Free Murder Take Two by Charlene Weir Page B

respect, sir, what were you doing at the barn just before the stuntwoman got killed? Forget about questioning Clem. She’d tell him whatever suited her fancy at the moment, with no relationship to the truth.
    Drop it on the chief’s desk? Bad idea. Ratting out a superior was never a good idea. Anyway, he liked the lieutenant, would trust his life to the man. And Clem was some kind of nutcase. Okay, then what? Ask questions? See what turned up. If Parkhurst was there, somebody else might have seen him. Maybe Yancy’s teamster buddy Mac would know something. A crow sat on the mailbox, and as Yancy made a left, it fixed him with a bright malicious eye, uttered a jeering “caw,” and took flight.
    â€œYou’re probably right,” Yancy muttered as he jounced toward the house. A white wood frame, in this kind of light, it didn’t need paint so bad. Small, one-story, it had a quiet pitch to the roof, wide windows all around, and a porch that extended the whole length of the front. Trees reached up behind, flowers—snapdragons, bluebonnets, poppies, hollyhocks, and God knew what else—ran unchecked front and back. Tall structures like birdhouses sprouted here and there, looking like they’d simply grown taller than the other plant life.
    He backed up the drive and parked the car ass end against the garage door. As late as he was, it couldn’t hurt to have a fast getaway in the making. Joke.
    â€œFinally decided to show up?”
    Startled, he turned. The hammock strung between two walnut trees sagged under the solid weight of Dallas Walsh, all spiffed up in suit and tie. A suit and tie kind of guy he wasn’t.
    â€œHi, Dallas. Sorry I’m late.”
    With a polished shoe tip, Dallas shoved at the ground and swung the hammock. “Tell it to your sister, buddy. Last I saw her she was crying at the kitchen table.”
    â€œI had to work.”
    Dallas waved a beefy hand. “Take it to Serena.”
    Yancy found his sister sitting at the table in the graying daylight taking lemons, one by one, from the blue pottery bowl in the center and carefully placing them in a circle around it. He flicked on the ceiling light. She squinted at him. She wasn’t crying, but she had been, eyes red and watery.
    â€œSerena—” He sat across from her and took both her hands, they had a strong citrusy smell. “I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou might have called.” She jerked her hands away and went back to lemons.
    â€œI didn’t have a chance. I’m sorry.”
    â€œSorry won’t do it. I’ve been looking forward to this evening for weeks. Dallas and I had plans. It was all arranged. I bought a new dress, for heaven’s sake.” She touched the high neck of the green dress and stood to shake the folds from the flared skirt, a pretty green that matched her eyes and set to advantage her auburn hair.
    â€œYou look fantastic.”
    â€œFrankly, Peter, it wasn’t you I was trying to impress.” She tip-tapped across the wood floor to the stove in the center. With its copper hood, it was the only modern touch in the old-fashioned room. Open shelves packed with supplies lined two walls above the counters, and glass-fronted cabinets took up the third.
    She clicked on the burner under the teakettle, then went to the window, turned to face him, and crossed her arms. “This can’t go on.”
    â€œWhy didn’t you go to your party? You knew I’d get here as soon as I could.”
    â€œHaven’t you heard anything I’ve said?”
    â€œSerena—”
    â€œShe’s your mother too, and right now I’m feeling like you don’t fully appreciate that, because if you did you’d give some consideration to the fact that I’m still living here. I’ve been doing it for a long time now and I haven’t voiced many complaints.”
    She stared at the three glass flycatchers on the counter, ran a