You're Not Safe (Texas Rangers 3)

Mrs. Wentworth’s eyes welled with tears that quickly spilled. “I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.”

The older man cleared his throat. “How did she die?”

Bragg hesitated. “We found her in a freezer. She froze to death.”

The couple glanced at each other and then back at him. He’d expected such an odd manner of death to trigger confusion or surprise. But in an unguarded split second the couple showed no surprise.

Mrs. Wentworth moved to one of the overstuffed couches and sunk into the folds, perfectly at ease in the frill and fluff. “I can’t believe this.”

Bragg studied her closely. “There are indications she might have killed herself.”

Mrs. Wentworth shook her head as her husband snorted. “Sara did not kill herself. She had a wonderful life ahead of her.”

Bragg caught a slight hesitation in the woman’s voice. “How well did you know your daughter?”

“I knew her well,” Mrs. Wentworth said. Watery eyes turned angry and defensive. “She and I were close. We had lunch together two days ago. I called her last night and wondered why she didn’t answer but thought she must be out with friends.”

“Our daughter was a successful and accomplished woman,” Mr. Wentworth said.

“What did she do for a living?”

“She was a commercial real estate broker.”

“Did she have properties in East Austin?”

The older man wrinkled his brow, disgust clear. “No. She didn’t work in that part of town. Too dangerous.”

“That area is known for drug dealers. Did she have a history of drug use?”

Mrs. Wentworth barely stifled a pained cry, and it gave Bragg no pleasure to ask such questions. But he needed to know. Needed to ask while the shock remained because when the shock wore off their guard would rise. Later when the adrenaline ebbed and their thoughts cleared a little, they’d regroup, think about their stories, and maybe hire an attorney. This was his best shot to discover what secrets they hid.

“She did not use drugs,” Mrs. Wentworth said, teeth clenched. “Sara was a successful and bright girl. She didn’t need to put poison in her system to function.”

“Sara was engaged and planning to marry in the spring,” her father said. “She’d been to New York weeks ago and picked out her dress. She had no reason to hurt herself. Someone must have done this to her.”

“Did she have a history of mental illness?”

Mrs. Wentworth’s mouth flattened, hesitated. “No. She has none of those troubles. She is . . . was . . . a good girl.” She dropped her face into her hands and wept.

“Ever hear of a place called Shady Grove?”

Both Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth shook their heads.

The old man laid his wrinkled, deeply veined hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Sara would not have done something like this to herself.”

Bragg pulled a small notebook from his back pocket, wondering whom the man wanted to convince. “Can you give me the name of her fiancé?”

“Michael Fenton. He’s a recent graduate of law school and months ago began his first job at Fenton and Davis.”

“It’s a family business.”

“That is correct.”

Bragg hesitated. “Have you ever heard of or met a Rory Edwards?”

Mr. Wentworth frowned. “I knew Rupert Edwards, his father. But he passed away several years ago. Why do you ask?”

“No concrete reasons. Just had a thought.” He glanced at Mrs. Wentworth, who’d paled a fraction. “Does the name ring any bells for you?”

“I know of the family, of course. But we didn’t socialize together.”

Bragg studied her, noting how her mouth compressed. It was grief and shock and something more. His gaze trained on Mrs. Wentworth. “Did you know Elizabeth Templeton?”

This time there was no missing the narrowing of her eyes and tightening of her jaw. “I know her mother, Sylvia. But I never met Elizabeth.”

“What can you tell me about the family?”

Mrs. Wentworth didn’t hide her confusion. “They were a fun couple to be around. Devoted to family and then their son, Jeff, died. Jeff was the family star. The heir. Could do no wrong. When he died that family died.”

Greer Templeton was serious and pensive. And if she’d been fun-loving like her parents, death had dimmed lightness to darkness.

“Why would you ask about the Edwardses or the Templetons?” Mr. Wentworth said. “What does either have to do with Sara?” A hitching voice told him emotions held at bay by shock would soon spill.

Bragg didn’t manage a smile but he softened his gaze. “Just asking. Their names came up earlier this week.”

Mrs. Wentworth lifted her chin. “I can assure you, our Sara had no contact with either of them. Dear Lord, Rory Edwards was a mess.”

As much as he wanted to believe them, most parents didn’t know as much as they thought about their adult children. “Did anyone give Sara any kind of trouble lately?”

Mrs. Wentworth lowered her face to her hands and wept. “No.”

