I had lots of questions about the labels that had been put on me during my lifetime. Trouble. Hot Mess. Drunk. Slut. Failure. Those had either been put on me, or I'd put them on myself—I wasn't even sure anymore. But I very much liked the idea of being given a new label. I didn't want to be a heel-grabber anymore.
What was my new label, though? The first hopeful thought that popped into my head was Helper. I thought of Tony, when he was suspected of the murder of Lucinda Cruz. Of CJ Hardin's parents, not knowing what had happened to their son. G-Ma, certain that the High Point Bandits were going to rob her blind. I helped those people. I had liked helping those people.
But one label I definitely had was Wife. And I didn't think that was compatible with Helper—at least not in the way I wanted to be a Helper.
And although I could not say I was completely down with the idea of being submissive to my husband, the facts were plain. Tony had stood by me. He was my husband. He was concerned for my safety. That deserved at least some of my consideration.
As I showered and got ready for work, I thought of other ways I could be a helper. I was becoming a fairly decent dog groomer. That wasn't nothing. The dogs seemed comfortable with me and maybe hated coming to the grooming shop a little bit less because they knew I would rub their tummy for them and might sneak them a treat. That sounded like a pitifully small way to make the world a better place, but I didn't mind that much. The truth was, I loved dogs. I loved Stump so much that if I had to justify the existence of a person just because they were good to Stump, I would do it in a heartbeat.
And speaking of people who were good to Stump—I helped Frank, via a comfortable recliner and free food. He helped me right back by making sure Stump didn't get caught up in one of her separation-anxiety fueled meltdowns and destroy my trailer. So, this was a shared endeavor, but still...
I could just be a normal person, I thought as I tugged on my clothes. There were lots of people in the world who went around not solving crimes, and they did just fine. They were still good people.
Maybe I could perfect my lemon pound cake recipe. Or learn to knit, maybe knit blankets and hats for the babies in NICU. Or be the best wife Tony could possibly hope for. Those were all worthwhile endeavors.
I wrinkled my nose. God made Jacob into Israel, father of the twelve tribes of Israel. Personally, I would have preferred something that came with a cape, but whatever. As long as I wasn't a heel-grabber anymore, I would learn to be happy with it.
Viv texted me around noon. “What time are you getting off? I have booked two appointments for us today—Dorsett Oil and Bitsy Browning.”
I checked my list. “Should be done by 2.”
“Be ready by 1:45,” she replied. “Dorsett Oil is at 2.”
I frowned and put the phone down. Maybe she needed a reminder that the British were known for being polite.
Before she got there, I had second thoughts, though. We still didn't know if Browning had been murdered, but if he had...a powerful oil company would be a good suspect, right? Browning's reports on earthquakes related to fracking had been getting a lot of attention.
On the one hand, it wouldn't have made a lot of sense for Dorsett Oil to be behind a murder like that. Peter was one reporter. It wasn't as if someone else couldn't have taken up the thread. For all I knew other reporters were already doing it—I hadn't looked for any other reports. So it would be foolish to kill someone to silence them when someone else could easily start where Peter left off. Like a high-stakes game of whack-a-mole.
On the other hand, I was a big chicken. Powerful men scared me.
When Viv picked me up in her Crystal Frost Caddy, I told her as much.
“Salem, men are men. A few well-placed compliments and meaningful looks, and they all fold.”
I bit my lip on that. Viv was 80-something, and I was still too overweight to believe anyone would fall for my wiles, Tony being the exception. “Maybe it would be a good idea to let someone know where we are, just in case. Where is the office?”
“In the Metro Tower building. That's where Browning did his interviews, too.”
“Oooh! That's the tall building downtown!”
I hadn't been inside that building, but I'd always wanted to go. Forty-something years before, a tornado had torn through downtown Lubbock and demolished a bunch of buildings. The Metro Tower building, then (and now) the tallest building in town, had been damaged but not destroyed. I had heard that if you looked closely, you could tell that the building was slightly twisted.
Although I had stood at the corner of that building no less than five times, peering up along the brick line, I had never been able to discern any twist. Maybe I could see a slight curve. Maybe it just seemed that way because I was looking straight up and my equilibrium got a bit woozy. I wondered if I would be able to tell any better from inside the building, looking down.
“Are you sure your hubby's going to be okay with this?”
I thought about that, but wasn't sure how to answer. I had told him I would be careful. Was this being careful?
“It's a downtown office in the middle of the day,” I finally said. “It's not like we're going to be combing back alleys. Again.”
Viv shrugged.
“Seriously, nothing is going to happen inside some oil baron's office in the middle of the day. Come on.”
“You're the one who was worried about them bumping us off.”
“Well, yeah, but that was before I knew their offices were in the death-defying-tornado building. Besides, how many opportunities do we have to even go in a skyscraper around here.”
“Honey, you need to get out of Lubbock if you think that's a skyscraper.”
“One, yes. Yes, I do. And two, it's close enough to a skyscraper for me. I want to try and see the twist.”
Viv flapped a hand. “It's nothing, barely even noticeable.”
“You've seen it?”
“Yes, I've seen it. It's just a slight curve near the top of the building.”
