Chapter 20

Instead of eating bonbons the rest of the morning, I chewed my nails.

If Joe were right that the state police detective was serious, that Hal thought Joe was the mysterious Tater who was involved with Spud’s death, that was definitely something to worry about. Joe was in danger.

And when somebody I love is in danger, I have to do something about it. Unfortunately, in this situation I had no idea of anything that might be helpful.

Spud’s death seemed to be part of a tornado of events that made no sense. Objects, ideas, and people seemed simply to fly by for no reason. Everything that had happened seemed to be nonsense.

Why had a pistol been hidden in the basement rafters in the Bailey house?

Why had Spud been so determined to buy the Bailey house, anyway?

Who had been prowling around the Bailey house the night after Spud’s death?

Why had Spud hidden cash in a safe at the convenience store? Surely he could find a more secure place for his money.

Why had Spud told his wife he could force Tad and Twyla to sell their parents’ house to him, even after lawyers said that the right of first refusal was no longer valid?

Who had stolen Curley McWhirley’s shoes? Was it really a kid? Or a tramp?

None of it made sense.

I firmed my jaw and sat up straight. I knew Hogan was trying to find a pattern in the situation, but would he be able to do that? Joe seemed convinced that Hal was simply trying to prove him guilty. The whole thing was endangering someone I loved.

I couldn’t just sit by and watch that happen. I might have promised Joe that I’d stay out of the murder in the house next door to us, but I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try to find out what was really going on.

But what could I do? I had no idea.

And at exactly that moment, an idea drove by.

The idea in question, of course, didn’t look like one. It wasn’t embellished with a neon sign saying, INSPIRATION! or anything.

No, it looked like a hearse. That’s because it was a hearse. It was the dignified cream-colored vehicle that is usually parked in the garage of VanHorn Family Funeral Services, next to the black limousine used to carry the family to funerals and the small black sedan that Vic VanHorn, owner and manager, drove around town. A car not unlike the one our prowler had driven.

I reached for my cell phone, found a telephone number, then punched CALL. A solemn voice answered immediately. “VanHorn Family Funeral Services.”

“Hello, Vic,” I said.

“Hello, Lee.” Yes, about three quarters of Warner Pier recognizes my voice. Maybe it’s the Texas accent?

I spoke again. “Has the time for the funeral of Richard Dirk been set?”

“Oh yes. Graveside services are to be at four o’clock this afternoon in Warner Pier Memorial Cemetery. And Lee . . .”

“Yes, Vic?”

“I hope to see you there.”

“Thanks,” I said, and broke the connection.

It will be interesting to see just who does show up, I thought. And whoever did appear, I intended to be among them.

As it happened, Aunt Nettie came along with me. As a lifelong resident of Warner Pier—except for that year she spent in Amsterdam learning to make chocolate—she naturally knew every soul in town. So when I told her I was planning to attend the funeral, she hopped right in the car. Well, sort of. We both did run home to change from our working clothes, which consisted of jeans and a sweater for me and a white cook’s uniform for her. I substituted wool slacks for my jeans, and Aunt Nettie put on a navy blue pantsuit.

As we pulled into the cemetery, I could see a small group. I was sure it was at Spud’s allotted plot; a town of twenty-five hundred was unlikely to have two funerals in one afternoon. I headed along one of the winding roads that led through the cemetery toward the dozen or so people.

“I’ve always wondered just why roads in cemeteries go around in circles,” I said.

“I guess they’re trying to look artistic,” Aunt Nettie said. “I’ve always wondered why they have so many trees.”

“Texas cemeteries don’t have so many trees. At least in my part of the state. But they still have these twisty roads.”

I pointed ahead. “Look! There’s Hogan.”

“Oh dear. He’s going to want to know why I’m here!”

“And your answer is . . . ?”

Aunt Nettie giggled. “The truth. Sort of. I used to know Spud’s mother. And what’s your answer?”

I managed to keep a straight face. “I thought I’d pay my respects.”

Neither of us was going to admit we simply were curious.

At the plot, about twenty-five chairs had been lined up in three rows. Star was standing in front of them, next to an urn on a pedestal draped in purple. Aunt Nettie and I approached quietly and went forward to greet her like perfect ladies.

“Lee?” She sounded amazed as she shook my hand. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“It just seemed to be the right thing to do,” I said.

Luckily Star didn’t question what I meant by that. Instead she introduced me to her mother, a tall and tough-looking gal with bleached hair and several layers of makeup. She looked like a woman who would name her daughter “Star.” Star and her mother seemed to be the only family present.

As predicted, Hogan climbed out of his car and beckoned to us. We joined him, and he led us aside. “And just what are you two doing here?” he asked.

We trotted out our prepared excuses.

He frowned. “Just take a seat in the back row and stay out of my way,” he said.

That was fine with me. We followed his directions, and the back-row location did prove ideal for seeing interesting things.

