Distant Blood

7

“You're suggesting murder?” Calhoun County Lieutenant Victor Mendez tented his fingers and looked at me. I felt a hot flush creep up my skin. “And just why would anyone want to kill Mrs. Throckmorton?”

“I'm not sure she was the target. I might have been.” My throat felt like dried papier-mache; I coughed and took a hard gulp of water.

Justice of the Peace Tricia Yarbrough, sitting behind Uncle Mutt's desk, frowned. “And why would anyone want to kill you, Mr. Poteet?” She was a good-looking woman, in her late fifties, chubby, with smart brown eyes and reddish hair laced with a shock of gray. I thought she seemed a tremendously good listener.

Lieutenant Mendez, Judge Yarbrough, and I sat in Uncle Mutt's private office, near the back of the sprawling house. Mendez and Judge Yarbrough had quickly appropriated the space from the stunned and grieving Mutt to get each of our statements. I was the last one to be questioned and apparently the first to suggest foul play. At least, that's how I read Mendez's expression-interested but slightly scoffing. Yarbrough seemed a tad more concerned.

Mendez was only a bit older than me, clean-cut, with night-dark eyes and rapidly receding hair. Otherwise, his face was boyish, a bit unformed, like a pudding that hadn't quite set. He was one of those men who never quite seem to shed their baby fat-some morsel of youth remains eternally on their face or frame. He was professional, to the point, and I felt thoroughly intimidated by him.

Not to mention my own emotional state at having had Aunt Lolly die right next to me. I should have been trembling and incoherent; instead I felt a vast numbness seep into my pores, anesthetizing my muscles, dulling my mind.

I realized suddenly, I hadn't answered Tricia Yarbrough's question.

“Mr. Poteet? Judge Yarbrough asked why would someone want to kill you.” Lieutenant Mendez decamped his tent of fingers and instead settled back further on Uncle Mutt's sofa. Yarbrough tapped her nails against the glass covering Uncle Mutt's desk.

“I've been receiving threatening cards ever since I agreed to come to this reunion,” I said, producing the cards and laying them on the desk in front of the justice of the peace. Mendez got up to eye them as well. I let them look through the malicious missives in silence. Mendez carefully handled them with a handkerchief, easing them out of the protective Baggies I kept them in.

Tricia Yarbrough made a choked noise of disgust.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Mendez finally mumbled. He leaned back from the cards, as if their hate was contagious. He glanced up at me. “Any idea who's been sending these?”

“A member of the family is my guess. But I don't know who.”

“When I questioned your father-Bob Don Goertz, right?” Mendez rustled through his notes and I nodded. “He said he'd brought you here to meet the rest of your family for the first time. So you've never seen any of these folks before, right?”

“That's correct. I discovered last year that… Mr. Goertz and my mother had an affair and I was… the product. We've been getting to know each other and determine whether or not-whether I could accept him as my father.” My chest tightened. What the hell was wrong with me? I'd never spluttered while talking. “I believe someone in the family isn't very happy about me being recognized as a member.”

“Why would that be, Mr. Poteet?” Yarbrough asked.

“Please, call me Jordan.” Her face didn't waver, so I reckoned she'd keep relations nice and formal. “Anyway, look at this place. Uncle Mutt's loaded to the gills-his net worth is around ten million or so. I think someone's unhappy with me being a potential heir.”

“Ten million would be a lot to spread around the family anyway,” Mendez mused. Yarbrough gave him a sharp glance.

“Yes, it would be. If Uncle Mutt is of a mind to be equitable.”

“And killing you would make Mr. Emmett more equitable in dishing out the funds?”

Mr. Emmett? “I don't know.” I shrugged and rested my fingers against my eyebrows. “All I know is someone doesn't want me here. And my aunt died, unexpectedly, right next to me.” I lowered my hands, but I didn't look at Mendez or Yarbrough.

“If you feel you're in danger, Mr. Poteet, we can get you off the island,” Yarbrough said softly. “I've asked the others to all remain here at the house until our investigation's complete.”

“Thank you, but no. I'd prefer to remain with my-with Bob Don. I think he'll need me now.”

Mendez leaned forward. “You know, the lady might've simply had a heart attack. She'd just been told her only brother was terminally ill.”

I nodded. “And Uncle Jake's medication being gone? I suppose he'd just conveniently run out? It's digitalis-based. Doesn't that cause heart attacks?” I knew next to nothing about medicine, but I could connect Digoxin with digitalis.

“Even so-could be suicide. I understand Mrs. Throck-morton wasn't entirely stable.” Mendez sounded bored.