She said it as if it wasn't a super-amazing freaky fact.
“Seriously? I need to see that.”
“Why?”
“A tornado turned an entire brick building.”
“Just a little bit.”
“A tornado turned an entire brick building!” I repeated for emphasis. “Come on! Like, it twisted an entire building.” I held my hands out, twisting them in opposite directions as you'd do if you were demonstrating how to twist open a jar of face cream. “Admit it, that's pretty freaky.”
“I guess.”
“Can we pretend like I'm your granddaughter and I'm going to inherit your wealth?”
“Granddaughter?!”
“I meant daughter,” I said quickly. “Or sister. Maybe your sister who will inherit your millions.”
“Sure. If I were you, though, I'd rather pretend I had my own millions to invest.”
I hadn't thought of that. Even in my wildest imagination I was mooching off someone else.
––––––––
I tried again to see the twist in the building, but it still didn't look like anything but a plain old tall building to me.
“Maybe the whole thing is just urban legend,” I said as Viv pushed the elevator button for the 20th floor. “Like the lights at Marfa.”
“Oh, the lights at Marfa are real,” Viv said. She straightened her collar in the reflection of the elevator door.
“You've seen them?”
“A couple of times, actually.”
I frowned and kept my mouth shut. I would complain that I'd led a sheltered life, but it hadn't really been that sheltered. Just kind of boring and highly localized. Here I was excited about going up in a 20-story building.
I swatted at my pants and top again to knock away any lingering dog hair. The elevator came to a gentle stop and dinged softly before the doors slid open.
The elevator opened onto a short hallway, flanked by one metal door to the right that led to the stairwell, and one glass door to the left that led to the office of Dorsett Oil. Viv strode through the door like she already owned the place. I followed, trying and probably failing to take on an air of nonchalance.
“Vivian Kennedy,” Viv told the middle-aged woman at the desk.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kennedy.” She smiled brightly. The smile faded just a fraction when she took me in.
“This is my niece, Salem,” Viv said. “My much older sister's daughter.”
The woman gave a noncommittal smile and nodded. “I believe Mr. Dorsett is ready for you. Have a seat and I'll let him know you're here. Would you like something to drink? A bottled water or soda?”
I took a look around and decided this place could afford to spring for a soda. “Do you have Diet Coke?”
“Of course.” She smiled like I shouldn't have to ask that. Viv asked for a bottled water.
We had a seat. Viv looked around like she was judging the decorating and finding it wanting. I tried to sit as lightly as I could, in case the scent of Furr-Ever Lovely Dog Cologne lingered on my clothes.
Mr. Dorsett followed the receptionist back to the waiting area.
“Vivian!” he said, holding out a hand to be shaken.
They shook hands and greeted each other like old friends. I stood and smiled a flat, don't-mind-me-I'm-just-the-deadbeat-niece smile. The receptionist handed us our bottles and went back to her desk.
We followed Dorsett back to his office, which looked exactly the way I expected an oilman's office to look—dark wood paneling, one wall of books that probably nobody read, and a painting of a longhorn standing in bluebonnets behind his desk.
Dorsett got right to the point. “So, your lawyer tells me you're interested in getting into the oil business.”
“I'm thinking of expanding my interests in the oil business,” Viv clarified. “I've been in the oil business since I married Hoss. But I'm hearing a lot of good things about newer techniques that Hoss wasn’t involved in, and I wondered if it might be a good idea to investigate them further, see if it might be a good idea to venture into some other areas and diversify my portfolio.” She smiled and leaned on her cane. “You could call this a bit of exploratory drilling.” She laughed at her own joke.
Dorsett laughed back. “I understand completely. And you're right, traditional drilling is a safe bet for the conservative investor. Somewhat safe, at any rate. Getting less safe every year, though, as oil is getting harder to find and more expensive to bring up. That's why we've included fracking in our processes. It's not even really new anymore. We've been doing it for fifteen years, and we only got in after we saw other companies work out the logistics.” He smiled broadly. “My motto is, it's a lot easier to learn from other people's mistakes than to go through them yourself.”
He gave me a look that I interpreted as “Are you listening, loser?” but I could have been wrong.
“I heard that,” Viv said.
“And now is the time to buy, since our stock is down from all the stuff in the news.” He moved his hand like he was waving away a particularly ineffective gnat. “It'll go back up, believe me. Here. My sales team would give me heck if I don't give you a prospectus. So here.” He handed her a folder emblazoned with a serene picture of an open prairie at sunset, the oranges, reds, and yellows of the sky contrasting with the dark purple of the prairie. A weathered windmill stood in the foreground, and a cowboy father and his grade school daughter—wearing a set of pink cowboy boots and her own cowboy hat—walked toward a white farmhouse cozily lit against the oncoming dusk. A pump jack stood in the mid-right of the picture, unobtrusively pumping away to provide this picture perfect world for these picture perfect people.
“But I can summarize everything in that folder in a few sentences. If you trust us with your money, we'll put it to work. We'll use it to put men to work, to harvest our country's natural resources, and we'll do it in a responsible, ethical way. And you'll get a return on your investment that's a lot prettier than what you're getting from traditional drilling.”
