The Barefoot Summer.

Carolyn Brown.

In memory of my mother, Virginia Chapman Gray Essary, May 18, 1927February 6, 2010.

CHAPTER ONE.

Black showed respect for the dead, so Kate Steele wore red to her husband's funeral that Saturday. It seemed fitting that she would bury him on the first day of July, the same day he'd come into her life fourteen years ago. It brought everything full circle-right back to the afternoon that she'd met him in the cemetery when visiting her father's grave. Six months later they were married. A year after that, the marriage went to hell in a handbasket.

Conrad Steele had definitely conned her, but she'd be damned if he would win.

Would the preacher go on forever? Maybe those other people sitting in the chairs at the other end of the single line appreciated what he was saying, but Kate had trouble listening to nice things about the son of a bitch. One thing for sure-that preacher didn't know jack crap about Conrad or he wouldn't be talking about him being among the angels in heaven. If he conned his way past Saint Peter at the pearly gates, then the angels best lock down those streets of gold.

Sweat streamed from her neck to puddle between her breasts. Not even with all Kate's money could she buy, beg, steal, or borrow a breeze that afternoon, and there wasn't a shade tree in sight. She eased a hand down beside her chair to fish out a few tissues to discreetly stuff into her bra. But she'd left her purse in the car. She brushed a strand of her shoulder-length blonde hair away from her sweaty neck and uncrossed her long legs. One little gust of wind to cool her thighs would be worth a fortune.

Her mother, Teresa, sat ramrod straight right beside her. No one could ever say that she wasn't a lady. Not even the Texas heat was a match for Teresa Truman. She'd face off with the devil on his best day. Legs encased in black panty hose, properly crossed at the ankles, a black silk suit tailored to her long, thin body, gray hair styled that morning, and a wide-brimmed black hat with only the hint of a thin veil dropping down from the front, she was a true force to be reckoned with.

Only God, Kate, and Teresa knew that the whole funeral was a show. Kate didn't care if they rolled him up in a used dog blanket and tossed him in a hole. Teresa insisted that they had an image to uphold, because, through Kate, his name was associated with the family oil company. And God-well, Kate would like to be a mouse in a corner when God got a firm grip on Conrad's soul.

An antsy feeling that something was wrong crept up the back of Kate's neck, making all the fine hairs stand on end. She glanced over her shoulder to see Detective Waylon Kramer standing behind a tombstone about ten yards to her left. The handsome detective had asked her to identify the body. He'd even told her right up front that the spouse was usually the first suspect, but she'd provided a rock-solid alibi. So why was he attending a funeral in the broiling Texas heat when he didn't have to? Did he think she'd throw herself on the casket and confess to having her husband killed because he was a bastard?

Since he was there, he could be a gentleman and move up closer. With his height and broad body, he could provide some shade for her. It would make him good for something other than suspecting that she'd had Conrad killed.

"Stop fidgeting," Teresa hissed from the side of her mouth.

"This is such a sham," Kate whispered.

Teresa shot her a dirty look from under that fancy little veil.

Kate sat up straight and pretended to pay attention. But with sidelong glances, she studied the four women and the child sitting at the other end of the row of folding chairs. Thank goodness for big sunglasses so she could stare as long as she wanted and not get caught.

Two women and a child who were definitely Hispanic hovered first in her peripheral vision. The older one was as stone-faced as a statue, and for a while Kate began to think maybe the old gal had succumbed to the terrible Texas heat right there in the cemetery. Just as Kate was about to yell at the detective to call an ambulance, the woman let out a long sigh. Kate could relate. She would have gladly doubled whatever the preacher charged the funeral home for his services if he would cut his sermon short and let everyone get out of the scorching heat. The minutes ticked off at the rate of one every hour.

The dark-haired lady beside the older woman must be quite a bit younger, most likely the mother of the little girl with big brown eyes who, for the most part, looked confused. Poor little thing probably would have rather been home playing in a kiddie pool or watching cartoons on television than sitting at a funeral in the middle of a Texas heat wave.