“Good Lord, Victor,” Yarbrough said. “I've known Lolly Throckmorton for years. She wasn't crazy.”

“She seemed to have serious mood swings,” I offered. “When we arrived, she seemed rather happy, in good spirits. But at dinner, she was belligerent, even abusive to the family.” Neither blinked at my announcement. “Still, to kill herself, in front of her family? That seems wrong.”

“I've ordered an autopsy.” Judge Yarbrough spoke after a moment's silence. “We don't have a medical examiner here in Calhoun County, so I'll have Lolly's body shipped to Austin. We could have the results by tomorrow.”

“And if poison's involved? How quickly could we know?” I challenged.

She shifted in her chair, perhaps a little uncomfortable with my directness. “Toxicology tests take longer to get- sometimes up to ten days. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Like Lieutenant Mendez says, poor Lolly may have just had a heart attack.”

“You said you'd known her a long time, Judge. Did you ever know if she had a heart condition?”

Yarbrough tugged at her bottom lip. “No. She never mentioned one. But I didn't know before tonight that Mutt-Mr. Goertz-was ill either. The Goertzes aren't a family to broadcast their private lives.” I detected a tinge of-pain? sadness?-in her voice, then she became all business again. “You said the deceased vomited on your clothes. We'd like them for analysis as well.”

“Of course.” Stomach contents, I thought. So she's not dismissing the possibility of poison. But I wondered how her apparent knowledge of the family might color her view of the case. Yarbrough looked tough and professional, though.

Mendez shifted gears. “So you're new to this family. Any impressions of them? What kind of people do they strike you as?”

I fostered a smile. “You both obviously know the Goertzes. How many people in your county are worth ten million dollars?”

Mendez didn't return my smile. He leaned back in the creaky leather sofa. “Just answer the question, please, Jordan.”

His use of my first name suddenly changed the air in the room-and I felt the need to vent and was glad Mendez had picked up on my frustration. “Fine. Something's wrong here. First I get these abusive letters. Then I get to sit through a dinner that's so thick with tension it's practically on the menu. Lolly verbally attacks the entire family, Mutt tells us he's dying, and Lolly drops dead.” I shook my head.

“I keep thinking this family isn't exactly knit together right. Something's off in the weave, so to speak. And Uncle Mutt-”

“Mr. Emmett's done lots of good works for folks in this county,” Mendez interrupted. His expression hardened. “There's no need to cry murder until we get the autopsy results. I assure you, if someone's murdered his sister, we'll find out who did it.”

“Even if it was a family member?” I asked.

“Especially if it was a family member,” Yarbrough interjected. “Thank you for your statement, Jordan.” She gathered her papers up and rattled them into order.

Mendez stood and gestured toward the cards. “I'd like to keep these for evidence.”

I nodded. “And I'll bag up my clothes for you.”

“Let me know if you get any more threatening messages, Mr. Poteet,” Mendez said. The interview was over.

I stood to leave. “One question-are y'all going to tell people my uncle's dying?”

Mendez's eyes met mine and I saw sadness in them. “Mr. Emmett's business is his own. Not mine, as long as he's not breaking the law.”

“Absolutely,” Yarbrough chimed in. Real pain flashed across her face briefly, as though news of Mutt's death was a physical prod to her. I wanted to ask Tricia Yarbrough what Mutt was to her-but I didn't.

I dabbed my tongue on my dry lips. What I was about to say might make me a traitor in Bob Don's eyes, but I couldn't hold my silence. “Tonight-at the dinner table- Aunt Lolly mentioned there'd been another murder in this family. Years ago, Bob Don's brother killed his wife. Did you know?”

Mendez's expression told me he hadn't. Yarbrough's told me she had. Neither commented-I saw Yarbrough give Mendez one of those I'll tell you later looks.

Dismissed, I left the room feeling just as ill as when I'd arrived. I went upstairs, pulled off my sour-smelling garments, donned a robe, and hurried back downstairs to the front porch. One of Mendez's investigators bagged my clothes and gave me a receipt for them. I could see a dark body bag being loaded on the Coast Guard helicopter. Lolly.

Mendez came up behind me. “One of my men will be spending the night here, Mr. Poteet.” He gestured toward a compactly built officer who stood near the porch swing, all spit and polish. “You let Deputy Praisner know if you need anything, all right?”

“Of course.” I paused. “Your leaving an officer here overnight suggests maybe you don't think Lolly's death was of natural causes.”

“Don't conjecture so much, Jordan. Leave that to us.” Mendez turned abruptly and went back inside. I stood for a moment, watching the helicopter in which they'd placed Lolly's remains.

