Death of a Rancher's Daughter Read online

  BJ rubbed her chest. “I'm sorry, y'all. I told her to be here.” She made a little grunting noise. “Some other time.”

  “Yes, some other time.” Since Sandra didn't intend to take the case, some other time would be a long time coming.

  A highball glass with melting ice cubes and the dregs of amber liquid in the bottom sat on the counter in front of Rex.

  “Y'all pull up a stool.” BJ opened a huge Sub-Zero refrigerator. She pulled out two plastic-wrapped plates of salad and set them in front of the women. “The girls fixed a little steak salad with raspberry vinaigrette. What do you want to drink?”

  “What’s he having?” Erma cocked her head at Rex as she wiggled her way up on a stool.

  Before Sandra could say anything, BJ laid a hand on Erma's arm. “With your heart condition, you supposed to be drinking?”

  “I'm not the one standing there rubbing my chest,” Erma said. “Are you okay?”

  BJ gave Erma a fake smile. “I'm okay, and you haven't answered my question.”

  “Two fingers is all, to help me sleep.” Erma grabbed a napkin and unrolled it.

  Sandra wanted the same but said, “Milk?” She could have said something to Erma but knew it was useless and didn't have the energy for a scene. She reached for a knife and fork from a crock of utensils standing in the center of the island. “Milk will help me sleep.” She unwrapped her salad and cut into the strip of beef that lay across a pile of spring greens.

  “So which one of you ladies will represent our sweet little housekeeper?” Rex eye-balled first Erma, then Sandra, and tossed back a swallow.

  “Rex,” BJ's voice sounded like someone reprimanding a little child, “mind your own business.” She splashed some bourbon over a couple of ice cubes and pushed it across the bar toward Erma.

  “What?” Rex flashed another smile. “Is something wrong with me asking who's going to be Rufina's lawyer?”

  “I'll be handling the arraignment tomorrow morning,” Sandra said after swallowing her first mouthful of salad, not too bad under the tart raspberry dressing. Did the baby boy intend to try to entertain them? Or would she be able to eat in peace and go to bed?

  “You met with her already, right?” Rex asked.

  BJ whacked at his arm with the back of her hand. She put a glass down in front of Sandra and turned to her son. “Why don't you go to bed?”

  “It's okay, BJ,” Sandra said, looking at Rex. “The jail didn't want to let us in, but I'm sure Rufina is a very sweet lady if she's been your mother's best friend for the last sixty years. I'm pretty sure I met her a long time ago. Is that what you're asking?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  BJ slapped the granite counter. “Enough, Rex. Enough. There's no reason they need to discuss Rufina's case with you.”

  Sandra cut off a piece of steak and forked some greens with it into her mouth. What was Rex doing at his mother's home, anyway? Why hadn't he flown the nest? Or was he there to visit for the Christmas holidays and hadn't left yet? Long visit. She glanced at Erma again, but Erma sipped from the glass of bourbon and wore a blissful expression, as though the booze had smoothed out her wrinkles. “Erma, eat.”

  “Want me to drive you to the courthouse tomorrow, Sandra?” Rex sounded eager. “We need to be sure you don't lose your way.”

  Sandra shook her head. “You're very generous, but I like to drive my own car. I need to go early to meet with Rufina, too.” She took another bite, trying to eat enough to be satisfied, so she could leave. “BJ, you're going to come and bring Erma later?”

  “The jail is across the parking lot from the courthouse,” BJ said. “You won't have trouble finding it. We'll be there before the hearing starts. I can't stand the idea of Rufina facing the judge alone.”

  “She won't be alone, Mama,” Rex said. “There are these ladies. And me. I'll be there, too.”

  “Shouldn't you be going to work tomorrow?” BJ rubbed her arms like she felt a chill.

  Erma said, with a sidelong glance at Sandra, “You really needn't bother yourself, Rex. You go on to work. We'll take care of everything.”

  Rex threw back the dregs of his drink. “Oh, that's okay. I want to be supportive. After all, Rufina's been a part of our family since I was a little kid.”

