Part 27 (1/2)

Summer hadn't intended to get so carried away, but it was high time Billy realized he was a lot better than most of the men she'd met out in the world, who'd had every advantage and possessed wealth and good looks and never become as worthy of respect as Bad Billy Coburn.

When Billy's lips curved into a smile, Summer let out the breath she'd been holding.

”Remind me to hire you to walk two feet ahead of me and let people know before I arrive what a wonderful person I am.”

”I'd be proud to do it, Billy. Because you are a wonderful person.”

”I appreciate the vote of confidence. But I haven't forgotten that you liked me when I really was Bad Billy Coburn.”

Summer made a face. She could see she wasn't going to change Billy's mind. ”I suppose only time will tell,” she said. ”But you haven't been paying attention if you think people in Bitter Creek haven't noticed the difference in you.”

”If you say so,” he grudgingly conceded.

”Well?” she said, arching a brow. ”What do you want to be when you grow up, Billy?”

He glanced at her, then said, ”Working for other men all my life has made me realize there is something I want.”

Summer waited with bated breath.

”I want to be my own boss. I want my own place, with enough of a nest egg to be able to support my family and still have time to play catch with my sons and go riding with my daughters and make love to my wife. Maybe that doesn't sound ambitious enough to you, but-”

”That sounds wonderful,” Summer said. ”Wonderful.”

Billy eyed her sideways. ”Well, you asked. So that's what I want.”

They'd been headed north on U.S. 77 nearly two hours and were approaching the turnoff to the DeWitt ranch, located southwest of Victoria, before Billy spoke again.

”Your aunt's expecting us,” he said. ”When we get there, let me ask the questions.”

”What if I think of something you've forgotten?”

”That won't happen.” Before she could protest, Billy added, ”But if it does, feel free to speak up.”

The DeWitts' ancestral home had been built in the early 1840s, when Texas was still a Republic and the DeWitts had raised cotton. The white frame structure emulated the magnificent Southern mansions built before the Civil War in Georgia and Alabama and Mississippi. Its towering Doric columns held up a second-story gallery porch, and the pitched roof revealed windows on the third floor, where house slaves had once slept.

”I thought Bitter Creek was impressive,” Billy said. ”This place puts it to shame.”

”They might have a bigger house,” Summer said pertly. ”But we own more land.”

Billy grinned. ”I should have known.”

When Billy knocked on the kitchen screen door, he expected to be greeted by a servant, who would lead him through a maze of rooms to some elegant parlor, where he'd be greeted coldly by a carbon copy of Eve Blackthorne. After all, blood was blood.

He was taken aback when he and Summer were greeted by Ellen DeWitt herself, who was in the kitchen baking, wearing an ap.r.o.n that covered a simple cotton print dress, her feet stuck in furry pink house slippers. Her hand, when she reached out to greet Billy, was dusted with flour.

”Oh, so sorry,” she said with a laugh, as she wiped it off on the food-spattered ap.r.o.n.

When she extended it again, Billy realized she was looking at him over reading gla.s.ses that were perched on the end of her nose.

This woman did not remotely fit his image of a coldblooded murderer. But as TV detectives were quick to point out, evil sometimes came in benign packages.

”h.e.l.lo, Aunt Ellen,” Summer said as she followed Billy inside. She gave her aunt a hearty hug and said, ”The kitchen smells wonderful. What's in the oven?”

Ellen DeWitt pulled off her gla.s.ses and threw them onto a cookbook that lay on the cobalt-blue ceramic-tiled counter. ”Sourdough bread, which I love, and bake for company just so I can brag I made it myself. Then I got the insane idea to whip up this Christmas Bohemian Braid recipe, and yes, I know it's the middle of July.”

Billy looked at the pile of dough on the central island, which Summer's aunt Ellen had divided into three long rolls.

”How can you forget something like how to braid?” the older woman lamented. ”I mean, that's impossible, right?”

Summer was already at the sink was.h.i.+ng her hands and laughing at her aunt. ”I think you made that up because you know how much I like to play with dough.”

Her aunt smiled... benignly. ”I'm glad to see you, Summer. And your husband.” She focused her attention on Billy, who stood still for her scrutiny. ”We didn't have much chance to talk at the funeral. I'm glad you came to visit.”

”We aren't here for a social call,” Billy felt compelled to point out. He was liking the woman too d.a.m.ned much. He needed to keep his objectivity.

”Oh?” she said, as she crossed and put her hands on Summer's shoulders, watching as Summer efficiently braided the dough. ”Why have you come?”

”To ask if your sister Eve gave you any indication that she feared for her life, or that she intended to take her own life.”

Ellen DeWitt's brow furrowed. She turned away from him to retrieve a baking sheet for the bread and instructed Summer how to get the braided bread from the counter to the aluminum sheet, and then into a second preheated oven.

Billy waited patiently. He'd learned that if he didn't ask questions, witnesses often filled in the uncomfortable silences.

At last, Ellen turned back to him and said, ”I had a phone call from Eve a week before her death which, in retrospect, is somewhat distressing.”

”Uh-huh,” Billy said.

”She asked me about Max's heart condition. She wanted to know what medication he was using. She asked rather... intimate questions about what effects it had on Max.”

”Max?” Billy said.

”Uncle Max was Aunt Ellen's husband. He died two years ago of a heart attack,” Summer volunteered.

Billy frowned Summer into silence, then turned back to Ellen and said, ”I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but can you tell me exactly what Eve asked?”

Ellen lowered her eyes and rubbed her hands on her ap.r.o.n. ”She wanted to know if Max's heart medication made him... unable to perform in bed,” she said in a rush. ”She seemed to think Jackson might be having trouble... Anyway, she wanted to know if I'd had any problem like that with Max, since Jackson was taking the same medication Max took.”

Ellen looked up at Billy and said, ”We discussed how important it is to get the dosage right, because too little medication might result in a heart attack-but too high a dosage could actually cause an arrhythmia and lead to death.”

Billy marveled at Eve Blackthorne's devious mind. She'd acquired the information she'd wanted about the correct lethal dosage of heart medication from Ellen without Ellen ever being the wiser. Until it was too late.

Or maybe Ellen was making up the story to make it look like Eve had killed herself. Although, if that were the case, why make up any story at all?

”I took her questions at face value,” Ellen continued. ”But now I have to wonder whether she might have been asking for some other reason.”

”What reason is that?” Billy asked.

Ellen met his gaze and said, ”My sister was not a happy woman.”

Billy thought that was perhaps the understatement of the year. He said nothing.