pro, Macon Vance, was trying to blackmail the Jameses over this very information. It would be bad for the senator’s career—or so Vance thought—to be related to outlaws and folks like you—from the wrong side of town.”
Related to? I barely stopped my mouth from gaping open. What he was saying dawned on me. It was common knowledge that Zinnia James’s husband, Jebediah, was a descendant of Etta Place, but if Etta had been with Butch Cassidy, then…
Gavin seemed to see realization on my face. “That’s right, Harlow. Young debutante Libby Allen, the James’s granddaughter, is your cousin thanks to Butch Cassidy and his philandering ways.”
“And Mrs. James knows?” I asked once my voice returned.
“Oh yeah. She confessed it all. Don’t make her guilty of nothin’, of course, but a lot of ugly truths.”
Lord almighty. Could it really be true?
Deputy Gavin McClaine folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands close up under his armpits. “I’m bothered by somethin’.”
Outside, the clouds had finally released their water and a light rain fell. As if on cue, thunder cracked and jagged lightning lit up the darkening sky. I dragged my attention back to Gavin, trying not to take the ominous summer storm as a sign of worse things to come. “What’s that?”
“How would Vance know so much about Etta and Butch and their family line?”
It was a good question, and one I was pretty sure Mrs. James hadn’t considered whenever she’d fessed up to the deputy.
I hopped up from my chair to pace around, suddenly too antsy to sit still. “She may have thought it was true, but what if he made the whole thing up?”
Gavin’s jaw worked as he thought, and I got the feeling his mind was processing through the ifs, ands, and buts of the blackmail scenario. “Right, because how would a guy from Amarillo know who in Bliss descended from some old outlaws? See, I don’t think he would.”
“He wouldn’t. And anyway, Etta was the Sundance Kid’s girlfriend, not Butch’s,” I said, although I knew that didn’t amount to a hill of beans. “Did the Jameses pay the blackmail?” I asked.
Gavin pushed off the desk and headed toward the door. “As far as we can tell, no, they didn’t, but they do make considerable donations to the club and Jeb James is on the board. We’re lookin’ into where donations go. Specifically.”
As in fraud? Oh boy. That wouldn’t look good for the Jameses. I was left with a saddlebag full of questions and no answers. Did Mrs. James make the whole blackmail scenario up, or had Macon Vance really tried to wring money out of them over Libby’s paternity? Was the story about Etta and Butch having another child even true? I had another troubling thought. Why was Gavin telling me any of this? I’d thought I was more a thorn in his side than anything else, so why the sudden confidence? I had a slight suspicion that I was being used… I just didn’t know how I was being used.
Gavin stopped at the door and gripped the doorjamb. “See you around the waterin’ hole, Ms. Cassidy,” he said.
Who knew what watering hole he was talking about. I didn’t much take to the local bar scene, and riding the mechanical bull at Billy Bob’s in Fort Worth wasn’t high on my list of things to do. I skirted around him, giving a quick wave good-bye. “Yeah,” I said. “See you.”
It wasn’t until I was halfway to the country club that I realized I’d forgotten to say hey to Madelyn and to dig deeper into what, exactly, Gavin McClaine knew about the Cassidy charms.
Chapter 25
Just as I was pulling into the country club parking lot to meet Trudy and Fern Lafayette, my phone beeped. I pulled over, dug my cell phone out of the vintage purse I’d made using a kiss lock frame and some Maximilian remnants, and read the incoming message.
Can’t meet. Trudy’s in the hospital.
It was signed: Fern
The hospital?! I texted back, Is she okay?
With the truck in PARK but still running, I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, nervously waiting for Fern’s response. After three long minutes, my phone was still quiet. “Hell’s bells,” I muttered, channeling Meemaw. “Why aren’t you texting back?”
Instantly, the phone beeped and a message appeared.
Send prayers.
Oh, Lord. My foot jerked, hitting the gas pedal, revving the truck’s engine. I threw it into reverse, backed out, and two seconds later was racing to Presbyterian, Bliss’s one and only hospital.
Long, jagged spears of lightning crackled in the sky as I raced through the hospital parking lot. By the time I got to the main entrance, I was soaked through. Caught without an umbrella in July. Go figure.
As I shook the rainwater off, I wondered about death. Did where a person died have anything to do with how easy it was to come back? What if Meemaw had died in a hospital, for example, instead of peacefully asleep in her own bed. Would she still have been able to hang around 2112 Mockingbird Lane as the resident ghost?
Of course, there was no way to find out and I wasn’t anxious to discover the truth for myself, so I just chalked it up as a random question I’d probably never know the answer to and promptly forgot about it.
A very sweet, snowy-haired woman at the information desk gave me Trudy Lafayette’s room number and I rode the elevator to the fifth floor. The thing about hospitals is, once you smell the mingling of antiseptic and sickness, you never forget it. It clings to you the way morning dew clings to individual strands of grass.
As I stepped off the elevator, I sucked in three or four deep breaths just to get used to the smell; then I searched for Trudy’s room. I stopped outside the door, peeking in so I’d know what to expect. Fern’s text hadn’t said why Trudy was here or what her condition was, so I prepared myself for the worst. “You comfortable?” I heard Fern’s voice as she fussed over her sister, propping pillows under her head.
From where I stood, I could see Trudy’s hands flailing as she swatted at Fern. “Jus’ wike Louisha,” she said, her words nearly unintelligible.