Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [69]
“Liar,” I blurted out.
Isaac gave me a puzzled, then reprimanding look. “Forgive my young friend’s rudeness.”
I shot Isaac a hard look. Sometimes he could be just a little too paternal.
Detective Hudson grinned. “That’s okay, I’m gettin’ used to it. She’s like one of those snarly little terriers. Kinda grows on you after a while.”
Isaac gave a small chuckle. “Yes, she does.” Then he turned to me. “Dove instructed me to ask you to dinner tonight. She’s making pot roast.”
“I’ll be there.”
He kissed me on top of the head and whispered in my ear, “Play nice, Ms. Benni Harper.”
Giving him my sweetest smile, I replied, “Suck eggs, Mr. Isaac Lyons.”
He gave a great booming laugh and ruffled my hair. “Oh, Lordy, I’ve missed you.”
“Shoot,” Detective Hudson said as we watched Isaac stride across the grass. “Didn’t know you ran in such fancy circles. Is he a relative or something?”
“What do you want?”
“For you to come to my office at ten o’clock tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“Like I said so politely this morning, I have some ideas I need to discuss with you about our case.”
“It’s. . . not. . . our. . . case,” I said. “Shall I say it slower? Write it in lipstick on your forehead? Send a telegram?”
“Do people still send telegrams in this computer age? What with E-mail and all. I’ve wondered about that.”
Not answering, I stood up and brushed past him.
“Tomorrow,” he called after me. “Ten o’clock. I’m the third office on the right. Just tell the receptionist I’m expecting you.”
Back in the tent, the crowds were still thick and noisy. I waited for Emory at our assigned place, but as usual he was late. He meandered by ten minutes later.
“I have one more person to interview,” he said. “Give me another half hour.”
“Oh, Emory,” I moaned, wishing I’d driven myself so I could leave. Knowing my cousin, it would be more like another hour.
“Go amuse yourself, sweetcakes. Don’t be a whiny-baby.”
I went back into the artists’ tent, hoping to find a chair. Next to some potted trees, near the stage where Cappy had spoken, there were a couple of white folding chairs. I grabbed one and sat down, heaving a big sigh.
“Too much wine?” an older woman’s voice inquired.
I turned and looked behind the potted trees and saw Rose Brown sitting alone in her wheelchair.
“Uh, not really,” I said, standing up and going over to her. “I don’t really like wine.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I came with my cousin. He’s a journalist and he’s writing an article for the Tribune. ”
Her eyes opened and closed slowly, like some kind of ancient, slow-moving animal. “I was beautiful once,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered.
“He was a judge and a horseman. His horses were in demand all over the country. He required perfection in his horses, his law, and his women.”
I nodded, thinking, He sounds like a real prize.
“Women adored him. Many nights he didn’t come home at all.”
Suddenly uncomfortable with the awkward personal turn to our conversation, I looked around, trying to find a polite way of escape. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Do you have a husband?” she asked.
I nodded.
“You’d better fix yourself up. He’ll leave you for someone prettier.”
In deference to her age and, I was assuming, her slight senility, I held back the temptation to tell her to mind her own dang business. “Excuse me, I need to meet my cousin . . .”
The next moment, Cappy walked around the corner and saw me walking away from her mother.
She hurried up to me. “What are you doing?” she snapped.
“Nothing,” I stammered. “Your mother . . .”
A panicked look passed over Cappy’s face. A few feet away, her mother sat smiling serenely in her wheelchair, her cloudy eyes focused on something behind me. “She’s very elderly,” Cappy said.
I looked back down at her mother who still wore that spooky, disengaged smile. Was she senile? She certainly didn’t sound as if she was when she was insulting my looks. Maybe she was just