Do Unto Others

Let me just divest you of that notion, mister. You’re going to have a lethal injection pumped into you if Shannon Harcher dies, and even if you don’t, you’re gonna have one for killing Beta.” “I bet my uncle Bid could sue you for saying something like that to me,” I said hopefully. My temper was in full force now. I’d seen a lovely young woman lying near death and now this little minnow of a barracuda had the audacity to accuse me, with no proof. “Of course I wouldn’t sue you as an officer of the court. The people of Bonaparte County suffer enough every time you open your mouth as their representative of law and order. I’d see about suing you just as you. Of course, what could I ask for as restitution? I have no burning need for cheap suits, and I just don’t think that I want a cardboard diploma from a mail-order law school with a post-office address.” Billy Ray showed he had some hot blood by having it all rush right to his face. One big vein popped up on his forehead and I wished for a shrimp deveiner. The little lunk might have actually tried to hit me. Our arguing had brought the pale-faced young deputy back into the room, but Junebug kept shuffling through the dross of Beta’s den. The young deputy stepped between Billy Ray and me, but it was hardly necessary. I wasn’t going to stoop to hitting the worm and he wasn’t about to strike me and get a rep for slapping around taxpayers and fellow civil servants. “Jordy,” Junebug said in his regular, polite, slow drawl, “what was the name of Eula Mae’s first book?” The question was so unexpected Billy Ray and I quit glaring at each other and turned to him. Junebug stood, setting an open Bible on a table. A yellowed piece of stationery was in his hand, and he peered at it like it held the wisdom of the ages. I had to think over Eula Mae’s impressive publishing credentials. “ The Rose of San Jacinto,” I finally said. “And she published it, right?” Junebug said. “Not a vanity press if that’s what you mean,” I answered, misunderstanding. “It was published by one of the big New York houses.” Junebug chewed his lip. “Y’all better look at this.” I nudged in front of Billy Ray and scanned the aged letter Junebug held in his hand. My breath caught at the end: 411 Blossom Street Mirabeau, Texas 78957 January 12, 1975 Ms. Eleanora Parkinson Parkinson Literary Agency 200 East 52nd Street New York, New York 10022 Dear Ms. Parkinson: I’ve written a romance novel, set during the Texas Revolution. The working title is The Rose of San Jacinto. It’s the story of a young woman who is torn between her arranged marriage to a Mexican officer and the gallant rebel that she loves. The book is in finished form and is around 100,000 words. I haven’t been published before, but my sister thinks it’s good. Please let me know if you would be interested in representing this novel to publishers. Sincerely, Patty Quiff “Patty? Who the hell’s Patty?” Billy Ray muttered. I found my voice. “Eula Mae’s sister. Her older sister. She died in, oh, about 1976. Cancer.” Billy Ray drew in a long breath, like a bloodhound scenting a deer. “Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting?” Junebug pulled a plastic bag from his back pocket and eased the document inside. “Doesn’t prove anything yet, Billy Ray.”

Billy Ray coughed. “Kind of indicates to me ol’ Eula Mae’s been pulling the wool over the literary eyes of not just Mirabeau, but New Yawk as well.” She was working on her latest book when we got there.