Best Kept Secrets (22 page)

She responded with a professional detachment that Greg Harper would have been proud of: "Oh, really? How can you do that? Did you know my mother?"

"Unfortunately, no. But I can speed along your investigation just the same. We--my congregation of saints and I--believe that you're on our side. And our side is God's side.''

"Th-thank you," she stammered, hoping that was the correct response.

Obviously, it was. It earned a soft amen from Mrs. Plummet, who had been silently praying all this time.

"Reverend Plummet," Alex said uncertainly, "I'm not sure you understand. I'm here at the behest of the district attorney's office to--"

"The Lord uses people as his holy instruments."

"--to investigate the murder of my mother, which occurred here in Purcell twenty-five years ago."

"God be praised . . . that this wrong . . . will soon be set right!" He shook his fists heavenward.

Alex was flabbergasted. She gave a nervous laugh. "Yes, well, I hope so, too. But I fail to see how my investigation concerns you and your ministry. Do you have inside knowledge of the crime?"

"Oh, that I did, Miss Gaither," Plummet wailed. "Oh, that I did, so that we could speed along God's work and punish the iniquitous."

"The iniquitous?"

"Sinners!" he shouted fervently. "Those who would corrupt this town and all the innocent children of God living here. They want to build Satan's playground, fill the precious veins of our children with narcotics, their sweet mouths with foul liquor, their fertile little minds with carnality."

From the corner of her eye, Alex glanced at Mrs. Plummet, who sat with her head bowed, her hands folded in her lap, her knees and ankles decorously pressed together, as though they had been glued that way.

"Are you referring to Purcell Downs?" Alex asked tentatively.

Just as she had feared, the very words opened up a wellspring of evangelical fervor. Prophecies came spewing out of the preacher's mouth like a fountain run amok. Alex endured a sermon on the evils of horserace gambling and all the ungodly elements that accompanied it. But when Plummet began to tout her as a missionary sent to Purcell to vanquish the sons of Satan, she felt compelled to bring the fiery sermon to a halt.

"Reverend Plummet, please." After several attempted interruptions, he stopped speaking and looked at her blankly.

She licked her lips anxiously, not wanting to offend him, but wanting to make herself explicitly clear.

"I have absolutely nothing to do with whether or not Minton Enterprises is granted a gambling license. The fact is that they've already been approved by the racing commission. All that remains are the formalities."

"But the Mintons are under investigation for murder."

Choosing her words carefully, and omitting any direct reference to the Mintons, she said, "If enough evidence or probable cause is found as a result of my investigation, the case could be brought before the grand jury. It would be up to it to bring forth an indictment. In any instance, the parties involved are to be presumed innocent until proven guilty, in accordance with our Constitution."

She held up a hand to stave off his interruption. "Please, let me finish. Whatever happens regarding the proposed racetrack after I conclude my investigation will be the responsibility of the racing commission. I will have nothing to do with its final decision on this or any other application for a gambling license.

"Actually, it's coincidental that the Mintons are personally involved with both issues simultaneously. I reopened my mother's murder case because, as a public prosecutor, I was dissatisfied with its resolution, and thought that it warranted further investigation. I do not hold a personal grudge against this town, or anyone in it."

Plummet was squirming with the need to speak, so she let him. "You don't want to see gambling come to Purcell, do you? Aren't you against this device of the devil that snatches food from children's mouths, destroys marriages, and plunges the weak onto paths bound for hell and damnation?'

'

"My views on pari-mutuel betting--or anything else, for that matter--are none of your business, Reverend Plummet.''

Alex came to her feet. She was tired, and he was a wacko.

She'd given him more time than he deserved. "I must ask you and Mrs. Plummet to leave now."

He wasn't an educated and eloquent churchman, who had researched the issue and drawn enlightened conclusions.

There were well-founded arguments for both sides. But whether pari-mutuel gambling came to Purcell County or not, Alex had nothing to do with it.

"We're not giving up," Plummet said, following her to the door. "We're willing to make any sacrifice to see that God's will is carried out."

