Sure enough, when I stepped into the dark little space, which smelled of beer and leather and french fries, the well-coiffed young couple were ensconced in a booth near the back, leaning across the table and deep in what appeared to be in an intense discussion.

  Damian’s dark hair was tousled in a studied bedhead, while his partner’s, equally dark, was expertly styled to frame her face. He wore jeans with a few fashionably placed holes and a dark button-down with pearl buttons; she was in a sundress that hugged her slim form. As he spoke, she played with the straw in her drink, which looked like it was primarily seltzer. He had a mug of dark beer, a third of which was gone.

  “Hey, Felix,” I said, greeting the bartender.

  “Don’t see you in here too often,” he said. “What brings you here?”

  “Just felt like a little pick-me-up,” I said.

  “How about a Hibiscus Paloma?” Felix enjoyed mixing up cocktails, and was always trying something new, but I didn’t feel like getting flattened by a mixed drink right now.

  “Sounds strong.”

  “I’ll put it on the rocks,” he said. “You’ll love it; it’s perfect for this time of year. Very refreshing.”

  “Sure,” I said, “if you could get me a Topo Chico with it.” I was thirsty; besides, I figured the seltzer would help water the alcohol down. “I’ll be over in one of those booths.”

  “I’ll have it right out,” he said, smiling and getting to work on my drink as I walked over and slid into the booth behind Damian, pulling out my phone and pretending to study it as I strained to hear the couple over George Strait’s “All my Exes Live in Texas.”

  Behind me, a female voice said, “So when will you have it?”

  “I don’t know,” a voice I presumed was Damian’s answered. “I think it’s got to go through probate; my mom’s attorney told me it will be a while.”

  “What will we do for money?”

  “I asked him to advance me some. He says he’ll see what he can do, but he thinks her cousin’s going to contest the will.”

  “What? That weird guy who’s always lurking around your mom’s house?”

  “He lives above the garage,” Damian pointed out. “It’s not lurking if you live there.”

  “I don’t like the way he stares at me,” she said. “He’s creepy.”

  “Come on, Alexis. You’re smoking hot,” Damian said. “All the guys stare at you.”

  “Yeah, maybe,” she conceded. “Is he still going to live there after we move in?”

  “I don’t know. My mom always considered him a family responsibility.”

  “Why should you look after him? You’re not even related.”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  “Yes, but not your real uncle,” she said. “Wasn’t he adopted?”

  “He’s still my uncle,” he said. “Anyway, this isn’t about him; it’s about us. Should we sell the place and go back to Houston?”

  “I don’t know,” she demurred. “Maybe we could keep it as a weekend place. It looks great on Instagram to have a weekend place… but we should definitely get a place in Houston. Or Austin, maybe.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then, from Damian, “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “And good riddance, if you ask me.”

  “Alexis.” He sounded stunned. “You’re talking about my mom.”

  “I know, but she wasn’t good for you. She wanted you to still be her little boy, not to grow up, not to be your own man. That Seraphim woman did you a favor.”

  “That’s kind of mercenary.”

  “But it’s true, honey bunny! You didn’t have any interest in law school, and she made you spend the last year taking that LSAT exam and doing all those applications for something you didn’t even want. And all that time she’s sitting on millions of dollars.”

  “Not anymore,” he said.

  “Not anymore,” she agreed. “You’re free! Now you can pursue photography to your heart’s content. You can go wherever you want and never crack one of those awful LSAT books again.”

  “Maybe. I haven’t seen the will yet… there’s a good chance a lot of it goes to Dad.”

  “Well, some of it will come to you,” she said. “And the rest will come later.”

  “Maybe,” he repeated, sounding very downbeat compared to his bubbly girlfriend. “Do you really think Serafine killed her?” he asked.

  I didn’t hear the answer, unfortunately, because at that moment, Felix came by with my drink, which was an attractive blush color, in a tall glass with a hibiscus blossom on top of it.

  “I went a little light on the booze for you,” he said, “and here’s your Topo Chico. Let me know what you think!”

  “I will,” I promised, taking a big sip of the fizzy water.

  “Can I get you anything to eat? Maybe some chili cheese fries, or a plate of our barbecue sliders?”

  “Just the drinks, thanks,” I said.

  “All righty, but let me know if you change your mind!” he said. By the time he made his way back behind the bar, the subject behind me had changed.

  “You have to get him to move out,” the girl was saying. “I don’t want to be there with him creeping around. I think he’s up to something.”

  “Like what?”

  “He keeps digging little holes around the place,” she said. “Like he’s burying things.”

  “He does help out around the yard,” Damian said.

  “I know. But I was going down to the creek the other day to get a shot by the water, and you know how there’s that little shed down there?”

  “The one with the boarded-up windows?”

  “That one,” she said. “Well, he was coming out of it when I got there, and he didn’t look very happy to see me.”

  “It’s probably just a gardening shed.”

  “Well if it is, he’s awfully worried about losing his tools. He’s got about three padlocks on the place; I don’t know what he’s doing in there, but I’d want to find out if I were you.”

  “I’ll add it to the list,” he said. “First I’ve got to get through the memorial service.”

