ARMED WITH HIS GAME PLAN, BOOKER WAS EAGER TO FINISH the coroner’s interviews and get on with shooting his country moments, but he couldn’t see much gain in driving to town this late in the day. Start early tomorrow and he could catch the Masonville suspects before meeting with the sheriff, drive to Bryan afterward to visit with Aaron and Jeremy, then finish with Sarabelle.

Or start with Sarabelle. The Fowler house sat less than two miles away. He’d rather gather as much information as possible, though, before talking to the prime suspect, the one who stood to gain most from her husband’s death.

According to the sheriff’s notes, Fowler, like many folks, had put off making a will and died intestate. The widow would retain her half of the estate through community property law plus a share of her husband’s half along with the two boys and any other heirs who surfaced.

Considering her bow-hunting experience, Booker couldn’t discount Sarabelle as a cold-blooded killer. The sheriff had only her word that Fowler hadn’t revealed what he planned to do with his archery equipment that day. She might easily have guessed, then loaded her own equipment into the blue Mercedes before following him to town, and to his practice setup in the woods. Sarabelle’s shooting skill was signified by the snapshot on Pete Littlehawk’s brag board, and a man made a much bigger, slower target than a wild turkey.

Booker shuddered. The sheriff’s notes indicated the length of the arrow shaft found, which matched the point broken off in Fowler’s chest: thirty-three inches. Certainly not a woman’s reach. His own extended to thirty-two. Chuck Fowler was a big man, so the theory that he’d been killed with his own arrow may have been right from the start. Aaron was as tall as his dad, whereas Jeremy’s reach would be closer to a woman’s. Booker wondered if Ramsey Crawford was a bow hunter.

He decided to hold off talking to Sarabelle until after his other interviews. Meanwhile, he had to shoot the photographs for Southern Affairs. If he carried his camera and a supply of model releases as he scurried around asking questions, he just might stumble on a country moment or two.

Pup, fidgety for attention, grabbed a mouthful of Booker’s pants leg. When Booker tried to shake loose, the mutt sat back on his haunches, rolled his brown eyes, and looked hurt.

“I suppose we could both use some exercise, couldn’t we?” Maybe he could grab a few shots of a “resident’s frisky pet” while they played.

He hooked his camera bag off the floor while Pup bounded to the door panting happily. Beyond the window glass, the sunset had turned spectacular, ribbons of orange and red layered beneath the purple cloud bank—a choice opportunity.

He tossed a stick a few times to wear down Pup’s energy, then set up a tripod near the woods along his eastern property line. From that vantage, he could see a corner of the house, the pier, a piece of the lake, and the neon sunset reflected on everything. He attached a long cable release to the motor drive, set the focus for a point near the pier, then let fly with the stick again.

Pup zipped after it and snatched the stick out of the air with a twist of his wiry body. Booker clicked the motor drive, racking off shots. Even if Southern Affairs didn’t buy these, they’d make a fine addition to his growing library of stock photography.

What he needed for the retirement shots, though, was a geezer in the frame playing with his trusty friend. Being the only geezer around, Booker set the timer on automatic. While he and Pup tussled, the motor drive buzzed.

Afterward, breathing hard, he leaned against a tree. Amazing how quiet the evenings became once the weekenders departed. No motorboats grinding in the distance, no cars stirring up dust along the road, no kids shouting at each other across the water. This was the sort of peaceful evening Booker had envisioned when he moved to Lakeside.

Behind him, the woods rustled, a deer, raccoon, or maybe an armadillo burrowing for roots. Fireflies darted through the brush. Pup tried to bark them deeper into the woods, but they ignored him, so Pup returned to dance around Booker’s feet, urging him to help.

Then Pup froze, ears pricked toward the trees.

Booker hadn’t heard anything. The waning light and abundant scrub brush prevented seeing any deeper than the first dozen feet or so past his property line. Sometimes deer ventured into the yard at this time of evening.

Pup growled.

Strange. The dog generally liked four-legged company, yelped them a hearty welcome and couldn’t understand why they ran away. Whatever moved in the woods tonight, Pup didn’t want it coming any closer.

Booker turned the camera around and peered through the lens. It brought the darkness nearer but didn’t illuminate anything. Then a quick movement caught his eye. Too high off the ground to be a deer. Maybe a night bird in the branches.

Pup dashed to the woods’ edge, barking furiously. Not his welcoming bark at all.

“C’mon, fella, let’s take a stroll.” He detached the camera from the tripod and crossed into the growth. Instantly, darkness closed around him.

Pup growled and stayed back.

“What’s wrong, boy? C’mon.”

But the dog whined and grabbed a mouthful of Booker’s pants, something that usually meant he wanted to play. He tugged Booker back toward the yard. When he resisted, Pup tugged harder. He was stronger than Booker realized.

“Stop it, Pup! Let go!”

Usually obedient, the dog dug in his heels, teeth locked tight in the fabric. He jerked his head back and forth, and Booker felt his balance going. He grabbed for a tree limb. Finally, he let himself be pulled into the yard to avoid falling on his butt.

The woods would be too dark soon to capture anything, even with flash, he reasoned. Yet Pup’s behavior surprised him. As soon as Booker crossed out of the brush and shadows, the dog let go of his pants.

Booker squatted and scratched Pup’s good ear.

“What’s going on, fella? Hmmm? Got a coon in there? Or a Texas alligator, crawled up from Brazos River? Or maybe you buried a choice bone you don’t want me to find.”

He petted the dog for a while, calming him. Then he packed up the camera gear and considered the shots he’d taken. Geezer with dog fetching. Geezer with dog tussling. Dog bites geezer’s butt. Not precisely the sort of country moments his editor wanted.

Walking to the door, he glanced through a window into the lighted den. Seeing the grid with Sarabelle’s name circled in bright red, he decided to put her first on his interview list, after all. What would be the best approach? Thinking Booker was friendly with Melinda, she might resist answering his questions. Best clear up that misguidance as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure at all how she felt about Roxanna.

He could phone, make an appointment, but he’d likely gather more nonverbal feedback if he simply showed up on the widow’s doorstep tomorrow morning in his new, official capacity: Coroner’s Investigator. Booker didn’t know if the title would open doors, but at least he’d have surprise working for him.

He’d barely reached the front stoop when Emaline’s Wrangler turned into the driveway. Pup barked a greeting and sniffed at the wheels.

“Load up, Booker,” Emaline called. “Let’s get this investigation moving. I phoned Sarabelle. Told her you had some questions, and if she wants her husband’s murder cleared up, she’d best cooperate with us.”

“Us? I don’t recall asking for your help, Emaline.”

“You’re a stranger, Booker. You’ll raise hackles just knocking on doors. I can smooth the way for you.”

She had a point. Everybody knew her, and despite Emaline’s loud, pushy disposition, most people seemed to like her. And he did need to stop procrastinating, but…so much for his element of surprise.

Save

Save