Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [68]
I slapped the top of his hands gently. “Did Dove ask you to look after me?”
He laughed and shook his head no. “She’s so busy with this project, she’s barely had time to spoon with me on the porch last night.”
“Spoon? Excuse me, you need to clarify to a concerned granddaughter just exactly what that term entails. In detail, please.”
“Not on your life. Anyway, I’ve photographed this Capitola Brown twice, back in the fifties when she was working the rodeo circuit doing trick riding and later in the eighties when I was doing a book on horse racing. Dove says it’s pretty certain someone in the family did it. Any ideas who?”
I told him everything I knew so far. “It could be any of them, though that note points strongly at Cappy. To be honest, she’s the only one I can picture having the nerve to pull it off. Dove told you the whole thing about the switched guns, right?”
“Yes, so the only lead you have is the grave rubbing. Can I see it?”
“Sure.” I pulled it out of my purse and handed it to him.
He took a pair of tortoise-shell glasses from his shirt pocket and studied the rubbing. He handed it back to me. “I’m assuming you’re going to look for it.”
“How can I? There’s too many cemeteries in San Celina County. There are probably some I don’t even know about. That would take weeks and even then might be a dead end.”
“So you’re going to give up? That doesn’t sound like you. The Benni Harper I know would be lying in bed at night trying to figure out the puzzle.”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t? Thank you, but I’ve already got one man encouraging me to go against my husband’s request to stay out of situations like this.”
“Who’s that? And for the record, I’m not encouraging you, I’m only making an observation concerning your personality.”
“You know, you can be real annoying sometimes.”
“But I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Sometimes I think my cousin Emory was right, and I should have been a detective. I don’t want to get involved, but something in me won’t rest until Giles’s murderer is caught. And it’s not because of some great humanitarian motivation, either. From what I understand, he was a real jerk.”
“Even jerks don’t deserve to be murdered. I think you’ve got a strong streak of justice running through you, and that’s what compels you to get involved.”
“You make me sound a lot more noble than I feel. How about you running that speech by Gabe the next time he gets upset at me?”
His hearty laugh made me smile. “Not on your life. He has the power to lock me up, not to mention sic the parking ticket patrol on me. So, who’s this other man you say is encouraging you to get involved?”
“A sheriff’s detective assigned to the Brown murder. For some reason, he’s gotten it into his fuzzy little Texas head that I’ll be able to ferret out information from this family that he can’t.”
Isaac peered out from under his thick, white eyebrows, his mouth turned up into a wide grin.
“Oh, shut up,” I said, good-naturedly. “Yes, he’s heard about my other experiences. That doesn’t mean I’m going to jeopardize my relationship with my husband or my stepson to solve his case.”
“So, this detective. Does he wear starched Wranglers, a white cowboy hat, and fancy cowboy boots?”
My eyes widened. “How did you... ?”
He pointed behind me. I turned and saw Detective Hudson strolling across the grass toward us.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” I said.
“Looks determined,” he said.
When Detective Hudson reached us, Isaac stood up. I swung my legs around so I wasn’t straddling the bench and leaned back on my elbows.
“What do you want?” I said.
“Isaac Lyons,” Isaac said, holding out his big hand.
The detective took his hand. “The Isaac Lyons? The photographer?”
Isaac gave his deep laugh. “Depends on who’s asking. I think I may have a speeding ticket in Wyoming I haven’t paid.”
“Ford Hudson. My friends call me Hud. I’m a detective with the San Celina Sheriff’s Department, and as far as I’m concerned, your need for speed is Wyoming’s problem, not mine. I bought your book