“Let's talk about that responsible, ethical thing you just mentioned.” Viv leaned back in her chair and tapped the bottom of her cane on the carpet. “I'm getting conflicting information about the practice of hydro-fracking in general, and about injection wells and earthquakes in particular.”
“Of course, you are,” Dorsett said without skipping a beat. “That's the nature of the world we're living in, isn't it? Everybody's got a subject matter expert, and no two of them agree on a single point.”
“True, but still. I want to put my money to work making more money. I'm not interested in funding the poisoning of our water or creating earthquakes.”
“Yeah,” I said, mostly just because I hadn't uttered a single word since we walked in and I was getting annoyed with that.
Dorsett shook his head and frowned a little sadly, as if he couldn't believe we'd be so gullible.
I wondered if he'd practiced that look in the mirror.
“I don't know what reports you've been hearing—”
“Peter Browning's,” I said. I studied his face to see what reaction he had to the name.
His frown deepened, but I really had no idea if that indicated more sadness at Browning's passing, or mere annoyance that he was still having to deal with the guy after his death.
“Peter Browning was a good man and obviously passionate about his job. The problem is his passion got the better of his brain. He was looking for any scandal he could find in order to make a name for himself, and to be honest, I don't think it mattered one bit to him what the actual truth was. He had to be David to somebody's Goliath.” Dorsett shrugged. “And it's a shame, what he did. I wonder if in his heart he knew the truth and couldn't live with what he'd done.”
“There are some reports that perhaps his death wasn't a suicide after all,” I said.
“What reports?” Dorsett said, barely holding back a scoff.
My turn to shrug. “I've heard rumors.”
“Well, I guess that'll ultimately be for someone else to decide. I know I wasn't there. I assume you weren't, either?” He gave me a pointed look and I had to allow that I had not, in fact, been there.
“But whatever comes out from that doesn't change a few hard facts. Browning skewed his report. I gave him all kinds of sources—” He waved a hand. “All kinds of sources. Geology reports, industry reports, unbiased, scientific studies that all said there was no proven connection between hydro-fracking and earthquakes. Did he mention one of those, ever? No, he did not.”
“I think he did,” I said.
Viv gave me the side-eye. We probably didn't want to reveal that we'd spent several hours two days before re-watching every single one of Peter Browning's “Special Reports” on the oil industry. That might be hard to explain.
“I think,” I stressed. Lame.
I remembered the little Diet Coke in my hands. I twisted off the top and took a swig.
Immediately, I felt my diaphragm constrict. Hiccups. Crud.
“Well, if he mentioned them, it was only in passing. He stressed over and over again a ‘connection’—” Air quotes. His lips tightened and he shook his head, like ‘Can you believe it?’ “The connection between injection wells and earthquakes until it looked like Dorsett Oil had personally crippled that little girl. Or David Baucum had.”
“Is that what you mean by 'what he'd done?'“ I asked. Or tried to ask. In the middle of “done,” I hiccuped. It was so loud. “Sorry,” I said. “What I mean is, do you think he felt some kind of responsibility for David Baucum's death and killed himself out of remorse?”
Dorsett shrugged. He didn't smile or otherwise noticeably change his expression. Still, he managed to look chillingly smug.
“Could be. I guess we might not ever know. But I know how I'd feel if I'd vilified a man for something that was an act of God. Hounded him until he lost his family's business, until he had nothing left to live for. I'd feel pretty bad about that, let me tell you.” He shook his head in an “ain't-it-a-shame” kind of way. Then he lifted his hands, took a deep breath, brought his elbows onto the desk, and faced Viv. “Anyway, we're completely off track here. What Peter Browning did or didn't do isn't why you're here.”
My heart raced a tiny bit at that. “Of course no-OT,” I couldn't help but say. And hiccup.
“Of course not,” Viv echoed, giving me a scathing look. “I just like to know what I'm mixed up in.”
“Well, I can put your mind at ease about that. In that prospectus is a copy of all our reports. Our industry is regulated like no other, and you can read through our entire clean bill of health if you need something to put you to sleep at night. It's all in there, every time we dotted an I or crossed a T.”
I nodded toward the folder and hiccuped again.
The problem was, it was funny. And when I try not to laugh, I get semi-hysterical. In fact, nothing in the world is funnier than trying not to laugh.
I felt the hysteria bubbling in me and decided I had to get out of there. I slid to the front of my seat. “Well, we appreciate yo-UR time.” I clamped my lips together, but some bubbles of laughter escaped out my nose.
Viv gave me another withering look as I stood, but she stood, too, and held out her hand. “I'll be getting back to you,” she said.
Back in the reception area, I smiled and nodded at the receptionist, hurrying through as quickly as I could while also trying to look like I was not hurrying.
Viv, not ready to let go of her role as Wealthy Investor just yet, swanned through the room holding the prospectus folder with her nose in the air. She joined me in the hallway as I pushed the elevator button.
“What is your deal?” she asked, irritated.
“Hicc-UPS,” I said. Then giggled.
