Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [30]
He turned it over and scrutinized the cover, laughing himself. “It was all I could find,” he said, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs, ankle to knee. His golden brown ostrich boots had deep brown shafts. “I think it was left over from my daughter’s last visit. I reckon I should have just torn the cover off, but as my dear old daddy would say, if a man can’t act like a girl sometimes, then he ain’t a real man.”
I thought about his comment for a moment, trying to decide if it was insulting to women.
He grinned at me, an amused twinkle in his dark brown eyes. “Now, why don’t you tell me everything you saw and heard and what you were doing, say, the half hour before y’all heard the dinner bell callin’ you to the house.”
While I talked, he made notes in his cartoon notebook, his smooth-shaved, country-boy face screwed up in a concentrated frown. He reminded me of the type of boy in school the teacher always picked for Tom Sawyer’s part in the class play. The kind who would pull your braids, then look so cute and wide-eyed innocent when accused that the teacher glanced back at you with suspicion.
“Then we ran through the wine fields because Bliss knew a shortcut and we found Cappy, Willow, and Etta standing in front of the double doors,” I finished.
Nodding, he made a few more notes, then looked up at me, his boyish face thoughtful. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to pick your brain for a moment. Off the record.”
I became instantly wary. He apparently forgot I was married to a cop. There was no such thing as “off the record.” Especially in a homicide investigation. I waited for his question, nervously jiggling my foot.
“You’re pretty connected in the agriculture community here in San Celina County, right?”
“I guess. I’ve lived here most of my life, and my gramma and daddy have owned a ranch here since the early sixties.”
He grinned again. “That Dove, she’s a real kick in the pants. You know, she got me to commit to a donation for their senior citizen center’s new kitchen before I even asked two questions. That’s the first time anyone has finagled a charity donation out of me during a homicide investigation. I was tempted to swear her in as an honorary deputy and set her to questioning folks. We’d have this wrapped up in time for biscuits and gravy.”
“She’s one of a kind,” I agreed, laughing. “How much did she shake you down for?”
“A hundred bucks!” He shook his head. “My own dear grandma Hudson, the Lord rest her soul, would have loved her.”
I smiled, then involuntarily yawned. “Sorry, it’s been a long night. Are you through?”
“One last question. Take some time thinking about it and answer it now if you want or call me at the office.” He pulled a business card out of the inside of his jacket and handed it to me. “I just want your input on what is going on in this family.”
I thought for a moment, torn between the loyalty I felt toward Cappy because of our past association, not to mention the general loyalty among the agricultural community who’d, with good reason, often viewed government officials with more than a little suspicion.
“Well,” I said, “there was probably some friction between Giles and Cappy, because the two things they do are so different, and there might be some disagreement as to how to utilize the resources on their land.”
“Such as?”
“Whether pasture land should be used to raise horses or be covered with wine grapes.”
“Can’t a big place like this do both? Ms. Brown said . . . ” He flipped back through some pages in his notebook. “This property is about eleven hundred acres. Isn’t that enough for everybody? Forgive my agricultural ignorance, but I’m a Houston city boy. My father was an accountant. The only agriculture I’m familiar with was my mama’s prize-winning roses.”
“A good part of their land is probably not productive,” I said. “And often the