Davis had arrived, with Bradley in tow. Ed resumed his crying as I came back out on the porch and Davis gave him an awkward hug. Cayla Foradory, Davis’s wife, nodded curtly at me and went inside, balancing a casserole dish. She’s a quiet, rather unfriendly woman with fine blonde hair and a perpetual frown. What Davis sees in her I’ve never known.
“Hey, Jordy!” Bradley called, and waved, running toward the house in a ragged gait. “Is Mark here?”
“Bradley!” Davis snapped. “Lower your voice, please, sir. Remember what I said about minding your manners.” Bradley jerked like he was on a leash that’d just been yanked.
“Minding my manners,” Bradley repeated in a far softer tone. I went over to Bradley and gave him a hug. He hugged back. “Sorry, buddy, Mark stayed at home. But I bet he’d be glad to see you if you want to come by tomorrow.” Bradley and Mark, only two weeks apart in birth, had grown up together. Mark, despite his sauciness toward his mother and me, had always been gentle with Bradley. Maybe he found Bradley impossible to stay mad at for long.
Davis was accompanied by his cousin, who I was delighted to see. Eula Mae Quiff was not usually the first person you’d invite to a wake, but she was sure to liven it up. Eula Mae was our local celebrity, a prolific and successful romance writer, although she’d been agonizing over her latest torrid magnum opus. I hoped she wouldn’t start bitching about writer’s block; this wasn’t the place. Of course, Eula Mae considered the world her stage and Clevey’s death might just be a minor scene.
Eula Mae made her rounds, embracing each of us. She was about twelve years older than we were and viewed us like errant little siblings. She saved my hug for last; considering how much free advice she dispenses my way, I suppose she considers me a special case.
“Jordy. What a day you’ve had. First that no-good Trey Slocum back in town, and now poor Clevey dead.” She patted her mountain of reddish curls with a ring-heavy hand. Eula Mae should not be allowed near open bodies of water while wearing that much jewelry.
“How’d you hear about Trey being back?” I asked.
“That dreadful Gretchen creature called me. As though she and I were ever friends, especially after the hateful way she’s treated you. Anyhow”-she sniffed-“she said something about you needing your friends now, and she thought I’d like to know about what happened at the library with Trey.”
Gretchen? Concerned about me? The world was getting weirder by the hour.
“How are Mark and Arlene holding up? Have they seen him?” Eula Mae asked, taking a casserole dish from Davis, who was now having to comfort a once-again weepy Ed.
“No, they haven’t, and I told him to mind his distance.”
“Well, sweetie, I’m sure it’ll all work out. I really must get inside and see how poor Truda is. How’s she holding up?”
“As well as can be expected, considering her son’s been murdered. Actually, I think Truda is an amazingly strong-”
“Excuse me.” A distinguished-looking gentleman, tall and lanky with silvering brown hair, eased past the front door and came out onto the porch. I moved aside to let him pass and found myself slamming into Eula Mae’s casserole dish. Her jaw was about to dent the Saran Wrap cover of her broccoli-cheese-rice medley. I watched her watch the gentleman walk to an unoccupied corner of the porch, produce a pipe from the innards of his brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket, and fill it with tobacco.
“What marvelous hands,” Eula Mae breathed. “I wonder who that man is. I don’t believe I’ve seen him about.”
I cleared my throat. “Don’t you have to go get that food to Miz Shivers?”
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.