Steve's phone announced the time to be 7:15 a.m. One week had passed since he and Heather arrived at the resort, and they'd begun the arduous task of reading and interpreting a strange hand-written will. In that week, sibling rivalries and long-held grievances surfaced like festering sores, not to mention blood shed on the carpet of a conference room and at the Rocking V ranch. A killer needed to be apprehended, and the final settling of the estate would take place in a matter of days. He needed Heather’s help and hoped to catch her before she began her day with a morning workout.
His call to her cell phone went to voice mail. Perhaps she was in the shower. He dressed and put an ear to the adjoining door to see if he could hear running water. Tapping on her door produced no sounds. He exited into the hallway and used his cane to sweep the area before his steps. It warned him of an obstacle blocking his path. The smell of wine hit him hard. He ran his hand over the top of what he deduced to be a food cart and felt an array of items including damp material of various textures, an uncovered plate with soggy food, and an empty bottle laying on its side.
Did she have company last night? Heather never drank more than one glass of wine, unless she was with Jack.
Steve backtracked to his room and used the hotel phone to call her. All he received for his effort was a busy signal.
Back in the hallway, he heard wheels squeak as they passed by, accompanied by the smell of wine. "Excuse me. Are you from room service?"
"Yes, Sir."
The voice answering had a distinct Hispanic accent, but it didn't sound like it came from along the border. Perhaps from one of the Central or South American countries.
Steve continued, "My friend was celebrating last night. I hope she didn't make too big of a mess?"
"Not too big, Señor. Only two bottles of champagne."
"That's good." He reached in the pocket where he carried five-dollar bills and extended one to the worker.
"Gracias, Señor."
Steve gave Heather's door a triplet of knocks after he heard the cart rattle into the elevator and the doors swish to a close. He waited fifteen seconds and knocked again, this time with more force. After repeating the cycle two more times, he heard a raspy voice say, "Go away."
Now he knew. A party of sorts had taken place, but it didn't make enough noise to rouse him, which led him to believe his business partner had partied alone. Heather had downed two bottles of sparkling wine and now she paid the price. He continued to knock, but with more vigor.
Mumbled words preceded the sound of the door flying open. "What?"
"Get dressed. We have work to do."
Her footsteps drug across the carpet, and the bed seemed to groan when she fell on it. "Go away. I'm sick."
"No, you're hung over."
"Leave me alone," she complained in muffled tones. She must have covered her face with a pillow.
"Did you drink the wine or take a bath in it?"
The sound of a pillow being launched across the room came to him.
"If you must know, I spilled a glass of lousy wine on my plate last night. Things went south after that."
"Ah."
"There you go again with your nonsensical ‘Ah.’"
"That one meant you can't drown your troubles in two bottles of fancy champagne."
"It wasn't fancy."
He laughed out loud. "No wonder you're in such terrible shape. A champagne hangover is bad. One with cheap champagne makes you wonder if you'll live through the day. I can tell you from experience that you will."
She countered with, "No lectures. I'm not in the mood for advice, suggestions, home remedies, or questions from anyone of the male species."
"Ah."
She must have found another pillow because her scream was even more muffled than the instruction to leave her alone.
Steve considered his options. He could coddle her and say he'd done the same thing after druggies killed Maggie. Only he'd stayed in a variety of bottles for a full month. That wouldn't do any good now. Perhaps later he'd tell her that sorry chapter out of the story of his life.
Instead, he went for what must have sounded like a merciless approach and used a no-nonsense tone. "I'll be by for you at noon sharp. We're going to see Sue Ann. Think about questions to ask her."
She groaned something into the pillow that might have been an affirmative response, but he didn't think so.
He left the room and went in search of answers to what had driven Heather to such uncharacteristic behavior. She said she didn't want advice from a man. Something must have happened last night. He considered the possibilities and came up with three men who could press her buttons hard enough to bring on a two-bottle bender. It wasn't him. He wasn't sociable last night, but that wasn't enough to set her off. The next person was her father. It would be ticklish trying to extract information from the Boston aristocrat. That left Jack Blackstock, the only man Heather had ever been serious about. He and Jack were on a first name basis, and he would know what sent Heather into such a tailspin. Steve spoke Jack's name into his phone and Jack answered on the third ring.