Deputy Praisner fixed a baleful eye on me. I bade him good night and went back inside, desperate for a shower. As I passed Mutt's study I could hear his voice raised in anger, followed by Tricia Yarbrough's calm alto. Mendez spoke a few indistinct words, then Mutt railed again. I headed up the stairs, suddenly and tremendously tired.

On the way up to my room, I stopped by Bob Don and Gretchen's room-everyone had turned in for the night, dulled with shock over Lolly's death. I knocked. I heard someone shuffling out of bed and then the door opened a hair.

“Son,” Bob Don said, opening the door and stepping outside. He eased the door shut behind him, but not before I saw Gretchen curled into a fetal ball under the covers. “How you?”

“I'm fine. Okay. How are you?”

“Holding up.” He gestured at the shut door. “Gretchen's awful upset. You can imagine.” He shrugged. “Just can't believe that Lolly's gone. Just can't believe it.” His voice shook. “And Uncle Mutt's dying-” He didn't finish his sentence.

He almost looked like a little boy, his usually perfectly big-styled blond hair a messy mop, his blue eyes baggy with restlessness. I reached out, awkwardly, for him. I pressed my fingers against the fabric of his pajama top, feeling the roundness of his broad shoulder beneath. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone. That was from some old poem about family, wasn't it? “I am so sorry, Bob Don. So very sorry.”

He touched the back of my hand with his own. “Thanks, son. It means the world to me that you're here. I'm so grateful.”

I wanted to tell him about my conversation with Mendez-about my fears, about my suspicions, about the hateful diatribes I'd received in the mail. But I couldn't, not now. His grief was too fresh to bear further wounding. Morning would be here soon enough. And I still reeked of Lolly's puke.

“Uh, do you want to talk?” I offered. I did not reach out to him often, but I could hardly be reticent now.

“I need to get some rest,” he muttered, and broke away from my grip. “I'll see you in the morning, okay?”

“All right. In the morning.” He retreated to the bedroom and shut the door. I stared at the doorknob, listening to the quiet of the old house. My imagination made me hear a footfall along the darkened hallway, and I hurried to the stairs, to the comfort of my own room and a long hot shower.

From my bedroom window, I listened to the waves lapping across the bay. The helicopter had risen like a gargantuan bug several minutes ago, arrowing toward land. Moonlight silvered the water, making the wind-gusted swells resemble trenches of metal. I thought again of those brave Texans aboard the Reliant, their ghosts entombed beneath the waters. I felt isolated.

I wondered, for a brief moment, if this was how someone surrounded by a moat felt if they didn't have a key to the drawbridge.

A knock rapped at my door and I murmured, “Come in.”

Candace came in, bedecked in cutoffs and a T-shirt from the Bonaparte County Fair. She looked absolutely adorable in them and I felt a grin, for the first time in hours, tug at my mouth.

“Hey.” I kissed her softly. “How you?”

“Okay. Awful tired. How are you feeling, sweetie?”

“Don't use that word, please.” I shuddered.

Candace clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God. Sorry.”

I wanted to go a few minutes without thinking about Aunt Lolly. Horribly selfish of me, but I'm only being honest. I tried lightening the conversation. “Look at you, running around kissing boys at midnight. It might be a family scandal. You might get your own chapter in Aubrey's book now. And whatever would dear Aunt Sass say?”

She brushed a tendril of her chestnut-dark hair off her face. “I don't care what that old biddy says. What a terribly cold woman she is, Jordy.” She sat down cross-legged on my bed. “Her own aunt dies and she hardly changes expression.”

I shrugged. “People show grief in different ways. You want to stay with me tonight after all?”

“Is that how you show grief, mister?” She smiled, then frowned. “Oh, God, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. How are you really feeling, sug?”

I lay down on the bed and she cradled my head into her lap. I closed my eyes. “I don't know what I should feel. Bob Don seems shocked, Gretchen's acting devastated. I know that Lolly was my great-aunt, but she came into and left my life in a matter of hours. I don't feel sad so much as shocked. She was pretty awful to Deborah.”

“Yes, she was.” Candace gently stroked my hair. “She didn't strike me as a happy woman.”

I groaned. “Poor old thing.”

“So you think she just had a heart attack?” Candace's voice was measured.

“I don't know. The medical examiner'll tell us, I suppose.” I explained to her about Lolly's body being shipped to Travis County for autopsy. I closed my eyes again, trying not to picture Aunt Lolly struggling, her face turning purple with the effort to draw breath. “If she just had a heart attack, why is a deputy spending the night on the island? They're certainly treating it as a suspicious death.”