  “She'll have her own cheering gallery.” Sandra took her last bite of salad and pushed the remainder away. “I'm going to hit the hay. Exhausted after the long drive.” Sliding off the bar stool, she said, “Goodnight,” and strode toward their rooms, eager to distance herself from them, particularly Rex.

  Chapter Three

  Early Monday morning, Sandra donned a hooded sweatsuit and jogged around the ranch grounds, careful to avoid mishaps in the dark. Cedar and other earthy scents filled the crisp, cold air. The lack of humidity, so different from Galveston, opened her lungs. She understood why people liked to live in the hills.

  After her run, Sandra ventured into the kitchen for breakfast. A Latina, in her late teens or early twenties, nodded and averted her eyes. She wore jeans and a black Mexican peasant blouse and had a flowered apron tied around her waist. “Café y desayuno?”

  “Coffee and breakfast? Sí.” Happy she comprehended at least a bit of Spanish, Sandra slid onto a stool and accepted a cup of coffee. Her stomach roared as she breathed in the aroma of bacon and eggs.

  “My name...is Lucia,” the younger woman said, pronouncing the word is as es. She laid a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of Sandra. “Tocino?”

  “Gracias,” Sandra said. “You got me on that last word. If that's bacon or ham, no thanks. Y mi nombre es Sandra.” She began forking food down fast, hoping she didn't appear ill-mannered. She wanted to shower and change, before anyone else turned up, and leave in time to have a good conversation with Rufina.

  Lucia turned back to the stove, which held enough food for a platoon, including a pot of oatmeal and some grits. Sandra took her plate to Lucia, and the girl smiled her thanks. “Adios,” Sandra said.

  She showered and dressed in a pantsuit and pumps and did her makeup and hair, all with no sign from Erma. Grabbing her coat and briefcase, she thought she was going to escape without seeing anyone. On her way to the door, though, she ran into BJ, who didn't look a bit more rested than she had the night before.

  “Good morning,” BJ said. “Ready for some coffee?” She wore jeans and a blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Already had mine and some eggs, thanks.”

  “How'd you sleep?” BJ asked as they walked toward the front of the house.

  “Fine, and you?” Impatience had a hold on Sandra. She struggled to be polite.

  “Oh, I'm one of those rare women who can sleep like a log, even after menopause—not that I can remember that far back,” BJ said, her voice monotone.

  Sandra didn't want to be rude but also didn't want the time to get away from her. “BJ, court's at nine. Have you heard my mother stirring?”

  “Not yet. You can't sit for a spell?” Her eyebrows drew together. “There's something I want to talk to you about.”

  Sandra shook her head. “I can't right now. I need plenty of time to talk to Rufina. Let's have coffee after the arraignment.” She hurried outside and into her car, feeling like she'd temporarily dodged a bullet.

  From the house to the highway was more of a trail than a road but easy to follow. The ranch wasn't as far from town as she had thought the night before. A little more than ten-minutes after leaving the ranch, Sandra arrived at the jail. She parked in the small lot between the jail and the courthouse. The Gillespie County Jail, though a modern facility, looked tiny. That boded well for a county of little towns, assuming it wasn’t over-crowded, but she wasn't so sure how good that would be for Rufina. Small town Texans could be small-minded.

  After showing her bar card to the deputy behind the bullet-proof glass, she passed through the clanking doors. An inmate mopped the concrete floor, and ammonia pierced her sinuses. The white tiled walls were like all other crimi
nal justice institutions, depressing and dull. A deputy led her to a glassed-in conference room where she waited what felt like an excessively long time for such a small facility.

  Rufina, it turned out, wasn't the stereotypical Latina housekeeper Sandra had pictured. Her face—Rufina's face—was difficult to look at. No question she'd been the victim of a fire. If Sandra had known, she'd forgotten. Her stomach compressed like a lemon being squeezed. She struggled not to show her shock, but her lawyer brain immediately logged it. With that face, Rufina would be easy to scapegoat. Studies had shown that jurors generally liked good-looking people better than those who weren't so pretty. Dressed in too-large, drab, blue jail scrubs with the hems rolled up, the tiny woman came only to Sandra's shoulder. Her straight black-and-gray streaked hair, woven into a braid, extended down her back all the way to her waist.

