I KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG THE MOMENT I saw the door of Beta’s house. It stood ajar. Shannon might be visiting a small town but she was a big-city girl and didn’t strike me as the type to leave front doors open. I jogged up the path to the porch. It creaked when I stepped on it.

“Shannon?” I called.

No answer. The second step creaked louder than the first and I paused again. “Shannon? It’s Jordy Poteet.”

The wind answered me, brushing across my face and bringing me the scent of honeysuckle from a neighbor’s bush. I pushed the door open, calling Shannon’s name again into the dimness of the entry hall.

I walked into the living room. The curtains were still drawn as Beta probably left them, but in the light of the doorway I could see the whole room had been trashed. Chairs were knocked over, books spilled down from the high-standing bookshelf, drawers from a desk lay yanked free of their snug home. I had taken four steps into the room when I heard and saw Shannon.

She lay crumpled by the sofa, and the cushions were stained with the blood from her face. Her arms were flung outward, as though ready to give a hug, but not a kiss. Her lovely face was a wet mass, stained with blood and hair and what looked like bone. Her citified black T-shirt was ripped at the collar and I could see her bra strap and a white expanse of shoulder. The acrid smell of bullet fire pervaded the air, in contrast to the sweet honeysuckle on the porch.

I crouched by her, hearing her wet intake of breath before I tried to find a pulse. I couldn’t bring myself to touch her neck; I found a pulse in her wrist. The beat had almost faded, but it was still there, like a last echo on a stage.

I stumbled through the mess to the phone, hearing the porch boards creak under weight. Junebug’s shadow fell into the hallway.

“Call an ambulance!” I hollered. “She’s been shot!”

The next few minutes were a daze. Junebug bolted back to his car and radioed for help. I held Shannon’s cooling hand, telling her that help was on its way, for her to hold on. I don’t know if she heard me; there was no replying grasp on my fingers, and the only noise she made was her breathing. I held each breath of mine until she drew another one.

The ambulance came, along with two of Junebug’s officers. Someone pulled Shannon’s fingers from mine and I watched them take her off in the ambulance. Wordlessly I turned back and walked into the house that still smelled of gunfire. I stood by the gore-stained couch and suddenly needed to sit down, but not there. I sagged and a strong arm, one that felt familiar, caught me.

“Here, Jordy,” Junebug said gently. “Sit here.” He steered me to an easy chair in the corner under a lamp. I trod right over the books and smashed bric-a-brac that littered the floor. I sank into the chair.

Junebug squatted by me, and over his shoulder I saw a wall of crosses. They were of every size and shape, some of metal and some of wood, and right away I saw they formed a larger cross that stood well over seven feet tall. Home decor à la Harcher, I thought crazily. It made the scene even more unreal. I sunk my face into my hands.

“Listen, Jordy,” Junebug said. “Tell me what happened.”

I told him, remembering that it was only two mornings ago I’d had to relate a somewhat similar story. If I kept finding bodies, I wasn’t going to get invited anywhere. Shannon wasn’t a body, I reminded myself. She was alive. For now. I felt cold, despite the spring warmth outside.

Junebug squeezed my shoulder when I was done. “You okay?”

For the first time in all this he sounded like my old friend and rival. I looked up at him with gratitude (not a common occurrence with me) and he smiled grimly.

“I just can’t believe this, Junebug. What the hell is going on here?”

One of Junebug’s officers, the nervous one with the cropped hair that’d been at the library, stuck his head around the corner. “Busted window in the back bedroom, Chief,” he reported crisply. “Looks like the pane was smashed and the window forced up from outside.”

“Thanks. Keep checking around; let me know what you find.” Junebug shook his head, surveying the wrecked room. He walked through the mess, and I followed him. The destruction wasn’t quite complete. One shelf of cheap glass over a secretary-style bureau glittered intact, and another row of Bibles stood on the top-most shelf, probably out of the attacker’s reach. Pictures on one wall, of a younger Beta, a far primmer-looking Shannon in her Baylor graduation gown, and of a nearsighted-looking couple from the Forties peered back at us, still hanging straight from the wall. Shards from a china collection that had seen far better days crunched under my feet. Junebug glanced back at me.