“You aren't the least bit curious? I find it decidedly odd that Uncle Jake's heart medication was gone and Aunt Lolly has a sudden heart attack,” Candace said. Great minds do tend to think alike, cliches aside. I didn't answer and she thunked me on the forehead with her finger.

I decided to play devil's advocate, just as Mendez had done. “Maybe we shouldn't see murder everywhere we look. She'd just been told her brother only has a short time to live. Besides, why would anyone want to kill that poor old lady? She wasn't right in the head, as mean as that sounds. She couldn't have been a real threat to anyone, Candace.”

Candace was quiet for a moment. “I don't know. It just bothers me. Jake seemed awful surprised that all his medicine was gone.”

“Okay, let's say someone did poison Aunt Lolly. Who? Why? It seems to me far more likely that she died over shock brought on by Uncle Mutt's announcement than that someone slipped her a Digoxin overdose. And why wouldn't the rest of us be sick? She ate and drank everything that we did.”

“That's not true,” Candace said. “I think she was the only one who had red wine. Everyone else had white wine or beer or hard liquor. Except Gretchen. And Aubrey, who made such a big deal about being a nondrinker. And me. He and I both drank mineral water.”

I bit my lip in thought. “You're right. I wonder if the police know that-”

“They took what was left of her dinner and put it into an evidence bag,” Candace said bluntly. “I saw diem. Unless they were just foraging for leftovers. And they'll have her stomach contents to analyze-”

“This is insane,” I said. “She can't have been poisoned. It's just too crazy. Plus, wouldn't she have been stricken a lot earlier?”

“It might not have affected her immediately,” Candace argued. “I don't know how long it takes a medication like that to affect someone. Neither do you.”

“I did ask the justice of the peace-who seems rather friendly with Uncle Mutt-about how long it takes to get toxicology results. She didn't even blink when I asked.” I rubbed my eyes, weary. “If Lolly was poisoned, the police'll find out. And then we'll all be questioned till we're blue in the face.” I stood up, leaving the warm comfort of her lap. The breeze through the window felt as gentle as an angel's kiss.

“Of course, maybe Lolly wasn't the target.” Candace continued talking to my back. “Did you tell the police about your Hallmark cards from hell?”

I related my conversation with Victor Mendez to her. Candace snorted. “So he's not making a move until he knows for sure whether or not it was natural causes?”

“It's not an unusual course of action, sweetheart.”

“The hell it's not. You've gotten death threats. What's wrong with this man?”

“He's investigating a potential murder in possibly the wealthiest family in the county.” I shrugged. “I imagine he doesn't want to make any mistakes. Period. Assuming there's a link between my letters and Lolly's death is a fair jump on little evidence.” I turned back to the window, watching the maze of stars shine over the bay.

I couldn't get Lolly's purpling face out of my mind. I had seen death before, by violence, and I know its signature- the eyes dimming of light, the curl of the lip in shock and dismay that the final moments are here, the pallid wetness of the tongue in the open cave of the mouth.

I wondered what Uncle Mutt thought of his little dramatic moment now.

Candace stretched and crawled off the bed.

“Good night, sug. Get some sleep. I'll be watching your room from down the hall.”

“I know you fancy yourself as the new Emma Peel, Candace, but you need sleep, too. I'll be fine. I won't be able to sleep if I'm worried that you're not getting any rest.”

I kissed her tenderly, reveling in the warmth of her lips against mine. Someday I would be dead, like Lolly, and whatever afterlife awaited me might not include the gentle pleasure of a kiss. I broke the embrace and nuzzled the top of her head.

“I love you, Jordan.” Her voice was low against my chest, her lips a gentle motion against my T-shirt.

“I love you, too. I think I'll go down to Mutt's library and find me a book. I completely forgot to pack one. I'll stay up and read awhile.”

She slipped off toward her end of the hall while I tiptoed down to the staircase. The house was dark; the family had called it an early evening. I saw rods of light beneath doors, so I knew not everyone slumbered, but we were all modestly tucked in. I did not hear the sound of grieving from any room, and I shivered.

The library was poorly lit, one lamp casting an inadequate glow from a side table. I felt a bit like an intruder, so I didn't turn on the ceiling lights. Plus, I didn't want to disturb the taciturn Deputy Praisner on the porch.

