Here Lies a Wicked Man – Snippet 26

CHAPTER 28

Booker decided to sleep late Monday morning and was doing a fine job of it until the phone jangled him awake. He debated letting the machine answer, on the chance it was Melinda insisting they go to Fowler’s funeral together. Coward that he was, he hadn’t yet invented a plausible excuse.

On the last ring before the machine switched on, Booker snatched the receiver. The editor from Southern Affairs spoke crisply in his ear.

“Mr. Krane, the images you sent us are good. They really are.”

He could hear the “but” coming. “I’m glad you received them on time.”

“You’ve given us a taste of Texas country living, and we’ll run it with an article on outdoor cooking. You realize, of course, it won’t publish until next spring. We work eight months in advance.”

“Right.” He knew that. He hated it, hated waiting to see his photographs in a national publication, but he knew it.

“We’re considering doing more about Texas retirement living. Recreation, leisure. What do you think?”

What did he think? What did he think about what? It was their magazine. “Ah…that sounds like a great idea.”

“You realize we’ll need additional images by Wednesday.”

“Ah…” His brain scrambled to catch up. This was Monday. Two days to take the shots. Digitals, no time for anything else. “There’s an entire recreational haven here at Lakeside. If the weather holds, I could shoot horse riding, golf, fishing, boating, maybe water-skiing…archery.”

“Shopping, we can’t leave that out. R estaurants? Not high profile eateries but quaint cafes your average retired couple might enjoy.”

Quaint? “I know places like that.” At least one.

“Think ‘country moments,’ Mr. Krane. I’ll send a contract. Same terms as before?”

“Sounds fine.” Hanging up the phone, Booker grinned like an idiot. Hot damn! They liked his work. They wanted more. Hot double damn!

His big break, and he’d almost let it roll to voice mail. In the past few days, his priorities had missed a step. Changing professions required commitment, the sort Roxanna put into her business. Her hard work was paying off. He could take lessons in commitment, according to Bradley, anyway.

Perhaps the boy was right. An entire generation of talented, eager young photographers scrabbled for work every day, and by a fluke of time and circumstance, Booker had squeezed into the race. One slash of an editor’s pen could squeeze him out again. He could prevent that from happening.

He showered and pulled on a t-shirt and jeans, noticing a small rip at the bottom of the pants had started to fray. No matter. Commitment meant not sweating the small stuff.

Downstairs, while making notes on his new assignment, he brewed coffee and opened the foil-wrapped slice of pecan strudel he’d found in his hand after Roxanna shooed him out the door. Butter, cinnamon, pecans—a “taste of Texas,” as his editor had said.

Recalling Roxanna’s erratic behavior last night, practically telling him to get lost while tempting him at the same time, he wondered about the fine line between commitment and obsession. For his own part, Lauren had often accused him of being obsessed with his work. He couldn’t deny enjoying his job, unraveling puzzles, following threads of supposition, uncovering secrets. The financial world was riddled with secrets. Money brought out the worst in people. He supposed the same could be said for jealousy and otherdeadly sins, but he had more experience with the sort of crimes that greed invited. He also couldn’t deny that work had robbed him of marriage and family.

If he was serious about pursuing this new career, then he needed to partner up with obsession for the next few days. Also, he needed people. His experience working with models was sorely limited, but a lake without a fisherman didn’t say much about fishing.

How would Roxanna deal with such an obstacle? Faced with the need for a rug and no money to buy it, she’d summoned her ingenuity and painted one. And by damn, he could do this, models and all. What did a retirement community have if not scores of people with little to do all day?

The doorbell rang, three short jabs. Booker thumbed the lock release.

“Come up to the kitchen, Emaline. The coffee’s hot.” He placed the remainder of the strudel on another plate.

“Where’d you get off to last night, Booker? I dropped by to put you straight on your archery practice.”

He tossed a glance at her as he started a list of potential shots the editor might like. He wrote the number one.

“You wouldn’t be thinking of sandbagging me, would you? To hedge your bet with Littlehawk?”

Busying herself with strudel and coffee, she didn’t meet his eyes. “Pete hasn’t got the teaching ability of frog, and bad shooting habits are hard to break.”

“Isn’t he one of the best marksmen in Grammon County?”

“That’s not saying much. Grammon’s not as big as a good size ranch.”

True enough. Masonville fell into Madison County, Lowetta into Leon County, and Brazos County claimed Bryan-College Station. Grammon was shoehorned between them like a gusset in a too-tight garment.