An empty chair separated that group of three from an older woman with gray hair sitting beside a very pregnant red-haired woman, maybe in her late twenties. The pregnant lady moaned and sobbed into a white hankie as the other woman patted her shoulder. At least Conrad had one acquaintance who would cry for him, or-Kate eyed her mother carefully-had Teresa paid a mourner to come to the funeral and weep over that man's body for appearances?

Kate leaned to the left and whispered, "Do you know those people?"

Teresa shook her head.

"Did you pay that redhead to cry?"

"Hush," Teresa hissed. "I would never do that. But he's dead, so we need to show respect."

Eight people at the funeral.

It all went to show that a con man did not have real friends. Were those women related to Conrad? He'd never mentioned sisters or cousins, but then if he had, she wouldn't have believed him. Not after she'd found out exactly what he was. She should have given him the divorce and the million-dollar settlement he wanted, and then she wouldn't even have had to be there that day with sweat trickling down her ribs. That young one, who evidently sincerely mourned the bastard, could have buried him and maybe even put flowers on his grave. A settlement would have been well worth the money if it had gotten Kate out of planning and attending the funeral.

She glanced down the row again. The little girl held her red rose as if it were a piece of delicate china. The expression on the face of the woman beside her left no doubt that she wanted to get this whole thing finished as much as Kate did. The pregnant girl had wrapped her wrinkled handkerchief around the stem of her rose and now wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

"Let us pray," the preacher said.

Praise the Lord, Kate thought as she bowed her head, but she did not shut her eyes. She stared straight ahead at the shiny black casket with the reflections of the mourners, real or obligatory, right there before her. Their faces distorted in the casket's curvature, but what she saw was sorrow, disgust, confusion, acceptance, and something akin to indifference.

"Amen!" the preacher said, and Kate mouthed the word even though she had no idea what he'd petitioned God for that afternoon. He could have begged the Lord to open up the ground and swallow Conrad Steele's wife right there on the spot, or he might have read that week's grocery list, but she could definitely say, "Amen," if it got her out of the heat.

The preacher nodded toward her. "And now, Mrs. Steele, do you have any last words or something you want to say before we conclude the service?"

She shook her head, stood up, and hoped her slim skirt wasn't stuck to her sweaty thighs as she took the red rose the funeral director had handed her when she arrived and laid it on the top of the casket.

"Yes, I have something to say." The pregnant girl laid one hand on her baby bump and pushed up out of the chair. "Conrad was an amazing husband, and I cannot believe he's gone." She burst into another round of deep sobs.

"Sweet Jesus!" Surely the heat had fried Kate's brain cells. That kid couldn't be married to Conrad, and yet the scenario didn't change, no matter how many times Kate blinked.

The older woman quickly stood up and wrapped an arm around the girl's shoulders. "It's all right, Amanda, darlin'. Just give your flower to Conrad and please stop crying."

"I can't. He was such a good man, and now he'll never see our baby grow up," she wailed.

Kate's eyebrows shot up so high that it gave her an instant headache. Conrad had married without divorcing Kate and the woman was pregnant? She was still staring at the lady when the Hispanic woman popped up and her hands knotted into fists.

"You can't be married to Conrad! I am his wife."

Kate inhaled and let it out slowly, but then couldn't make herself suck in more air. Her chest ached and her hands went clammy as the scene played out in slow motion.

"You are lying!" Amanda threw off the older woman's arm and stomped up to the other woman until she was nose to nose with her. "I married him seven months ago. You might be his ex-wife, but you are not his wife today."

"I have the marriage license showing that I've been married to him for seven years. With no divorce, so if he married you last year, kiddo, you aren't even legally married. This child right here is his daughter." Her dark eyes flashed.

Kate's mother sighed. "I told you he was bad news."

"Holy smokin' hell!" Kate finally gasped.

