Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [107]
“Let me do the talking,” I said in a low voice.
“I will not,” he replied.
“You’ll blow it,” I spat.
He grabbed my elbow, then swung around to the front of me so his back was to the woman watering, blocking her from my view. “Look, I’ve been extremely patient so far, but I’m not going to let an inexperienced civilian screw up this chance for me.”
“You look. The people who live out here aren’t like regular people. Many of them are hermits and other loners who are very skittish about anyone they don’t know. I have connections with some of the ranching families out here and so have a better chance at getting them to talk.”
He stood with his hands on his hips, a condescending sneer on his face. “You honestly think you can do better than me?”
I folded my arms across my chest. “Yes, I do. If they find out you’re a cop, they’ll clam up, and we’ll never find out anything.”
He stepped aside and swept his arm out dramatically. “Then by all means, go ahead. But I’m warning you, if you blow it, I’ll—”
“Fire me?” I finished. “Detective, just follow me, keep your mouth shut, and your gun ready.”
“You are really asking for it, Mrs. Harper.”
I ignored him and started toward the woman in overalls, putting on a friendly smile. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she repeated, her handsome face open but wary.
“My name’s Benni Harper, and this is... my friend... uh, Hud.”
Squinting into the bright sun, she nodded at the detective. The hose she was watering with sputtered, and she turned around, straightening the kink in it. “Harper,” she said, when the water started flowing smooth again. “I used to know a Wade Harper when I was a bartender in San Celina. A place called Trigger’s.”
“Wade was my late husband’s brother. Trigger’s closed awhile back. Lost their liquor license.”
“I heard. So, you’re Jack Harper’s wife? I remember him, too, ’cept he was a lot quieter than Wade. He left good tips. Nice eyes.” She put her thumb over the hose’s metal lip to make a thin spray.
“Yes,” I said, remembering Jack’s gentle brown eyes. “He did have nice eyes. He died a few years ago in a car accident.”
“That’s rough. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
She peered at me closer. “You know, I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere. Did you hang out at Trigger’s, too?”
“Not much. But I know what you mean. You look familiar to me, too. I grew up in San Celina. My dad and gramma own a ranch east of the city.”
She walked over to turn off the spigot. “Cattle?” she said over her shoulder.
“Yep, some Angus, some Santa Gertrudis, some Hereford crosses. My dad likes to experiment with different breeds.”
She turned back to face me, her brown, oval face thoughtful, then said, “I got it! We sat across from each other at a Cattlewomen’s Association Christmas luncheon about five years ago. Over at that Mexican restaurant near the Goodwill store. A lady next to you was talking about antique buttons.”
“That’s right,” I said. “She had one that was worth two hundred dollars, remember? We were flabbergasted.”
“Yeah, I remember. That was when I was still with my first husband, Danny Wheaton.” She made a sour face that was more telling than words.
“I know the Wheatons. They own a ranch north of the city. Nothing but Black Angus. Danny and I went to high school together.” And he was a spoiled, rednecked jerk if I remember correctly, I added to myself.
“That’s them. Meanest bunch of people you ever saw. Especially the mother. Danny was her pride and joy, and he took full advantage of that.”
“How’d you end up out here?” I searched my brain for her name, it was something unusual . . . Danny and . . . Rolanda, Renata . . . Riccarla. That was it. “Riccarla,” I said.
A big grin spread across her face as she wiped her wet hands on her overalls, leaving dark spots. “That’s a pretty good memory you have. Met my current guy when I left Danny and was working at Trigger’s. Bobby’s great. He’s the mailman out here. I run the library three days a week and spend the rest of the time making bay leaf wreaths. I sell