sit over here,” she said. “It’s always cooler in this part of the room, don’t ask me why. He’s our new manager. We run a thousand head here, don’t need more than two hands to work them. Used to be my brother and Sam—till my brother moved out, and Sam went west. Rafe’s the manager now.”
She settled in a white wicker chair with a bright yellow cushion, folding her long legs under her. I sat opposite her in a chair with a lime-green cushion. The corner where we sat was decorated with ferns in huge clay pots, and it did seem cooler than the rest of the house.
“Why the shotgun?” I asked.
She smiled. “Make sure you weren’t one of the bad guys,” she said.
“Bad guys?”
“Where you’ve got cows, you’ve got people wanting to steal them,” she said. She was still smiling. “Rustling,” she said. “You heard of it?”
Rustling, I thought. In Florida. I suddenly felt a long, long way from Chicago, Illinois.
“Actually,” she said, “we keep the main gate unlocked during the daytime, put the padlock on it only at night. Mom knew you were coming, sent Rafe down to look for you.” She sipped at her tea. “So who do you think killed my brother?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Neither do the police. Some Mickey Mouse department we’ve got in Calusa. Straight out of Disney World.”
I made no comment.
“Been how long already?” she said. “Ten, eleven days? Not a clue , can you believe it? Somebody walks in, stabs Jack how many times? Gee, looka this, the cops say. Gee, whatta we do now? So meanwhile the killer’s out there maybe planning to knock off somebody else. If he hasn’t already.” She shook her head. “Strictly amateur night in Dixie.”
“Are you from someplace else originally?” I asked.
“No. Why? Oh. That’s just an expression, haven’t you ever heard that expression? Amateur night in Dixie? What it means, it means...well, Mickey Mouse.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “I was born right here,” she said. “Well, not right here on the ranch , but in a hospital in Ananburg. That’s the nearest hospital, Ananburg. For people , I mean. For the stock, Mom uses a vet about three miles down the road. What’d you want to see her about?”
“Well, I’d rather discuss that with her personally,” I said.
“Sure, no problem.”
“What’s the Sunny for?” I said.
“You won’t believe it,” she said, “Sylvia!” and wrinkled her nose. “Can you imagine me as a Sylvia ?”
“Not very easily,” I said.
“No way ! They started calling me Sunny when I was still a little kid. ’Cause I have blonde hair, of course, and also because I have a very sweet disposition, ha!” she said, and snorted.
“Don’t you?” I said. “Have a sweet disposition?”
“Mister, I’m as mean as a fucking tiger,” she said, and someone across the room said, “Nice language, Sunny.”
We both turned.
“Oops,” Sunny said, and immediately covered her mouth with her hand.
The woman standing just inside the screen door was an older, more elegant version of the girl who sat opposite me with her face now buried in both hands. She was not quite as tall as her daughter—assuming she was indeed the Mrs. McKinney I was expecting—but the tan high-heeled boots she wore added at least another two inches to her already substantial height. She was wearing white, form-fitting designer pants and a white T-shirt. In her right hand she held a cowboy hat like the ones Charlie and Jeff had worn on the night they’d tried to rearrange my features. In her left hand she held a pair of tan leather gloves. Her blonde hair was styled in a short shingle cut, and her cheeks, eyes, and mouth were Sunny’s, exactly. The haughty nose with the slightly upturned tip would have been an exact replica of Sunny’s, too, were it not for a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge. I supposed she was somewhere in her mid-forties. I got to my feet the instant she moved
She settled in a white wicker chair with a bright yellow cushion, folding her long legs under her. I sat opposite her in a chair with a lime-green cushion. The corner where we sat was decorated with ferns in huge clay pots, and it did seem cooler than the rest of the house.
“Why the shotgun?” I asked.
She smiled. “Make sure you weren’t one of the bad guys,” she said.
“Bad guys?”
“Where you’ve got cows, you’ve got people wanting to steal them,” she said. She was still smiling. “Rustling,” she said. “You heard of it?”
Rustling, I thought. In Florida. I suddenly felt a long, long way from Chicago, Illinois.
“Actually,” she said, “we keep the main gate unlocked during the daytime, put the padlock on it only at night. Mom knew you were coming, sent Rafe down to look for you.” She sipped at her tea. “So who do you think killed my brother?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Neither do the police. Some Mickey Mouse department we’ve got in Calusa. Straight out of Disney World.”
I made no comment.
“Been how long already?” she said. “Ten, eleven days? Not a clue , can you believe it? Somebody walks in, stabs Jack how many times? Gee, looka this, the cops say. Gee, whatta we do now? So meanwhile the killer’s out there maybe planning to knock off somebody else. If he hasn’t already.” She shook her head. “Strictly amateur night in Dixie.”
“Are you from someplace else originally?” I asked.
“No. Why? Oh. That’s just an expression, haven’t you ever heard that expression? Amateur night in Dixie? What it means, it means...well, Mickey Mouse.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Sure,” she said. “I was born right here,” she said. “Well, not right here on the ranch , but in a hospital in Ananburg. That’s the nearest hospital, Ananburg. For people , I mean. For the stock, Mom uses a vet about three miles down the road. What’d you want to see her about?”
“Well, I’d rather discuss that with her personally,” I said.
“Sure, no problem.”
“What’s the Sunny for?” I said.
“You won’t believe it,” she said, “Sylvia!” and wrinkled her nose. “Can you imagine me as a Sylvia ?”
“Not very easily,” I said.
“No way ! They started calling me Sunny when I was still a little kid. ’Cause I have blonde hair, of course, and also because I have a very sweet disposition, ha!” she said, and snorted.
“Don’t you?” I said. “Have a sweet disposition?”
“Mister, I’m as mean as a fucking tiger,” she said, and someone across the room said, “Nice language, Sunny.”
We both turned.
“Oops,” Sunny said, and immediately covered her mouth with her hand.
The woman standing just inside the screen door was an older, more elegant version of the girl who sat opposite me with her face now buried in both hands. She was not quite as tall as her daughter—assuming she was indeed the Mrs. McKinney I was expecting—but the tan high-heeled boots she wore added at least another two inches to her already substantial height. She was wearing white, form-fitting designer pants and a white T-shirt. In her right hand she held a cowboy hat like the ones Charlie and Jeff had worn on the night they’d tried to rearrange my features. In her left hand she held a pair of tan leather gloves. Her blonde hair was styled in a short shingle cut, and her cheeks, eyes, and mouth were Sunny’s, exactly. The haughty nose with the slightly upturned tip would have been an exact replica of Sunny’s, too, were it not for a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge. I supposed she was somewhere in her mid-forties. I got to my feet the instant she moved
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