know the difference.”
He smirked. “You can take it or leave it. It does not matter a lick to me. I have olives to pick, and so do you.” He drank down more coffee.
Mom’s kitchen still smelled sweet from all the cookies. Some of my favorites were piled on plates on her counter, covered in plastic wrap. A few of them were calling to me, but I didn’t want the distraction at the moment.
“I don’t have time to pick today. There’s a killer loose on the ranch and I have to round him up.”
I was suddenly feeling as though I were in a Clint Eastwood movie.
“Do not joke about this. It can be dangerous for you.”
“Is that a threat?”
He shook his head. “It is a warning.”
“I’ll take that under advisement, but in the meantime, what about that document I fetched for Mom yesterday? The one that turned all this land back over to Dickey if he was ever proven innocent of the murder of Carla DeCarlo? That document alone is motive enough to send the whole lot of you to prison for Dickey’s murder. I can’t believe you let her sign that.”
He pulled out a fancy gold lighter and lit his cigar; puffing several times to get it going.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” he said as smoke swirled around his head, the fragrance sweet and musky at the same time. My dad used to smoke that same cigar. I loved the smell, and it usually worked like a salve on me.
But not today.
“Oh please. Your name is on that document as one of the witnesses.” I thought I’d remind him just in case he overlooked that minor detail.
He slid the long fat stogy out of his mouth, blew out a plume of smoke and said, “I think you are mistaken. I would have never agreed to anything like that.”
I stared at him for a moment then decided to get the paperwork. I went to my mom’s room, walked in past her bed to the jewelry armoire and opened the drawer, which triggered the music as I grabbed the paperwork, then I shut the drawer, the music thankfully stopped and I turned to walk back out, but stopped at the sight of black men’s pants dangling from the hook behind Mom’s door. Pants that had tobacco stuck to the pocket.
Benny’s pants.
When I caught the brown men’s slippers sticking out from under the bed I cringed.
Mom was sleeping with Uncle Benny? How long had that been going on that he was comfortable enough to bring over his own slippers?
I didn’t want to think about it. This was all getting way too weird. How could I have not noticed the two of them had a thing for each other? I mean, I knew Mom had an unusual fascination with Benny, but this was more than just a fascination. Slippers bordered on commitment. Even Leo had never kept his slippers under my bed. Hell, I didn’t actually know if Leo owned a pair of slippers, probably one of our many commitment issues.
I walked back into the kitchen, just as Uncle Benny was up pouring himself another cup of coffee from the glass decanter on the counter. A large round crystal ashtray sitting on the table held his burning cigar. He slowly added cream and sugar to his pink cup.
“Here,” I tossed the papers on the table. “The last page might refresh your memory.”
He walked back to the table, sat down on his chair, flipped through the document, read the last page and slid the document toward me. “Like I said, I do not know what you are talking about.”
He blew on his coffee and slurped up a drink.
I picked up the papers going directly for the incriminating page, but it wasn’t there. I flipped through the rest of the pages, nothing.
It simply disappeared.
Of course it did.
“I should have known better. You took it, didn’t you?” He merely stared at me. “There will be copies of it, you know. The courthouse will have one.”
“You can check, but if it never existed, then it will not be there, will it?”
“What about the notary, Peter Doyle? He’ll have a copy.”
He turned to me. His black hair greased straight back, face smooth from a recent shave, but heavily lined from years of criminal stress. These older Made Men had the same set of lined foreheads, and deep creases cutting along the sides of their nose to their mouths. Their notorious lives showed on their faces,