Aspirin, a gallon of water, and a late breakfast of toast and orange juice helped, but only marginally. Nothing but time would undo the damage Heather had inflicted on herself by downing two bottles of sub-par champagne. She put on enough makeup so as not to scare anyone and threw open the door to her room. Steve stood in the hall, waiting for her.
"How's the head?" he asked.
"I'm never drinking champagne again."
He said nothing else until the valet brought her rental around and they were on their way to Marble Falls.
Steve disturbed the silence by saying, "I talked to Jack this morning."
Her blood pressure must have spiked because the headache throbbed. "I don't care. He's nothing but a terrible memory."
"Don't you want to know who the woman was?"
Heather jerked her head to the right, making it hurt all the more. "I don't care who she is, and I don't appreciate you butting into my personal life."
Steve continued to face forward. "Don't blame me if you jump to conclusions and make yourself useless in investigating a murder."
Heather applied heavy brakes and pulled into a parking lot occupied by a food truck. After the car slid to a stop, she turned to her right. "It's obvious you're going to keep picking at me until you tell me the juicy details. All right, Mr. Super-Sleuth. Who is this mysterious woman and what was she doing in Jack's home while he was taking a shower?"
Steve let out a sigh. "Rule number three in investigating: don't make assumptions based on incomplete information."
Heather huffed. "Would you quit drawing this out? I know what I heard. She had a voice that sounded like..." She took in a breath. "Like her chest measurements were more than her I.Q."
"If this detective gig doesn't work out, you might have a career doing stand up."
Heather's patience stretched to its limit. "Tell me so I can get on with my life."
"Her name is Lanni Blackstock."
"Lanni?" shouted Heather. "That fits. One of those cutesy names that ends in a y sound, like Roxy, or Barbie."
"She's his niece, oldest brother's daughter, and a junior in high school. Jack and his brother were working on her car. She tried to add a quart of oil, but the funnel slipped. Jack's hair got the worst of it."
Heather's hand went over her eyes as her head dipped.
Steve kept on with the explanation. "Jack said everyone got a big laugh out of it. One of those stories that will be told around the table at Thanksgiving for years to come. I told him how you reacted. It will serve you right if he mentions you in the tale's retelling."
Heather gripped the steering wheel with both hands and banged her head against it twice.
"I wouldn't recommend that with a hangover."
He was right. The second self-inflicted wound added another layer of pain and stupidity to her actions. She glanced to her right. "Thanks."
It came out of the blue when Steve said, "You must have spoken to your father last night, too."
She sat upright. "Did you call him?"
"He's out of my league. Besides, that's a family matter, and where I draw the line on butting in."
Heather thought about telling Steve about the conversation with her father, but something stopped her. "Do you mind if we don't discuss what's going on between me and my father?"
Steve pointed toward the windshield. "Put this thing in gear. Sue Ann's expecting us."
The land east of Marble Falls wasn't as unforgiving as the Voss Ranch. Heather gave a running commentary as they drove east from town. "We're running parallel to the Colorado River. It's more like a river valley, but still rugged. You can probably tell it's very hilly. There's some nice meadows close to the river."
A voice from the car's GPS told her to turn right in two hundred yards. Heather followed the instructions and drove until the land made a gentle slope toward the river. A final instruction told her they'd reached their destination. Sue Ann and Grant's home exceeded her expectations, but not by much. She'd expected a small frame house in disrepair, with a couch on the porch and a couple of cars on blocks in the front yard. The home matched the image in her imagination for size but not condition.
"Is there a boat?" asked Steve.
"Not that I can see. The house could use a coat of paint, but the yard has nice grass and there's a lovely bed of roses in front and a quarter acre garden running along the east side. There's chickens in a pen, and I see a barn in the back."
"Give me a better description of the house."
"Toys are corralled in a baby's playpen. The porch has a swing and I can see curtains on all the windows. Everything looks orderly."
Heather waved. "There's Sue Ann. Let's go in."
It wasn't stretching the truth to compliment Sue Ann on her home. Although modest and well used, order prevailed. It reminded her of a farmhouse out of a bygone black and white television show. It took a few minutes before she realized the windows were open and the hum of an air conditioner wasn't drowning out the clucking of chickens and the occasional moo of a cow. Somehow the room wasn't stuffy or warm.