He wondered if a tailor could work a gusset into his dress pants. Dieting had never been his favorite discipline.

“I’ll read Archery Basics,” he said, “and double-check everything Littlehawk tells me. How’s that?”

She finished the strudel and carried her plate to the sink. “Had any surprises this morning, Booker? Uranus and Mercury. You might get an unexpected call or two.”

He put down his pen and gaped at her. Like any superstition, astrology must hit the target once in a while. He told her about the call from Southern Affairs.

“Guess that takes you off the retired list and puts you back into gainful employment. What will you make for those fifty, sixty pictures you sent?”

Out of the three hundred he’d shot, only a handful would end up in the magazine.

“I can’t expect top scale, yet, but at least I’m paid for work I enjoy.”

“You need the money, then.”

“No, Emaline, I don’t need money. I have investments, just as you do, but—”

“How do you know what I’ve got?”

“You told me, remember? Had me check on some mutual funds?” He finished his coffee and shoved their dishes into the washer. “Why do you give golf lessons? You don’t need money.”

“That’s a lie. Me and Wall Street don’t have an agreement on how my money will survive another crash.” She picked up his notes. “Besides, I like giving lessons. What’s all this?”

“Notes for my new photo spread. Anything interesting at the golf course today?”

“The interesting thing this morning is a head of thunderstorms.”

“Can’t be!” He hadn’t heard any thunder. Through the window, though, the eastern sky looked like moldy cottage cheese.

“Hurricane Edgar fizzled out but sent his calling card our way. Rain and wind.”

Surely it wouldn’t hit for another hour.

“Emaline, I need your help.” Amazing to hear himself say that. “Help me set up an interesting scene on the golf course. One of your students, and how about Luther? We can pretend they’re taking a lesson from you. You’ll get to see your pictures in Southern Affairs.” Maybe.

“Luther’s off today. And I don’t give lessons on Monday, remember? The golf course is closed.”

“Even better! That means we won’t be in anyone’s way. Think of someone who’d be willing to model. I’ll pay for one of your students to have a free lesson.”

He knew she was thinking about it, since her mouth wasn’t running, but she shook her head and frowned.

“The weekend crowd will be gone by now, unless some of them stayed for the funeral. That’s at one o’clock, you know.”

Would a country funeral fit the magazine’s definition of recreation? Not likely.

“Residents, then. Some of your students are residents, aren’t they? Once it starts raining, I’m washed out of any outdoor shots.”

“I can go to the pro shop and call my regulars, but everyone will be dressing for the services. The Fowlers have owned property here since those two boys were pups. Everybody knew Chuck. No one will miss his funeral any more than they’d miss the County Fair.”

“I guess the golf shot can wait until after the funeral.” His shoulders sagged from the weight of thinking so hard. “What about the racetrack? When’s the next race?”

“Booker Krane, for an investigator, you sure keep your head in the sand. Our horses don’t run in August. It’s too danged hot. Won’t be any races until October.”

The situation was not looking good. He could still shoot a horse owner at the stables. “Archery! That’ll only take ten minutes to set up. You, Littlehawk, and anybody who happens to be at the lodge. Come on.”

He ran upstairs to load his camera bag.

“Call Luther,” he said, “while I load the Tahoe.”

“Maybe we should take my Wrangler, Booker. I don’t think you should drive in your agitated condition. Calm down before you hyperventilate.”

He was rushing around like a kid at a carnival, all right, but the magazine had requested his services. If he blew it, they wouldn’t ask again.

“That Mercury-Uranus aspect I told you about is affecting Ringhoffer’s chart, too. Have you talked to him?”

“Not since yesterday. Why?”

“The murder investigation isn’t over. Why you’re allowing him to shove it under a rug is beyond me.”

“It’s the sheriff’s call, Emaline. You and I don’t have any say.” But he did believe it was a tangle that needed unraveling. “All you’ll do is stir up suspicion if you keep sounding off about it. That won’t help Fowler, and it might hurt his family.”

“Seems to me his family would want to know.”

“Even if one of them killed him?”

She chewed on that for a moment. “You think it was Sarabelle.”

“I think it’s a marvel she didn’t kill him long ago.”

“Mercury and Uranus. It’s not over, yet, whether we want it to be or not.”

He phoned Bradley’s cell. When his son answered, Booker could hear hammering in the background.

