A Little Town In Texas. Bethany Campbell

in interest. “Really? What makes you say that?”

      Gloria twirled her glass coyly, making the ice cubes clink. “Well…” she said. “Far be it from me to gossip…”

      Mel stared into her slightly unfocused eyes. “This isn’t gossip. It’s intelligence. Business background.”

      “Give him the goods, Mama,” Ralph said and reached for another canapé.

      Gloria seemed to puff up with importance. “I wish I didn’t have to say it, but Kitt came from riffraff. They both did.”

      Mel’s interest coiled up like an overwound spring. “Both of them? What do you mean?”

      Gloria heaved a sigh of false sympathy. “She and that Nora Slattery. She’s Kitt’s aunt. She owns the café and motel.”

      Mel nodded solemnly, hiding his jubilance. So the little vixen had told the truth about having an aunt. And he recognized Nora’s name; she ran the Longhorn, which was one of the town’s main nerve centers.

      “Excuse me,” he said. “Why’d you call them riffraff?”

      Gloria’s small eyes narrowed to knowing slits. “Well, Nora’s father was shiftless. Just a wrangler. He drifted all over the county. He worked for all of ’em at one time or another.”

      “All of them?” Mel reached for the pitcher and topped off her drink.

      “All the money people,” Gloria said with ill-disguised bitterness. “The big ranch folks. He dragged around a skinny wife and a passel of skinny kids. And the youngest was Nora. She was the ‘caboose.’ Her oldest brother—that was Herv—was sixteen—seventeen years older than her.”

      Ralph reached for another canapé. “Herv was already married when Nora was born. He worked for the McKinneys. Kind of a tenant-hand. There never was a Mitchell man who showed a lick of ambition.”

      “No,” Gloria said sipping her drink. “And they all married young. Had to. Couldn’t keep their pants on.”

      Mel frowned, wondering if this was supposed to include Kitt.

      “Well,” Gloria said with an expansive gesture. “When Nora’s mother died, Nora was the only kid left at home. She was about nine. So her daddy dumped her on her brother. On Herv, at the McKinneys’, and lit out for the panhandle. So Nora lived with Herv for—let’s see—seven years.”

      Ralph heaved himself up out of the easy chair. “Those margaritas are so tasty, I’m going to make up another batch.”

      “Oh, goody,” said Gloria. She gave Mel an almost flirtatious look. “What was I saying?”

      Mel inched back from her slightly. “I asked about Kitt Mitchell.”

      Gloria finished her drink and set the glass on the coffee table with a loud clink. “Herv’s oldest child was Kitt—the reason he had to get married. Then, like stair steps, there were three more little ones—boys—boom-boom-boom. Those Mitchells bred like rabbits.”

      Mel did some swift figuring. “So Nora and Kitt were actually kids growing up together.”

      “Right. And Nora was like a little mother to that child. Good thing, too. Kitt’s own mother couldn’t keep up with all those children. Ha! She didn’t even try.”

      Mel felt an irrational desire to defend Kitt Mitchell. “Kitt did all right for herself. Exclusive’s a fine magazine.”

      “I never said the girls weren’t smart,” Gloria said with a sniff. “They were. But…blood will tell. Nora no sooner turned sixteen than she got pregnant by that no-good Gordon Jones.”

      Mel’s face hardened. “What about Kitt?”

      But Gloria’s mind was on its own track and would not be derailed. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “There was something funny about how Gordon Jones died. It happened at the McKinneys’ lake house. Cal McKinney himself was there. And so was Nora. And Ken Slattery—the man she married—the McKinneys’ foreman.”

      Gloria looked at him with malicious satisfaction. He didn’t like it. It was his job to find the weaknesses of Fabian’s enemies, and the McKinneys were among those enemies. But where in hell was this leading?

      With cool politeness he said, “I asked about the reporter.”

      The woman tilted her head knowingly. “And I’m telling you about her background.” She jabbed her manicured finger toward his chest. “There was something strange about Gordon Jones’s death. Cal McKinney and Nora and Ken were in it up to their necks. The McKinneys have enough money to buy their way out of anything.”

      Mel looked at her in disbelief. “You’re saying they bought their way out of a killing?”

      Her little pink mouth smiled, but her eyes were hard as ice. “I’m pointing out things, is all. Suspicious things. You get my drift.”

      Mel clamped his mouth shut so that he wouldn’t swear. Ralph came in, bearing a pitcher of fresh margaritas. “Woo, boy!” he said. “This is some party, eh? Well, how’s my girl doing, Belyle? She giving you an earful?”

      “I think I’ve shocked him plumb silent,” Gloria said smugly. “And I haven’t but scratched the surface of what I know. Now Bubba Gibson—do you know he served prison time?”

      Hell and damnation, thought Mel, who did this woman think she was? The Recording Angel of All Sins? “Kitt Mitchell,” he said. “Was she even in town when this—Gordon Jones died?”

      “No,” Gloria said, holding out her glass to be refilled. “She was at her fancy college. But I want to tell you about Bubba Gibson—he was cheating with this woman young enough to be his daughter—it was a scandal.”

      Mel interrupted. “How did a poor kid like Kitt Mitchell get to a rich school like Stobbart’s?”

      “I’m telling you about Bubba going to prison,” she said. “When you want to know something about somebody in this town, Mr. Belyle, you come to me. I know where all the bodies are buried.”

      Time for my vanishing act, Mel thought grimly. He was sick unto death of this fat gossipy woman. “I really have to go,” he said rising. “Long day. Had to get up early. Jet lag.” He made his way toward the door and as he did so, he lied about having a nice evening and being grateful for their hospitality.

      Gloria tried to follow him, but she wasn’t quite steady on her feet. He’d just made it to the porch. She peered out through the screen door and added, “We didn’t talk about your brother.”

      His spine stiffened, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. She didn’t notice. “And that woman he married. If you want to know the full truth about Shelby Sprague and your brother, ask me. I have the goods on her and him. Because I know—”

      —where all the bodies are buried, you bitch, he finished mentally.

      This last jibe, at his brother’s wife, somehow offended Mel most deeply. He could not forgive his brother, and he did not want to. He had no desire to meet Nick’s wife. So why did he resent Gloria Wall mentioning them?

      He drove back to the Crystal Creek Hotel, smoldering with anger. He hadn’t merely disliked the Walls, he detested them with vehemence.

      And these people, God help him, were his allies.

      KITT DROVE BACK to the hotel about ten-thirty.

      The night was cloudy, drizzle fell, and the darkness seemed supernatural. Twice she had to swerve to avoid hitting white-tailed deer that suddenly bounded into the glow of her headlights.

      Kitt had grown used to New York, where there were always nearby buildings and lights burned all night long. This black, vast space on either side of the highway almost frightened her.

      She was restless and fidgety, too. This restiveness came from