“Maybe you were right, Jordy. Beta must’ve been hidin’ somethin’ in here. This ain’t from any struggle Shannon had with her attacker. Somebody was either looking for something or being a vandal.”

“If someone broke in, Shannon must’ve walked in on them,” I guessed. “She told me she had an appointment with Reverend Hufnagel before she was meeting us back here. She must’ve surprised the intruder.”

“Is that the story you’re peddling now, Poteet?” a nasal voice behind me demanded. Billy Ray Bummel sauntered in like he owned the place. He sniffed the air, like a wine connoisseur inhaling tenderly over a glass of vintage red. “There’s been a crime here, I do believe.”

I was ready to tell him the only crime was his continued employment by Bonaparte County, but Junebug had his own ax to grind. “Lay off Jordy, Billy Ray. He didn’t have anything to do with this.”

Billy Ray whirled on the law like it was a misbehaving dog. “And how are you so sure about that, Chief? Let me remind you that Mr. Poteet here has found both members of the Harcher family dead in the past two days.”

“Shannon’s not dead,” I argued.

He waved off that technicality and tried to get as close to my face as his stunted height would allow. “Not yet. And why not? Because you’re a lousy shot, probably. Because Chief Moncrief here caught you before you could snuff out that poor young thing’s life. What is it that spawns your violence against women-folk, Poteet?”

He was about to see what spawned my violence toward balding, onion-breathed lawyers. Junebug intervened.

“Stop it, Billy Ray. Jordy, you take two steps back and don’t pay him heed.” There was a snapping noise and I saw Junebug pulling on plastic gloves. “Billy Ray, Jordy was on the phone with me immediately before all this happened. He wouldn’t have had time to get over here, trash this room, and shoot Shannon.”

“We are not talking about running across Houston here, Junebug. We are talking about being three streets over. He would have had plenty of time.” Billy Ray fumed, the struggle of doing such calculations draining his energy.

Junebug began picking through the debris of Beta Harcher’s den carefully, not looking at Billy Ray. “Nonsense.” He told Billy Ray about me finding out what Beta had told Josh, bolstering the theory that Beta was using blackmail to build funds for her proposed church. Billy Ray didn’t care for that theory. He turned back on me.

“You’ve spun a might tricky web here, Poteet,” he sneered. “I guess you think havin’ lived in the big city, you’re going to outfox us reg’lar folk. Let me just divest you of that notion, mister. You’re going to have a lethal injection pumped into you if Shannon Harcher dies, and even if you don’t, you’re gonna have one for killing Beta.”

“I bet my uncle Bid could sue you for saying something like that to me,” I said hopefully. My temper was in full force now. I’d seen a lovely young woman lying near death and now this little minnow of a barracuda had the audacity to accuse me, with no proof. “Of course I wouldn’t sue you as an officer of the court. The people of Bonaparte County suffer enough every time you open your mouth as their representative of law and order. I’d see about suing you just as you. Of course, what could I ask for as restitution? I have no burning need for cheap suits, and I just don’t think that I want a cardboard diploma from a mail-order law school with a post-office address.”

Billy Ray showed he had some hot blood by having it all rush right to his face. One big vein popped up on his forehead and I wished for a shrimp deveiner. The little lunk might have actually tried to hit me. Our arguing had brought the pale-faced young deputy back into the room, but Junebug kept shuffling through the dross of Beta’s den. The young deputy stepped between Billy Ray and me, but it was hardly necessary. I wasn’t going to stoop to hitting the worm and he wasn’t about to strike me and get a rep for slapping around taxpayers and fellow civil servants.

“Jordy,” Junebug said in his regular, polite, slow drawl, “what was the name of Eula Mae’s first book?”

The question was so unexpected Billy Ray and I quit glaring at each other and turned to him. Junebug stood, setting an open Bible on a table. A yellowed piece of stationery was in his hand, and he peered at it like it held the wisdom of the ages.

