Chapter 1
It wasn’t so much the cockroach that made her scream as the chipped fingernail. The cockroach was small. The chip was a dilly. On her manicured nail it looked as deep and jagged as the Grand Canyon.
Alex swatted at the cockroach with the laminated card that displayed the motel’s limited room service menu. The reverse side advertised the Friday night Mexican buffet and The Four Riders, a country and western band currently performing in the Silver Spur Lounge nightly from seven till midnight.
Her swipe at the cockroach missed by a mile and it scuttled for cover behind the wood veneer dresser. “I’ll get you later.”
She found a nail file in the bottom of the cosmetic case she had been about to unpack when the metal clasp had wrecked her fingernail and the cockroach had come out to inspect the new tenant of room 125. The room was located on the ground floor of the Westerner Motel, three doors down from the ice and vending machines.
Once the nail had been repaired, Alex gave herself one last, critical look in the dresser mirror. It was important that she make a stunning first impression. They would be astonished when she told them who she was, but she wanted to create an even stronger impact.
She wanted to leave them stupefied, speechless, and defenseless.
They would undoubtedly make comparisons. She couldn’t prevent that; she just didn’t want to come out on the short end of their mental measuring sticks. If she could help it, they would find no flaws in Celina Gaither’s daughter.
She had carefully chosen what to wear. Everything—clothes, jewelry, accessories—was in excellent taste. The overall effect was tailored but not severe, smart but not trendy; she exuded an aura of professionalism that didn’t compromise her femininity.
Her goal was to impress them first, then surprise them with what had brought her to Purcell.
Until a few weeks ago, the town of thirty thousand had been a lonely dot on the Texas map. As many jackrabbits and horned toads lived there as people. Recently, town business interests had generated news, but on a comparatively small scale. By the time Alex’s job was done, she was certain Purcell would capture newspaper headlines from El Paso to Texarkana.
Concluding that nothing about her appearance could be improved upon short of an act of God or very expensive plastic surgery, she shouldered her handbag, picked up her eel attaché case, and, making certain she had her room key, closed the door to room 125 behind her.
During the drive downtown, Alex had to creep through two school zones. Rush hour in Purcell began when school dismissed. Parents transported their children from school to dentists’ offices, piano lessons, and shopping centers. Some might even have been going home, but the sluggish traffic and clogged intersections indicated that no one was staying indoors that day. She didn’t actually mind the stop-and-go traffic. The delays gave her an opportunity to gauge the personality of the town.
Black and gold streamers fluttered from the marquee outside Purcell High School. The caricature of a black panther snarled at the passing cars on the highway and temporary letters spelled out POUNCE PERMIAN. On the field inside the stadium, the football team was working out and running plays. The marching band, its instruments flashing in the sun, was rehearsing Friday night’s halftime show on a practice field.
The activity looked so innocent. For a moment, Alex regretted her mission and what its outcome would most likely mean for the community. She dismissed her guilty feelings quickly, however, when she reminded herself why she was here. A harvest of rejection, as well as her grandmother’s harsh accusations, were stored in her mind if she ever, even for a second, forgot what had brought her to this point in her life. She could ill afford the slightest sentimental regrets.
Downtown Purcell was almost deserted. Many of the commercial buildings and offices facing the square were closed and barred. Foreclosure signs were too plentiful to count.
Graffiti was scrawled across plate-glass windows that had once been filled with enticing merchandise. There was still a hand-lettered sign on the door of a deserted laundry. Someone had scratched out the r, so that the sign now read, 3 SHI TS/$1.00. It crudely summed up the economic climate in Purcell County.
She parked in front of the county courthouse and fed coins into the meter at the curb. The courthouse had been built of red granite quarried in the hill country and hauled by rail to Purcell ninety years earlier. Italian stonecutters had carved pretentious gargoyles and griffins in every available spot as if the amount of decoration justified the expense of their commission. The results were ostentatious, but gaudiness was one of the edifice’s attractions. Atop its dome the national and Texas state flags flapped in the brisk north wind.
Having worked in and about the state capitol of Austin for the last year, Alex wasn’t intimidated by official buildings. She took the courthouse steps with a determined stride and pulled open the heavy doors. Inside, the plaster walls showed peeling paint and signs of general disrepair. The aggregate tile floor had faint cracks in it that crisscrossed like the lines in the palm of an ancient hand.
The ceiling was high. The drafty corridors smelled of musty record books, industrial-strength cleaning solution, and an overdose of perfume that emanated from the district attorney’s secretary. She looked up expectantly as Alex entered the outer office.
“Hi, there. You lost, honey? I love your hair. Wish I could wear mine pulled back in a bun like that. You have to have real tiny ears. Wouldn’t you know it, I’ve got jug handles sticking out from the sides of my head. Do you put henna on it to give it those reddish highlights?”
“Is this District Attorney Chastain’s office?”
“Sure is, honey. Whatcha need him for? He’s kinda busy today.”