Read Online Promises of Home by Jeff Abbott - Free Book Online Page B

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 bythis 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