Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [70]
“I have to find my cousin,” I said, turning and walking quickly out of the tent.
Cappy caught up with me outside. “Benni, wait.”
I turned and faced her, shielding my eyes from the bright afternoon sun. “Yes?”
“Sometimes she gets confused. Very confused.” Her gray eyes bore into my squinting ones.
“I understand,” I said.
She stared at me for a long, searching moment. Both her hands were curled in tight fists. “Do you?”
“I’ve worked with elderly people, Cappy.”
Her lips tightened. “You always did learn quickly, Benni Harper. You knew how to focus. I liked that about you.”
“Thank you,” I said. She was definitely her mother’s daughter. The sudden conversation switch confused me.
“But your one fatal flaw was never knowing when something was too much for you. You always wanted to ride the horses that were too big or too wild or try some trick beyond your capabilities. Sometimes recognizing your own limitations is the smartest thing a person can do.”
“I . . . ”
Before I could say any more, she added, “Be smart this time. Ignore whatever my mother said. Don’t get in over your head.”
I watched her walk back toward the artists’ tent, frustrated that she didn’t let me speak, didn’t let me tell her that all her mother did was insult my looks and, ironically, give me advice on how to keep my husband.
But without realizing it, Cappy had pointed me in another direction. It was obvious by Cappy’s overreaction that Rose Brown knew something about the blackmail or Giles’s death. The thousand-dollar question was What exactly did Cappy think her mother had told me? And how would I find out what Rose Brown knew?
11
I FOUND EMORY deep in conversation with a new wine maker who was waxing poetic about the quality of grapes this harvest season and the possibilities for San Celina County’s growth as a major wine-producing region. I tugged on my cousin’s sleeve and demanded his car keys. “I’ll wait for you there.”
“Fifteen more minutes,” Emory said. “I swear.”
Inside Emory’s luxurious Cadillac Seville, I reclined the cushy leather seat, rolled down the electric windows for a cross breeze, and turned on the CD player, letting the butter-smooth sounds of George Strait soothe my irritated soul. I settled back, closed my eyes, and tried to forget the Brown family, wine, racehorses, my looks, my husband, and his beautiful ex-wife.
I was floating in a soft drowsy state, down a long, slow Southern river, just me and George, when a man’s voice growled near my ear, “Dangerous practice . . .” I simultaneously jumped, screamed, and swung my hand out in defense, my heart racing like one of Cappy’s horses.
“Dang it all!” Detective Hudson exclaimed, backing up and grabbing his mouth.
“You idiot! You scared the crap out of me!” I screamed. “Don’t ever, ever, ever sneak up on me like that! Ever!”
“I was just trying to tell you it’s dangerous to nap in an open car where anyone can accost you. Oh, dang, I’m bleeding,” he moaned, still holding his mouth.
I climbed out of the car and went over to him. “For Pete’s sake, quit your bellyaching. You’re lucky it wasn’t pepper spray in my hand.”
He felt his rapidly swelling lip gingerly, then stared at the blood staining his fingertips. “Criminy, what do you do, sharpen your claws on a whetstone?”
“I don’t even have nails.” I held up my hands in illustration. Clutched in my right one was the plastic case from George’s CD. The sharp plastic edge was obviously what I’d struck him with.
“Assaulted by a CD cover,” he said, moaning again. “How will I explain that one at the office?”
“You wouldn’t have to if you’d stop following me,” I said, reaching back into the car and handing him a tissue. “Here, clean up your mouth and shut up.”
He brushed away the tissue, pulled a pure white monogrammed handkerchief from inside his jacket, and brought it to his swollen lip.
I stared at it. “A handkerchief? I didn’t know men still used those.”
He gave a sick smile. “I don’t blow my nose with it. I use it to pick up women.”
“What?”
“You’d be surprised how many heartbroken women there are in bars. I give