THE FIRST TIME BOOKER SAW the Grammon County Administration Building, he knew someone a hundred-odd years ago had envisioned an impressive city. The twenty-mile stretch from Lakeside traveled a blacktop highway winding through a variety of cedar, sycamore and oak. Near town, the road climbed gently uphill, and the building came into view, an elaborate structure of red sandstone and granite built in 1845.

It jutted out of nowhere, at the top of a hill, commanding the view for miles. According to a plaque at the entrance, the exterior stone was carved by Italian artisans. Booker couldn’t help wondering what had possessed those long-ago Texas visionaries to haul rock carvers all the way from Italy to do a job any Texas mason would’ve been proud to tackle. More money than brains was at work, he decided, the day that bill was passed.

Unfortunately, the city of Grammon never grew beyond a twelve-block city square, nor the entire county population beyond four thousand.

One thing Grammon continued to attract, however, was wealth. Nearly a fourth of its population were millionaires, another half were their progeny, and the remainder were visitors who’d settled in the county thinking the wealth might rub off.

The inquest for Charles Bailyn Fowler was held in a high-ceilinged room with tall windows and hundred-year-old pews, Coroner Carson Birdwell presiding. In Texas, Sheriff Ringhoffer had explained earlier, a coroner can hold an inquest anytime he questioned a cause of death. Coroner Birdwell, apparently, was an old Southern gentleman who rarely questioned anything and hated troubling people, but in Fowler’s case, Sarabelle had demanded it.



Square tortoiseshell glasses perched on Birdwell’s bulbous nose above a generous mouth and gently receding chin. Nobody’s heartthrob, but then looks wouldn’t count for much in his business.

Since Booker was expected to present evidence, he took a seat near the front. Testifying in court was something he’d done many times, though only once for a wrongful death. His shoulder still twinged when he thought about that one.

He was glad Roxanna decided not to attend. If the relationship between her and Fowler had extended beyond mortgagor and mortgagee, the fact wasn’t common knowledge.

Booker would rather keep it that way. Roxanna might be eccentric, moody, an excellent bowman, and mad as hell at Fowler for reneging on their contract, but Booker refused to believe she had engineered his death. No need to start anyone else thinking in that direction.

Melinda, sexy as ever in a gray suit, marched in and sat down beside him, as if he’d saved the seat expressly for her. Booker wondered where her dark and dangerous escort was today.

His own part in the inquest came early. First, Sheriff Ringhoffer explained arriving at Turtle Lake to find a body on the bank, then directing Booker to take photographs. Booker’s color prints were presented as evidence, and he was called to verify that he was unaware of the body snagged beneath his pier until Pup dragged it ashore, that he had not handled the body in any way and had prevented the dog from further abusing it. After the sheriff arrived, Booker had taken photographs as instructed then later developed and printed them.

Nobody asked his opinion of anything, which was okay by him. After his testimony, the coroner recalled the sheriff to describe how the investigation proceeded, the collecting of evidence, specifically a tan fabric scrap matching the trousers found on the body, a thirty-three-inch arrow shaft discovered nearby, identification by next of kin, and delivery of the body to the Harris County Medical Examiner’s Office. Ringhoffer also presented the ME’s written report, which included the discovery of a broadhead arrow point imbedded in Fowler’s heart.

“While this was taking place,” Ringhoffer said, “my deputies searched the woods surrounding Turtle Lake and found a hunting target strung between two trees. The target had been pierced repeatedly.”

The arrow shaft, the broad point, and the target, cut from several layers of corrugated cardboard in the shape of a wild turkey, were introduced as evidence.

“Because of rain damage,” the sheriff explained, “the type of arrow point used to pierce the target could not be determined.”

Although Booker already knew most of this, hearing it laid out in precise and in chronological order impressed him. He liked facts presented without dressing.

The sheriff’s next commentary retraced Fowler’s movements during the twenty-four hours preceding what the medical examiner had determined was the time of death. Shortly after noon on Saturday, August fifth, Fowler arrived at the Gilded Trout to review the accounting records, so Gary Spiner was called next to testify.

Spiner’s beard was coming along, Booker noticed. He bet it itched like a case of poison ivy about now.

“Mr. Spiner,” the coroner said, “did anything unusual occur during the time Mr. Fowler was at the store that afternoon?”

“Nothing unusual. Chuck always took an hour on Saturdays to come in and look at sales figures for the month. Jeremy, his son, helps out at the counter, see, while we get the paperwork and planning done. But that day, Chuck wanted to come on in and go over the inventory records. He said we needed to move out the old stock, recover our investment to order newer merchandise.” Spiner cleared his throat and took a drink of water. “We went over the list of items to put on sale and finished up about five o’clock.”

“Did Mr. Fowler seem unduly upset about any of this paperwork?”

