Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [103]
When I came within his eyesight he bellowed, with a drill sergeant’s snappy bark. “Where have you been? Get in here. Now.”
“Unless you can the attitude,” I snapped back, “I’m outta here.” I added in a lower voice, “Jerk.”
He came barreling out of his chair. “What?”
Keeping my voice calm, I said, “Quit acting like a Nazi. I got here as soon as I could. What is your problem?”
Without answering, he inhaled deeply, sharp points of color staining his cheeks. He gestured for me to follow him into his office. He shut the door behind me and nodded at a visitor’s chair against the wall. I glanced around the compact office where two black-and-chrome office desks faced each other. One held a scattered group of Little League, ballet recital, and soccer team pictures, used coffee cups, a crumpled McDonald’s bag, a Beanie Baby snake, and stacks of files. The desk Detective Hudson sat behind contained only a green desk blotter, a black ceramic pencil cup filled with pens, a phone, and a picture of a redheaded girl about five years old sitting on the hood of his pickup truck. A sticker on his pencil cup showed a red circle with a slash through the word “whining.” Between the two desks was a calligraphy sign that mocked the Serenity Prayer—“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the weaponry to make the difference.”
“Very inspiring,” I said wryly, nodding at the poster.
“What did you find out?” he asked.
“Geeze, let me take a breath. What’s the big hurry?”
“The big hurry is I’m getting my butt reamed out by my superiors because the sheriff is getting harassed from two prominent families—the Nortons and the Browns. One wants it solved, one wants us to quit poking around. I’ll leave it to you to guess who’s who.”
“Well, sor-ry,” I said, stretching out the word. “But that’s still no reason to be such a jerk. In case you forgot, I’m not on the payroll, buddy. This is purely voluntary on my part, so save your nasty remarks and bad attitude for someone collecting a county paycheck.”
He settled back in his chair, crossed his legs, and rested his hands across his flat stomach. Today he wore a pale yellow Arrow shirt and sedate, tobacco brown bullhide boots that looked like they cost a thousand bucks. “You’re absolutely right, Benni, and please accept my sincere and heartfelt apology. I’m just feeling like the rope between the cow and the cowboy. Know what I mean?”
I nodded, suspicious at his suddenly genial mood.
“So, what do you have for me?” he asked, keeping his voice even and pleasant. But I sensed the tension and determination behind his good-ole-boy demeanor. He really, really wasn’t going to like what I was going to tell him.
“I have the name and whereabouts of the nanny who worked for Judge and Rose Brown when she had the two sets of twins.”
He sat forward in his chair, his face amazed. I have to admit one-upping him, to quote Dove, dearly gladdened my heart. “Shoot, that’s great! But wait, that was back in the twenties. She’d have to be—”
“Ninety-seven and, according to my sources, still alive. Or at least someone is signing and cashing her Social Security checks.”
He jumped up and grabbed his pale cowboy hat from the credenza behind him. “Let me have her address. I’m going to talk to her right now before she croaks on me.”
I stood up and looked him squarely in the eyes. “No.”
He stopped dead, his hat still in his hands. Anger flashed like a dust devil across his face, then was gone. He took a couple