“Jeremy and I are building a set,” Bradley explained. Then his voice muffled as if he’d swallowed his mouthpiece. “His father’s funeral’s today. He’s keeping busy.”

Booker told him what he needed.

“Sure, I can pose as an archery student, only I hate to leave Jeremy alone.”

“Two students would be even better. Bring him along. The funeral’s being held at the Lakeside Chapel.”

“Optimum, Dad. But Jeremy’s a professional actor. He may have to charge you.”

Booker had no time to dicker. He suggested a fair price, which Bradley confirmed with the “professional actor,” then arranged to meet at the lodge in forty-five minutes.

In the club dining room, Booker spotted his perfect third model. He hoped Littlehawk wouldn’t give him trouble about it. Surely the waitress, Kippy or Kitty, could spare a few minutes. Cute, young, and blond, what more could a magazine want? Except his editor had been specific about this article focusing on retirement. Well, college-age grandchildren were part of the retirement picture, weren’t they?

He spied a resident he recognized, white-haired, grandfatherly. Good contrast with dark, wiry Littlehawk, blonde Kippy, and the two boys, leaving Emaline for the golf shot later.

Littlehawk warmed to the idea immediately.

“The Caribou Club in a magazine? What an idea, Booker. This publisher pays well, am I right?” The club owner started gathering the entire staff and customer body for a group shot, which Booker quickly vetoed.

Outside, thunderclouds had rolled closer. Booker didn’t mind the absence of sunshine as long as the rain held off. Overcast skies intensified color, and the archery shot would have plenty of color to intensify. Red and yellow targets. Kippy’s wild summer print shirt. Littlehawk’s vest, which he insisted had been woven by his Choctaw grandmother. Bradley and

Jeremy would contrast well with older residents, young people visiting during summer vacation, climbing the picturesque stairs to the restaurant.

Booker set up a scene. Thumb on the trigger, he glanced over his shoulder at a flash of lightning in the rain clouds. A drop of rain hit his nose, then another. Then a downpour.

He snapped the shot just before his models ran for cover. Collapsing the tripod, Booker felt a tattoo of raindrops pounding his head.

“Bradley,” Littlehawk exclaimed as they pushed through the doorway. “Come see your father on the bulletin board. You, too, Emaline. Booker’s a hero.”

The cork board covered a section of wall at the entrance to the bar, where Littlehawk had collected snapshots of his patrons for years. One shot showed Emaline pouring a beer over the bartender’s head. Littlehawk on the putting green showed off the ball he’d sunk, fishermen proudly exhibited their catch, hunters their trophies. A stroke of dismay overtook Booker as he perused the wall. His Southern Affairs editor would find everything she needed right among Littlehawk’s amateur cell phone shots of the fun and camaraderie at Lakeside Estates. Sure, Booker had better cameras, but some of these candid shots were great.

“Booker Krane, hero!” Littlehawk had enlarged the snapshot showing Booker’s battered lip and bloody shirt, water dripping down his arm as he held an ice pack in place.

“As much a hero as the loser in a boxing match,” Emaline said.

“Shouldn’t fight with a younger man, Dad.” Bradley briefly examined the print then scanned the other pictures. “That’s you, Jeremy!”

He indicated a faded snapshot of a boy plucking a thin bow nearly as tall as he was, then another picture, a pair of grinning boys holding up two fresh-caught bass. “And your brother?”

“Yeah. Jeez, these are old, Pete.” Jeremy unpinned them.

Beneath, Booker saw a photograph of Chuck Fowler decked out in hunting camouflage, standing beside a pickup. A deer’s carcass lay barely visible in the truck bed, the seven-point rack silhouetted in a brilliant sunset.

“Five years ago,” Littlehawk said, reading the inscription. “Your father killed the first deer of the season.”

“He did that every year,” Jeremy commented.

“Not last year,” Littlehawk argued.

Jeremy was staring at a more recent Polaroid of his whole family, labeled: Grammon County Turkey Shoot. Chuck, Aaron, Jeremy, and Sarabelle all wore camouflage and carried hunting equipment. Jeremy’s long, thin bow looked primitive compared with the three compound bows. In the quivers slung across their shoulders, feather-fletched arrows matched three slain turkeys in the picture.

Booker recalled a line from Archery Basics. “It takes a heck of a fine woodsman to get close enough to a wild turkey to shoot it with a bow.” Yet every Fowler except Jeremy appeared to have bagged one. Booker knew Sarabelle could shoot, yet he’d never imagined her quite the expert this snapshot revealed.

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