Best Kept Secrets(69)

say no."

"Why? I know it's rude to put you on the spot like this,



but I'm not going to be gracious and let you bow out without

giving me a valid reason."

"I just don't think it would be a good idea for us to socialize."

"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've 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