"Okay, ladies." Detective Waylon Kramer stepped between them. "You can both take a step backward. Neither of you are legally married to Conrad. This lady right here"-he pointed to Kate-"is his legal wife of fourteen years."

"You can't tell me that. I have a marriage license. Amanda Hilton and Conrad Steele were married the last day of December last year," Amanda argued.

"So do I," the dark-haired woman said and poked herself in the chest with a forefinger. "Jamie Mendoza and Conrad Steele were married the last day of December seven years ago."

Waylon glanced at Kate.

She shrugged. "The last day of December fourteen years ago."

"You"-Amanda raised her voice to only an octave below what it took to break glass-"are his sister. And that old woman beside you is his mother. He showed me pictures of you awful people together-his mother liked you better and gave you most of the money. He only got a little bit from his trust fund, which would be mine if something ever happened to him. And I need it for this baby." Her hands went to her rounded stomach.

"Old woman!" Teresa gasped.

Kate bit back a nervous giggle. Nothing was humorous about anything that was going on, but that pregnant redhead had no idea that she'd just opened the cage to the scary Teresa Tiger, who could rip her throat out with nothing but icy words.

"I am his legal wife, and there is no trust fund," Kate said.

"Bringing up money at a funeral," Teresa muttered under her breath. "This is worse than The Jerry Springer Show. If I'd birthed that son of a bitch, I would have thrown him in the river before he was a week old. Old woman, my ass!"

"You are both wrong. Come on, Aunt Ellie. We're going home and we'll get a lawyer to sort this out." Amanda set her mouth in a firm line.

At least that annoying sobbing had stopped. Kate didn't give a baby rat's rear end about her late husband, and when that woman woke up and realized that she'd married a con man, she might change her tune.

"Your rose," her aunt Ellie reminded her.

Amanda laid it on the casket with her handkerchief. "Darlin' Conrad, take my rose and my tears to heaven with you, and someday we will be together again."

It might be funny if it wasn't so bizarre. Lord, this kind of fodder just might be good enough to make it to those tabloids beside the grocery store checkout counter. Kate shuddered as she pictured all three wives with sweaty faces lined up beside a picture of Conrad on the front page of a magazine. What would that do for her reputation as president of the oil company?

Conrad had three wives. At the same time. She held her hands to keep from counting them off on her fingers. Kate, Jamie, and Amanda, married seven years apart on the same damn day. At least he wouldn't forget his anniversary. It sure put new meaning to the seven-year itch.

"Did you know this?" she asked Waylon.

"I did yesterday." His sexy grin jacked up the temperature another ten degrees.

"And you didn't warn me?" She glared at him.

"I wanted to be sure that you didn't conspire together to kill him or have him killed. The second wife, Jamie, showed up at the precinct when she heard the news on the television. The third one, Amanda, arrived in hysterics worse than you saw today when she saw the article about his death in the newspaper," Waylon said.

"And what did you tell them?"

Waylon removed his cowboy hat, combed his thick dark hair with his fingers, and resettled the hat. "That the funeral was today, where it was and the time. And that his family was taking care of arrangements."

"And now?"

"I'm not ruling out a conspiracy, but you are still my prime suspect. Don't leave the state, Miz Steele," he said.

"How can she be a suspect? She was with me in a board meeting all day when Conrad was murdered," Teresa asked.

"That does not mean she couldn't have paid someone to do the job when she found out about these other two wives." Waylon tipped his hat to the two ladies and headed out across the green grass toward a pickup truck parked behind Kate's Cadillac.

"You killed Conrad?" Jamie confronted her, hands on her hips and brown eyes flashing anger.

"I did not." Kate took a step forward, jolted by her unexpected burst of offense at those words, and looked down on the shorter woman. As if she'd bother.

"You had him killed, then?" Amanda wailed as she made her way back toward Kate.

Kate quickly shook her head. "No, I didn't do that, either, but if either of you want to confess, I'll chase down that detective and we can get this over with right now."