  “And we have to plan our wedding, too. And with your mom out of the picture, you won’t have to worry about her taking it over.”

  “I never got a chance to tell her we were engaged,” he said dolefully.

  “Oh, honey. It’s all for the best. She’ll be there in spirit, I’m sure,” she added in a chipper voice.

  “I hope so,” he said.

  “Come on,” Alexis said. “I got a cute new skirt today; I need someone to take a photo of me in it. I was thinking maybe barefoot in the creek?”

  “Sure,” he said. A moment later, they were headed toward the door, Alexis’s arm looped territorially through Damian’s. She turned at the last moment and spotted me, and her eyes narrowed; I could almost see her calculating what they had just said, and wondering if I’d heard anything I shouldn’t have. Damian didn’t turn around, and his whole posture was… well, deflated.

  As they disappeared through the door, I took a sip of my drink—it was tasty, but still too strong for me—and thought about what I’d just heard. A few minutes later, I anted up at the bar.

  “Didn’t like the drink?” Felix asked, crestfallen.

  “It was tasty,” I said, “but still a tad too strong. I enjoyed it, though!”

  “I’ll find the perfect drink for you yet, young lady. Come back next time and we’ll try you on a blackberry mojito. And tell your boyfriend Tobias I have a new Black Walnut Old Fashioned I think he’ll love!”

  “We’ll be back soon, I promise,” I said, thanking him again as I signed my receipt. By the time I stepped out into the warm evening, the red BMW was gone. I didn’t think Damian had hurt his mother, but I had new questions about Alexis… particularly now that I knew they were engaged.

  And was she making up the part about Damian’s “uncle” Arthur digging up the yard and triple-locking a shed by the creek? Or was she just trying to get her fiancé to get rid of an unphotogenic family member?

  One thing was for sure: Priscilla hadn’t been a fan of Alexis. And it sounded like Alexis hadn’t been a fan of Priscilla.

  The question was, had she been irked enough by the matriarch’s control over her boyfriend that she’d killed him?

  I'd packed some muffins that morning in case I had time to stop by Nigel's place, and decided now was the time. Quinn had told me the Jordans lived just up the road from the museum, which made sense, since the museum had been carved from their substantial land holdings. I checked to make sure the remaining muffins were still neatly packed into the basket I had put together for the purpose and navigated out of Buttercup's quaint downtown along a country road leading away from our small-town version of civilization.

  Priscilla and Nigel's property was just a few miles out of town, past the wrought-iron gate leading to Heritage Farms, behind limestone posts and a metal gate flanked by a high barbed-wire fence. I pulled up to the intercom at the entrance, which seemed to be de rigueur for large landowners in the area, and announced my arrival. No one answered the intercom, but the gate wasn't completely closed. I hopped out of the truck and pushed it open, then drove through and got out to close it behind me. I drove down the winding caliche driveway, passing Dewberry Creek at least twice as it meandered near the drive before I got to the imposing white modern farmhouse I gathered was the new Jordan homestead. I parked in the white carport slung low beside the house, which was cordoned off by a long row of neatly trimmed white roses. Beyond it was a four-car garage built of gray stone and white clapboard, its wooden doors all tight shut. Whoever their architect was had done a good job; the same stone was echoed in the colors of the expensive front porch.

  As I walked up to the front porch, I noticed a familiar figure over on the far end of the house; it was Priscilla's cousin/brother Arthur, watering a flowerbed.

  I called out a polite hello.

  He grunted in return, then returned his attention to the white plumbago he was watering; based on the size of the plants and the fresh mulch, it looked like they'd been planted recently. The whole place looked as if it had been recently finished; the landscaping was gorgeous, but the plants hadn't grown in yet, and the smell of fresh hardwood mulch hung in the air.

  A moment later, I knocked at the robin’s-egg blue door, the only nod to color on the whole house. It was answered a moment later by Nigel. His white linen shirt was rumpled, as were his khakis; both looked as if they had been chosen to match the interior decorating scheme, which was long planks of dark wood on the floor paired with simple white walls and tasteful, expensive-looking neutral furniture, the robin’s-egg blue of the front door echoed in one or two throw pillows on the leather sectional that stretched across the living room to my left.

  "I brought you some muffins," I said, offering the basket. I was glad I hadn't put them in Tupperware. "I'm so sorry for the loss of your wife."

  He blinked, as if trying to place who his wife was, before thanking me. "Come in, come in," he said, opening the door wider. I stepped inside, catching a whiff of his cologne, which was a mix of sandalwood, fig, and something spicy. "I'm so sorry. I know we've met, but I can't place the name right now."

  "Lucy," I said. "Lucy Resnick."

  "Ah," he said. "Serafine was helping you with your new hives."

  "She was," I confirmed.

  "Can I get you some iced tea? Or maybe a La Croix? I have lime, grapefruit, and plain."

  "I'll take a grapefruit La Croix, please," I said, and followed him to the kitchen, which was at the other end of the massive open space and featured a large, gray granite island that was almost as big as my truck. "This is a great house," I said.

