Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(87)

"Now, Mr. Navarre," Cookie said. Her tone foretold of restriction, loss of allowance, no TV for a week.

"Perhaps we should have a talk."

54

“Kellin, I’d like a glass of red wine. I don’t believe Mr. Navarre needs anything?

Kellin hesitated. She looked up at him, cold and expectant. Then he disappeared.

“Before I have you thrown out, Mr. Navarre, perhaps you’d explain yourself to me. Then I have my guests to attend to."

As if on cue, the music outside flared up into a fiddle solo. People started clapping.

“Where is Dan?" I asked.

“My son is not feeling well."

“I bet."

Cookie wasn’t used to being contradicted. For an instant her eyes almost focused on me, as if I was worth considering.

"I can’t make you understand," she said. “You will never be a mother, Mr. Navarre. You can’t possibly appreciate—"

“Try me," I said. “Your sick husband, your years of raising Dan alone. Now here he is at the tender young age of twenty-eight, not quite ready to leave the nest but already, despite your best efforts, deeply involved in the family’s shit. Where did you go wrong?"

She was tempted to get angry but to give her credit, she controlled it. She stared at the photo of her husband on the wall—young Dan Sheff, the Korean soldier.

“I have no idea what your crude comments imply, Mr. Navarre, but I will tell you this. My family means more to me than—" She faltered. "I will not allow you to—"

I’d interrupted a perfectly good chastisement by taking the faded pink envelope out of my back pocket, carefully unfolding the letter, and holding it up.

"You were saying?" I prompted. "Your family means more to you than what—an old lover who got too curious? The burden of betraying him to your husband? The guilt of knowing you got him killed?"

Cookie stared at the letter in my hands. Her harsh expression threatened to melt. Somewhere underneath the cosmetics, I think her cheeks actually flushed. I could see suddenly the remnants of a younger, more attractive woman, one who allowed herself emotions other than disdain. A woman my father might have seen as an interesting challenge.

Then she managed to refocus her eyes on that invisible fixed point in the distance. She corrected her posture.

“How--dare--you."

A row of small black mascara specks appeared underneath her eyes when she blinked. Except for that I would never have guessed there was extra moisture anywhere in her. Her bleak stare and the tone of her voice were as arid as the Panhandle.

“I will not sit here," Cookie continued, “and listen to accusations from a young man who understands nothing about my life."

I folded up the letter and put it back in my pocket.

"I think I understand pretty well, ma’am. You were having a hard time ten years ago. Your husband’s illness was just getting bad; he would be bedridden within a few more years. The business was deep in the red. Your son was away at college. You needed a little affection and my father was there to provide it. He must’ve been refreshing for you at first, before he told you he was about to start investigating your husband’s company for defrauding the city, all because of papers he wouldn’t have found if he hadn’t been sleeping with you."

Before she could answer, Kellin reappeared at the door of the study. He walked over and handed Cookie a glass of wine. Then he picked up the small picture of Dan Sr. that Mr. Cambridge had knocked off the desk. Cookie glanced at it, then looked away. She brushed a strand of luminescent blond hair behind her ear.

“My past mistakes change nothing, " she said, almost to herself. “I have my son to think of. I have done what I can to raise him well."

“To protect him."

"I am protecting him," she agreed tonelessly. "And I will not allow you—I will not allow another—"

She stopped herself.

“Another Navarre to interfere," I offered.

She shook her head slowly, but there was something new in her eyes: resentment. She smoothed the belly of her sparkling evening dress with a withered hand.

“No," she said evenly. "Nothing like that."

I looked at the silver-framed picture of Dan’s father, robust enough when I was in high school to flirt with countless young cheerleaders. Now Dan Sr. was upstairs somewhere, listening to the drip of the IV and the sound of dancing and Bob Wills that was rocking his floor, trying to remember his own name. I’m not sure what I was feeling for him, but it wasn’t pity.

“What the hell is going on?" someone said behind me.

“Danny," said Mrs. Sheff. Her throat sounded like it was constricting. "I thought we’d agreed . . ."

The tux had made some difference in Dan Jr.’s appearance. From the neck down he looked dapper, cleaned and pressed, both shoes tied, a tumbler of bourbon in his hand instead of a Lone Star bottle. From the neck up he looked about the same—bloodshot eyes, sickly pale face, I blond cowlicks slicked only partially into submission..He looked like he was probably more sober than I was now, but that wasn’t saying much.

"You agreed to talk later," Dan said. "I want to know what’s going on now. It’s my damn company, Mother."

"Actually," I said, "that’s part of the problem. It’s not."