“Because you’re hoping I’ll soon be a resident of the Huntsville State Prison?”
“No!”
“Then, what?”
“I don’t want to send you to prison, but you are a key suspect in a murder case.”
“Alex, you’ve had time to form an opinion of me. Do you honestly believe that I could commit such a violent crime?”
She remembered how Reede had laughed at the notion of Junior going to war. He was lazy, unambitious, a philanderer. Violent outbursts didn’t fit into his image. “No, I don’t,” she replied softly. “But you’re still a suspect. It wouldn’t do for us to be seen fraternizing.”
“I like that word,” he snarled. “It sounds dirty, incestuous. And for your peace of mind, I do all my fraternizing privately. That is, except for a few times, when I was younger. Reede and I used to—”
“Please,” she groaned, “I don’t want to know.”
“Okay, I’ll spare you the lurid details, on one condition.”
“What?”
“Say you’ll go tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I can’t.”
“Alex, Alex,” he moaned dramatically, “look at it this way. During the course of the evening I’ll have a drink or two, possibly more. I might start reminiscing, get maudlin, say something indiscreet. When I do, you’ll be there to hear it. No telling what stunning confessions I might blurt out in my inebriation. Consider this evening one long interrogation. It’s part of your job to wear down the defenses of your suspects, isn’t it?
“You’d be shirking your duty if you didn’t take advantage of every opportunity to rout out the truth. How can you selfishly languish in the luxury of the Westerner Motel while a suspect is shooting off his mouth over drinks at the Horse and Gun Club? Shame on you. You owe this to the taxpaying public who’re footing the bill for this investigation. Do it for your country, Alex.”
Again, she groaned dramatically. “If I consent to go, will you promise not to make any more speeches?”
“Seven o’clock.”
She could hear the triumph in his voice.
The moment she entered the clubhouse, she was glad she had come. There was music and laughter. She caught snatches of several conversations, none of which were centered around Celina Gaither’s murder. That in itself was a refreshing change. She looked forward to several hours of relaxation, and felt that the break had been earned.
Nevertheless, she rationalized being there. Not for a minute did she believe that Junior would make a public spectacle of himself while under the influence. She wasn’t likely to hear any startling confessions.
All the same, something beneficial might come out of the evening. The exclusivity of the Horse and Gun Club suggested that only Purcell’s upper crust were members. Reede had told her that the people who had signed the letter she had received were local businessmen and professionals. It was conceivable that she would meet some of them tonight, and get a feel for the extent of their animosity.
More important, she would have an opportunity to mingle with locals, people who knew the Mintons and Reede well and might shed light on their characters.
Junior had picked her up in his red Jaguar. He’d driven it with a lack of regard for the speed limit. His festive mood had been contagious. Whether she was acting in a professional capacity or not, it felt good to be standing beside the handsomest man in the room, with his hand riding lightly, but proprietorially, on the small of her back.
“The bar’s this way,” he said close to her ear, making himself heard over the music. They wended their way through the crowd.
The club wasn’t glitzy. It didn’t resemble the slick, neon nightclubs that were bursting out like new stars in the cities, catering to yuppies who flocked to them in BMWs and designer couture.
The Purcell Horse and Gun Club was quintessentially Texan. The bartender could have been sent over by Central Casting. He had a handlebar mustache, black bow tie and vest, and red satin garters on his sleeves. A pair of longhorns, which spanned six feet from polished tip to polished tip, were mounted above the ornately carved nineteenth-century bar.
The walls were adorned with pictures of racehorses, prizewinning bulls with testicles as large as punching bags, and landscapes where either yucca or bluebonnets abounded. In almost every instance the paintings featured an obligatory windmill, looking lonesome and stark against the sunstreaked horizon. Alex was Texan enough to find it comfortable and endearing. She was sophisticated enough to recognize its gaucheness.
“White wine,” she told the bartender, who was unabashedly giving her a once-over.
“Lucky son of a bitch,” he muttered to Junior as he served them their drinks. The grin beneath the lavish mustache was lecherous.
Junior saluted him with his scotch and water. “Ain’t I just?” He propped his elbow on the bar and turned to face Alex, who was seated on the stool. “The music’s a little too country and western for my taste, but if you want to dance, I’m game.”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but no. I’d rather watch.”