The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(44)

I started to tell her about Clara Doebler's suicide.

"I know," she interrupted. "You think the family history is important?"

Her tone told me it wasn't just a processofelimination question. She was testing, putting out a line. I wondered how she knew about Clara's death.

"His cousin W.B. runs the family company," I said. "He wouldn't tell me anything, but I got the feeling there might be something about Jimmy's death—something that makes the family nervous."

Maia watched the neon cows. "Garrett and Jimmy had a long history—a lot of bad blood between them. Lopez will use that for motive."

"I know."

"We have to be sure Lopez doesn't have a point."

I didn't like the silence between us—a heavy feeling, like the beginning of a landslide.

I didn't like the fact that neither of us felt confident enough to leap to Garrett's defence.

"Jimmy has an aunt in town," I said. "On the phone, she seemed a little more pliable than W.B. We could go see her, try running the family angle."

Maia studied the palm trees.

"We," she said, like she was testing the word, seeing how much weight it would hold.

I waited through a full rotation of the Sixth Street light, but Maia said nothing more. I figured I'd gotten as much of a yes as I could hope for.

I put the truck in drive and headed north again, toward Hyde Park.

CHAPTER 17

Faye DoeblerIngram's house was a small folk Victorian on an unmarked residential half block, tucked behind a vegetarian restaurant and a lesbian gift shop. I drove past, Uturned, and parked across the street at the base of one of the city's moonlight towers.

The front porch was outlined with lacy white trim. The screen door was peach, the porch swing green. Her sidegabled roof had recently been sheeted in galvanized steel. Her yard was a quarteracre garden—every square foot cultivated with herbs and wildflowers, pathways made from broken flagstones. A good deal of money had gone into making the house look quaint and rustic. It didn't look like the kind of place where the resident was accustomed to being rocked by tragedy.

Maia opened the passenger's side door, bringing in the scents of the neighbourhood—cut grass and garden herbs.

"Tu es pres?" she asked.

"Just like old times."

Even a hint of her smile gave me more pleasure than I wanted to admit.

Maia led the way. The white cotton straps of her dress made an X across her shoulder blades. Her hair had grown longer than I'd realized. Gathered in a white scrunchietie, her glossy chocolate brown ponytail didn't look so much girlish as formidable—like the mane of a T'ang warrior.

The garden was hazy with the smells of catmint, thyme, and sage. We climbed the front steps, ducked under a trellis of grapevines.

The lady of the house opened her screen door before we reached it. "May I help you?"

She was a slight woman in her sixties—stick arms, a pleasantly wrinkled face surrounded by enormous permed hair the bright colour of new pennies. Her jeans and blouse were covered with a gardener's apron, but she wore full makeup and silver jewellery. She looked like a friendly earth gnome who'd just been to the beauty parlour.

Maia said, "Mrs. DoeblerIngram?"

"Just Ms. Ingram," the woman replied gently. "Yes?"

She held a spade, a clod of mud stuck to the point.

I said, "We spoke on the phone. I'm Tres Navarre. This is Maia Lee, a friend."

Faye Ingram's eyes got smaller, more wary. "I don't . . . you mean about Jimmy's death?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "There've been some developments since we spoke, Ms.

Ingram. We thought you'd want to be prepared if the police contact you. May we come in?"

She wavered, but refusal wasn't really an option, the way I'd phrased it. She let us in.

The house had the same wildly cultivated look as the front garden, clumps of floralpattern sofas, sprigs of end tables blooming with houseplants, tall pedestals topped with artwork, even one of Jimmy's large ceramic pieces. The smell of freshbaked cinnamon bread wafted from the kitchen. Somewhere in the back rooms, Dylan's Blood on the Tracks was playing. Faye Ingram may have looked nothing like her nephew, but being in her house, I could believe they were related.

Yet something struck me as out of character—something that told of fear. There was a blinking sensor by the door, discreet wires running up the sides of the windows, a keypad next to the light switch. Laidback Ms. Ingram had one of the finest security systems money could buy.

She led us through a hallway, out into the backyard.

The sun was filtering through the branches of an enormous oak tree. On the sidewalk, a circle of five sun tea jars glowed like some weird, translucent Stonehenge. Lining the fence were tomato and

pepper cages, mansized sunflowers slouched in their last weeks of life—leaves curled brown and seed faces blasted from heat and the work of birds.

We sat in patio chairs under the oak.

"So," Ms. Ingram said uneasily. "You have something to tell me?"

"We wanted to ask about Clara's suicide," I said.

If I was expecting a strong reaction, I didn't get it. Ms. Ingram's smile stayed polite, colourless, wavering no more than her hairdo. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what this has to do with Jimmy."