  "Thanks," he responded with a genuine smile. "Priscilla and I had it built after she donated the original house to the museum. Priscilla has... I mean, had allergies, so as beautiful as the old homestead was, she needed something with better air quality for her lungs." He pulled a pink La Croix out of the massive Sub-Zero fridge, popped the top, and turned to me. "Would you like it in a glass?"

  "A can is fine," I said. I took the La Croix and handed him the basket in return. He set it on the island without looking at it.

  "Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to one of the sleek white barstools that lined the island. "Thank you so much for bringing something. I've been beside myself. I haven't had an appetite since I found out..." He trailed off.

  "How long were you two married?" I asked.

  "Twenty-three years," he said. "It's hard... I spent every day waking up to someone for years, and then, suddenly, it's as if they were never there."

  I wondered if he'd bring up the fact that they were divorcing on his own, so I decided not to mention the subject. "How did you know Serafine?" I asked.

  "Oh, we met at the Blue Onion Cafe," he said. "I just happened to be sitting next to her. She started talking with me, and soon we realized we got along very well. There aren't a lot of cosmopolitan people in a small town like Buttercup."

  "How did you and Priscilla end up living here? It seems Austin or Houston would be more your speed."

  "You're right about that," he said, "but Priscilla was determined not to leave the family homestead. And like a good husband, I acquiesced." A bitter smile flashed across his face.

  "How did the two of you meet, if you don't mind my asking?" I said, then wished I hadn't. I still hadn't found out what I wanted to know about his relationship with Serafine. I'd have to find a way to circle back to that subject.

  "Oh, we met at a gala, actually," he said. "We ended up sitting at the same table. Priscilla was so beautiful, she couldn't help but make an impression. I invited her to the opera the next week, and it all just kind of went from there. We were married a year later, at Christ Church Cathedral."

  "Romantic," I said.

  "Yes. I thought we would always live in a penthouse near downtown, but she didn't like the idea of driving back and forth to the ranch so often, so we ended up selling the place and moving here about five years ago."

  "What prompted the move?" I asked.

  "Her father passed, so she decided it was time to take the reins of the family business."

  "What is the family business, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "All kinds of things... ranching, oil, property, you name it," he said. "Family's been running things out of Buttercup since they got here from Alabama in the 1800s."

  "Was her brother Arthur involved, too?" I asked. Although I knew the answer, I wanted to get his take on family relations. "I saw him outside."

  "Oh, no," he said. "Arthur has no head for business. Priscilla was his caretaker, really. Part of the reason she built this house is so that he'd have his own place to live."

  "His own place?" I asked, confused.

  "He was always asking for rent money, but the money never seemed to make it to his landlord. He'd moved in with us a year earlier. Priscilla built a big garage next door with a large apartment over it so that he had a place to live that wasn't in our house."

  Nice digs for a garage apartment, I thought.

  "How's he taking the loss of his sister?"

  "It's hard to tell," he said. "When I told him, he... well, it didn't go well."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He said she never should have inherited everything. That his father should have trusted him with at least some of the business." He sighed. "Then he asked if I planned to sell the house."

  "I see," I said. Although based on what I’d seen in the file at the sheriff’s office, that decision would fall to Damian, not Nigel.

  "Not a lot of love lost between Arthur and my wife," Nigel was saying. "Priscilla helped him, but I think the family handicapped him... in psychology, we call it learned helplessness. He was always given enough money to survive, but not encouraged to make it on his own. In fact," he said, "as much as Priscilla complained about him, I think she almost enjoyed having him here on the property. So he could be reminded of how successful she was, and how much he depended on her."

  "Lovely family dynamics," I said.

  "Her father started it," he said. "She just picked up where he left off. Her father always said Arthur couldn't be trusted with anything." Again, a bitter smile. "I think it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. And as it turns out, nobody could be trusted with the family's business. Nobody except his protégé."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Oh, nothing," he said, waving the comment off with a manicured hand. "It's just... it's not always easy, being married to an heiress, is all. They come with a lot of family baggage... and you find out too late that your partner isn't really your partner; their loyalty is to their birth family. You're just an expendable accessory."

  "That sounds really tough," I said, wondering if Nigel had gotten tired of being "expendable" and decided to "expend" his wife before she could bankrupt him in court.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I... I guess I just have a lot more emotion about this than I thought."

  "How did the Jordans make their fortune originally, again? Cotton?" I asked.

  "You pegged it. Cotton," he told me. That word said all I needed to know. I knew who had been growing and picking the cotton on the Jordans' 3000 acres, and I knew it wasn't the Jordans. "Of course, once that became less profitable," he said--after emancipation and the boll weevil, I added silently--"they moved on to other ventures. Ranching, oil leases... they've got their fingers in a lot of pies."

  "Must have been nice not to have to worry about making a living," I commented.

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," he answered, his mouth twisting down in something like a grimace. "I knew better than to give up my business. I might have married Priscilla, but I was never part of the family. That was made clear from Day One."

  "What kind of business are you in, if you don't mind my asking?"

  "I'm a psychotherapist," he said. "I have a practice in Houston, and I have a small apartment there, so I was spending about half my time there and half my time here. I started doing some telemedicine lately, so I can spend more time here, getting everything taken care of."

 

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