“I know that.” She sighed and pursed her lips. “You act like a ten-year-old boy who's just seen his first nudie. How are we ever going to be taken seriously if—”
“Oh, my gosh!” I cut her off. Exiting another office down the hallway was Imogene Walker.
I grabbed Viv's arm and pulled her toward the stairs.
The stairwell door slammed behind us. “Imogene!” I hissed. Then hiccuped. The sound echoed off the concrete walls.
Viv frowned and looked through the window. “What in the world is she doing here?”
“I don't know, but I don't want to ta-ALK to her.” I giggled, collapsing against the stair rail.
“Not in the state you're in,” Viv agreed. She narrowed her eyes at me, which made me laugh even harder. “Get a grip on yourself, for crying out loud.”
I took a deep breath and tried to do just that. “Come on,” I said, heading down the stairs.
“Well, I'm not going to climb twenty flights of stairs,” Viv said behind me. “We'll go down one and then get the elevator there.”
“But what if she's coming down and we ca-ATCH her there?” I asked. I couldn't help it—I pictured the elevator door sliding open, me letting a roaring hiccup loose into the confines of the small space, and Imogene unleashing the full force of her disapproval in one eye-burning glare.
This sent me into a fresh gale of giggles. I staggered down the steps, holding onto the rail and fighting for breath. The more I laughed, the more I hiccupped. The sound reverberated against the walls and made me laugh harder.
“Stop it!” Viv smacked me on the shoulder. “You look like a lunatic.”
I nodded and swallowed, fighting for breath. “Sorry,” I said. I stopped on the landing for the 19th floor and wiped tears of laughter from my eyes. I took a deep breath, feeling the tightness in my chest ease a bit. Maybe I was done. I tentatively took a few more breaths. Yes, I was done. I was almost sure of it.
Okay. One more deep breath. I swallowed, determined to move forward like a rational, sane person.
In mid-swallow, though, I hiccuped again. The spasm jerked my tongue back. For a second I felt like I was going to swallow my own tongue.
I gasped and grabbed my throat. “Oh my gosh!”
Aaaand, I was off again. Giggling, hiccuping, staggering down steps, clinging to the stair rail, bent over as tears streamed down my face. I made it to the eighteenth floor landing and sat on the bottom stair, helpless and weak.
When I was finally able to get myself back under control, I wiped my eyes again and looked around for Viv. She was standing beside the stairwell window, silently scrolling through something on her phone.
I drew a few test breaths. Yes, I was definitely done now. No more hiccups. No more giggles. “What are you looking at?” I croaked.
“I'm searching for what is wrong with you.”
“Well, let me know what you find out,” I said. “Whew.” I drew another breath and wiped my hands on my pants. “That was fun.”
“According to this, you might have emotional incontinence.” She held a warning finger up. “Do. Not. Start again.”
I laughed, but it was just normal laughter now, somewhat controlled. “How am I not supposed to laugh at that?” I stood and looked over her shoulder. “Emotional incontinence sounds like—y ikes. That's a real thing?”
“A neurological disorder, usually caused by head trauma.”
I skimmed through the Google description. “Uncontrollable crying and laughing. Wow. How awful.”
Viv narrowed her eyes at me again, studying. “No, I don't think this is what you have.”
I shook my head. “No, thank goodness.”
“I think what you have is just...”
“A bad case of immaturity?” I offered.
Viv nodded. “Exactly. Okay, can we go now? Imogene left five minutes ago.” She tilted her head toward the window.
I stood on tiptoe and peered down at the parking lot, far below. I took one more deep breath and squared my shoulders. “Absolutely. Let's do this.”
Viv opened the door and headed toward the elevator. “Finally.”
I followed her into the elevator and concentrated on breathing normally, not wanting to set myself off again. As the elevator stopped with a soft ding and the doors slid open, I said, “Where are we going now?”
“To talk to Bitsy Browning, the young pregnant widow. Do try to keep it together, won't you?”
As we passed through the lobby, I looked at the row of portraits along one wall. I stopped with a gasp. “Viv, look! It's Imogene Walker!”
“Would you give it a rest! I told you, she left.”
“No, look. On the wall.”
I approached the portrait of Imogene, in line with other portraits of men. Judging by the hairstyle, the portrait was forty years old, but it was definitely Imogene. Her skin was smoother but her expression was just as severe. I stood back and found a plaque that described what all these 1970s faces were doing there.
“Cool,” I said. “Imogene was one of the architects who studied the building after the tornado and helped get it back into shape for occupation.”
“Would you look at that hair,” Viv said.
“Well, it was the ’70s,” I said.
“There were a couple of good hairstyles from the ‘70s. She could have chosen one of them.”
“She was too busy being a high-powered architect,” I said. “Moving and shaking, you know.” I studied the row of pictures alongside her. There was the original architect from the ‘50s, the real estate developer who'd had the place built, and a couple of other men who had been involved in getting the building back into usable shape. Imogene was the only female. I wondered how they had treated her. Maybe that's why she was so grumpy. She was tired from fighting for her gender for so many years.
I chewed my lip. “I'm about to suggest something, and I want you to tell me no,” I said.
“Got it.”
