The car wheeled into a parking space and stopped. "Are we there?" asked Steve.
"The sign on the building says Bluebonnet Cafe," said Heather. "Is this where you and Marvin dined while I was in Montana?"
Steve reached for his door handle. "You'll like it. Great food and the best pie I've had in years."
Heather unlatched her seat belt and took stock of a white stucco building that looked like a series of shoe boxes joined together, evidence that the business had expanded over the years. "Not much to look at."
"We're not here to look. It's almost three in the afternoon and I missed breakfast and lunch."
She placed Steve's hand on her shoulder and led him across an ample parking lot. They entered the building through what looked like a back door. Their trip into the dining area took them past a tall refrigerated pie case with layer after layer of decadent meringue-topped diet destroyers.
"Ya'll sit wherever you want," said a middle-aged server in casual dress. "You’re a tad early if you came for the pie happy hour. It don’t start ’til four.”
Heather chose a booth with a view of a sidewalk running the length of the cafe and a very busy Highway 281, a main artery that led to San Antonio.
After she settled Steve, Heather said, "Let me guess. You had a chicken-fried steak here on Friday night."
"I needed comfort food after the session with the Voss clan."
The woman took drink orders and Steve launched into a recitation of the most recent meeting and the lack of progress. By the time he gave a synopsis of the contentious gathering, the server stood with pen in hand, ready to take their order.
"Are you still serving breakfast?" asked Steve.
"We serve it all day, hon. How hungry are you?"
"The buttons on my shirt are scratching my backbone."
"You need a three-egg omelet. You want Spanish or western?"
"I like it spicy."
She spoke as she wrote. “One Spanish omelet. That comes with a choice of hash browns or grits."
"Hash browns and add a side of grits."
"It also comes with your choice of Texas toast, regular toast or biscuits."
"Biscuits with gravy," said Steve. "That should leave room for pie."
Heather shook her head. "I'll have the grilled chicken Caesar salad."
She noticed a trio of knobby-kneed men wearing loud shorts and knit shirts. They were close enough that their conversation made it to her ears. All old enough to be retired, they carried on about the shots they made and the ones missed that morning. With eighteen holes, lunch and a nap under their belts, they were early arrivals for the pie happy hour. Gray fringes protruded from baseball caps, each embroidered with the logo of a different golf course.
Turning to Steve, she asked, "I told you about the disaster with my father. It's your turn. Did you avoid Bridget the barracuda last night?"
"She caught me coming out of the meeting room. We had an excellent dinner at a restaurant on the lake and then we played eighteen holes of golf."
Heather was thankful she didn't have her mouth full of water. It would have sprayed all over Steve and the table. She gave him a squinted stare. "You're joking."
"Not at all. I had chicken-fried lobster, and she had a fillet. She drank wine, and I had iced tea. Boats pulled up to the dock, people unloaded and enjoyed a sunset and excellent food."
She expected a zinger punch line, but one didn't come. "I'm gullible enough to believe you had dinner with her, but not you playing golf."
He held up three fingers like a Boy Scout reciting his pledge. "Eighteen holes on the Whitewater Course not over a hundred steps from the hotel. It's awesome. You should play a round or two while we’re here."
Heather shook her head. "I'm not buying this tall tale."
"I'll prove it." Steve slipped out of the booth and approached the golfers at the table. Two of the three came back with him.
"Tell her I played golf last night at the Whitewater Course."
They each nodded. The one wearing green shorts said, "We could see Steve and Bridget both needed help. I let Harry go ahead with Bridget while I told Steve the distance and set him up for the angle of the puts. Of course, I didn't let him hit out of the sand traps."
"Of course," said Heather in a mocking tone. "What about his shots off the tee or his iron play or chipping?"
The second man with a roll of belly over the white belt holding up azure shorts joined the conversation. "There's no driving or iron play on the Whitewater. It's putting only."
"Are you telling me there's a putt putt golf course at the Horseshoe Bay Resort?"
"Not exactly," said Steve, “but the same idea.”
Green pants began the lecture. "It a par 72 course with 56 sand traps, putting only. It covers one-hundred and forty-seven acres. The greens are Zoysia grass while they sow the roughs in Bermuda. It's a challenge for any professional, let alone us old duffers."
"Speak for yourself," said the man wearing the powder-blue shorts. “I'm not so old that I didn't get a date for tonight with Bridget." He uttered the deep purr of a cat.
"What time did this alleged golf game take place?" asked Heather, still not totally convinced.
Steve said, "We started around eight."
Green pants added, "They light the course. You need to try it. It's a blast. Steve said you need to find something to do besides work. We’ve been there, done that. Still recovering from time we spent on the corporate treadmill."
The arrival of their orders allowed for only a word of thanks from Heather as the men returned to their table and tales of triumphs and tragedies on the links.
"Biscuits and gravy at twelve o'clock. Your omelet runs all the way from three-o'clock to nine on the oblong plate. It’s enough food to feed a foursome."
Heather leaned forward. "You sly old dog. You pawned Bridget off on a nice old man last night. How did you do it?"
"I told her I had leprosy."
Heather's cackle caused heads to turn. "Serves me right for asking."
"Bridget's an excellent match for Mac. They're both lonely."
"Aren't you?"
"Sometimes, but not as often as before. Kate and I talked for an hour after I got back to the room. She's encouraging me to finish the book and get it published. Writing is the hardest thing I ever tried to do. Give me a murder and I can usually solve it. Tell me to write about it in a way that doesn't sound like a police report, and the words get stuck in my brain."
"Did you tell her about what we're doing now?"
He stuffed a bite of omelet in his mouth and moaned, then chewed until he could speak again. "She said it would make a good short story if something unexpected happens at the end. Not enough twists and turns to make into a novel. She wants me to call her back after we read the second part of the will."
"You don't think the four Voss children can come to some sort of agreement?"
He loaded another bite onto his fork, but it fell off. "We'll be lucky if they don't kill each other."
"Was yesterday's meeting that bad?"
His empty fork hovered over his plate. "We need to make a rule. If it's the middle of the afternoon and I haven't eaten all day, I don't have to answer questions until I'm sure I won't pass out from starvation."
"Starvation and leprosy? We'd better get you to a hospital."
Heather looked up to see a white shirt with a badge on it. Her eyes traveled upward and beheld rosy cheeks and a serious scowl under the brim of a cowboy hat. A pudgy finger touched the brim of the hat and the man said, "Ma'am. Excuse me. I'm Sheriff Stony Blake. If you're Heather McBlythe, I need to talk to you and Steve."
She shifted herself and her plate, making room for the man. He yipped in pain as he sat down.
Steve put his fork beside his plate. "What's wrong, Sheriff?"
"Rance Voss found Hector DeLeon's body today around noon. Somebody shot him. I understand the Voss children are to meet today at five. Is that right?"
Steve answered with a tight-lipped nod.
"I want to be there to see how they react to the news."
"I do too," said Heather.
"Good enough. This is getting out of hand and I'm not sure Marvin is up to the challenge of two homicides."