  Clearly Rufina’d had some reconstructive surgery but not enough to make her easy on the eyes. Reddish brown waves of skin surrounded one of her black-brown eyes and stretched across one side of her face. Her nose must have been repaired. Though it wasn't beautiful, her nose was far better than scarred holes would have been. Her lips had been worked on as well, though again, they'd never be like the lips she'd been born with. Rather than hair, scarred and exposed skin sprawled across one side of her head up to a reconstructed ear.

  Were she to become better acquainted with Rufina, and if Rufina was as sweet as BJ said she was, the injuries would not be a distraction for Sandra. A jury of twelve would be a different story. If they didn't know Rufina, jurors wouldn't be able to look at her. If they couldn't look at her, they wouldn't be able to see her as a person. If they did know her, they'd be struck from the jury venire. The defense lawyer's job would be to make Rufina as likable as possible. That would be quite a task even if she were to testify in her own defense.

  Sandra steeled herself. “I'm Sandra Salinsky.” She shook Rufina's small, damaged hand, thankful she would not be the one who would take the murder case to trial.

  “I am so grateful you will take my case, Ms. Salinsky,” Rufina said with just a trace of an accent. Full, throaty, and melodious, her voice ran counter to her appearance. She settled her scarred arm on the small table, smiling as best she could, and leaned toward Sandra as if she were afraid someone would overhear them. “I've heard you're a good attorney.”

  Sandra's cheeks grew warm. “I'm here for the arraignment this morning.” She couldn't bring herself to tell Rufina anything more. She wrote Rufina Barboza at the top of a yellow legal pad. The overwhelming ammonia vapor caused her eyes to tear up, and she drew a shallow breath. “I only need a few facts for now, okay? What are they charging you with?”

  “They say I killed Billie J's daughter, Katy Jo.” Her eyes studied Sandra. She clasped her hands in front of her on the table as though she might bow her head to pray.

  “Yes, but exactly what are the charges? Better yet, did they serve you with the indictment?” She stopped herself from tapping her pen on the note pad.

  “Yes, ma'am. The indictment said I 'intentionally or knowingly caused Katy Jo's death by shooting her with a pistol, to wit: a forty-five-caliber automatic.'“

  Sandra reared back, surprised Rufina could quote the indictment so succinctly. “Uh-huh.” She made some notes. “Anything else? Was there a second paragraph?”

  “No, ma'am. The normal legalese and nothing else. I have never even been arrested before, much less convicted of a crime. There is nothing to enhance the charge with.”

  “Well, that's something anyway.” Erma had said Rufina had worked in the courthouse. She might have said as a clerk. “How is it you're so familiar with the law?”

  There was that smile again. Rufina's eyes crinkled.

  “I was a deputy clerk in the District Clerk's Office for many years.”

  Sandra whacked the table. “I knew that. Here in Fredericksburg?”

  “No, ma'am. Mason County.”

  “Before we go any further, Rufina, would you mind, please, dropping the ma'am? You're older than I am. Call me Sandra.”

  Rufina glanced briefly into her lap. “Yes. Okay.”

  “So you were saying where you worked?”

  “In the next county over, about forty minutes north. I'm friends with the clerks here. We used to sit together at conferences, and I went to high school with one of them.”

  “Excuse me, but you left a job in the District Clerk's Office to become a housekeeper? I mean, didn't Mason County provide you with insurance and retirement and other benefits?” Sandra reined in her bouncing knee. She caught herself rapping her pen on the paper. Though eager to get into the courthouse, she had to observe some formalities, not to mention common courtesy.

  “Do you really want to know all this?” Rufina's eyes roved over Sandra's face as if she could read what was going on in Sandra's mind.

  “I need to know a bit about you if I'm going to argue for bail after the arraignment.”

  “I understand, Ms.—Sandra. If you are going to defend me, you will need to know all about me.”

  Again, Sandra couldn't meet Rufina's eyes. She could kill Erma for putting her in this position. “Just a brief overview for now.” She licked her lips and swallowed, her mouth and throat dry.

