her sister, Mabel.
But not as long as Berneda Montgomery drew a breath. Lucille had promised Berneda’s husband that she would take care of his wife for the rest of Berneda’s years. With the good Lord’s blessing, large doses of Extra Strength Excedrin, a shot of brandy each night and her own pacemaker keeping her tired heart beating regularly, Lucille intended to keep her vow to Cameron Montgomery even though he’d been a contemptible son of a bitch if ever there was one. Lord knew none of Berneda’s children were capable of caring for their ailing mother. They all thought Berneda’s pacemaker and nitroglycerine pills could ward off her heart problems, but Lucille knew better. Death was clamoring for Berneda Montgomery, and once he’d started calling, there was no stopping the bastard.
She snorted as she lifted the dustpan and glared at the hot sun inching its way across the clear sky. All those kids and not one worth his or her salt.
Then again, who was she to point fingers? It wasn’t as if her own daughter was much better. No, Marta, bless her thoughtless heart, was another one of this generation who did as she pleased, letting the chips fall where they may, “doing her own thing,” leaving destruction in her wake and never once looking back. Even now. She was supposed to have visited, but never did, was supposedly dating some hotshot cop named Montoya in New Orleans, but that must’ve gone south, too, as he’d called looking for her. That was the trouble with Marta. She was a flake. But then that wasn’t a surprise. Lucille had spent over thirty years questioning her own foolish decisions. Decisions she’d made before Marta had been conceived. Even now, Lucille felt sharp shards of guilt about her only child. She loved her daughter with all of her guilty heart and had been Marta’s single support since the kid was five. Yet, sometimes it seemed the bad had outweighed the good.
But one would have thought, with all the children Berneda and Cameron Montgomery had brought into this world, one of them would have turned out decent enough. Lucille tossed the contents of the dustpan over the porch rail, the debris falling to a growing pile beneath a thick wisteria vine that twisted and turned as it curled around the eaves. What chance did any of the Montgomery progeny have with all the bad blood that trickled through their veins? None, that’s what.
She checked on the sun tea she had brewing on the porch railing. Sunlight glinted against the glass jar. Like buoyant bodies on a tepid sea, the bags floated and danced in the amber liquid.
From inside the house, the phone jangled.
Lucille’s old heart missed a beat.
No one had to tell her it was bad news.
“Let me get this straight,” Troy said as he folded his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs in Caitlyn’s kitchen. “Josh is dead. It could be suicide or it might be homicide. The police are still trying to figure out which. Have I got that much right?”
“Yes.” Caitlyn poured fresh water into Oscar’s dish and hoped she didn’t appear as ragged as she felt. She’d called her brother at Montgomery Bank and Trust as soon as Detectives Reed and Morrisette had driven away. Two hours later, after getting her message and calling her back, he’d arrived, made his way through the cluster of reporters hovering near the front gate and landed here, looking more pissed than sad that his brother-in-law was dead.
As Detective Reed had predicted, television crews and reporters for the local papers had shown up shortly after the police had left, knocked on her door, and when she’d refused to answer, taken up residence on the sidewalk in front of her house. She’d caught a glimpse of one slim woman in a smart purple dress and black scarf standing near her front gate while a cameraman filmed her. Caitlyn’s stomach clenched. Not again. No cameras. No reporters. No questions about the intimate details of my life.
“Can’t they tell
But not as long as Berneda Montgomery drew a breath. Lucille had promised Berneda’s husband that she would take care of his wife for the rest of Berneda’s years. With the good Lord’s blessing, large doses of Extra Strength Excedrin, a shot of brandy each night and her own pacemaker keeping her tired heart beating regularly, Lucille intended to keep her vow to Cameron Montgomery even though he’d been a contemptible son of a bitch if ever there was one. Lord knew none of Berneda’s children were capable of caring for their ailing mother. They all thought Berneda’s pacemaker and nitroglycerine pills could ward off her heart problems, but Lucille knew better. Death was clamoring for Berneda Montgomery, and once he’d started calling, there was no stopping the bastard.
She snorted as she lifted the dustpan and glared at the hot sun inching its way across the clear sky. All those kids and not one worth his or her salt.
Then again, who was she to point fingers? It wasn’t as if her own daughter was much better. No, Marta, bless her thoughtless heart, was another one of this generation who did as she pleased, letting the chips fall where they may, “doing her own thing,” leaving destruction in her wake and never once looking back. Even now. She was supposed to have visited, but never did, was supposedly dating some hotshot cop named Montoya in New Orleans, but that must’ve gone south, too, as he’d called looking for her. That was the trouble with Marta. She was a flake. But then that wasn’t a surprise. Lucille had spent over thirty years questioning her own foolish decisions. Decisions she’d made before Marta had been conceived. Even now, Lucille felt sharp shards of guilt about her only child. She loved her daughter with all of her guilty heart and had been Marta’s single support since the kid was five. Yet, sometimes it seemed the bad had outweighed the good.
But one would have thought, with all the children Berneda and Cameron Montgomery had brought into this world, one of them would have turned out decent enough. Lucille tossed the contents of the dustpan over the porch rail, the debris falling to a growing pile beneath a thick wisteria vine that twisted and turned as it curled around the eaves. What chance did any of the Montgomery progeny have with all the bad blood that trickled through their veins? None, that’s what.
She checked on the sun tea she had brewing on the porch railing. Sunlight glinted against the glass jar. Like buoyant bodies on a tepid sea, the bags floated and danced in the amber liquid.
From inside the house, the phone jangled.
Lucille’s old heart missed a beat.
No one had to tell her it was bad news.
“Let me get this straight,” Troy said as he folded his suit jacket over the back of one of the chairs in Caitlyn’s kitchen. “Josh is dead. It could be suicide or it might be homicide. The police are still trying to figure out which. Have I got that much right?”
“Yes.” Caitlyn poured fresh water into Oscar’s dish and hoped she didn’t appear as ragged as she felt. She’d called her brother at Montgomery Bank and Trust as soon as Detectives Reed and Morrisette had driven away. Two hours later, after getting her message and calling her back, he’d arrived, made his way through the cluster of reporters hovering near the front gate and landed here, looking more pissed than sad that his brother-in-law was dead.
As Detective Reed had predicted, television crews and reporters for the local papers had shown up shortly after the police had left, knocked on her door, and when she’d refused to answer, taken up residence on the sidewalk in front of her house. She’d caught a glimpse of one slim woman in a smart purple dress and black scarf standing near her front gate while a cameraman filmed her. Caitlyn’s stomach clenched. Not again. No cameras. No reporters. No questions about the intimate details of my life.
“Can’t they tell
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