“Remember Browning's interviews with Baucum, where he talked about how they design buildings for worst-case scenarios? Imogene would probably know something about that. We could talk to her about it.”
“Nope.”
I nodded. “Yes, I know, but...”
“Nope. Not happening.
“But what if...what if Browning had the wrong end of the stick, somehow? What if he latched onto this one thread to explain that disaster, but that wasn't really the whole picture? Imogene would probably know something about it.”
“So what if she did? What would that have to do with Browning's death?”
I didn't really know how to answer that one. It probably had nothing to do it with it. But I still felt like I needed to talk to Imogene and get her take on Browning's interviews with Baucum.
I shrugged. “Probably nothing,” I allowed, turning to go.
“Besides, you would probably get nervous and giggle your fool head off.”
“Mmmm, you're right.” I shuddered. Nobody needed that.
––––––––
By the time we got to Bitsy Browning's place, I had fully recovered. Although I did have Itsy Bitsy Spider stuck in my head.
Viv killed the motor and sat back in her seat.
“You ready?” I grabbed my purse off the floorboard.
“Hang on.” She was staring straight ahead, breathing in a weird way.
My heart lurched. It was easy to forget that Viv was 80-something—I didn't really know because she refused to say, so even that was a guess based on some of her drunkalogue stories—but at times she would take on a look that reminded me. One of my worst and most secret fears was losing Viv. “Are you okay?”
She shook her head. “I just remembered we're about to go talk to a brand new widow who's almost nine months pregnant. I'm trying to figure out what to say to her.”
I tried to remember a time when Viv had appeared to care one bit how anyone reacted to her. “Wow, Viv,” I said. “That's surprisingly thoughtful of you.”
“I know,” she said. “I think that yoga did something to me.”
“Does that mean we're not going back?” I asked, trying not to sound hopeful.
“Oh, we're going back,” she said. “I look dynamite in my leotard. Okay, we're going to tread carefully here,” she said.
“Are you thinking like Trisha does, that she couldn't possibly be responsible because she's pregnant?”
“Not necessarily. I just feel like the odds are against it. I mean, just going by our list, she's at best got a 25 percent chance of being our guy.”
“Yes, but going by larger statistics—society at large, I mean—the first person the police look at in a crime is always the spouse. So we have to bump her up to at least 50 percent.”
Viv sighed. “I know you're right. But let's just tread carefully on this one.”
She didn't have to tell me. She was the one without a filter. But still, I said, “Okay, I'll follow your lead.”
Viv rapped lightly on the door, and Bitsy answered almost immediately.
“Come in,” she said, stepping back to let us in.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Viv said.
“Patrice told me it would be a good idea to talk to you.”
Viv and I looked at each other. That helped.
I wasn't sure what I had expected from someone newly widowed—maybe that she'd be still in her pajamas in the middle of the afternoon, with dark circles under bloodshot eyes. But Bitsy looked fairly well put together. She only had light makeup on, but I was pretty sure she was wearing some. Her dark curly hair was held back by a purple headband, and she wore a purple and black maternity smock.
She led us into a small living room, tastefully decorated, and indicated chairs for us. She sat and folded her legs under her. She was the daintiest pregnant woman I had ever seen.
“It's sweet of you to be taking on this case,” Bitsy said.
I experienced the now-familiar moment of resistance to the idea of anyone thinking of me and Viv as actual detectives. But we had been involved in some fairly high-profile events, so I supposed it had come to appear we knew what we were doing, anyway. Maybe if you acted enough like you knew what you were doing, people treated you like you did, and eventually you just did. Self-actualization.
Maybe I should try that with being skinny. Being a good wife. Being a fully-functioning, responsible adult.
“Patrice told us how frustrated she is with the police. She thinks they are writing Peter's death off as—self-inflicted—” Viv left just the merest hint of a pause. “She's afraid they're not investigating it as thoroughly as they should be. Is that your opinion as well?”
Bitsy nodded with a brave smile and tears pooled in her big amber eyes. “I know what it looks like. I understand that they're doing their job, and they're going by the evidence they see. I know it appears he was alone, and I know they found that note. But I know Peter.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed. “I know him. He wouldn't have done that. He was excited about the future. He was excited about our baby.” She shook her head. “I don't believe it. I'm sorry. I just don't believe it.”
Viv and I exchanged a brief look.
Viv said, “What I'd really like to do is get your thoughts. You were privy to his thoughts and fears. I don't want to be too intrusive, but I think it would be most helpful if you could share some of your thoughts on who might have wanted to harm Peter and make it look self-inflicted? Was there someone he was particularly fearful of? Someone who had made threats?”
“Well, you can imagine. He did that story on the police last year and that made him pretty unpopular. Both of us, actually.” She shook her head, her fat curls bouncing, then stared at the ceiling and blinked back more tears. “I was threatened at a Junior League meeting, for heaven's sake.” She laughed through tears. “Three of the policemen's wives cornered me in the ladies room and told me I'd better get my husband to shut his mouth or we were both going to regret it. They said pictures would turn up of him in a compromising position. He would become the laughingstock of the entire town, and he could kiss his career goodbye.”
