Black and Blueberry Die (A Fresh-Baked Mystery Book 11) by Livia J. Washburn Page B

pumping them for information.
    “That’s worth a try,” she said. “In the meantime, let’s go take a look at the house.”
    In a few minutes they were on Loop 820, heading north. Sam took the exit for Silver Creek Road and followed it on its winding path through the country. The tall buildings of downtown Fort Worth were visible in the distance, back to the east. Also in that direction but closer was the Lockheed-Martin aircraft plant.
    In the other direction, though, lay rolling hills dotted with clumps of trees. Some of them had large, round bales of hay harvested earlier in the summer scattered across them. Horses and cows grazed here and there, and the pickup went past a couple of sheds built to give the animals shelter. Sam drove by a fenced-in area where a couple of natural gas storage tanks were located. Houses, most of them at the far end of long driveways, were few and far between.
    It was a striking contrast. Turn your head one way and you saw a bustling metropolis. Look the other way and a peaceful, rural landscape was laid out before your eyes. That wasn’t really uncommon in Texas, though. Phyllis supposed it was that way in other places, too.
    “I think that may be the mailbox coming up on the left,” she said to Sam. “You’d better slow down.”
    Sam took his foot off the gas. When they got close enough for Phyllis to read the number painted on the side of the mailbox, she went on, “That’s it, all right.”
    “No police tape blockin’ the gate,” Sam commented. “Of course, the murder didn’t happen here, and once the cops searched the house to make sure there was no evidence layin’ around, they would’ve been done with it.”
    The opening in the fence that ran along the front edge of the property didn’t have an actual gate in it, only a cattle guard across the road. Sam turned in, bumped across that barrier made of pipes set horizontally into the ground, and started up the dirt and gravel driveway.
    “How big is this property?” he asked. “I wouldn’t have thought they could afford much acreage.”
    “We can probably find out,” Phyllis said. “From the looks of the surrounding countryside, this was a big ranch at one time. Whoever owns it may have sold just the house and the area around it and kept the rest of the acreage intact. Say, if the original owner passed away while living here, and the heirs didn’t want to keep the house but did want the rest of the property. If that’s the case, it’s probably only three or four acres.”
    “Which still wouldn’t be cheap,” Sam pointed out.
    “Remember, it was established at the trial that Danny and Roxanne had sunk all their savings into the place and gone into debt to buy it and fix it up. Those money problems are supposed to be what caused the arguments between them.”
    Sam nodded as he brought the pickup to a stop in front of the ranch house. He said, “Yeah, that all makes sense.”
    The house was obviously old but had been well taken care of, Phyllis thought as she studied the white-painted frame structure with dark green trim and shingles. A front porch with flower beds in front of it ran the width of the building. There were flowers in those beds, but weeds had popped up as well, because there was no one here to pull them. The St. Augustine in the small yard was unmowed and even taller Johnson grass had encroached on it in places.
    Sam frowned and said, “I hate Johnson grass. Reckon it’d be all right if I got out and pulled some o’ that?”
    “I don’t see why anyone would care,” Phyllis told him.
    Both of them got out of the pickup. Sam started pulling up the Johnson grass by the roots and tossing it aside while Phyllis walked slowly to one side of the house. It had gotten a fresh coat of paint within the past couple of years, she estimated. The screens on the numerous windows were all in good repair. Two rocking chairs sat on the porch, and she could imagine Danny and Roxanne sitting out there on a