Jan Hudson - The Judge

“There’s a map of town in there, too,” B.D. told her. “Not that you’re likely to get lost. Just stop and ask anybody for directions to where you want to go. Naconiche is a right friendly place.”

There was a rap on the open door, and an attractive blond woman with a tray came in. “Hi, Carrie. I’m Mary Beth Parker, owner of the Twilight Inn and Tearoom. I’ve brought you soup and a sandwich and some raspberry tea. I hope you like avocado.”

“I adore avocado,” Carrie said, smiling. “Thanks for rescuing a starving woman.”

“No problem.” Mary Beth set the tray on the small table near the microwave. “Welcome to Naconiche, Carrie. Curtis tells me that you’re going to be with us for several weeks.”

“She’s one of them genealogists,” B.D. said.

“How fascinating,” Mary Beth said. “I’d love to hear more about it sometime, but I’m sure you’d like to have your lunch and get settled in now. My daughter and I live in the apartment behind the office, so call if you need anything.”

“I will. Thanks.”

“Come on, guys,” Mary Beth said, hustling the old men from the room, “let’s leave Carrie in peace.”

Carrie smiled as she closed the door behind them. She liked Mary Beth immediately. They were about the same age, and she suspected that given different circumstances, they might become friends. For sure, Mary Beth would be a valuable source of information.

From the time she’d rolled into the city limits, Carrie had felt good vibes in this little jerk-water town. Strange, since she was a city girl through and through. Maybe it was because she could smell oil hidden in the hills and hollows. Or maybe it was something else. In any case, she had a hunch—and her hunches were always dead-on—that this assignment was going to be different from all the others.

As she lifted the napkin from the food tray, her thoughts went briefly to Judge Horace P. Pfannepatter. Too bad he was married.

Carrie couldn’t function without her morning jolt of caffeine, and there was no way of getting the can open short of chewing it off with her teeth. And she was tempted to try that. She spat out a few colorful phrases and threw the recalcitrant can opener across the room. The blasted thing didn’t work. All she’d managed to do was puncture the coffee can and let out a whoosh of aroma that ran her crazy.

Her frustration level was off the charts. In spite of stocking up on a few breakfast items the afternoon before, it looked like the City Grill for her. She hoped they opened early. After dressing quickly in jeans and a pullover, she grabbed her briefcase and tore off toward the square of the small town.

The café was doing a brisk business. Only two seats at the counter were available. She commandeered one of them and stowed her briefcase between her feet.

“What’ll it be, honey?” asked the pint-size waitress who held a steaming carafe.

“Coffee,” Carrie said. “Quick.”

The waitress laughed, and the web of lines around her eyes put her age closer to sixty than forty. “One of them mornings, huh? I’ve had a few of them myself.” She slipped a mug onto the counter and poured in one practiced motion. “Cream?”

“No. Black is fine.”

“I’ll be back when you’ve had time to rev your motor.” The waitress turned to an elderly man who’d taken the stool next to hers and poured a mug for him. “Morning, Mr. Murdock. Haven’t seen you around for a few days.”

“Good morning, Vera. I’ve been in Dallas. I returned last night.”

“Have you heard about Horace Pfannepatter?”

Carrie’s ears perked up, and she glanced toward the two.

The old man, who was wearing a suit and a red bow tie, nodded gravely. “Yes, I had a message on my machine. Sad business. And him in his prime. I’m sure Ida must be devastated. I plan to call on her this morning.”

“She’s pretty broke up. Them two was real close, and I don’t know what she’ll do without him.” Vera turned to Carrie. “Hon, have you decided what you’ll have to go along with that coffee?”

Carrie hadn’t given food any thought. Was that her Horace Pfannepatter they were talking about? “Uh, I’ll have a toasted bagel.”

Vera gave her a toothy grin. “You’re not likely to find any bagels around here—unless they carry some frozen ones over at Bullock’s Grocery. Closest thing I can offer you is a short stack.”

“That’s fine,” Carrie said, her mind still not on food. “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I heard you talking about Horace Pfannepatter. Is he the one who’s justice of the peace?”

“Vera!” a male voice called from a booth in the rear. “Could we have another round of coffee back here?”

“You and Frank keep your britches on, J.J. I’ll be there in a minute,” she blared, then she nodded to Carrie and said quietly, “The very one. Keeled over with a heart attack real sudden.”

“And died?”

“Deader ’n a doornail.” Vera topped Carrie’s coffee and took off at a fast clip, shouting as she strode, “Gimme a short stack, Lonnie, and a number three over easy.”

Carrie was too stunned to do anything but stare after the waitress. She couldn’t believe that the good-looking JP had died. He’d looked so…healthy when she saw him yesterday. She felt a sudden and aching loss—and she barely knew the man. The thought of pancakes made her stomach turn over. She drank her coffee quickly, slapped a bill on the counter and fled with her briefcase.

She decided to buy a new can opener, go back to her room and start the morning over. Horace stayed on her mind the entire time she searched Bullock’s aisles. His loss haunted her. Crazy, she told herself. She’d only seen the man once in her life…but somehow he’d made a powerful impression.

FORTIFIED WITH more coffee and a carton of peach yogurt, Carrie went downtown again and parked in front of the old stone courthouse that had probably been built a hundred or more years ago. Three stories tall, the handsome pillared structure was similar to a dozen or two original courthouses still in use in Texas—Texas Renaissance the style was called, a combination of architectural styles popular during the period. Carrie hadn’t been in all the 254 county courthouses in the state, but she’d visited a large number of them and she was always glad to see one of the old ones preserved.

The Naconiche courthouse showed community pride of the sort that was responsible for the original construction of the town’s heart. Several large trees shaded the grounds and well-tended flower beds flanked the walks. She looked forward to exploring the inside.

A variety of businesses occupied the buildings that faced the square. She noted a couple of antique stores that looked interesting, an ice-cream shop called the Double Dip that she wanted to try out later. Now she needed to familiarize herself with the courthouse, determine where the documents she needed were housed and how the town’s records were kept.

As a petroleum landman she first had to find out who owned the property and the mineral rights to the large area that her company wanted to lease. Locating the property owners wasn’t too difficult—the county tax roles could tell her that. But frequently the current owners didn’t own all the mineral rights. Former owners—sometimes two or three sales back—often retained a percentage of the mineral rights on their acreage, usually a half interest. That meant that she had to track down deeds and locate heirs as well as check on any existing leases.

She couldn’t afford to make any errors, and the tedious work took a lot of time. But actually, she kind of enjoyed doing the research. It was like working a crossword puzzle.