“Jeez,” I said. “The Junior League, really?” I knew I was right to be intimidated by those women.
“Seriously. It was so...ridiculous, but still so scary. Peter said they were all talk, they couldn't actually do anything, but it was terrifying. Every time I passed a police car, I would have a panic attack. Imagine, if the people in power really are corrupt? I mean, who do you turn to? Who do you trust?”
“From what I remember, the officer who was implicated in that case resigned and moved away. Is that right?”
Bitsy nodded. “He was from Colorado, and last we heard he lives there. He's not a cop—he can't be, legally. He can't even be a security guard. I think he was selling cars at a friend's dealership in Denver or somewhere around there, although I'm not entirely sure about that. That's just what I heard.”
“Did he threaten Peter?”
Bitsy shook her head. “I really don't know. After the thing with the Junior League, Peter stopped talking to me about it. He didn't want me to worry. He wanted to convince me that everything was fine.”
“Did he seem afraid, though?”
“Honestly, no. He seemed excited. I think he really got into the idea of being a crusader, you know? He was energized by it. And once that whole thing was cleared, he really seemed a bit bummed by it.” She laughed, then sniffed back tears.
Viv and I looked at each other. That lined up with what Dorsett had said. He needed to be the David to someone's Goliath.
“And once that officer resigned, was it over? I don't remember hearing much more about it.”
“Peter was pretty upset that no charges were filed. He didn't like the brush-it-under-the-rug aspect of everything. But the guy lost his career, he wouldn't be able to be in a position of authority like that, a position of power. So Peter said that had to be justice enough.”
“He was a believer in justice.”
“He was definitely a believer in justice. Like I said, a crusader.”
“How was his relationship with the police after all that?”
Bitsy shrugged. “Like I said, he stopped talking to me about stuff like that. From what I saw, though, it was okay. Maybe Patrice would be the one to ask about that.”
“Do you think that the whole scandal has anything to do with how they're handling this case now? That maybe they're not investigating as hard as they could, because they're holding a grudge?”
She took a deep breath. She thought for a moment. “I don't know. I hate to think that, but...”
“Well, I guess it's one possibility that we ought to keep in mind,” Viv said. “What other stories come to mind, when you think of people who could possibly want to harm him?”
“This whole thing with NorthStar and Baucum Engineering, of course. Dorsett Oil. All the stories he pulled together with the earthquakes and other failed buildings. I mean, he talked to a lot of people, and several of them didn't come off looking too good.”
“How did he react to David Baucum's death?” I blurted the question without thinking. Viv gave me a look. Possibly this was the kind of question she had been trying to avoid asking.
“He was really upset by it, of course. I mean, it was so sad and so senseless.” She shook her head. “Tragic.”
I wondered if she would say anything about the irony of the two men's deaths. The connection to the events at NorthStar. That event had been the end of one man's career and looked to be the catalyst for another man's rise. Both had died by what appeared to be self-inflicted means, and both conclusions were questionable. Did Baucum intend to kill himself, or had he just become careless? Did Browning kill himself, or had someone made it look like he had?
I studied her face to see if there was anything else there—resentment toward Baucum, for example. Anger. Remorse.
I couldn't see much, but it did seem like she was holding something back. Her mouth tightened and she drew back into her chair just the tiniest bit. But she just shook her head again and repeated, “Tragic.”
“Bitsy, Patrice told us about the note that was found in Peter's car. She said it said something like, 'I never meant for this to happen.' Do you think he was talking about David Baucum?”
“The note said, 'I didn't mean for it to turn out this way.' And I know that's what the police think, that it was a suicide note speaking to David Baucum's death. And I can understand that, to a point. I mean, the fallout from David Baucum's mistakes has been enormous, and a lot of people have used Peter as the lightning rod for all that fallout, because he was a visible entity. He put a face to the entire debacle coming to light. But it's not as if Peter caused any of that to happen. And it's not as if anyone else couldn't and wouldn't have asked the same questions Peter did. It's not as if the same conclusions would not have been reached, should someone else have been the one to grab that ball and run with it. Peter did an excellent job of ferreting out the truth and bringing a real problem to light, but it's not as if he caused the problem.”
“I understand,” Viv assured her. “But did Peter understand that? What I'm asking is, is there any possibility that he carried remorse—”
“No.” The word was spat out, and Bitsy's once-friendly eyes turned bitter. “I know what you're asking, and the answer is no. He was sympathetic to the tragedy that David Baucum's decisions caused, and he was sympathetic to a man who had to live with knowing he'd caused so much damage. But he felt no ownership in that man's decisions. David Baucum is the one who decided to drink half a bottle of vodka and take a bottle of Ambien.”
“What do you think the note meant?” I asked.
Bitsy shrugged. “It could be anything, right? I mean, maybe he was writing a note about Baucum. Maybe he felt some—some sadness about what Baucum did and wanted to communicate that to the family. But it could have been something as simple as he hadn't intended for a story to be produced or edited differently from the way it was. It was scribbled on a notepad that he kept on his desk, and it could have meant anything. Anything at all.”
