Jeff Abbott - Promises of Home

Eula Mae recovered herself, although I found myself wondering if her plot logjam would be suddenly splintered by the appearance of a dashing new character in his early fifties. “Of course. C’mon, Davis, let’s go see Truda.” She went inside.

Ed watched them go, blinking red-rimmed eyes. He took a long breath, as if he’d been swimming a distance, and walked over to me. He glanced around the porch, making sure we weren’t overheard. “Hey, Jordy, we need to talk. But not in this crowd. You gonna stay awhile?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Ed shook his head. “Damn sorry business this is.” He went inside.

I made my way over to the pipe smoker, studying him as I approached. He looked educated, wealthy, and not a lick like any of the Shiverses, who kept a nice consistent gene pool that led to auburn hair, smiling ruddiness, and heft. He wasn’t watching me; his blue eyes were locked on my group of old friends. He turned, slightly startled, as I offered my hand.

“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Jordan Poteet, an old friend of Clevey’s.”

“Hello.” His voice was full-bodied and soothing. “I’m Steven Teague.”

I blinked. I didn’t know any Teagues in Mirabeau. “Are you visiting from out of town?” Never could say I wasn’t nosy. Perhaps he was a distant relative who lived in Austin or Houston.

He puffed on his briar. “No, I’m new to Mirabeau.”

“Were you a friend of Clevey’s?”

“Not exactly.” He didn’t seem inclined to talk. I didn’t press the issue and left him alone with his pipe.

I walked down the rest of the porch and one of Clevey’s numerous cousins stopped me. “Hey, you get anything out of that fellow?”

“No, he didn’t say a word aside from his name and that he’s new to town.”

“Well, according to Aunt Truda, he was Clevey’s psychotherapist.”

Psychotherapist? Why on earth was Clevey seeking counseling? “Oh, I see,” I managed to say aloud.

I excused myself and approached Steven Teague again. “Pardon me. I understand you were Clevey’s counselor?”

He smiled thinly. “Wormed it out of the family, did you, Mr. Poteet?”

“No, his cousin just told me. I didn’t realize that Clevey was in therapy.”

He didn’t want to discuss Clevey’s problems; his face shut like a slammed door. “I felt I should come pay my respects. I know that Clevey was very close to his mother.” He produced a card: steven teague, lmsw-acp, therapy and counseling services with a Mirabeau address.

Steven Teague saw me trying to decipher the code. “Don’t worry, I’m a licensed professional. I’ve got a master’s in social work, and I’m an advanced clinical practitioner.”

“Oh, yes, well, I see,” I fumbled. Still-Clevey in therapy? He’d seemed moody at times, but he didn’t carry himself as though he were burdened with problems.

“If, in the days to come, you find yourself troubled by this horrible incident, Jordan, and you need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

“Thanks,” I made myself say. Hearse chaser, I thought. But perhaps I was being uncharitable. I didn’t get much of a chance to ponder Steven Teague’s clinical ethics, Eula Mae materialized next to me, smiling up at Steven. Ed stood beside her.

“Poor Truda is refreshing herself in the ladies’ room,” she murmured in a whispery aside to me. “I’ll just have to pay my respects later. And you are?”

I introduced Steven to Eula Mae. I decided to leave him to her tender mercies-until I saw a truck pull up and park next to Eula Mae’s purple BMW.

I recognized Hart Quadlander as soon as he got out, and I shouldn’t have been surprised that Trey was with him. Hart owned a big horse farm on the eastern outskirts of Mirabeau, and Trey’s father had worked for him for years. The Quadlanders went back to some of the original German settlers in Bonaparte County and they’d managed their money well. If there was still a gentleman farmer left in Central Texas, Hart was it. He was a fiftyish, tall, powerfully built man with a deceptively quiet voice and intense gray eyes.

I thought Hart must’ve had the patience of five saints to put up with Trey and his daddy; they were a pair that was always heading for some kind of trouble or aggravation. Louis Slocum, Trey’s father, drank himself to death five years ago, still working on the Quadlander place; Trey had not returned for the funeral.

I watched as Hart eased Trey’s wheelchair out of the truck and then carried Trey and settled him in the chair. Trey steadied the chair on the gravel driveway and began to roll forward.

Of course, his arrival cleared the porch. Why not? An old, long-gone friend returned to the fold during the death of another. I watched, rooted to the spot, while Ed called Davis outside. They jogged over to Trey to say hello, wished him well, called him an old fart and scoundrel, and commiserated over Clevey. There’d been no loss of camaraderie there. Of course, Trey hadn’t nearly destroyed their families. I felt the gentle pressure of Eula Mae’s fingers on my arm.

“You sure are tense,” she said. “Don’t let Trey get to you.”

I shook off her arm. “I won’t, trust me. But look at them, acting like his return is the Second Coming.” Despite the sadness of the occasion, there was the sound of muted laughter from the group; once again, Trey was teasing Ed. Suddenly the porch seemed very lonely.

“They’re his friends. You were once, too,” Eula Mae said. I turned to her, noting that Steven Teague took interest in our conversation. His eyes, an odd indigo, watched me intently.

“Once. That’s the key word. We’re not friends anymore,” I said.

“Don’t make a scene, Jordy. Please.” Eula Mae pressed my hand.

“I won’t. I wouldn’t. I’m too upset about Clevey’s murder to let Trey get to me.”

“The gentleman in the wheelchair-is he Trey Slocum?” Steven asked.

“Yes. Do you know Trey?” I asked. Great, another partisan for the Slocum homecoming.

“The famous Trey,” I barely heard Steven Teague whisper to himself under his breath. Clevey had talked about Trey in his therapy? Why?

Steven Teague forced a smile to his patrician face; he’d read my face. “Oh, yes, generally old friends are mentioned during therapy. Clevey admired you in particular, Jordan. He said he wished he could be more like you.”

That stung. I’d not spent enough time with Clevey, and now I had no time with him at all. But he had hardly reached out to me. I didn’t answer Steven Teague.

The reunion moved up onto the porch, with Davis and Hart carrying Trey’s wheelchair up the steps. Trey saw me and he licked his lips, quickly looking up and smiling at Davis. Hart Quadlander spotted me and nimbly moved to forestall trouble.

Hart’s voice rumbled deeply, as though he’d caught gravel in it on the ride over. “Jordy. Eula Mae. Evenin’. How are y’all?”

Even though I am a native Texan, I have never understood the constant need here to ask people how they are, especially in the midst of sorrow. “I’m fine, Hart. One of my childhood friends was murdered today. Trey’s come home. How do you think I feel?”

“I’m awful sorry about Clevey, Jordy.” Hart tactfully ignored my sarcasm. “I didn’t know him very well, but I know y’all were friends from way back. Please, my sympathies.” He offered his hand.

Of course I softened. I was mad at Trey and I felt shock over Clevey and I’d taken it out on him. I shook Hart’s hand. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I just am not up to-”

“Jordy.” Trey wheeled himself over. His face was ashen. “Jesus, I’m just sick about Clevey. I can’t believe he’s dead. Would you please wheel me in and go with me to see Mrs. Shivers?”