Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(18)

White laughed. When he sat back on his heels I realized for the first time what a large man he was. Even with me sitting and him kneeling we were almost eye eve.

“Verbena is a hearty plant, Mr. Navarre. It looks delicate but it demands full sunlight, aggressive pruning, well-drained soil. This is the best time to plant it. Many people make the mistake of pampering their verbena, you see—they’re afraid to cut the blooms, they over-water or overshade. Treat verbena with gentleness and it mildews, Mr. Navarre. One can’t be afraid to be aggressive."

“Is that your business philosophy too? Is that the way it was ten years ago?"

Not a wrinkle marred Guy White’s face. His smile was the smile of the Redeemed, of a man with no troubles in this world or the next. "I think, Mr. Navarre, that you may be operating under some faulty assumptions."

I spread my hands. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe you could set me straight?"

“If I can." His digging had uprooted a six-inch earth-worm, and when White stabbed his trowel into the dirt it cut the worm neatly in half. White didn’t seem to notice. He removed his leather gloves and took a long drink from his glass of ice tea before speaking. “I had nothing to do with your father’s death, my boy."

“I feel better already."

White shook his head. "I’m afraid if you’ve inherited Sheriff Navarre’s stubbornness there’s little point in our talking."

“He made your life uncomfortable for several years. There are plenty of people who still say you got away with his murder."

White pulled his gloves back on and started troweling the second row of Blue Princess. Under the shadow of his hat brim, his pleasant smile didn’t waver at all. "I’ve been the convenient answer for many criminal questions in the past, Mr. Navarre. I’m aware of that. "

"In the past."

“Exactly. Would you hand me the 19-5-9, please?"

"Pardon?"

“The fertilizer, my boy, next to your foot. You may not know that in recent years I’ve done my best to give back to the community. I’m pleased to be thought of as a good citizen, a patron for many causes. I’ve been actively cultivating that role, and I much prefer it to the undeserved reputation I had in my younger days."

"I’m sure. Murdering, drug dealing—hardly the sort of thing you can talk about at the Kiwanis Club."

White stabbed his trowel back into the dirt, up to the handle this time. He was still smiling when he looked up, but the lines around his eyes revealed just a bit of frayed patience.

"I want you to understand me, Mr. Navarre. Your father never made my life as difficult as it was after he a died, when I was subjected to all sorts of scrutiny, all sorts of witch-hunters looking for someone to blame for I his murder. I’ve worked for many years since then to build back my position in the community, and I am not anxious to have that position compromised with groundless speculation that should have been put to rest long ago. I hope I’m being clear?"

While White was talking, Lubbock had ambled across the lawn. He was now standing respectfully a few yards away, holding a cell phone and waiting to be summoned forward. White let him wait.

“Do we understand each other?" White asked me, very quietly.

I nodded. "How was it you used to kill your rivals, anyway—bullets through the eyes? I forgot. "

For an instant White’s face froze. Then, slowly, his smile rebuilt itself. He let out his breath. "You really are a great deal like your father, my boy. I wish you luck."

He almost sounded sincere. It wasn’t exactly the response I’d been expecting.

“Maybe you should be trying to help me, then," I suggested.

White ignored the comment. He got up and brushed the dirt off his Calvin Klein’s, then seemed to notice Lubbock standing there for the first time.

"Ah," he said, "now if you’ll excuse me, my boy, I must take this call. Emery here will see you out."

Emery handed Mr. White the phone and nodded for me to follow him inside. I got up from the stone bench.

"Mr. White," I said.

White had already dismissed me. He was chatting pleasantly with his caller about the weather in Vera Cruz. Now he looked back, taking the phone away from his ear.

"just so you understand me: If you’re lying, if you killed my father, I’ll personally mulch you into your own garden. "

He smiled as if I’d wished him happy birthday. “I’m sure you will, my boy. Good day."

Then he turned away, unconcerned, and resumed his phone conversation about the pros and cons of Mexican real estate. He walked into his garden.

Emery looked at me and laughed once. He patted me on the back like we were old friends, then led me back toward the White House.

14

“Now this I like," my mother said.

She had come over to the apartment around eight o’clock, minus Jess, who was watching the Rangers game. For five minutes she’d commented on my new home’s "interesting Spartan look," sprayed essential oil to cleanse the place’s aura, and looked around halfheartedly for anything she could compliment. Finally she’d spotted the Mexican statuette Lillian had given me.

The minute Mother picked it up, Robert Johnson hissed and backed into the closet again. Looking at the statue, thinking about my last talk with Lillian, I had a similar reaction.