Viv gave me a side-eye, and I knew what we were both thinking, but we silently agreed not to say it. The note could have referred to Misty Monahan, of course. That he'd never intended to have an affair with her. That he'd never intended to have a child with her.
“I know you've already addressed this, but I feel like we need to ask again,” I said. “Just in case. Did he seem fearful at all about retaliation from Baucum Engineering or Dorsett Oil? Any of their employees? Shareholders?”
Bitsy sighed again and shook her head. She seemed a little sad now, or maybe just very tired. “No. I keep going over and over it in my mind. The thing is, the last several months I've been totally wrapped up in my own world, you know?” She ran a hand over her rounded belly. “All I've talked about is baby. What she looks like now, what's developed, how I want to decorate the nursery, all the things I want to do with her as a mom. All the things I wanted us to do as a—” She stopped and swallowed. “As a family. So maybe he was concerned and I just didn't notice. But he was also excited. He loved that he was getting attention from the bigger stations. He was so excited about that. We were already planning where we'd move next. He wanted to go to Dallas or Houston, or maybe even out of state. He had talked to a station in Atlanta. He was looking forward to the future. I honestly never remember anything that seemed fearful.”
“Fair enough,” Viv said. “We'd like to conduct some more interviews, of course. Would it be okay with you if we make it known that we have your permission? That helps sometimes.”
“Of course,” Bitsy said. “Feel free to have them call me. I appreciate everything you can do.”
We stood to go, and there was an awkward moment when I felt like she should do something else—shake hands, or hug, even. But we all just nodded and then she turned toward the door.
We were on the front porch when she said, “Oh, hey. I just thought of something I was going to ask you. The police asked me if Peter had been in a fight or had injured himself somehow, before he died. But they wouldn't tell me why. Do you know anything about that?”
Viv and I looked at each other, then we both shook our heads.
“I keep thinking about it, because he said it a couple of times—like, did he injure himself that day, or the day before?” She sniffed back more tears. “They wouldn't let me see him, you know. When they found him. He'd been lying in that mud for three days, and apparently some...animal had been at him.” She looked at the ceiling and blinked, her voice shaking. “I wanted to see him, but they just would not let me. So it must have been bad, right? But even with...all that...he asked about a fight or injury during his last few days. So that's something. Right? It means something?” She shook her head. “I just don't know what.”
We could only shrug and shake our heads. “We'll definitely let you know if we find out,” Viv promised.
I checked my phone again when we left Bitsy's. Nothing.
Suddenly tired, I invited Viv over for dinner, secretly hoping she would offer to buy takeout.
No such luck. “I'm going home to do some research.”
“That thing she said about an injury?” I was curious about that, too.
“What? Oh, no. I've watched the entire first two seasons of Marple and I have yet to find anything remotely attractive about that woman. It might be time to move on.”
“From Nigel?” Indeed it might, I thought.
She looked at me like I was crazy. “No, not from Nigel. From Marple. There's got to be an attractive female detective in a great nation like Great Britain.”
“Well, good luck with that,” I said as she dropped me off. It was just as well. My mind was about done in, thinking about Peter Browning, Bitsy Browning, Dorsett Oil, Imogene Walker.
Tony.
I grilled some chicken breasts, onions and peppers for dinner, and Frank brought over some flour tortillas. We settled with our fajitas in front of the TV to watch Frank's favorite Spanish soap opera. I couldn't tell much of what was going on, but Frank filled me in. Just after ten o'clock, my phone rang.
It was G-Ma. “Turn on Channel 13.”
“Why? Did the Cowboys announce a new quarterback?” The only time G-Ma felt compelled to call about the news, it was related to the Dallas Cowboys.
“No, that reporter friend of yours was arrested.”
“Trisha?!” I jumped up to switch on the TV.
“Not her, that other girl.”
I flipped through to Channel 13 and gasped when I saw Misty Monahan being led away from Channel 11 in handcuffs. Bobby and another detective walked behind her, and two uniform cops walked in front of her. I was too freaked out to listen to the voice- over, but a picture of Peter Browning popped up in the bottom corner of the screen.
“No way!” I said. “Misty Monahan?”
“That's what they said,” G-Ma said. “She was arrested for the murder.”
“I need to call Bobby,” I said to G-Ma. “I'll call you back in a minute.” I pushed the end button, then said, “Windy, call Bobby.”
“I'm gettin' him right now, Sweetie,” Windy said, her little wind streams waving in a digital breeze.
I got his voicemail. “This is Detective Sloan. Leave a message.”
“Bobby, why did you arrest Misty Monahan? What do you have on her? Call me back.”
I hung up. Would Tony consider that being careful?
“Call Viv,” I said to Windy, just as the phone rang and Viv's face popped up on the screen.
“Misty Monahan got arrested!” she said as soon as I picked up.
“I know! I kind of freaked out and didn't hear what they said.”
“They said obstruction in the investigation of the death of Peter Browning.”
“Obstruction. Hmmm...” I had no idea what to say about that. That could mean almost anything. We needed more information. “I saw it on 13. Where did you see it?”
“Channel 13 for me, too.”
“What are you doing watching Channel 13? Tri-Patrice is going to be mad.”
