A Good Day for Chardonnay (Sunshine Vicram #2) by Darynda Jones

“Virginia Bagwell. Fifty-four years old. Frontierswoman and explorer. Shot two men dead while helping to save a family in south Texas from a racially motivated attack. Went missing August of ’63.”

She placed it gently in the box and brought out a gold band.

“Martin Gallegos. Thirty-eight years old. Headed to California to look for work. Left behind a wife and six children. Went missing May of ’61. His youngest son went on to head one of the most successful detective agencies in the Southwest.”

She rubbed her fingertips over the tarnished gold, put it back, and pulled out a silver money clip.

“Darren Honeywell. He was an asshole.”

She replaced the clip with a soft laugh and picked up a vial of perfume.

“Emily Press. Twenty-three years old. Took a necklace worth a couple hundred dollars at the time that was left to her specifically by her grandmother and ran from her abusive uncle. Went missing April of ’65.”

“You have all of these memorized,” Sun said, astonished and heartbroken at the same time.

“It’s all in my notes. All the people. All the families. I found Mortimer’s trunk in the carriage house after he died. Took me years of research to figure out who some of them were. Three were drifters I could find nothing on. And two more are still unaccounted for. I thought maybe you could pick up where I left off.” She handed Sun a file folder. The first page was a photo of the old-fashioned leather trunk.

“How do you know for sure there were twenty-three?”

She pointed to a strap on the top. “He kept a running tally. Notches in the top of the trunk. I could only find information on twenty-one. But the trunk and everything in it is yours. And Aurora’s, of course. I have a feeling she would love to try to find the last two of my husband’s victims. To be able to contact their families and let them know what happened to their loved ones.”

“There are twenty-four notches,” Sun said, counting again.

“Yeah, that last one is for Mortimer. Thought he’d like to see how it felt to have one’s entire life reduced to a notch in a leather strap.”

Sun studied the frail woman at her side. Marveled at her tenacity. “Have you contacted any of these families yet?”

“Nah. I don’t figure they want to hear from the widow of the man who killed their loved ones. You can, though. I’m sure they would like answers, even sixty years later.”

“You realize Auri is going to take this and run with it.”

The older woman’s eyes sparkled with warmth. “I’m counting on it.”

A little while later, Quincy walked up to her as everyone sat around a table, an Arthurian round table made of thick wood and iron hardware, laughing and talking about Mrs. Fairborn and her antics. Her penchant for confessing to every crime ever committed came up often and lent itself to a lot of hearty laughter.

It was simply one of her quirks. How she coped with the horrors she’d endured, perhaps.

But the dinner, while very nice and nostalgic and heartfelt, saddened Sun to the depths of her soul. The entire town should be celebrating this woman’s life. Not just the people in this room.

Quincy leaned closer and had clearly been thinking the same thing. “This isn’t enough,” he said, sad himself. “After everything she’s done.”

“I agree.” Then a thought hit her. “Hey, remember Gentleman Jack?”

He leveled a stoic expression on her. “What does the hamster you had when we were five have to do with anything?”

“You gave him a wonderful celebration of life when he died.”

He thought back. “Oh, yeah. I did.”

She decided to forgo reminding him how he cried over GJ for days. “Maybe we could do that for Mrs. Fairborn only while she’s still with us. Like on her next birthday.”

He brightened. “I could totally do that.”

“Okay, it’s next week.”

“Oh, hell.” His mind raced. “I have so much to do. I need to call the caterer. And get napkins ordered. And what about a champagne fountain?”

Oh, yeah. He clearly missed his calling. He stood to make some calls.

“You okay, Sunny?”

She turned to see her dad take a seat beside her. “I am. I’m so honored, Dad.”

“But?”

“I’m just not sure I’m the girl for this.”

“I have to be honest. I don’t think Mrs. Fairborn has been wrong a day in her life.”

“She married Mortimer.”

“Touché.”

She laughed, and then thought about what Rojas had said. “Can I ask you something completely unrelated?”

He took a swig of root beer as though it were a microbrew, and said, “Always.”

“There’s no delicate way of putting this, so here goes. Were you ever in prison?”

He’d been in the middle of downing the rest of his brewski when she’d asked. He spit out the last swallow and proceeded to cough for the next five minutes. His face turned a sickly shade of purple and he gagged—a lot—repeating one sound over and over that reminded Sun of someone trying to start a chainsaw.

Clearly, she was on to something.

Her mother rushed over and took the opportunity to beat him senseless, asking if he needed water. Or CPR. Or Vicks VapoRub.