Steve must have noticed it right away. "This reminds me of where you grew up, Sue Ann. You didn't have air conditioning on the ranch, did you?"
"Never did. You don't miss what you've never had."
The slamming of a screen door brought Steve's chin up. "The kids must have come in the back door."
"I'll get them to introduce themselves," said Sue Ann.
She left the living room and returned with four children whose blondish-brown hair looked identical in color. Their heights staggered upward from left to right, ranging from three to five-feet tall. Cut-off jeans and white t-shirts were the uniform of the day. From eldest to youngest, they stood erect and gave their names and ages.
"We already had lunch," said the youngest, a girl with her nose dotted by freckles. "Mama said we could have pie and milk when you got here."
Sue Ann hung her head. "It ain't much. If you're needing lunch, I can make you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
"We ate before we came, but pie and milk would be perfect," said Steve. "What kind of pie?"
"Rhubarb," said the middle girl. “I picked it from the garden yesterday."
Steve rubbed his stomach. "I can't remember the last time I had rhubarb pie. This is a real treat."
"Wash hands before you sit down," said Sue Ann. She looked at Steve and dipped her head. "I was talking to the kids, Mr. Smiley, not to you and Miss McBlythe."
Steve followed the children's footfalls. "I have to use my left hand sometimes to find my food. Washing my hands before and after a meal is something I try to do every time I eat."
Sue Ann fetched the pie from a pie safe that looked to have been built during the great depression. Wood, grayed with time, matched the perforated tin sheets that kept insects from enjoying what lay inside the cabinet.
Sue Ann said, "Lizzy, get the milk and pour everyone a glass." The tallest girl slid from her chair and retrieved a glass pitcher from a relatively new refrigerator, manufactured at least within the last fifteen years.
While the milk was being evenly doled out, Sue Ann cut pieces of pie, and they passed clockwise around the table until everyone had a slice of equal size. The children's gaze didn't stray from their mother until she nodded. Forks made quick work of something that took a considerable amount of time to prepare.
Steve savored his, giving moans and comments on the tangy-sweet taste of rhubarb and the quality of the crust. Heather had to admit, the pie could have won a blue ribbon in any county fair. The latticed crust gave it a special touch that took it over the top.
Steve tasted his milk, smacked his lips and said, "This is better than any milk I've ever tasted. What brand is it?"
The oldest boy said, "We call it udder delight." The other children broke out in squeals of laughter.
Sue Ann's face turned pink. "I'm so sorry, I should have told you. We don't buy milk from the store."
The oldest boy spoke up. "That milk is as fresh as it comes. I squeezed it out of Buttercup at five this morning. It went straight into the refrigerator. How does it taste?"
Heather had already enjoyed half a glass when the conversation about milk started. "Is it pasteurized?"
"Heck, no," said the youngest boy. "That would ruin it."
"Most people don't realize that laws about pasteurizing milk didn't start until the 1920s,” said the lad who’d taken on the role of teacher. “The reason people get sick is because of poor hygiene with the livestock, the milking machines, and what the milk’s stored in. Buttercup is pasture fed and only comes to the barn twice a day to be milked. We wash her udders and hand milk into a stainless-steel pail that's scrubbed after each use. We also hose down the concrete she stands on twice a day."
Steve nodded his approval. "It sounds like you've done a lot of research."
"I have. You can get sick from unpasteurized milk, but it isn't the milk that's the culprit. It's how it's processed. Of course, there are a lot of articles about how dangerous unpasteurized milk is, but those come from big dairies. They're usually written by people getting paid by the government or the dairy industry."
The small voice of the youngest daughter interrupted the lecture. "Mama, can Lizzy and I split the last piece of pie?"
Sue Ann shook her head. "What would your daddy do if he found out you and Lizzy ate his piece?"
Something just shy of terror shone in the young girl’s eyes. "Can I go play?"
Sue Ann glanced at each of the four children. "Put your plates in the sink and don't let the door slam again."
Chairs scraped against the wooden floor and soon the sound of voices faded. Heather took Steve's plate and followed Sue Ann to the sink. She looked out the screen door. "You have two porches? One out front and one in the back?"
"That's our sleeping porch. It's open on three sides to catch a breeze and the oak trees shade it. There's cots and a couple of old roll-away beds for whoever can't sleep. Come late July and August most everyone will be out there."