“Not, I would say, unduly upset.” Gary wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Chuck tended to get vocal about sales quotas, see, and come out with off-color words when he thought merchandise didn’t move fast enough. Can’t say he was any more concerned than normal.”

“And after you finished the inventory?”

“Chuck paid the bills, went through the mail…oh…. Later, a package came for him by special delivery. I phoned him at home, left a message, and he called back, told me to go on and open it. Turned out to be a shirt. I asked what was the occasion. He said somebody must be apologizing for being bitchy lately.” Spiner leered at Melinda, showing his wide yellow teeth.

“Mr. Spiner, did you see Charles Fowler again after he left the store that afternoon?”

“No. He must’ve picked up the package, ‘cause it was gone next morning. He never called during the week, which he usually did along about Wednesday. Next I heard, he was dead.”

Jeremy Fowler was next to give his account. Booker looked around to see if Bradley had ridden in with him. Sure enough, his son sat in the fourth row, back of the room.

“Do you recall anything unusual about that Saturday, Mr. Fowler?” Birdwell asked.

Jeremy stared off into a corner, as if drawing on memory.

“I guess Pop might’ve been shouting more than usual going over the sales quotas with Gary. I shut the door, so customers wouldn’t overhear, but he was loud, like it was Gary’s fault people prefer to buy their equipment in the city at discount prices. The Gilded Trout is a small-town store, can’t compete with the big chains, but Pop didn’t want to hear that.

He said no customer should walk out with a can of golf balls when Gary could sell them a new club or a ball retriever.”

“Have you heard your father and Mr. Spiner having similar conversations in the past?”

“Every Saturday.”

“But you’re saying this one was unusually intense.”

Jeremy hesitated. “There’s that word unusual again. I’d say Pop had been on Gary’s case about it lately. When I started working there last spring, I didn’t have to close the door so customers wouldn’t hear Pop shouting.”

“Did you see your father again after he left the store that day?”

“We had a golf game that Sunday morning. Teed off at seven, finished about eleven, ate lunch at the lodge.”

Birdwell referred to some papers on his desk. “This game took place at the Lakeside Estates golf course?”

“Yes, sir. I’m not much of a golfer, but Pop was, and he often said Lakeside had a ball-breaker course.”

“Son, did your father seem distressed in any way?”

When Jeremy paused to mull that over, Melinda turned in her seat and smiled at Booker. He expected her to say something, smiling at him like that. Instead, she straightened his tie, then looked back at Jeremy.

“Pop seemed preoccupied, and that threw his game off. Luther hadn’t shown up to carry Pop’s clubs, which made him irritable, so he didn’t shoot as well as usual. Didn’t keep him from winning or telling me how to correct my swing.”

Booker recalled that Fowler had fired Luther Niles. If Luther had been rehired, Emaline hadn’t known about it. That in itself seemed impossible.

“Did you and your father play golf together often?” Birdwell asked.

“It’s one of the few things we did together. Pop was interested in all kinds of sports, but golf’s the only one where I come close to keeping up.”

“You went to lunch after the game. Did anything happen there to upset your father?”

“I don’t know that he was upset. We talked about hunting season coming up. He said he wanted to get some practice in, that I should, too. We always enter the Grammon Turkey Shoot as a family. I wanted to pass this season, invest the time in other things. Pop didn’t agree. He said the turkey shoot was family tradition.” Jeremy shrugged. “I couldn’t argue with tradition.”

“Did your father say what he planned to do that afternoon?”

“No. He asked where I was headed. We were about to open a new play, and I wanted to work on some of the sets before rehearsal that night.”

Birdwell glanced at his notes again, then excused Jeremy and called Aaron, who testified that he hadn’t seen or talked to his father at all that day. He’d been at the dealership in

Bryan until four o’clock, then driven to Lowetta to deliver a child’s car seat that had come in for one of his customers.

“Can you recall the last time you saw your father, Mr. Fowler?”

“A couple of weeks ago, at the lodge.”

“Did he seem upset? Or distracted?”

“Yeah, well…we had some words, I guess.”

Birdwell’s questions brought out the fact that Chuck Fowler refused to front the money Aaron needed to invest in the dealership. As he talked, Aaron’s face flushed, whether with anger or embarrassment, Booker wasn’t sure.

“And this heated conversation,” Birdwell said, “was the last you and your father had?”

Aaron looked away from the coroner. “Yes.”

When Birdwell called on Sarabelle, he took off his glasses and regarded her with an apologetic set to his generous mouth. “Mrs. Fowler, this imposition in your time of mourning is unspeakable. I’ll try to be brief.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Birdwell. I want to do everything I can to see my husband’s killer brought to justice.” She stared fiercely at Melinda.

Melinda met the stare without a flinch.

The coroner glanced curiously at the real estate agent then leaned closer to Sarabelle and spoke distinctly.