I had to think over Eula Mae’s impressive publishing credentials. “The Rose of San Jacinto,” I finally said.

“And she published it, right?” Junebug said.

“Not a vanity press if that’s what you mean,” I answered, misunderstanding. “It was published by one of the big New York houses.”

Junebug chewed his lip. “Y’all better look at this.”

I nudged in front of Billy Ray and scanned the aged letter Junebug held in his hand. My breath caught at the end:

“Patty? Who the hell’s Patty?” Billy Ray muttered.

I found my voice. “Eula Mae’s sister. Her older sister. She died in, oh, about 1976. Cancer.”

Billy Ray drew in a long breath, like a bloodhound scenting a deer. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting?”

Junebug pulled a plastic bag from his back pocket and eased the document inside. “Doesn’t prove anything yet, Billy Ray.”

Billy Ray coughed. “Kind of indicates to me ol’ Eula Mae’s been pulling the wool over the literary eyes of not just Mirabeau, but New Yawk as well.”

She was working on her latest book when we got there. Billy Ray had tried to send me home, but Junebug said I could stay. He told Billy Ray that Eula Mae was a friend of mine and I could talk to her perhaps a bit easier than either of them.

Eula Mae greeted us with her usual civility and charm. Today she wore some long dashiki-type of robe, speckled with bright purples, oranges, and blacks like the plumage of a tropical bird. Her eyes darted from face to face, as though we were predators of the rainforest.

She bade us sit down in her living room, for which the operative word was wicker. I hadn’t seen so many swirls since my teenage job in an ice cream shop. Junebug and I settled on a couch with a back of dizzying arabesques, and Billy Ray perched next to us on a straight-back chair.

“Y’all wait just one second and I’ll get us some tea,” she trilled, heading into the kitchen.

“You ought to have someone watching the back door,” Billy Ray hissed at Junebug. “She might try and go over that rose hedge in the back.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary, Billy Ray,” Junebug said mildly.

The cat I hadn’t befriended the other day wandered in and eyed our merry band. He regarded me with disdain, Junebug with curiosity, and—perceptively—Billy Ray with contempt. He hissed at the assistant D.A., arching his back (probably the only time Billy Ray has seen a back arch in his presence), and scurried from the room. I liked cats better all of a sudden.

Eula Mae returned with a tray of iced-tea glasses, each topped with a sprig of mint from her garden. We made momentary small talk as she served us. Nervousness hit me like a rock and I sipped at my tea, for once not wanting to say anything. Finding Shannon wounded had dulled me; reading the letter by Eula Mae’s sister had stunned me; and now I sat in my friend’s parlor, with Law and Order on each side, to debate fraud and murder. God, I wanted a cigarette.

Eula Mae sat in a comfortable chair next to the wicker sofa, across the coffee table from Billy Ray. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Junebug raised a warning hand to Billy Ray, and for once Billy Ray leashed his tongue.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard that Miz Harcher’s niece was shot today at her house,” Junebug said.

Eula Mae’s face crumpled. “Oh, my Lord! No, I hadn’t heard.” She paused. “I didn’t even know Beta had kinfolks still around here.”

“Girl’s from Houston,” Junebug replied. “Someone shot her in the face. Don’t know yet if she’ll live or not. Young girl, too, early twenties.”

“How horrible.” Eula Mae shook her head, then looked uncertainly at me.

“Jordy found Shannon Harcher,” Junebug said, as if that explained my presence. “He also found another witness that said, basically, that Beta was extorting money from folks to finance a church she planned to start over in Houston.”

I saw the fight for control on her face. The wrinkled corners of her lipsticked mouth jerked, just once. Her silver bracelets, choking with charms, tinkled as she smoothed out her skirt.

“And why are y’all telling me this? Trying to give me the plot for my next potboiler?” She laughed, and it sounded jagged.

“We think Shannon Harcher walked in on someone ransacking the house. Looking for something, maybe something Beta was holding over their head and using to get money,” Junebug explained.