I moved toward one of the bookcases, running a finger along the volumes. Nearly everything seemed to pertain to either Texas history or true crime. The latter category lacked any appeal, given the day's events. But I paused, looking down the spines of an entire shelf. Uncle Mutt had amassed a rather fearsome collection of murder and mayhem. I turned back to the history offerings. I began thumbing through a thin biography of the Republic of Texas's second president-and my hometown's namesake, Mirabeau Bonaparte Lamar. “Hello, Mirabeau,” I muttered to myself. “Reading about you should knock me unconscious.”

A voice boomed from a corner chair, “Mirabeau Lamar? He was a right sorry man.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. I reached over and flicked on another table light. Uncle Mutt sat in a plush leather chair, a glass of brandy nestled in his hand. I realized he'd been sitting silently in the near dark.

“Sorry, boy. Didn't mean to startle you.” Uncle Mutt's voice was low and raspy. “But Mirabeau Lamar was a turd. He would've killed ever' damn Indian in Texas with a snap of his fingers. Only smart thing he ever did was build the Texas Navy.”

“Oh, you didn't startle me,” I lied. “I just didn't realize that you were there.” I thumped the Lamar biography against my hand, suddenly at a loss for words.

“You may borrow the book, Jordan,” he said softly.

“I-I-” I realized my entire vocabulary had deserted me. I swallowed. “I didn't mean to be poking about in your library, it's just I forgot to bring anything to read with me and I couldn't sleep and so I…” I trailed off.

“Oh, for God's sake. You act like I'm radioactive, boy. You want to sit down and have a brandy with me?”

“Uncle Mutt-Mr. Goertz-I'm really sorry about your sister. I don't want to intrude on your grief. And I'm so sorry that you're sick…” My voice evaporated into the dark air.

“You're not intruding, son. And I told you not to call me Mr. Goertz. I'm your uncle, so you call me Uncle Mutt.” He mouthed his brandy, rolling the liquid in his cheek before swallowing. “I don't figure we've done much to make you feel comfortable.”

My God. He'd lost his sister tonight. He'd told his family he was dying. And he was concerned for my comfort? I wasn't sure if I felt touched or puzzled at his priorities. But then, I didn't know what a dying man's priorities were. “Please don't worry about me, I'll be fine. I'm sure I'm still a shock to y'all.”

“We've faced far worse shocks as a family, trust me. And it ain't healthy for a dying man to sit in the dark, thinking about his death or anyone else's. So you'll have a brandy with me?”

“Sure.” I sat in another comfortable reading chair, facing him across a low coffee table. He fiddled with glasses at a side bar and returned, handing me a snifter with a generous dose of brandy. He kept his face slightly averted as he offered me the drink. I could see his eyes were rimmed with red and soft with grief. I glanced away, not wanting to embarrass him. Men don't want other men to see them mourn.

I swirled the amber liquid in the glass and sipped cautiously. My tongue burned and an agreeable sensation began a slow exploration of my limbs.

“Good, ain't it? It's French.” Uncle Mutt grinned.

“It's very good,” I said. I wouldn't know good brandy from bad, but it certainly wasn't making me feel worse.

“You think maybe your library could use these books?” Mutt gestured at the shelves. “I ain't gonna need them when I'm dead.”

“That's very generous of you.” I surveyed the depths of my brandy, took another hefty gulp, and when I looked up, Mutt was staring at me intently.

I glanced away in discomfort and he spoke. “I know. I'm sorry, son. I haven't seen you in a long, long time and I just can't get over how much you remind me of other folks in our family. Ones that ain't here with us no more.”

“Long time? But you've never seen me-”

“That's not entirely true. You see, Jordan, your father and I are about the only half-normal people in this bunch. And when you came along, Bob Don needed someone to unburden himself on. That was me.” He paused and watched the brandy in his glass. “I've known about you since the day you were born.”

“Bob Don never told me you knew.”

“Your father's not a man to admit that he needed a kind shoulder. Many years ago, Lolly and I visited him in Mirabeau. We went to a junior-high baseball game, Mira-beau versus Smithville. You played shortstop. You didn't have a particularly good game, and your team lost, but Bob Don didn't care. I could tell he was nearly bursting with pride, just to watch you.”

My throat felt heavy. The brandy burned a pleasant trail to my stomach. “I remember that game. Smithville stomped us, and I was fit to be tied. You and Aunt Lolly were there?”

“Sure were. Lolly didn't know about you, though. She just thought that Bob Don and I, being men, couldn't go three days without attending a sporting event.” He chuckled softly. “Oh, Lord, Lolly didn't want to be at that game, kept asking when it would be over. But if she'd known Bob Don's son was playing on that field, you couldn't have moved her off those bleachers with a bulldozer.”

