Seven Sisters - Earlene Fowler [87]
“Shoot, he’s fine,” Detective Hudson said, rubbing his lower back. “I’m the one who just pulled a muscle because of that dimestore Daniel Boone sniper. Bet you a taco dinner it was someone hired by the Browns. They must’ve been following us all day. Dang it all, I was so busy haggling with you I let them get the slip on me.”
“So why didn’t you go after them, Mr. Purple Heart, and find out who they were?” Hair at the back of my neck was damp from heat and fear. I lifted it up, letting the small breeze cool my skin.
“My mama might’ve raised a fool, but my daddy taught me never to get into a fight I didn’t have at least a fifty percent chance of winning. No way was I running into those woods. They had the advantage and they knew it. There wasn’t a chance this side of Lubbock I would be able to catch them.”
“Hmmp,” was all I said, tenderly touching a raw place on my cheek.
“Sorry I had to throw you down so hard,” he said, tilting his head to look at me. His grin belied his apology. “But you were a perfect target.”
“Some excuse.”
“I saved your life!”
“Don’t deny you enjoyed knocking the air out of me.”
“Well, it was right peaceful for a few minutes there, what with your mouth not moving and all.”
“Eat dirt.” I walked back over to the babies’ graves, took a notebook out of my back pocket and started writing down the information on the headstones.
Detective Hudson went over and picked up the camera that had flown out of my hands when the sniper shot at us. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. “Think this will still work?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m copying down the information.”
He came up behind me and took a dozen or so shots of the markers. These did have dates, though nothing else appeared on the plain white marble stones except the lily of the valley.
DAISY JEWEL BROWN—May 1, 1925-November 3, 1925
DAHLIA JEWEL BROWN—May 1, 1925-March 12, 1926
BEULAH JEWEL BROWN—January 25, 1927-June 15, 1927
BETHANY JEWEL BROWN—January 25, 1927-September 9, 1927
“I wonder what they died from?” I asked out loud.
Detective Hudson shrugged. “Does it matter?”
I looked at him, surprised. “Of course it does! It’s obvious that whatever Giles was blackmailing the family with has something to do with these babies. How they died might be the key. I mean, maybe someone killed them or something.”
He pointed to the lichen-covered markers. “The dates of death don’t support that theory. They most likely died of influenza or diphtheria or who knows what else. Look at all the other graves of children here. You’re really reaching now.”
“If they died innocently, why is someone shooting at us?”
He was silent for a moment, knowing I had him there. Then he said, “I don’t know. Might just be that this person wanted to scare us off investigating altogether and after following us all day decided that out here in the boonies was the safest place for him . . .”
“Or her,” I said.
He rolled his eyes. “Okay, Miss Feminist, or her, to shoot at us. I mean, when else would they? When we were at the folk art museum? Or in the San Celina’s Cemetery? This was the best opportunity.”
“Except we’ve been in other isolated graveyards today, like the Estrella one. Nobody shot at us there. They were warning us away from this particular cemetery.”
“Benni, if they didn’t want us to get here, they would have done something while we were out on the road. There’s absolutely no evidence to support your theory.”
“You haven’t even looked for evidence to support it! You’re dismissing it without any serious consideration. That’s very poor detective work. I find it hard to believe your success rate is as good as you say with a pessimistic attitude like yours.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job! Criminy, you can be a pain in the ass.”
I ignored his comment and crossed my arms. He knew I was right. Eventually he’d admit it, though not without some whining.
Back at his truck, he searched the ground for tire tracks. The grass had definitely been flattened, but