Free Death on the Family Tree by Patricia Sprinkle Page B

Thankfully, the man at the next table ate quickly and left, but on his way out he called, “Be seein’ you, Mrs. Murray,” attracting more stares from other women.
    She devoutly hoped she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Or Hasty.
    She forked in chicken salad and frozen salad without tasting a bite, mulling over the past hour. She knew she was reasonably attractive, but she had not consciously set out to attract either of those two. Was she sending out some subliminal chemical that announced, “I’m lonesome, pay me attention”? Was this the first sign of menopause?
    She decided to pass up dessert. Before she went outside, she scanned people waiting for valets to bring their cars but saw neither Hasty nor Lamar Franklin. When she was halfway down the hill, though, Hasty rose from a bench just ahead. “Kate? Wait up!” He loped toward her.
    Behind her, Lamar shouted, “Hey!” and she heard him jogging down the hill.
    Being chased stimulates primeval fears. Katharine set off at a dead run—a mistake going downhill in huaraches with slick soles. She slipped, slid, and sprawled on the road.
    “Watch that bag!” Hasty yelled.
    His priorities were clear. As Katharine climbed awkwardly to her feet, she was glad she hadn’t cherished any illusions that he was attracted by her charms. Still, his lack of concern for her turned her fear to fury. She clutched the bag under one arm and wiped her hands on her pants. “How dare you follow me?” she stormed. Her palms and knees were stinging, fueling her fury. “Scat! Both of you!” She shooed them away like two mangy cats.
    Hasty turned to the other man and demanded, “What are you doing following this lady?”
    “This lady obviously does not want your attentions, sir. Leave her be,” the older man said in his gravelly voice.
    “You leave her alone. She’s a friend of mine,” Hasty insisted. “Tell him, Kate.”
    “I never want to see either one of you again.” She hobbled toward the garage with as much dignity as she could muster.
    “You heard her,” Lamar warned behind her. “Leave her be.”
    “You back out of this! I told you I’m—”
    The next sound Katharine heard was a thud. She looked over one shoulder to see Hasty lying on the ground nursing his nose, with Lamar standing over him. “I told you, Dr. Hastings, leave her be. You go on, ma’am. I’ll see he don’t bother you none.” He glared down at Hasty.
    Two women stared from the sidewalk. Red-faced with embarrassment and fury, Katharine limped toward her car.
    Before she got in, she looked around the covered parking garage—an automatic gesture after years of living and driving alone. As she unlocked her doors, Lamar was just coming inside, a black shadow against the light. She jumped in and locked the doors even before she stuck the key in the ignition, then she was immediately ashamed. Why should she feel so leery of him? He had been nothing but friendly and helpful. But his work-callused hands, mountain vowels, tattoos, and long, gray ponytail were so out of place in Buckhead, he could have come from another planet.
    “Difference breeds distrust,” her father used to say. “And we all have a tendency to be prejudiced against those who are different from us. Watch your reactions to people, Kat. You’ll find it inside yourself.”
    “Okay, Daddy,” she muttered to him, wherever he might be, “I’ll admit it. I’m prejudiced toward outdated hippies who butt in where they aren’t wanted and former classmates who want to get their hands on my possessions. I wish they’d leave me alone.”
    When she had started the car, she tucked her purse between her left side and the door, but dropped the tote bag down in front of the passenger seat. She doubted that any snatch-and-grab thief would be interested in an old canvas tote.
    As she left the garage, she saw the hippie heading toward a red Jeep that sat beside a big black truck.
    Going up the drive, she passed Hasty, who was stomping into