Amanda took a step backward. "I would never . . . how could you even suggest . . . he was my husband."

Jamie stood her ground. Her eyes flashed anger, and her body fairly well hummed. "Well, he's damn lucky I didn't know about you or that other whiny pregnant hussy or I would have done the job myself."

Jamie's heart beat so fast that she thought it might jump right out of her chest. And her high heels sank into the green grass all the way from the graveside to her seven-year-old van. That hoity-toity bitch back there was probably laughing at her trying to keep her balance. She made sure Gracie and her grandmother had their seat belts fastened and drove out of the cemetery ten miles an hour above the speed limit.

Rita Mendoza crossed her arms over her chest. "I told you that something was not right. No man leaves his wife and daughter and only comes home one week out of every month. I don't care what his job is-if he is within a hundred miles, he should come home. Now we know that he was staying with his other wives. But that leaves an extra week. Is there a fourth wife in the woodpile?"

"God, I hope not." Jamie gripped the steering wheel to steady her shaking hands.

"Mama, are they going to put my daddy in the ground? Was he really in that big black box?" Gracie asked from the backseat.

"Yes, baby girl, your daddy is gone and he won't come home anymore. But we will be fine. You still have your grandmother and me," Jamie answered through clenched teeth.

"How do we know he was really in there?" Gracie asked.

"I'm sorry that you won't see him again, sweetheart"-Jamie had to work at keeping her voice calm-"but he was really in the casket."

It wasn't a lie. She was sorry that Gracie wouldn't see her father, but Conrad was lucky that someone had shot him before Jamie figured out why he only came home one week during each month. How dare he turn his back on Gracie and marry that girl! She wasn't a day over twenty. She might not even be old enough to buy a shot of tequila, and Conrad was past forty. Did Kate have children with him, too?

Gracie nodded seriously. "Can we go to McDonald's now?"

Rita laid a hand on Jamie's shoulder. "Let it go. Don't sugarcoat the truth when she asks, but don't say too much. He was a good father when he was around."

"I. Am. So. Angry." Jamie emphasized each word with a slap of the steering wheel.

"With damn good reason, but it will pass," Rita said.

"I'm starving." Gracie folded her arms over her chest. "I hate getting all dressed up. My shoes pinch."

"I'm hungry, too, baby girl." Rita smiled. "We'll get a burger and a milk shake, and we can eat it in the playroom. Afterward you can go down the slide as many times as you want."

A picture flitted through Jamie's mind. Conrad had taken her and Gracie to a McDonald's in a different part of Dallas. He was, or had been, tall, dark haired, blue eyed, handsome, and when he walked into a room or even a McDonald's all the women in the place eyed him. When he flashed a bright smile, they would stumble around at the privilege of being in his presence-just like she did when they'd met at the teachers' party that year.

"Mama, can I have a big hamburger instead of the little kids' meal?" Gracie asked. "I'm really, really hungry."

"Of course," Jamie answered. She dreaded going back to her house. Family pictures were everywhere-from a collage on the wall behind the sofa to the credenza in the foyer. One of the two of them on their wedding day was on one nightstand, and on the other side was the three of them in the hospital the day Gracie was born.

Seven years of her life, and it was all a deception. She was mentally throwing pictures at the walls when she reached McDonald's and pulled into a parking spot. She put her head on the steering wheel and groaned.

"What now? He can't be killed twice," Rita said.

"Pictures. Finances. Life. All of it. But I'm too mad to talk about that right now."

Amanda sat in the passenger seat of the small Chevrolet truck, seat belt around her bulging stomach, crying into tissues that she kept tossing behind her when they were too soggy to use anymore.

"This is a nightmare, Aunt Ellie. I'm going to wake up and Conrad will arrive tomorrow and we'll go to the cabin for our summer vacation," Amanda said between sobs. "This cannot be happening. What about our baby and . . . oh, my God, what am I going to do?"