“Good Lord.” Further words escaped me. I closed my eyes, recalling the game with the intensity of disappointment that only kids feel. I'd missed a key grounder, struck out twice, and when I'd made it to third base, the next batter had choked with bases loaded and suffered the final out of the game. The walk to the dugout felt like miles. My face had burned not only with the spring sun but with the humiliation of loss.

I never would have dreamed that blood relations I knew nothing about were watching me that entire time, like visitors from another world scrutinizing a primitive race. I gulped at my brandy, which sent a long finger of fire down my gullet. I'd felt a stranger in this house-but Uncle Mutt had seen me play ball. He'd known the truth about my parentage longer than I had. He'd been Bob Don's one confidant.

I opened my eyes. Uncle Mutt smiled. He had, behind the bluster, a kind face.

“You're sure there's nothing they can do for you?” I heard myself asking in a strained voice. “The doctors aren't always right.” I did not add my father who raised me had succumbed to cancer, and the physicians had been unerring in their diagnosis and prediction of his death.

He dismissed my hopes with a wave of his brandy glass. “Jordan, I'm dying. There's no two ways about it, son. My time's come and I don't begrudge the fates their due. I sometimes wonder if I won't go blind, won't lose my sense of smell, won't go crazy. I ain't in a lot of pain yet, but when it comes, they can let me have a little of the morphine. I'm hoping I'm dead before it gets too bad.” He sipped again. “I figure I've had a good life. I just wish Lolly hadn't gone first.”

“I'm so sorry.” I didn't know what to say, and the words sounded like an empty apology. I know from my own experience: conveying sympathy is one of the world's hardest tasks. How many times had people oohed their pity for my mother's condition, meaning well, but instead raising a bitter hackle within me./ don't need your sympathy or your pity. I need my mother to be healthy again. And no one can give me that. “I'm sorry I didn't have the opportunity to know Lolly better, Uncle Mutt.”

He rubbed at his forehead, as though massaging the memories. “I loved her, even when she could be a trial. She was stubborn, and sometimes she and Deborah clashed. But she loved this family, and she'd have done any duty we asked. I can't believe she's gone. She must've hid her heart condition the way I've kept quiet about my cancer. It would be like a Goertz.”

I listened to the bass ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner before I spoke. “Do you know why the deputy's staying the night here?”

Mutt made a hissing grunt. “Dadgum fool justice of the peace. She's got to order an autopsy, she says, 'cause Lolly's death was suspicious since Jake's medication was missing. Tricia Yarbrough had the gall to suggest-ever so gently-that maybe Lolly took her own life. Ridiculous!”

“I'm sorry, Uncle Mutt.” I could think of no other comfort to offer. If he didn't care for Tricia's suspicions, he certainly wouldn't cotton to mine. I'd gotten the distinct impression Tricia Yarbrough cared about Uncle Mutt, but he didn't seem to return the feelings-at least not right now.

“My sister died of a simple heart attack. And I probably sent her over the edge, being all dramatic in announcing I'm sick. Christ.” He massaged the bridge of his nose, not looking at me. “Christ.”

“If she was sick,” I ventured carefully, “maybe that'd explain why she was in such a… mood at dinner.”

He glanced up at me, quickly. “Yes, you're right. Normally Lolly would never say the hurtful things she said tonight. It was entirely unlike her. She was devoted to this family.”

“She seems not to have cared for Deborah,” I murmured. I took quick refuge in a sip of brandy.

“Oh, Lord. Deborah lived with Lolly after her parents died, and that was a terrible mistake. Two women, both all eaten up with grief-they turned on each other, instead of supporting each other. A closeness between those two was just not meant to be.”

His thin lips compressed and he quickly moved to defend his sister's memory from his own description. “I wished you could've known Lolly better, too. She was a individual, that's for sure. Her and that damn dog of hers. She wasn't always quite that way. Lolly was a pistol in her youth, a lot of fun, a sweet girl. But Charles was her whole life, they never had young'uns, and when he died-it wasn't long after Deb had come to live with them-part of Lolly died. I think it was the chunk of the brain that must govern reason.” The remark might sound cruel, but I knew he didn't mean it that way. It was a bald statement of fact, the kind I sensed that Uncle Mutt prided himself on. “Lord knows she took mighty good care of Uncle Jake.”

“He seems rather independent still,” I said.

Uncle Mutt sighed. “Oh, Lord, you can't keep Uncle Jake down on the farm. He's a lively one. Stays busy with his hobbies and got more pen pals than I can keep track of. Seems his specialty is gettin' into trouble. We had him in a nursing home for a while, but he wouldn't ever let the lady residents or the nurses alone. It just got easier to bring him on home and let family take care of family. We've always believed in that.”

