Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [29]
“He’d probably deny it with all his Latin machismo,” I whispered back, “but I’d say having his mom stand next to him right now would definitely make him feel better.”
The sheriff’s deputy frowned at me and Lydia, shaking his head. I felt like a school kid caught passing a note.
“Thanks,” she murmured. Pointedly ignoring the deputy in a way I couldn’t help admiring, she walked across the porch, said something in Sam’s ear, then lay her hand on his shoulder. Sam’s tense face eased at her touch.
By the time Gabe and the cowboy detective came back out on the porch, more cars had arrived, and soon the yard and house were full of crime scene personnel. Gabe came over and stood next to me while the detective cleared his throat to get our attention.
“Excuse me, folks.” His voice had a soft Texas twang, like an electric guitar slightly out of tune—not enough to be unpleasant, but enough to notice. “I’m Detective Hudson. I know this has been a hard night on all y’all, but please bear with us a little longer. Since we don’t really know what happened yet, we’re going to have to question each of you on an individual basis. Just some standard questions so we can try and figure out what happened. There’s three of us, so it shouldn’t take too much of your time.”
His voice was so friendly and easygoing it was almost easy to forget that this wasn’t an accident, but was most likely homicide, and there was a good chance that someone standing on this porch had committed the crime.
After a quick consultation with Gabe, the two other detectives asked Dove and Daddy to step into the house. The rest of us waited, a deputy still watching us. About a half hour later, Dove and Daddy were given permission to leave, and they came over to me to say a quick good-bye.
“Call me tomorrow first thing,” Dove said, hugging me hard.
“I will.”
“See you soon, pipsqueak,” Daddy said, kissing my cheek.
Probably because they knew I was with Gabe, I was one of the last to be questioned. My interview, almost three hours later, took place in Cappy’s office off the front hallway. The Texas detective had placed two deep-green leather visitor chairs side by side in front of Cappy’s large oak executive desk, slightly turned toward each other in a nonintimidating way, as if he and the witness were just having a pleasant chat.
“I’m Detective Hudson, Mrs. Ortiz,” he said, reaching out to shake my hand. His palm was smooth, warm, and a little damp. “I’m sorry this has taken so long.”
“It’s okay. You can call me Benni,” I said, not wanting to go into the fact that although I was officially married, I wasn’t officially an Ortiz.
“Great, Benni, then. Please have a seat.” He gestured to one of the green chairs. After sitting down, I tried to get my bearings, by glancing around Cappy’s office. It was a mixture of funky cowgirl kitsch, Native American elegance, and colorful Mexican folk art, organized in a way that looked straight out of a magazine spread. A brown-toned framed poster of a Pendleton cowgirl riding a bucking bronco shared wall space with a bright acrylic painting of an Indian warrior and a folk art cross painted with happy scenes from a Mexican wedding. A loveseat upholstered in a tan, brown, deep green, and red Pendleton blanket fabric sat between floor-to-ceiling oak bookcases. In a corner, a burnished mahogany-colored tooled sidesaddle rested on a fancy oak saddle rack. Above it was a gallery of framed win pictures, Cappy smiling proudly in each one, and an oil painting of Seven Bars Jewel. Behind the desk hung the Churn Dash quilt—made of brown and gold calicos and pale muslin—that Rose Jewel Brown had created and was the inspiration for the name of the two-year-old colt I’d seen earlier.
The detective cleared his throat to get my attention. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can we get started now?”
I jumped slightly, felt myself flush. “Oh, I’m sorry. The room distracted me.”
He nodded and glanced around the office. “It is some-thin’ else. My mama would love it. She