“So answer me, Junebug,” Eula Mae’s voice rose. “I don’t know anything about Beta getting killed or this Shannon girl getting shot. Why are you here to see me?”

Junebug set his mouth in a thin line. “We found a letter there, Eula Mae. A letter apparently from your sister to a literary agent, asking about representing a book she’d written called The Rose of San Jacinto.”

Eula Mae did not withstand adversity as well as her heroines. Her face blanched, the lines in it seeming to darken as she frowned. One hand flew up to her forehead, like a startled bird returning to roost. “I—I—,” she stuttered.

I saw Billy Ray starting to uncoil like a striking rattler. “Perhaps, Junebug,” I suggested, “Eula Mae should have some legal representation present if you’re going to accuse her or—”

“No!” Eula Mae thundered, and I fell silent. “No lawyers,” she whispered, and her eyes flicked across each of our faces. “No one else. Who else knows about this, Junebug?”

“Just the three of us,” he answered softly.

“I—I want your help. Each of you, please,” she whispered. This woman seemed crushed; not like the Eula Mae who always tried to run the library board meetings, who played her local fans like a string quartet, who had beaten the odds to make a living as a writer. Even her curly, uncontrollable hair was listless. Her eyes, usually sparkling with gossip and merriment, stared at the floor.

“What kind of help?” I asked.

“I want you to help my sister,” she said, which left us all silent. Eula Mae waved a tired hand and began an explanation. “A few weeks back the Baptist church committee came by looking for items for their rummage sale. I gave them a box of old books that had been my sister Patty’s. I didn’t think to look through them—they were just old books of hers, writers she’d admired as a teacher. Welty, Balzac, Thoreau, Turgenev, Robert Penn Warren. I gave them those books and never gave it a second thought.”

“Till Beta paid you a visit,” I said, finishing her sentence for her.

Eula Mae stared at me and through me. It didn’t matter what I’d said.

“She’d gone through the box I donated, and found a letter Patty wrote to an agent—about her book.” Eula Mae’s tongue flickered across her lips. “I never knew Patty even wrote a draft of such a letter. She never sent one. She was a wonderful writer, but she was just too afraid of rejection. I kept urging her to send it, but she didn’t want to hear anyone say no to it. Then she thought people around here would tease her for writing a romance novel. I suggested she publish it under a pseudonym, but she just laughed. She said if she ever did, it’d be under a joke name like Jocelyn Lushe. She just made up that name out of the blue.” Tears formed in Eula Mae’s eyes. Junebug offered her a handkerchief and she took it, wiping her eyes.

“After Patty died, I just hated the thought of that manuscript sitting there. I started submitting it, but I was afraid no one would touch it if they knew a dead woman had written it. Those romance houses, they want to know they can buy a book and expect others to follow from the same author, build a series and an audience. So I said the book was mine, and I used the Jocelyn Lushe name. It didn’t seem like I was taking credit for her, or stealing from her, because it wasn’t my name. It was her pseudonym. I didn’t plan on continuing it—I just wanted to get Patty’s book published. So I did. And it did really well; it made a lot of money. The publisher started asking me for my next manuscript.” She paused and wiped her eyes again. “I didn’t want to stop. Writing those books was like having Patty back around. She’d had gobs of notes for ideas, so I went through those and wrote another book. Then I got a three-book contract, and I just had to keep writing them.”

“Stealing from a dead woman—your own sister—to make yourself famous,” Billy Ray snorted, shaking his head at Eula Mae with contempt.

He got as good as he gave. “Think what you want, Billy Ray,” she snapped. “There have been eleven Jocelyn Lushe books. I wrote ten of them, and they’ve done damned well. I didn’t steal from Patty; I kept her dream alive. I did all the hard work.”

“But Beta found out,” Junebug prompted.

She nodded, miserably. “Beta found out. She came to me with the letter. I’d never known Patty had written it; it would have been just like her to write it, then not mail it. Just slipped into that book to mail when she got her courage up. I guess her cancer took all her courage.” She dabbed at her eyes, and when she looked up again they blazed, free of tears. “Beta told me, as payback for helping to remove her from the library board, that she’d expose the first book as being Patty’s, not mine. She’d call my publisher, the Romance Writers of America, the news stations in Austin. It could have been very … professionally devastating.”