“Then don't tell her,” Viv said. “Why were you watching Channel 13?”
“G-Ma called me and told me about the arrest.”
“Channel 11 isn't running it,” Viv said. “I'm looking at it right now, and they're talking about a cold front moving in over the weekend.”
“I guess they're in a bad spot. An arrest has been made in their star reporter's death, but the arrest is another one of their star reporters. How do you spin that?”
“By focusing on the weather. Apparently this is the rainiest November since 1990-something.”
Viv and I fell silent, both watching as the newscast went on to a high school football, then college football, then national football. Because this was Texas; if all else fails—football.
When the camera moved back to Trisha, I studied her face. She wasn't big enough yet to really look pregnant, but her eyes did look tired. Had she been crying? It was hard to tell.
The sports guy, the requisite “color” personality of the show, was noticeably subdued, although he said all the right things. They went to a national story about the upcoming election, then one about a development in driverless cars. Then a commercial.
“Are they just going to pretend like it didn't happen?” Viv asked. “Unbelievable.”
But in the last two minutes of the newscast, the station manager did one of his “In My Opinion” segments, where the rest of the news desk went dark, and he stood to the side in a spotlight and...well, gave his opinion. Sometimes he would use the segment to endorse a candidate in an election, or to complain about a lack of transparency on utility rates, or how Lubbock needed and deserved a minor-league baseball team.
“Tonight, I want to address something that many of you have already heard about, and we're already seeing mention of it on our social media. As you know, Channel 11 and all of our counterparts around the world, in fact, are tasked with reporting facts. We bring to you the stories that affect our lives and the world around us, both locally and far from home. Oftentimes, those stories become much more than just stark facts—they become intensely personal. Even in those times, it is still our job to be objective and fair in our reporting. But nothing has been more personal to this station than the death last week of Peter Browning or the arrest today of Misty Monahan on charges of obstruction in the investigation into Peter's death.”
The man stopped and cleared his throat. He took a deep breath.
“In a team meeting this afternoon, we reached a consensus that we would not—that we simply could not—treat this as any other story. This is our family, and we are all staggered both by Peter's death and by Misty's arrest. We don't even know what to say, except that we are grateful for the outpouring of support that we've received over the last week, and we continue to place the utmost faith in the Lubbock Police Department and in our justice system. As we go through the next few days and weeks, we will do our best to stay on task, to report on the news that matters to you, and to continue to work with the LPD as they discover the truth about what happened to Peter. We ask that you remember that there is a place for justice, and it is time for us to take a step back and let that justice happen. We ask for your patience and your continued prayers and support. We ask for your prayers to continue for the family of Peter Browning. And—” Another deep breath. “And on a personal note, I ask also for the prayers and support of Misty Monahan and her family. I understand the gravity of the situation that she's in, and I know that it might be hard for some of you to even consider what I'm saying. But I would remind you of this fact: in our country, one is considered innocent until proven guilty. Nothing has been proven yet, so at this point Misty Monahan is an innocent woman, and she and her family need your support. Thank you.”
The soft music started and the lights slowly faded as he turned and walked, head bowed, out of the now-empty studio.
“Whoa,” Viv said. “I told you she was hiding something.”
“Literally, if she's been charged with obstruction. Right? Isn't that what that means”
“I guess it could mean a lot of things.”
“I called Bobby to ask why they'd arrested Misty, but I got his voice mail.”
“Call him back. Then tell me what he said.”
I hung up and did as I was told. I couldn't very well get into any danger calling Bobby, surely. If he wanted to do something nefarious to me, he would have done it long ago when he had more justification than just me annoying him.
He answered this time. “Sloan.”
“Bobby, I left you a message. Why didn't you call me back?” I knew why he didn't call me back. He didn't want to. But I liked to annoy him.
“Oh, Salem, good. I was just about to call you and fill you in on all the news about our latest arrest.” Then he put the phone down with a clunk and laughed. Ridiculously loudly. Like a braying ass, in fact. Then he hung up.
I called Viv back. “I got nada,” I said.
“We should go up to the police station and talk to him. We always get more information that way.”
I considered that for a moment. We had gone to the police station a few times and tried to get information out of Bobby. One time Viv had even faked a heart attack, which is probably a crime, and I was definitely afraid we would be arrested then. Each time we went to the police station, in fact, I'd left feeling like I was lucky to get away. Calling Tony from jail was not something I wanted to do.
I do love you, but...
“Let's think of another way,” I said.
“Back to Channel 11, then,” Viv said. “Somebody there will know something.”
“Now?” It was 10:30, and I was already up past my normal bed time. I did have work the next day. Besides, Trisha wouldn't be there, so the chances of us getting anything good were remote at best.
“Oh,” Viv said. Not a big sleeper anyway, Viv sometimes had to be reminded that the rest of the human race needed more than two or three hours a night. “Well, as soon as you get off work tomorrow.”
I tilted the phone away and looked at Frank. “Can you watch Stump tomorrow after work?”
He nodded toward the pile of plates on the coffee table. “Can you make more fajitas?”
I gave him a thumbs up and said to Viv, “Deal. As soon as I get off work tomorrow.”
Chapter Eleven