“It sounds very noble.”

He nodded at me approvingly. “I don't want to sound caustic after poor Lolly dying, but I'm glad you're coming into the family, Jordan. We need some fresh blood. Jake and I ain't long for this world. And sometimes I ain't holding much hope for the next generations. Look at Aubrey; he's so boring he tapes the Weather Channel.”

“They're not so bad, I'm sure,” I said.

“Hell, I know. But what I say about the whole lot, it's the truth. And those damned hounds are all after my money.”

“Your money?” I asked.

“Good Lord, boy.” He laughed. “Did you think I inherited this island? Hell, no. I won it. I've worked damned hard my whole life. I made enough money for rich folks as an investment counselor I ended up rich myself. You can't hang out around the Texas wealthy without some of their pennies and luck landing in your pockets. I got money out the ass, not to sound crass.” He laughed at his impromptu verse. “And those turkey vultures are circling hard.” He gestured toward the ceiling-and our sleeping relatives-then downed the rest of his brandy. He kept the glass's edge balanced against his lip, his eyes shut in exhaustion.

“If you're worried about me, I'm no vulture. I don't want any of your money. I don't have a claim on it.” My face felt hot with indignation. I wanted to say: Look, Uncle Mutt, someone's tried to scare me off, maybe because of your damned money. I opened my mouth to tell him about the letters, but the words wouldn't come. I liked being with him, talking to him, listening to the cadence of his voice.

“You got as good a claim on my fortune as anyone else. Maybe better-you ain't irritated me yet. And I gotta give some hard thinking to my money now that Lolly's gone.” He shrugged. “I'm sure the folks upstairs realize by now there's one less heir to squabble with over the loot.”

The force of his words hit me like a delayed drug reaction. I nearly dropped my drink. “That's a horrible statement to make after your sister dies.”

“Well, I'll be damned. You got some gumption. I figured you might not have much after I heard you were a librarian.”

I set my brandy down on the table. “And I might have thought you were a no-good, lazy gambler after I heard you won this island in a poker match. But I shouldn't pay any heed to stereotypes.”

He laughed again. “God. I bet you were a little toot as a teenager. Did you have you some fun?”

I tried not to be thrown by the twists and turns that seemed inherent in any conversation with Uncle Mutt. “I guess I did. I was a pretty good kid, though.”

“Sure is a pretty gal you've got with you. She good to you?”

“Yes, sir, she is. She's about the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Well, there's nothing like the love of a good woman.”

His eyes grew wistful. “I won't get none of that after I'm dead. You probably only get lovin' in heaven and I'm hell-bound for sure. Only attention I'll be gettin' is the old devils poking me with their pitchforks.”

I wanted to inquire about what existed between him and Wendy Tran, but I didn't. I felt less an intruder in this house now-or at least in Uncle Mutt's congenial presence-but I didn't feel as though I could ask frank questions such as are you sleeping with a woman young enough to be your granddaughter? Just not done, you know.

I started to tell him how Candace and I met when a slight bump came from the direction of the half-closed library door. Uncle Mutt raised his hand, gesturing me to continue talking, and began tiptoeing toward the door. I hesitated only for a moment, then continued, feeling self-conscious: “Well, Candace was my assistant when I started at the library, but she doesn't work there anymore. She bought a cafe along with my sister Arlene and they run it together-”

At that point Uncle Mutt yanked the door open. Philip Bedrich nearly fell into the library, tottering for balance. He pulled his bathroom robe close about him.

“Ooops,” Philip managed to sputter. “Sorry, Uncle Mutt, didn't realize anyone was in here. I was just on my way to the kitchen-”

“You know where the kitchen is, Philip.” Mutt's voice sounded stern and reproachful.

“Well”-Philip took a conciliatory step into the library- “I thought I might get a book to read. I couldn't sleep, thinking about poor Aunt Lolly, so I-well, hello, Jordan. I didn't know you were down here.”

“Right.” Uncle Mutt coughed. “I don't approve of eavesdropping on private conversations, Philip.”

“I should say not,” Philip agreed. “And if I see anyone in this house sticking an ear to a keyhole, you can be sure I'll tell them you don't condone such behavior.” That bandage loosely applied, Philip turned a beatific smile on me. “How kind of you, Cousin Jordan, to offer solace to Uncle Mutt. I don't mean to interrupt your visit, let me just fetch a book.”

