Free Steps to the Altar by Earlene Fowler Page A

I gave in to his whining and got on my hands and knees and reached for it myself, hoping that D-Daddy had recently sprayed for spiders and complaining out loud to Scout that he needed to take up Frisbee tossing. I was in that compromising position when from behind me came a great, booming laugh then a low wolf whistle.
    “My sweet mama in Dallas,” he said. “It is so good to see you again, Benni Harper.”

8

    BENNI

    OH, GREAT, I thought, immediately abandoning the ball and scrambling up to face my visitor in the most dignified way I could manage. How long had he been standing there?
    Detective Ford Hudson of the San Celina Sheriff’s Department grinned at me with his ingratiating Tom Sawyer smile, no doubt thrilled to the tips of his garish Texas boots at having grabbed the upper hand so quickly. “Have you been working out? You look great. Especially the part you were waving at me.”
    “What do you want?” I asked more than a tad ungraciously because I’d been caught in such an embarrassing position and because he was crass enough to mention it. Next to me, Scout wagged his tail, his canine memory never faltering once a person was deemed a friend by me, a reluctant concession I’d given to this man a few months ago when he and I had, unwillingly on my part, worked together on a homicide case. We’d fought and thrown barbs like it was a rodeo event with a silver belt buckle prize and, in the end, agreed to disagree on what we thought would happen to the suspect in the crime.
    He was loud, cocky, flamboyant, and as Daddy would say, full of Texas piss and vinegar, which according to Texans is, of course, stronger and better than anyone else’s. A Houston native who claimed to be half Cajun, he’d moved out here after his divorce to be near his five-year-old daughter.
    “Now is that any way to greet your ole buddy?” he said, his Texas drawl still thick as homemade banana pudding. “Aren’t you just as thrilled to see me as I am you?” He rested his hands on his hips. “I’m crushed.”
    The grin got bigger, assuring me he knew he was entirely full of bull pucky and enjoying every minute of it. He wore beat-up Wranglers, a dark green plaid flannel shirt similar to mine, and plain tobacco brown Ropers. We could have posed for a Shepler’s Western wear ad.
    I stared for a moment at his boots, determined to keep my cool around him, something he never made easy. He normally wore expensive cowboy boots made of exotic leathers and hides, more often than not in what I called “white trash” colors. He claimed to have twenty-five pair. A girl collection if I ever heard of one.
    “What’s with the plain boots?” I asked, ignoring his question.
    “I’m working,” he said.
    Before I could ask him at what, Edna came into the room.
    “Benni! I see you’ve met Hud. He’s the boy I was telling you about. A real genius with wood. I bet if you talked real nice to him, he might make those cabinets you’ve been wanting. And guess what? After he heard how busy you were and how long it would take you to get to it, he’s very graciously agreed to help you catalog the contents of the murderess’s trunks. It’s kind of up his alley too, since he’s a crack detective with the sheriff’s department. He’s a very busy man, but he says he always has time to help out the historical society. Isn’t he just the sweetest thing in the world?”
    I narrowed my eyes. “Just the sweetest,” I managed to say, then added, “You know, Edna, as much as I appreciate the offer of help, I’ve managed to clear some time—”
    “No, no, no, my dear girl,” she said, shaking her head. “It was thoughtless of me to ask you to take on that job when you’re so busy. Hud says he has plenty of free time and all you have to do is show him how you want it cataloged. He’s a pretty sharp cookie, this one.” She gazed up at his tanned, boy-next-door face with grandmotherly adoration.
    “Sharp as a Mallomar,” I said, my sarcasm