The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(26)

I wasn't sure what W.B.'s expression meant, but one thing was clear. He knew Pena.

Garrett's hesitation in the eulogy probably wasn't as long as I imagined.

Pena and Hayes found seats and sank out of sight behind some Parrot Heads.

Garrett continued talking.

I looked at Detective Lopez, but Lopez was no longer there. He was squeezing over the legs of five or six people to get out the far side of the pew. When he got to the exit he paused, glanced in Pena's direction, then at me.

I gave him a questioning look. He winked, then was gone. Probably gone to change into his Batman suit.

I tried to listen to the rest of Garrett's eulogy, but my eyes kept drifting to Maia Lee—the black shoulder straps of her dress, the way her hair curved around her ear. I looked away and happened to lock eyes with Ruby McBride, who smiled.

I refocused on Garrett.

When I looked back at Ruby a second later, she was still studying me—not in an unfriendly way. More like amused.

She turned back toward Garrett and kept that little smile on her face the whole time my brother was describing what a great fellow her murdered exhusband had been.

CHAPTER 11

"W.B.," I called.

He was three steps away from his white Infiniti, his Nokia in one hand, his alarm deactivator in the other.

Another ninety seconds—if I'd waited for Maia and Garrett, or pushed my way out of the chapel a little less rudely—W.B. would've been gone.

"I'm Tres Navarre," I said. "Garrett's—"

"I remember."

W.B.'s eyes reminded me of Jimmy's. They had the same look of distant anger, like he was gazing past me, impatient for something to happen on the horizon.

Otherwise, W.B. bore little resemblance to his cousin. He was darkcomplexioned, perfectly groomed, with features one would value in a catalogue model—handsome yet inconspicuous, completely uninteresting, so that you'd notice the clothes rather than the man. He was in his midforties, and radiated a sort of old energy that suggested he was born to be this age. It was impossible to imagine him as a child, or wearing anything but a suit.

"Glad you could make the service," I told him. "I wasn't sure any of the Doeblers would show."

"Criticism?"

"Observation."

He beeped the Infiniti's remote control. The car responded with a perky chirping noise, and the door unlatched itself.

"You saw the crowd," W.B. said. "Jimmy's people. He would've wanted them here more than he wanted his family. He got his wish."

"So Jimmy disowned the Doeblers. Not the other way around."

"I have to go, Mr. Navarre."

W.B. got into the Infiniti, selected the ignition key.

I leaned over him, one elbow on the open door. "I called your Aunt Faye. She seemed to think the family wants Jimmy's murder swept under the rug as soon as possible."

"Would you mind stepping back?"

"What'd you talk to the sheriff about, W.B.?"

He stared at me, evaluating. There wasn't a hair out of place in his part. The interior of his car smelled like Jordan almonds.

"You needn't worry," he told me. "If your brother killed Jimmy, that wouldn't surprise me. Especially not with that woman involved. But neither would I go out of my way to seek justice."

"That woman," I said. "You know Ruby?"

W.B. jammed the key in the ignition. A glowing green circle illuminated around it.

"Mr. Navarre, I came here tonight to set aside my resentment. To say goodbye to my cousin. And I'm leaving here even angrier than before. It hardly matters who killed him.

Jimmy wasted his life. Now you and his selfproclaimed real friends can go have a beer in his honour. It's a damned shame."

"And if the wrong person takes the blame for his murder? That doesn't matter either?"

"Get your arm off my car, Mr. Navarre."

"You know Matthew Pena, don't you? You know what he's capable of."

W.B. picked up his Nokia, dialled a single number with his thumb.

"Deputy Engels," he said into the phone. "Would you call city police for me, please. I'm at the Unitarian church on Airport, having some trouble with an irate man from the memorial. I'd call it harassment, yes."

I stepped away, slammed Doebler's door closed for him.

Without looking at me, W.B. Doebler dropped his phone onto the passenger's seat.

The door locks clicked.

His lights came on in the glare of the setting sun, and the white Infiniti pulled out onto Airport Boulevard.

CHAPTER 12

"I hate crowds," Garrett told me.

We were sitting at a window table in Scholz Bier Garten, drinking German beer that tasted like antifreeze.

A socialite wedding reception had taken over the back patio of Austin's oldest watering hole, leaving attendees of Jimmy Doebler's memorial beer bust to fight it out with the regular customers for the dozen tables and booths that were left in front.

The wedding reception guys drifted around in tuxes, the women in designer dresses.

They didn't coordinate well with the neon beer signs and baseball trophies and the green vinyl booths. I thought they had a disk jockey playing Kinky Friedman tunes on the patio until somebody sneaked a look and told me nope, it was Kinky Friedman playing Kinky Friedman tunes.