"God's will? If it's God's will that the Mintons be denied that gambling license, then nothing you do will help or hinder, right?"

He couldn't be trapped with logic. "God uses us to do his work. He's using you, though you might not know it yet."

His eyes smoldered with fanatical fire. It gave Alex goose bumps. "You are the answer to our prayers. Oh, yes, Miss Gaither, the answer to our prayers. Call on us. You've been anointed by God, and we're your humble and willing servants."

"I, uh, I'll keep that in mind. Goodbye."

Reverend Plummet's theology was warped. He gave her the creeps. She couldn't get her door closed behind him fast enough. As soon as she did, her telephone rang.

Nineteen

"How does dinner and dancing sound?" Junior Minton asked without preamble.

"Like a fairy tale."

"It's not. Just say yes."

"You're inviting me out for dinner and dancing?"

"It's the monthly fete at the Purcell Horse and Gun Club.

Please say you'll go with me. Otherwise, it'll be boring as hell."

Alex laughed. "Junior, I doubt you're ever bored. Especially when there are women around. Do most of them fall for your b.s.?"

"Almost without exception. If you go with me tonight, it'll be unanimous."

"Tonight?"

"Sure, tonight. Did I fail to mention that? Sorry I couldn't give you more notice."

"You're actually serious?"

"Would I joke about something as important as the monthly get-together at the Horse and Gun Club?"

"Of course you wouldn't. Forgive my flippancy."

"All's forgiven if you'll go."

"I really can't. I'm exhausted. Last night--"

"Yeah, I heard about that. Jeez, that must've been awful, you finding Pasty Hickam that way. I want to help take your mind off it."

"I appreciate your consideration, but I can't go."

"I refuse to take no for an answer."

While talking, she had struggled out of her dress and was now standing in her slip and stockings, cradling the telephone receiver between her shoulder and her ear while trying to pull on her robe. The housekeeper always turned off the heat after she cleaned the room. Every evening Alex had a frigid homecoming to dread.

She glanced toward the alcove where her clothes were hanging. "I really can't go, Junior."

"How come?"

"All my dressy clothes are in Austin. I don't have anything to wear."

"Surely a lady as articulate as you isn't resorting to that cliche?"

"It happens to be the truth."

"And the occasion calls for casual. Wear that leather skirt you had on the other day. It's a knockout."

Alex had finally managed to wriggle herself into the robe without dropping the phone. She sat down on the edge of the bed and snuggled deeper into the terry cloth. "I still have to say no."

"Why? I know it's rude to put you on the spot like this, but I'm not going to be gracious and let you bow out without giving me a valid reason."

"I just don't think it would be a good idea for us to socialize."

"Because you're hoping I'll soon be a resident of the Huntsville State Prison?"

"No!"

"Then, what?"

"I don't want to send you to prison, but you are a key suspect in a murder case."

"Alex, you've had time to form an opinion of me. Do you honestly believe that I could commit such a violent crime?"

She remembered how Reede had laughed at the notion of Junior going to war. He was lazy, unambitious, a philanderer.

Violent outbursts didn't fit into his image. "No, I don't,"

she replied softly. "But you're still a suspect. It wouldn't do for us to be seen fraternizing."

"I like that word," he snarled. "It sounds dirty, incestuous.

And for your peace of mind, I do all my fraternizing privately. That is, except for a few times, when I was younger. Reede and I used to--"

"Please," she groaned, "I don't want to know."

"Okay, I'll spare you the lurid details, on one condition."

"What?"

"Say you'll go tonight. I'll pick you up at seven."

"I can't."

"Alex, Alex," he moaned dramatically, "look at it this way. During the course of the evening I'll have a drink or two, possibly more. I might start reminiscing, get maudlin, say something indiscreet. When I do, you'll be there to hear it. No telling what stunning confessions I might blurt out in my inebriation. Consider this evening one long interrogation.

It's part of your job to wear down the defenses of your suspects, isn't it?