Her husband met Bragg’s gaze. “It’s time you go. You’ve delivered your news, and we’ve told you what we know. We can’t keep talking to you.”

Mrs. Wentworth shook her head. “Her life was perfect.”

Perfect. He’d never seen or experienced it. “I will have questions later.”

The old man’s lip curled into a sneer. “Later. Sure. Whatever. But you must leave now.”

As much as Bragg wanted to keep a foot in the door, he heard it virtually slam shut. Mr. Wentworth called his housekeeper and asked her to show Bragg out. As he left, his thoughts turned to Greer. She had been hiding in plain sight all these years and had only recently resurfaced. And now two people with connections to her family were dead.

Bragg rubbed the back of his neck. He hated coincidences.

Chapter Twelve

Thursday, June 5, 11 A.M.

Greer hadn’t planned to visit the cemetery today. In fact it was the last thing she’d have pictured last night when she’d fallen into bed exhausted. The party had been a success. She’d survived the curious looks and some not-so-polite questions. It hadn’t been fun but it wasn’t as awful as she’d imagined it to be when Dr. Stewart had first floated the idea.

She’d gone to bed feeling hopeful.

And then she’d had the dream. Though it had lasted seconds, it had shadowed her entire morning and left her unable to concentrate.

So after she’d driven into the fields this morning and inspected the vines, she’d told herself she needed to run into town for supplies. The vineyard always needed something, but as she approached the exit for the dry goods store she’d passed it by and kept driving north. Without much thought, she’d found herself driving through the thick iron gates of Longwood Cemetery and up the hill to her brother’s plot.

Greer eased out of the car and, keys in hand, walked the ten yards over the grass lawn to the headstone belonging to Jeff.

The iron urn in front of the white marble headstone was filled with fresh white roses. Judging by their freshness and the day’s growing heat, the flowers must have been placed here within the last hour or so. Her thoughts shifted immediately to her mother, who loved white roses.

Greer knelt in front of the grave. “I’m sorry it’s been so long. Life’s been pretty crazy. I’m still at the vineyard and still trying to grow the best grapes in Texas.”

She touched a blossom, perfect and delicate. “I remember how the country club was full of white roses the night of your birthday party. You cringed when you saw all the flowers. Said it looked like a girl party. But you enjoyed the attention.” She touched a bloom, adjusting it so it sat a little taller. “I was jealous of you that night. I wanted to be twenty-one, and I wanted to be going back to college like you. You had it all, Jeff.”

She sat back on her heels and stared up at the cloudless sky.

“I was glad you needed me. I was glad to drive you and Sydney home. I felt grown up.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I really thought I had it under control. I’ve gone over and over those last minutes before the crash and will always swear there were headlights on the road. No one ever believed me but I know. I’m sorry I didn’t react fast enough.”

Greer swiped away a tear. “I failed you, Jeff, Mom and Dad . . . so many people hurt because of me.”

A shadow cast over her and drew her attention up to an older man wearing a green jumpsuit. He carried a rake in one hand and a shovel in the other. Years in the sun had left his face well lined and deeply tanned. He’d tied his thinning white hair at the nape of his neck and wore a silver chain around his neck. “You all right?”

Greer swiped her tear and rose. “Yeah. I’m fine. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I see folks here all the time that aren’t happy. I make a point to stop and say a word.”

“Thanks.” She studied the flowers. “Do you happen to know who left those flowers?”

He studied the roses. “Don’t know. They were here when I arrived about ten to seven.”

The hot day’s sun burned her skin and had her wishing she’d worn a hat. “I didn’t think they’d been here long.”

“I do know they get changed out regularly. About once a month new flowers arrive.”

“Really?” How could she not have known?

“Yep. Usually before dawn ’cause I’m here by seven. And it’s always white roses.”

She shielded her eyes with her hand. “How long has this been going on?”

“For as long as I can remember. I can’t say exactly when they started.”

“I guess my mom has been putting out the flowers.” However, the statement didn’t ring true. As much as her mother had loved Jeff, she didn’t like coming to the cemetery. Sylvia dealt with life’s ups and downs by avoiding them. But if her mother would ever make such an exception, it would have been for Jeff.

“Couldn’t say. But I’ll keep an eye out going forward. I like a mystery to figure out.”

She didn’t. “Thanks.”

The old man nodded to the headstone. “He was young when he died.”