“So why didn’t she just do that?” Billy Ray demanded.

“She wanted money. Money for her silence,” Eula Mae replied.

“So you gave her $35,000,” I finished, eager to hear and have my theory entirely justified.

Eula Mae blinked at me. “No. I gave her $10,000.”

“So who gave her the other—” I started, but Junebug shushed me.

“When’d you give her this money, Eula Mae?” Junebug asked.

She sniffed, wiping her nose with the handkerchief. “The week before she died. I met her at her house. She’d been babysitting little Josh Schneider. The Schneiders dropped her off at her place and I gave her cash. She wanted more, but I said no. I decided I wasn’t going to keep paying blackmail to that horrible woman, and—”

“And so you killed her,” Billy Ray interrupted. “I’m gonna guess you didn’t tell her no more payments; you agreed to make one final payment. At the library, two nights ago. You killed her to shut her up and stop the extortion. But you still needed to find that letter. So you broke into Beta’s house, tore up her den looking for it, and when Shannon Harcher walked in on you, you shot her in cold blood.” The assistant district attorney leaned as far forward as he could, spewing his accusation like he usually spewed bad breath.

Eula Mae trembled. “That, sir, is what’s known as a damnable lie,” she retorted, and one of her characters couldn’t have said it better. I leaned over and took Eula Mae’s hand.

“I don’t know who killed Beta,” Eula Mae said, “but it wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with that.”

“Had you told her you weren’t going to pay her any more money?” Junebug asked quietly.

She shook her head. “She told me she’d want more later, but not when. I decided the day after I’d paid I wasn’t going to give in to that holier-than-thou witch.”

“You didn’t need too, Miz Quiff,” Billy Ray asserted. “You’d already decided to take action, and you did. Well, this little scandal should help your book sales.”

Her eyes blazed, like an irate devil’s. “You little shyster,” she barked. “I might’ve expected that from you. I told you this ’cause I said I wanted you to help my sister. Help me keep her dream alive. Don’t tell anyone what Beta knew. Do what you like to Eula Mae Quiff, but don’t ruin Jocelyn Lushe.”

Billy Ray shook his head. “No way, Miz Quiff. There’s no way to keep that quiet when your trial starts.”

“Miz Quiff,” Junebug said, not using her Christian names. I didn’t take that as a good sign. “Where were you between two and three this afternoon?”

Her hand trembled in mine. “Here. Editing a manuscript.” She paused. “Alone.”

“Did you see or talk to anyone?” he pressed.

She shook her head. “No, I did not.”

Billy Ray stood. “I think we’ve heard enough, Chief.”

Junebug looked up at him, not wanting to get up from the wicker sofa. The air in the room had taken on a dense, thick quality. I felt choked.

Junebug finally rose to his feet. “I’m sorry, Miz Quiff. I’m going to have to take you down to the station for further questioning—”

“Junebug, please!” she gasped. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Beta, I didn’t shoot that girl. You know me, you know I couldn’t.”

He stared into her face. His mouth worked for a moment, then he found his words. “You’re under arrest for the shooting of Shannon Harcher. You have the right to remain silent. Do you understand?”

Eula Mae sagged against me and I held her up. She only needed a moment. She found the strength in herself and stood straight. I stood next to her, listening to her Miranda rights. She said she understood everything he said to her. I felt like I didn’t understand a damned thing. Eula Mae had lied, and taking credit for her sister’s work wasn’t too acceptable, but I didn’t think she was a killer.

“The handcuffs, Chief,” Billy Ray said when her rights were read.

“That’s not necessary, I assure you.” Eula Mae looked shocked at the very suggestion.

Billy Ray began a whiny protest, but Junebug shook his head. The police chief took her by the elbow and led her toward the door. I finally found my voice.

“Eula Mae! Do you want me to call my uncle Bid?”

“God, no,” she retorted. “You better get me a real lawyer.”