Rick Riordan - The Devil went down to Austin

"Coerced?"

"Sure. You remember. You said Jimmy was asking about his mother."

I started to tell her about Clara Doebler's suicide.

"I know," she interrupted. "You think the family history is important?"

Her tone told me it wasn't just a processofelimination question. She was testing, putting out a line. I wondered how she knew about Clara's death.

"His cousin W.B. runs the family company," I said. "He wouldn't tell me anything, but I got the feeling there might be something about Jimmy's death-something that makes the family nervous."

Maia watched the neon cows. "Garrett and Jimmy had a long history-a lot of bad blood between them. Lopez will use that for motive."

"I know."

"We have to be sure Lopez doesn't have a point."

I didn't like the silence between us-a heavy feeling, like the beginning of a landslide.

I didn't like the fact that neither of us felt confident enough to leap to Garrett's defence.

"Jimmy has an aunt in town," I said. "On the phone, she seemed a little more pliable than W.B. We could go see her, try running the family angle."

Maia studied the palm trees.

"We," she said, like she was testing the word, seeing how much weight it would hold.

I waited through a full rotation of the Sixth Street light, but Maia said nothing more. I figured I'd gotten as much of a yes as I could hope for.

I put the truck in drive and headed north again, toward Hyde Park.

Faye DoeblerIngram's house was a small folk Victorian on an unmarked residential half block, tucked behind a vegetarian restaurant and a lesbian gift shop. I drove past, Uturned, and parked across the street at the base of one of the city's moonlight towers.

The front porch was outlined with lacy white trim. The screen door was peach, the porch swing green. Her sidegabled roof had recently been sheeted in galvanized steel. Her yard was a quarteracre garden-every square foot cultivated with herbs and wildflowers, pathways made from broken flagstones. A good deal of money had gone into making the house look quaint and rustic. It didn't look like the kind of place where the resident was accustomed to being rocked by tragedy.

Maia opened the passenger's side door, bringing in the scents of the neighbourhood-cut grass and garden herbs.

"Tu es pres?" she asked.

"Just like old times."

Even a hint of her smile gave me more pleasure than I wanted to admit.

Maia led the way. The white cotton straps of her dress made an X across her shoulder blades. Her hair had grown longer than I'd realized. Gathered in a white scrunchietie, her glossy chocolate brown ponytail didn't look so much girlish as formidable-like the mane of a T'ang warrior.

The garden was hazy with the smells of catmint, thyme, and sage. We climbed the front steps, ducked under a trellis of grapevines.

The lady of the house opened her screen door before we reached it. "May I help you?"

She was a slight woman in her sixties-stick arms, a pleasantly wrinkled face surrounded by enormous permed hair the bright colour of new pennies. Her jeans and blouse were covered with a gardener's apron, but she wore full makeup and silver jewellery. She looked like a friendly earth gnome who'd just been to the beauty parlour.

Maia said, "Mrs. DoeblerIngram?"

"Just Ms. Ingram," the woman replied gently. "Yes?"

She held a spade, a clod of mud stuck to the point.

I said, "We spoke on the phone. I'm Tres Navarre. This is Maia Lee, a friend."

Faye Ingram's eyes got smaller, more wary. "I don't… you mean about Jimmy's death?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "There've been some developments since we spoke, Ms.

Ingram. We thought you'd want to be prepared if the police contact you. May we come in?"

She wavered, but refusal wasn't really an option, the way I'd phrased it. She let us in.

The house had the same wildly cultivated look as the front garden, clumps of floralpattern sofas, sprigs of end tables blooming with houseplants, tall pedestals topped with artwork, even one of Jimmy's large ceramic pieces. The smell of freshbaked cinnamon bread wafted from the kitchen. Somewhere in the back rooms, Dylan's Blood on the Tracks was playing. Faye Ingram may have looked nothing like her nephew, but being in her house, I could believe they were related.

Yet something struck me as out of character-something that told of fear. There was a blinking sensor by the door, discreet wires running up the sides of the windows, a keypad next to the light switch. Laidback Ms. Ingram had one of the finest security systems money could buy.

She led us through a hallway, out into the backyard.

The sun was filtering through the branches of an enormous oak tree. On the sidewalk, a circle of five sun tea jars glowed like some weird, translucent Stonehenge. Lining the fence were tomato and pepper cages, mansized sunflowers slouched in their last weeks of life-leaves curled brown and seed faces blasted from heat and the work of birds.

We sat in patio chairs under the oak.

"So," Ms. Ingram said uneasily. "You have something to tell me?"

"We wanted to ask about Clara's suicide," I said.

If I was expecting a strong reaction, I didn't get it. Ms. Ingram's smile stayed polite, colourless, wavering no more than her hairdo. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what this has to do with Jimmy."

"In the weeks before he got murdered," I said, "Jimmy was researching his mother's past. I know he called you and W.B. and several other relatives. He also called the police, asking for the files on Clara's death. I know Clara's relationship with the Doebler clan was… rocky. It may have nothing to do with Jimmy's death. It just strikes me-"

Ms. Ingram's eyes were watery, unfocused, courteous. I suddenly felt guilty, as if I were forcing something unpleasant into a fragile container.

"It unsettles us," Maia said. "The way Clara died, the place. Jimmy dying in the same spot, the same way."

Faye Ingram laced her fingers together, set them like a little igloo on the mint green patio table. "The police tell me they are close to an arrest."

"They are," I agreed. "And once they have a convincing possibility, they won't look elsewhere unless they have their arms twisted. The rest of the Doebler family isn't likely to twist, are they?"

"Your brother-he is the one they will arrest. Yes?"

"Yes."

"And would it surprise you greatly if I refused to help you?"

"No."

Ms. Ingram read my eyes, then looked toward her garden-the giant, ruined heads of sunflowers. Ms. Ingram nodded, as if she'd made a decision.

"Excuse me a moment," she murmured.

She rose, almost trancelike, and wandered inside.

Maia and I looked at each other.

I shook my head doubtfully, by no means sure Faye Ingram would be coming back without the police.

Inside the house, a Bob Dylan track played through. Faye Ingram reappeared. She carried a brown leather binder the size of an Oxford English Dictionary volume. Two sweaty glasses of tea sat on top.

"My manners need polishing," she apologized. "Except for the herb society, I don't entertain many guests."

We thanked her for the tea.

Ms. Ingram's smile started to reform as she ran her fingers over the old brown binder, smearing the rings of condensation.

I finally realized why her face seemed familiar. She looked like the picture Jimmy had kept on his mantel-her sister Clara. The resemblance wasn't much-a faraway look in the eyes, frailness in the smile, features too delicate to maintain much emotion.

She opened the binder, carefully extracted a photograph.

"This is Clara and James-Jimmy's father."

The photograph paper was parchmentthick, the colours hand tinted in late 1950s pastel. Clara Doebler wore a satin bride's dress. Her smile was perfunctory, her hair done in a beehive the same unnatural copper colour as Faye's hair today. At Clara's side was the groom-a roughcut man with unruly Elvis hair and a rakish face that reminded me pleasantly of Jimmy's.