"Did the house you grew up in have a sleeping porch?"
"Just the front porch. Daddy said if we couldn't sleep it was because we hadn't worked hard enough."
Steve spoke from where he sat, "Can I help do the dishes? I'm not much on washing, but I can dry with the best of them."
"The two middle ones will get it done after you leave," said Sue Ann. "Let's go on the front porch and swing a while. The kids will be down by the river and we can talk about whatever you want."
Heather placed Steve in a rocking chair while she and Sue Ann sat on the swing and began the motion that mimicked the slow ticking of time in this peaceful setting. But was it always peaceful? The discoloration under Sue Ann's eye told another story of this bucolic country life.
No one spoke for a couple of minutes, content to allow the taste of rich milk and rhubarb pie to fade. Steve finally broke the spell. "We need your help. Tell us about growing up at the ranch."
"I don't understand. What do you want to know?"
"Start with your first memory," said Steve.
Sue Ann closed her eyes tight. "It was at the funeral home when Grandpa Voss died. I remember the casket. It was made of wood and had gold handles." She opened her eyes. "They looked like gold."
"What kind of man was your grandfather?"
"I don't remember him, but then, there's some big gaps in my memory. From what Mae and Roy said, he was meaner than Daddy. They said he didn't like anyone in general and a lot of people in particular."
"Who in particular?"
"Mexicans and Blacks; called them all sorts of names, according to Mae." She shook her head. "Wait. That would be people he hated in general, not in particular." She gazed toward the garden. "I'm not good with words."
"Any people you can remember him saying he hated?"
"Roy said he didn't like Hector, but that's because he was different than us."
"What did you think of Hector?"
"I loved him because he loved me and Mama and Rance."
Heather took her turn. "What about your father? Did he hate Hector?"
Sue Ann's head shook with certainty. "He and Hector were close, kind of like they were brothers, but not really."
"This is a hard question," said Heather. "Did your father ever beat you or your brothers or sister?"
"All but me and Rance. I try not to remember those days and most of the time it works. Like I said, my memory has some big gaps."
"What about your mother? Did he ever beat her?"
A shiver caused the swing to lose its rhythm. "That was before Rance was born. It must have been shortly after Grandpa died. He only hit her once that I can recall, but it was hard."
The swing found its pace again, slow and steady. Steve lifted the tone of his voice and the mood changed. "This is such a nice place and your children are special. You and Grant must be very proud of them."
She stopped swinging. "Mr. Smiley, can I tell you something?"
"That's why we're here. Say anything you want."
"I married a man just like my pa. The kids are good because none of us have a choice. Do you understand?"
The rhubarb pie did a flip in Heather's stomach.
"I understand," said Steve. "What do you want us to do?"
She stood and leaned against a post supporting the roof of the porch. "Is there any way you can delay giving me the million dollars for a long time? As soon as I get it, Grant will take it all and blow it. The kids will be left with nothing and he'll be twice as mean as he is now."
Heather answered for Steve. "We might be able to delay the payment for a few days, but not long. To do what you want won't be easy. You'd have to go in front of a judge and get a restraining order against Grant. It would be best if you had proof of him assaulting or threatening you. You'll need to file for divorce, too. This is a community property state. Things would get complicated if he took the money and invested it."
Sue Ann continued looking out into a pasture. "I tried that once. He stayed locked up a few days and then made life worse than before."
"Let us work on it," said Steve. "I have a seed of an idea."
"Seeds are good," said Sue Ann. "Look at what the kids did with the garden."
Steve moved on. "When we drove up, Heather said she didn't see a boat. Isn't Grant a big fisherman?"
"He took it almost a week ago. I asked him about it and wished I hadn't."
"What kind is it?"
She shrugged. "It's a red and black fishin’ boat is all I know. He's probably on the lake now. He quit his job."
"I figured he would," said Steve. "One more thing. You said you brought home some personal items from when you made the list of things in the ranch house. Do you still have those?"
"Uh-huh. They’re mostly receipts and stuff that should have been thrown away."
"Do you mind if we take them and Heather checks to make sure you don't get rid of something important?"
“Sure. Take whatever you need.”
They left Sue Ann standing on the porch. Heather turned to Steve after she put the car in gear. "Where to?"
"Llano. Let's talk to the sheriff about finding a boat."