Brad Davis, for example. He came, and so did his father. But they arrived separately, and they barely nodded to each other. They chose seats at opposite ends of the second row.

Aunt Nettie told me the officiating minister was assistant pastor at Warner Pier’s largest church. I’d seen him at community and public events, enthusiastically talking to everyone, but I hadn’t known his name or profession. Other people attending seemed to represent business organizations—the chamber of commerce, the board of Realtors, the tourism committee. Even one city councilman appeared.

I wasn’t too surprised to see Mrs. McWhirley, since she had told Hogan and me that Spud had grown up in her neighborhood. Like Aunt Nettie, she had known Spud’s mother. She greeted me in a friendly way, and naturally she knew Aunt Nettie.

As the service began, I had a good view of the funeral director, Vic VanHorn, and my mind wandered to his place in the community. VanHorn? Did that name mean he was related to the VanHorns and the Davises, the pioneer settlers whose descendants had established the powerful VHD Foundation? But wouldn’t that mean he was a relative of Brad Davis? I wondered if a family tree of the two families was available, something to explain how everyone was related.

Then I tried to pull my attention back to Spud’s funeral.

It was pretty generic, but what else could I expect? I couldn’t picture Spud as an enthusiastic church member. The minister probably had never met him.

At the end of the service we all stood for a final prayer, and the urn holding Spud’s ashes was solemnly lowered into the small niche.

And I asked myself why on earth I had come. What had I expected to learn? Who had I expected to see there? Had I thought someone might jump up and scream “I did it!” or make some similar confession?

No, I hadn’t.

I felt quite let down as we filed past Star for one final handshake, an ironic expression of sympathy for a former spouse. People were leaving quickly. Both Brad and his dad, I noted, were already driving away, each in his own car.

As Aunt Nettie and I walked toward my van, I murmured in her ear, “A strange collection of people. I don’t know what I expected.”

At that moment, a voice called my name. “Mrs. Woodyard!” I heard footsteps crunching behind me on the gravel road. “Lee!”

Turning, I saw Vic VanHorn. Aunt Nettie and I waited until he drew near.

“A very nice service,” I said.

VanHorn ignored my remark. He leaned toward me and spoke quietly. “Can you get a message to your husband?”

“I can give you his business card so you can call him yourself.”

“No! No! Just tell him I need to talk to him. May I come by your house after dinner? Maybe about eight o’clock? I can’t get there any earlier.”

“I’ll check with Joe. I’m sure he’d be glad to call you.”

“No. Please. I don’t want any calls. If he’ll just allow me ten minutes—when you told me you were coming to the service—it sure seemed like a godsend.”

“In what way?”

“I need some legal advice in the worst way, and I’m sure Joe will tell me where to get it.”

I’m sure I looked surprised at that remark, but I tried to sound dignified. “I’m sure Joe will be glad to talk to you, Vic. But I prefer that he approves his own appointments.”

“If he can’t be there tonight, I’ll try tomorrow morning. I can come by. If neither of you is there, I’ll understand. Just don’t tell anybody about it.”

He turned and walked toward Star, leaving me amazed.

I turned to Aunt Nettie, who had been listening to us. “That’s one of the oddest requests I’ve ever had,” I said.

“Shush,” she said, whispering. “He didn’t want you to tell anybody.”

We both laughed.

Joe had the same reaction when I repeated Vic’s request to him at dinner. “Why didn’t he just call me? I’m in the phone book. I’m even on Facebook.”

“I don’t get it either, Joe. Maybe he has some sort of a complex.”

“It sounds more like he’s afraid his phone line is tapped. But I’m sure he has a cell phone. He obviously wants more than the name of a lawyer.”

“We’ll find out when he shows up.”

But Vic didn’t show up. Eight o’clock came and no one knocked at the door. The phone didn’t even ring. Nothing happened.

At least, nothing happened until ten o’clock. Two hours later than Vic had said he would come by.

Then I heard a police radio, and lights began to reflect through the trees between our house and the road.

I looked up from my magazine. “Is that the cops?”

Joe stood up, walked out onto the front porch, and looked toward Lake Shore Drive.

When he came back into the house, he was frowning. “Something’s happened down on the road,” he said. “I’ll get a flashlight and walk down there to see what’s going on.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Stay here. You’re in your pajamas. It’s probably somebody with car trouble. Not worth getting dressed again.”

Joe came back in about twenty minutes, his face grim.

“Maybe you’d better get dressed after all,” he said.

“What’s happened?”

“There’s a wrecked car sitting at the end of our driveway.”

“Oh no! Is anybody hurt?”

“One of the cops used the word ‘gunshot,’ and they’ve called an ambulance. It’s a midsized black car, Lee. I couldn’t get a look at the license plate.”

“Oh no!”

“I’m afraid it’s Vic VanHorn.”