The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(59)

"We're so pleased to have you here today," Mrs. T. told us.

She called over a sandy-haired kid named Travis and introduced him to Jem. Thirty seconds later Jem and Travis were in line to play wall ball.

"See you at one-thirty?" Mrs. T. asked me.

"I'm supposed to leave him?"

She smiled patiently, like she was used to hearing that question. "Well, it's better for him, to interact with the children, you know—"

"I knew that."

She smiled some more, then excused herself to go greet another pair of visitors — an ample redheaded woman with an equally redheaded, overweight child.

I stepped back against the fence and watched Jem play. It was the first time I'd seen him with a group of his peers. He'd never been in day care, never had anybody at his birthday parties who was under thirty, yet he seemed perfectly at home. Ten kids were now involved in his wall ball game. Jem and Travis were rewriting the rules so more could play.

"It's hard," a woman said.

I looked over. It was the redheaded woman who'd just dropped off her kid. I tried to match her sympathetic smile. "What's hard?"

"Leaving your child — it's hard, isn't it?"

I opened my mouth, tried to form an explanation about my non-relationship to Jem, then just nodded. The mother patted my arm in camaraderie and drifted away.

I looked over at the kindergarten teacher. She was crouching to talk face-to-face with yet another visitor, a pale child with messed-up hair and an untucked shirt. My stomach twisted when I recognized him. It was Michael Brandon, Aaron and Ines's kid. His mother was standing over him, trying to fix his cowlicks.

Ines wore her usual earth tones — a tan and chocolate quilt jacket over white blouse, khakis, cord sandals. Her ancho-colored hair was tied back in a butterfly clasp.

The teacher tried to coax a smile out of Michael. When that didn't work, she called a kindergartner over. Neither Michael nor the other kid looked thrilled about the pair-up, but Michael reluctantly allowed the boy to lead him onto the playground.

As Michael approached the wall ball game, Jem zeroed in on him and came over grinning. Jem knew a fellow newbie when he saw one. He took Michael's hand and started explaining the rules of the game.

Ines Brandon saw me as she turned to leave. She hesitated, then continued walking.

I followed her down the steps, past a few other parents. Halfway to the curb, I caught her arm.

She turned with a prepackaged smile. "If it isn't the P.I. Don't tell me — you happen to work at the kindergarten, too."

"Whoa. I'm just dropping off."

She pulled her elbow away. "Oh, por favor."

"Seriously. Kid in the green shirt."

I pointed out Jem, who was now whacking the ball against the wallboard. Michael was on his team.

Ines appraised me skeptically. She held up one hand to block the sun, her fingers making shadow bars across her nose. "I'm trying to decide whether you'd rent a kid just to have an excuse to follow me."

"He's my boss's son. And don't give her any ideas about renting him out."

Ines let her shoulders relax just a little, dropped her hand. "I'll assume you're telling the truth. I don't know why. But don't expect an apology."

"My expectations in that department are low. How's your move coming along?"

She gazed past me, toward the playground. "Del was generous — a whole three days to pack. I've leased an apartment on" — she stopped herself — "near Woodlawn Lake."

"Why this school?"

"The public schools in this neighborhood..." She shook her head. "I went through a poor school system like that. No way my son is going to. I want to be out of San Antonio by next fall, but if I can't..."

"What'll you do for money?"

"That's my problem." She tugged the sleeves of her quilt jacket over her wrists. The right cuff had a black smudge on it — maybe mascara. "As long as I find Michael someplace safe."

"Safe." I thought about Michael's sheet cave.

"Exactly. Now if you'll excuse me. It's been a treat, but—"

"You must have a lot of packing to do."

"Yes."

"Packed the sheet cave yet?"

Her eyes heated to the temperature of espresso. She stepped forward, put her hand on my chest, and gave one hard push.

"Basta ya," she hissed. "I've let you into my house twice. That doesn't give you the right—"

"Speak softly," I warned.

From the back fence, Mrs. T., the kindergarten teacher, was watching us, smiling nervously, probably making mental notes for the boys' admissions files. The kindergartners continued to play. Swings creaked. The ball pounded off the backboard in Jem and Michael's game. A little girl at the top of the blue and beige play-structure tower was pounding her feet on the metal, yelling that she was the queen and nobody could get her.

"You don't have any idea," Ines told me. "You don't know what it's like keeping a routine for my son's sake. Getting him up every morning. Getting him dressed and fed. You don't know how hard it was just getting him here today."

"Asking for sympathy?"