A Garden of Vipers by Jack Kerley Page B

pictures. Behind this nucleus were several other men and women.
    Forefront in the vanguard group was a tall, fortyish man with an older woman on his arm. She was the one person in the group who didn’t look direct from a Vogue evening-wear issue: white-haired, plank-faced, pale, eyes as dark as coal. A large woman, she wasn’t obese, but sturdy, a prize Holstein in a designer toga.
    The tall man escorted her to the unoccupied tables as pout-mouth whisked away the RESERVED placard. Only after she had sat and nodded did the others take seats.
    I chuckled at the spectacle. “Looks like Buckingham Palace let out.”
    â€œIt’s the Kincannons, Carson. Surely you’ve heard of them.”
    It struck a chord. “There’s a big plaque at the police academy that mentions a Kincannon something or other. Maybe a couple huge plaques. A program?”
    â€œA grant, I imagine. The family is big on grants and donations and endowments.”
    I studied the tall man: well-constructed, his tuxedo modeled to a wide-shouldered, waist-slender frame. His face was lengthy and rectangular; had he wished to ship the face somewhere for repairs, it would have been neatly contained in a shoe box. Judging by the admiring glances of nearby women, however, it was a face needing neither repair nor revision. He seemed well aware of this fact, not standing as much as striking a series of poses: holding his chin as he talked, crossing his arms and canting his head, arching a dark eyebrow while massaging a colleague’s shoulder. He looked like an actor playing a successful businessman.
    â€œWho’s the pretty guy working the Stanislavsky method?” I asked. “Seems like I’ve seen him before.”
    A pause. “That’s Buck Kincannon, Junior, Carson. Sort of the scion of the family.”
    â€œHow are scions employed these days?” I asked. “At least this scion.”
    â€œThe man collects cars and art and antiques. Sails yachts. Breeds prize cattle.”
    â€œGood work if you can get it,” I noted.
    â€œHe also runs the family’s investments. The Kincannons have more money than Croesus. Buck keeps the pile growing.”
    The funds would be fine if they grew as fast as the throng gathering to acknowledge the late arrivals, I thought. An overturned beer truck wouldn’t have pulled a crowd faster. Several notables hustled over: an appellate judge, two state representatives, half the city council.
    â€œWhat’s the connection to the station?” I asked.
    â€œThe family’s one of the major investors in Clarity, part of the ownership consortium. Buck Kincannon’s my boss, Carson. Way up the ladder, but the guy who makes the big decisions.”
    Clarity Broadcasting owned Channel 14 and a few dozen other TV and radio outlets, primarily in the South, but according to newspaper accounts they were pushing hard toward a national presence.
    â€œWho’s the older woman?” I asked.
    Dani’s voice subconsciously dropped to a whisper. “Maylene Kincannon. Queen Maylene, some people call her. But only from a distance. Like another continent. Buck’s the oldest of her kids, forty-one. Beside Buck is Racine Kincannon and his wife, Lindy. Racine’s thirty-eight or so. The guy closest to Mama is Nelson Kincannon, thirty-four I think.”
    â€œWho are the others with them?”
    â€œCongressman Whitfield to the right, beside him is Bertram Waddley, CEO of the biggest bank in the state, next to Waddley is—”
    I held up my hand. “I get the picture.”
    I turned from the hangers-on and scanned the brothers: Buck, Racine, Nelson. Though the angular faces weren’t feminine, the men seemed almost gorgeous, their eyes liquid and alert, their gestures practiced and fluid.
    My eyes fell on the matriarch, lingered. Though her skin was pale and her hair was snow, nothing about her said frail. She looked like she could have wrestled