"You'd be shirking your duty if you didn't take advantage of every opportunity to rout out the truth. How can you selfishly languish in the luxury of the Westerner Motel while a suspect is shooting off his mouth over drinks at the Horse and Gun Club? Shame on you. You owe this to the taxpaying public who've footing the bill for this investigation. Do it for your country, Alex."

Again, she groaned dramatically. "If I consent to go, will you promise not to make any more speeches?"

"Seven o'clock."

She could hear the triumph in his voice.

The moment she entered the clubhouse, she was glad she had come. There was music and laughter. She caught snatches of several conversations, none of which were centered around Celina Gaither's murder. That in itself was a refreshing change. She looked forward to several hours of relaxation, and felt that the break had been earned.

Nevertheless, she rationalized being there. Not for a minute did she believe that Junior would make a public spectacle of himself while under the influence. She wasn't likely to hear any startling confessions.

All the same, something beneficial might come out of the evening. The exclusivity of the Horse and Gun Club suggested that only Purcell's upper crust were members. Reede had told her that the people who had signed the letter she had received were local businessmen and professionals. It was conceivable that she would meet some of them tonight, and get a feel for the extent of their animosity.

More important, she would have an opportunity to mingle with locals, people who knew the Mintons and Reede well and might shed light on their characters.

Junior had picked her up in his red Jaguar. He'd driven it with a lack of regard for the speed limit. His festive mood had been contagious. Whether she was acting in a professional capacity or not, it felt good to be standing beside the handsomest man in the room, with his hand riding lightly, but proprietorially, on the small of her back.

"The bar's this way," he said close to her ear, making himself heard over the music. They wended their way through the crowd.

The club wasn't glitzy. It didn't resemble the slick, neon nightclubs that were bursting out like new stars in the cities, catering to yuppies who flocked to them in BMWs and designer couture.

The Purcell Horse and Gun Club was quintessentially Texan. The bartender could have been sent over by Central Casting. He had a handlebar mustache, black bow tie and vest, and red satin garters on his sleeves. A pair of longhorns, which spanned six feet from polished tip to polished tip, were mounted above the ornately carved nineteenth-century bar.

The walls were adorned with pictures of racehorses, prizewinning bulls with testicles as large as punching bags, and landscapes where either yucca or bluebonnets abounded. In almost every instance the paintings featured an obligatory windmill, looking lonesome and stark against the sun-streaked horizon. Alex was Texan enough to find it comfortable and endearing. She was sophisticated enough to recognize its gaucheness.

"White wine," she told the bartender, who was unabashedly giving her a once-over.

"Lucky son of a bitch," he muttered to Junior as he served them their drinks. The grin beneath the lavish mustache was lecherous.

Junior saluted him with his scotch and water. "Ain't I just?" He propped his elbow on the bar and turned to face Alex, who was seated on the stool. "The music's a little too country and western for my taste, but if you want to dance, I'm game."

She shook her head. "Thanks, but no. I'd rather watch."

A few songs later, Junior leaned close and whispered,

"Most of them learned to dance in a pasture. They still look like they're trying to avoid stepping in a pile of cow shit."

The wine had taken effect. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. Feeling a pleasant buzz, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed.

"Come on," he said, placing his hand beneath her elbow and helping her off the stool. "Mother and Dad are at their table."

Alex moved with him along the perimeter of the dance floor to the cluster of tables set up for dining. Sarah Jo and Angus were seated at one. He was puffing on a cigar. Sarah Jo was idly waving the offensive smoke away from her face.

Alex had been apprehensive about wearing the russet leather skirt and matching, leather-trimmed sweater, but she felt more comfortable in them than she would have wearing Sarah Jo's burgundy satin dress and looking out of place in a room where people were stamping out "Cotton-Eyed Joe,"

yelling "bullshit" in the appropriate places, and drinking beer straight from opaque amber bottles.

"Hello, Alex," Angus said around his cigar.

"Hello. Junior was hospitable enough to invite me," she said as she sat down in the chair Junior was holding out for her.

"I had to do some arm-twisting," he told his parents, taking the chair next to her. "She plays hard to get."