  “I went to work for the district clerk in Mason County right out of high school. I worked there almost thirty years.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Sixty-eight, same as Billie J. We grew up together. My father and mother worked on the ranch. She gave birth to me there. My mother became housekeeper when Consuela, the housekeeper before her, died. My parents worked on the ranch all their lives.” Rufina's hands clasped and unclasped and twisted and turned as she spoke. “When my mother and father got to a certain age, they moved back to San Miguel de Allende where they came from. Billie J tried several women, but none worked out. They stole from her. They could not handle the job. She asked me to come and manage the house. She's my friend, so I agreed.”

  Sandra scribbled a summary of Rufina's story on her legal pad. “Very helpful, thanks. So I can tell the judge you've lived on the ranch for several years?”

  “I grew up on the ranch. My husband, he worked on the ranch. We lived in one of the cottages. When my husband died in the fire that caused all this,” her hand swept her face and body, “Billie J built me another cottage to live in.”

  The back of Sandra's neck tingled. She gritted her teeth and swallowed. Curiosity about the fire threatened to take over the conversation, but she glanced at her watch. Not enough time to delve into it, not that it was relevant to the allegations. She cleared her throat. “All right. I think I know how close you are to BJ.”

  “And the children. I would never hurt the children.”

  Their eyes met. Sandra's heart pounded. She felt sorry for Rufina but couldn't let herself get involved. Determined to give up criminal defense work, Sandra was going home to Galveston the next day to pack up her office and move to Houston. “You don't have any idea what the police say your motive was, do you?”

  Rufina shook her head. “I don't know of any reason they might think I would hurt Katy Jo.”

  “Okay. That's enough information for now. The arraignment's at nine, right?”

  “Yes. The courthouse is right across the street from the parking lot. You had to drive past it to park.”

  Sandra stood. “I'll find it.” She held out her hand. “Mucho gusto.”

  Rufina took Sandra's hand. “You speak Spanish?”

  “Enough to say nice to meet you and ask where the bathroom is. And to order cerveza, oh, and breakfast. But I'm learning.”

  “Mucho gusto, Sandra.” Rufina pointed to the conference room door. “You must go back out the way you came, so they can buzz you through. Hasta luego.”

  “See you later.” Sandra nodded and with a couple of strides, exited the little room and arrived at the control booth. She looked back through the small window in the conference room door. Rufina sat as she had earlier, with he
r hands clasped on the table in front of her, but this time she had bowed her head.

  Chapter Four

  The deputy hit the switches that let Sandra out into the lobby, where she found Erma and BJ huddled on a wooden bench like two schoolgirls, deep in conversation. Both of them wore dark pantsuits, coats, scarves, gloves, and sensible lace-up shoes. “What are y'all doing here?” Sandra put on her coat and glanced through the control booth window and into the conference room. Rufina still sat at the table, her head bowed, and her hands clasped.

  “How is she?” Worry lines creased BJ's leathered face. She took Sandra's elbow, escorting her across the lobby and out the door into the chilled air.

  “She's fine. Very nice lady.” Sandra glanced back at Erma, who followed as fast as her short legs could carry her. Had Erma deliberately not told Sandra about Rufina's injuries? Or had Sandra known and forgotten? They had plenty to talk about on the drive back to Galveston.

  “You don't remember Rufina from when you were a child, do you?” BJ asked when they reached the sidewalk. The bare branches of an enormous pecan tree threw shadows on the ground.

  Sandra shook her head. “Should I?” Pecan shells littered the sidewalk from the fall crop and cracked as they walked over them to the parking lot.

  “Yeah, I guess not. You weren't practicing law with your mother when Rufina and I went down to see her about Roy's estate. I believe you were with the district attorney's office.” They reached their vehicles. “Anyway, did you figure out what they've charged her with?”

  “Murder, not capital murder. You could have asked her. Not that it matters for today, but do you know what the basis is for the charge?” Rufina had seemed harmless.

  “They say they found the gun outside her cottage, like she dropped it when she was running away.” BJ shook her head. “I don't believe it, but they don't care what I think.”

  “There's got to be more than that. Why didn't you tell me she'd worked in the courts for so many years?” And why hadn't she told her about the burns? Sandra pressed the remote on her key fob and unlocked the Volvo. She retrieved her briefcase and relocked the car.