“Now, Mrs. Fowler, you do realize, don’t you, that all we’re deciding here today is whether your husband’s death occurred by misadventure or if there’s reason to believe he was killed deliberately by person or persons unknown?”

“My husband was murdered, Mr. Birdwell. I know you’ll reach the right decision, and the person responsible will pay in the end.” The granite eyes, which had not left Melinda’s face, were so cold Booker had to resist glancing at the real estate agent to see if she was turning to ice beside him.

Birdwell cleared his throat. “Would you tell us, then, when you last saw your husband alive?”

“Sunday afternoon, August sixth. After his golf game with Jeremy. Charles came home, said he had eaten at the club and wouldn’t be hungry for lunch. Then he took a nap. After an hour, he rose, showered, dressed, and said he was going into town.”

“By town, do you mean Masonville?”

“Actually, he didn’t say, but Masonville is the closest town to Lakeside Estates. My husband had several…business…interests there.”

“Yes, ma’am. Now, I’m sorry to ask this, but did you and your husband have…uhm…strong words before he left that afternoon? Was he upset?”

Sarabelle looked down at her hands clasped in front of her. She twisted her wedding ring. “I asked him not to go.”

Birdwell waited for more. When it didn’t come, he said, “Did you have a particular reason for wanting him to stay at home?”

“He’d been gone all morning. Charles traveled during the week, so weekends were our only time together. I wanted to drive into Bryan for dinner and a movie.”

The coroner repositioned his glasses. “Did your husband take anything with him when he left?”

“His bow and some archery tackle. I didn’t see the equipment, but I saw the bag he always carried it in.”

“Mrs. Fowler, do you recognize this arrow as one your husband may have taken?” He indicated the arrow shaft presented as evidence.

“That’s the turkey fletching he used.”

“And this target, do you recognize this as your husband’s?”

“Charles had all sorts of targets, mostly for the boys to practice on. He rarely used one himself, except airborne.”

“By airborne, you mean a target that’s tossed in the air to be shot down?”

“My husband was a fine marksman. He considered it wasted time to shoot anything that didn’t move.”

“When he left that day, was that the last time you saw him?” This time the coroner neglected to add the word “alive,” Booker noticed.

Sarabelle hesitated, doing the ring-twisting bit again.

“Yes.”

Birdwell watched her for a moment. “Mrs. Fowler, if there’s something you want to say, anything that might help us discover the truth, now is the time.”

“Well.” She heaved a huge sigh, as if shrugging off a weight. “I overheard him call someone and say he’d be there in ten minutes. It didn’t sound like a business call. It sounded personal. We have one of those telephones with lots of features, and I was upset. After Charles left, I punched the redial button to see who he had called.”

“Did you recognize the phone number?”

“It was the Masonville Bed and Brunch. Roxanna Larkspur.”

Booker clamped his jaw tight to keep it from dropping.

The coroner’s eyebrows danced toward his hairline. He studied his notes for a few seconds, dismissed Sarabelle, then glared at the sheriff, who looked as hot as a teakettle about to blow its whistle.

“Ms. Roxanna Larkspur, would you kindly come forward.”

Booker jolted to attention. He hadn’t seen her arrive, but there she was in the back row, not at all old fashioned in a knee-length summer dress the color of new grass.

“Did you know the deceased, Charles Bailyn Fowler?”

“Yes, I did. He sold me the house that I turned into an inn.”

“You received a phone call from Mr. Fowler on Sunday, August sixth, did you not?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was he calling about, Ms. Larkspur?”

“He asked when I would be paying the ten-thousand-dollar balance of my down-payment, which I understood was deferred until after the inn turned a profit.”

Birdwell’s eyebrows knitted. “The essence of a down-payment is that it’s a singular sum paid in advance of any long-term financing. Deferring half is an unusual arrangement.”

“Chuck knew I couldn’t buy the house any other way.”

“And now that your inn is profitable, he—”

“It’s not profitable. Chuck knew that I’d only gotten my first room reservations.”

“Yet he wanted the down-payment balance. What did you tell him?”

“That I didn’t have it.”

“And his response?”

“Chuck said he was coming over to discuss options.”

Uh-oh. Roxanna had never mentioned seeing Fowler on the day he was killed. Booker tensed for Birdwell’s next question.

“And did he come to your inn that same day?”

“Yes. At two-thirty.”

“Ms. Larkspur, would you tell us what transpired?” Birdwell’s tone had turned harsh.

“Chuck said…well…he said I probably had really good friends in Houston and I should ask them to help me resolve my balance. I told him that wasn’t part of our deal. He smiled, a wicked sort of smile, and said, ‘What deal?’ Then he laughed and walked out.”

Birdwell’s face had turned nearly as russet as Roxanna’s hair. “Did he say where he was going?”

