Read Online A Violent End at Blake Ranch by Terry Shames - Free Book Online Page B

the funniest look on your face.”
    â€œIt’s a tough case,” I say, feeling my cheeks burn. “You asked how I plan to figure this out. There’s no magic to it. It’s a matter of paying attention to details and listening for inconsistencies. It’ll take time.”
    â€œDinner’s ready,” she says. “I hope you like this.”
    At her announcement that dinner is ready, her hybrid terrier, Frazier, hops up from his bed, where he’s been watching us and trots to the stove, looking expectant. “Frazier, how long is it going to take you to learn that you aren’t going to get my dinner?” Ellen says.
    The dog’s ears prick up. “I think it’s the word dinner he’s responding to,” I say. Frazier turns his head to look at me.
    â€œOh, I know it. I’m getting to be like a maiden lady who talks to her animals.” We both laugh.
    We sit at one end of her massive dining table. I find it touching that she has such a big house and a lot of furniture, as if she is holding out for some kind of future where she entertains and the house is full of laughter and friends, and maybe grandchildren at some point. Her two children have only partially forgiven her for leaving their father—she was determined not to tell them how abusive he was to her, though how they could fail to see it is beyond me. Jeanne and I never had children, but it strikes me sometimes that kids can be awfully selfish and unaware that their parents are people, too, deserving of love and a good life.
    â€œThis looks very good,” I say. There’s a lot of brown rice involved and vegetables, with cheese. I taste it and tell her it’s great.
    Her whole face lights up when she smiles. She has dark-brown eyes and brown hair streaked with gray. “People think vegetarian food is boring,” she says. “I’m going to convince you that it can be really delicious.”
    â€œI wouldn’t be surprised,” I say. A little white lie.
    Ellen is easy to talk to, and we spend the rest of the evening talking about art. I’ve told her how I gradually came to appreciate art through my wife, and now I explain how hard it was at first for me to get a handle on modern art. “But once I did, it really grabbed me.” I try to keep mention of Jeanne to a minimum. It feels like Jeanne belongs in another part of my life, and I don’t want Ellen to have to confront my deceased wife every step of the way; the same way I don’t want to have to have Seth Forester’s name popping up every few minutes.
    Ellen tells me that she loves teaching art. “It’s amazing how many people enjoy it who never knew they had the least bit of talent.”
    I know she means Loretta Singletary in particular. Loretta’s son’s family took her on a trip to Washington, DC. Having been dragged through several art museums by her daughter-in-law, she came back with a mind to try her hand at watercolors. The surprise was that she showed a gift for painting, including composition, which is what seems to stump a lot of beginners. Loretta insists that it’s nothing more than a hobby she has found a passion for late in life. And she despises being compared to Grandma Moses.
    â€œShe asked me the other day if I would teach her how to do oil painting,” Ellen says.
    â€œAre you going to do it? That’s a whole different type of painting. You need ventilation and you have to be careful with it.” I don’t know this from personal experience, but I remember talking to George Manning, the Houston gallery owner where Jeanne and I bought a lot of our art, and him telling us that these days artists know to be a lot more careful with oils.
    She looks amused. “Samuel, I’m an artist. You don’t think I know that? You’ve never seen my studio here at my house. I had Gabe LoPresto convert part of the garage to a studio. I like to paint with