“You should be careful sneaking around, Cousin Philip,”

I offered dryly. “There's an armed cop on the porch. He looked like he might have a twitchy trigger finger to me.”

Philip ignored my jab, sidled to the bookshelves, and began a detailed perusal of the offerings. Uncle Mutt regained his seat. “The books on personal responsibility are on the upper shelf, Philip. Reading those should cure your insomnia.”

If the barb stung Philip, he didn't wince. “I actually wish I had more time to read all these books on Texas history. It's a fascinating subject. Has Mutt given you his lecture on the ill-fated Reliant, Jordan? It can keep one entertained for, oh, just countless hours upon hours.” Philip didn't seem concerned about sucking up before any new wills were drafted.

“Little asshole,” I heard Uncle Mutt whisper, rolling his eyes. I glanced over at Philip-and saw him, deftly, pull a book from the folds of his robe and slide it back into its place on the shelf. I didn't let my gaze linger as he glanced back at me.

“Ah, here's a good one.” Philip waved a nondescript tome; I could see knights on the cover. “A nice book on European history. That'll do the trick.” He drew close to Uncle Mutt. “You holding up okay, Uncle? Anything I can do?”

“I'm fine, Philip, thanks for your concern,” Uncle Mutt answered, his voice tight. “Go on to bed, get some rest. I don't mean to be short with you. I'm just tired.”

“I know,” Philip said, his voice a bit softer. “Get some rest, Uncle Mutt. Good night, Jordan.” I ignored the slightly snide tone his voice had taken in bidding me farewell. Philip didn't like me one bit, I surmised.

Uncle Mutt was silent until we heard the soft tread of Philip's footsteps on the stairs. “I'd best get to bed, Jordan. I got to go into Port Lavaca tomorrow and start the arrangements for Lolly's funeral. God, I didn't think I'd be burying anyone else before me.”

“Would you like me to go with you tomorrow?”

A soft smile touched his face, and for one terribly naked moment I saw my own face in his. “No, Jordan, but I appreciate the offer. Maybe you can keep my relations from robbing me blind while I'm gone.”

I didn't want the conversation to end quite yet. “Did Lieutenant Mendez say anything more about-about the investigation?”

Mutt shook his head. “Just have to wait on the autopsy, he says.” His eyes narrowed at me. “Why? You know something you ain't sharing, son?”

“Yes.” My voice sounded miserable. I told him about the cards, the vicious messages they'd conveyed, and my discussion with Mendez and Yarbrough.

Mutt didn't speak, his hands cupped before his face. I felt desperately afraid I'd driven myself out of his budding affections. He took a bracing breath.

“Are you suggesting-to the police-someone wanted to kill you and killed my sister by mistake?”

“I don't know. If Lolly didn't die by natural causes-I might've been the target. Would anyone want to kill her?”

“No. No. There is no murderer in this family. No, son, no.”

“Uncle Mutt-”

“If anyone's killed here tonight, it's me. Breaking the news like that. I couldn't be subtle. I had to be as loud as a fart in church. I brought on Lolly's heart attack.”

“You can't know that, Uncle Mutt. Don't do this to yourself.”

He didn't speak for a full minute. “You've met the family now. Who do you suspect of sending you those cards?”

“I don't know.”

His mouth worked, but no words came out. “I want to see these letters.”

“I gave them to Lieutenant Mendez.”

“And I want to know why the hell Lieutenant Mendez didn't inform me about the threats to a member of my family. I believe I'll phone him now. I'll do that from my office. Good night, Jordan.”

“But, Uncle Mutt.”

For the second time that evening, I was dismissed from a conversation. “Good night, Jordan.” His scowl softened.

“Get some sleep. And rest assured no harm will come to you while I live in this house.”

“Good night,” I said. “I'm just going to pick out another book, in case I don't like this one.” I proffered the Lamar biography. “After all, like you said, he wasn't much fun.”

He grabbed me into another of his bear hugs, his breath warm against my neck. I felt his shudder of exhausted grief, the sadness he wouldn't truly share with any of us. He released me without a word and left the den.

I didn't dawdle. I went straight to the bookshelf to see which volume Philip had so secretively and dexterously replaced. The book, Bitter Money, was notched carefully back into the heart of the true-crime section.

I remembered Bitter Money being a best-seller ten years ago: the lurid tale of a noted New York financier who'd murdered his socialite wife. It was the kind of torridly written saga that was the literary equivalent of driving slowly past a fatal car collision. I opened the book and scanned the copy on the inside of the jacket.

Yes, of course. The eminent banker had poisoned his wife of thirty years. With a deadly overdose of her own digitalis-based heart medication.