“No. But I watched him walk down the street to Melinda’s real estate agency.”

“That would be Ms. Melinda McCray?”

“Yes.”

Melinda took the hot seat next, trim in her gray suit, smoothing her yellow hair. Birdwell regarded her warily. Booker wondered if he could take another surprise without losing his Southern temper.

“Ms. Mcray, you heard Ms. Larkspur testify that Charles Fowler came to your agency at approximately two-forty-five on Sunday, August sixth. Is this a true account?”

Melinda dipped her blond head and looked up at Birdwell through her lashes. “I can’t say what Ms. Larkspur saw, or thought she saw, now can I?”

Birdwell pursed his lips hard and jutted his head toward Melinda. “Did you or did you not see Mr. Fowler that afternoon?”

Melinda backed away. “Well, yes, I guess I did.”

“And yet you told the sheriff…” He put on his glasses to consult his notes, “…that ‘Chuck left my house at three o’clock Sunday morning to go home to that witch, and I never saw him again.’” He glared at her. “That was your statement?”

“It may be. Can I remember every word? The sheriff confused me.”

Booker glanced at Ringhoffer, who looked ready to whip out his silver pointer and whack the witness.

“How did the sheriff confuse you?”

“Well, he asked me all those questions, didn’t he? How could I think of answers that fast?”

Birdwell sighed loudly. “Why don’t you tell us now, Ms. McCray, exactly what occurred when Mr. Fowler stopped at the real estate agency that afternoon?”

She squirmed in her chair, crossed her legs with a flash of thigh, and adjusted her expression to one of thoughtful innocence.

“Chuck and I had a row the night before, and when he came to the agency I thought he was there to apologize. So when he suggested we go to my place for a…little while…I closed the office blinds. Later, I realized he thought I had sent him a gift, this ugly yellow shirt he was wearing. ‘I can’t believe you think I have such awful taste,’ I told him. What I wanted to know was who did send it. He said never mind about the shirt, so long as I had come to my senses. I said it was him who needed to come to his senses, wasn’t it? His wife had threatened me that very morning, so I knew he had asked her for a divorce.”

“Was Mr. Fowler surprised his wife had been to see you?”

Melinda looked at Sarabelle. “He was surprised all right. I don’t think he expected his wife to have that much venom in her.”

“Venom, Ms. McCray?” Birdwell shook his head. “Let’s stick to the facts without interpretation, shall we?”

“You should have been there!” Melinda described Sarabelle’s visit, including the statement about seeing Melinda and her husband both dead before she’d see them together.

Birdwell looked at Sarabelle sitting in the second row, his expression less compassionate than earlier. After a moment, he turned his gaze back to Melinda.

“When did Mr. Fowler leave your office?”

“He didn’t stay long after we…well! How was I to know he hadn’t come to apologize? That was silly, wasn’t it? All that stuff about him not marrying again. Why would he ask

Sarabelle for a divorce if he didn’t plan to marry me?”

“Your conversation that afternoon involved his divorcing his wife to marry you?”

“I told him I’d waited all these months, and now that he was going to be free, did he think I was planning to wait any longer? He stormed out the door, saying I could wait until hell froze over before he’d get stuck with another mean-spirited harpy.”

“What time was this?”

“I’m not mean-spirited, am I?”

“The time, Ms. McCray.”

“About four o’clock, I guess.”

Birdwell made a note, then peered at her over the top of his glasses. “And you did not see him again?”

“No.”

Booker reckoned that was the shortest answer Melinda had ever given.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He didn’t say.” Melinda’s eyes flashed defiantly at Sarabelle. “But his wife knows where he went, doesn’t she? She followed him.”

Another flush rose up the coroner’s neck and infused his face. He spoke to Melinda but speared Sarabelle with a stare.

“How do you know Mrs. Fowler followed her husband?”

“I saw her, didn’t I? In that blue Mercedes of hers? I watched Chuck out the window, hoping he’d turn around and come back. He got in his car and drove off. Sarabelle was parked across the street. She pulled out behind him.”

The courtroom buzzed with speculative whispers. Calm as a stone, Sarabelle stood and regarded Birdwell.

“She’s lying. I don’t understand why you’re listening to this woman. She’s a confessed adulteress, liar, and cheat. My husband never intended to marry her, but she cannot accept the truth. She’s making all this up to cover the fact that she was the last person to see my husband alive and deserves full responsibility for his death.”

A vein in Birdwell’s temple stood out like a night-crawler as he studied Melinda. Except for the hard set of her mouth, she looked as calm as ever. Booker was glad not to be the one who’d have to figure out which woman was lying.

Birdwell cleared his throat. “Ms. McCray, you’re excused. This hearing is adjourned. Sheriff, would you and Mr. Krane meet me in my office?”

Come back next Monday for the next chapter in Here Lies a Wicked Man.

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