This is Part I of a seven part series that will conclude on Sunday.

Franklin Danbury hadn’t taken on a new client in several years. There were newer attorneys in the firm who handled those cases. Franklin had made his name and money meeting the legal needs of Fort Stockton’s blue bloods. Settling the land disputes and mineral rights for those whose holdings had several commas in totals on the balance sheets. He had helped several of the monied members of the Fort Stockton Country Club escape the tight bindings of their matrimonial vows, with the vast majority of their portfolio still intact.

He knew the law better than anyone else in southwest Texas, better than most of the judges he argued before. He graduated top of his class at Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern, his undergraduate studies at Tech, and finally at Law School in Austin at UT. Everyone figured he’d be scooped up by one of the big firms in Houston, Austin, or Dallas-Fort Worth. Truth was, he could have had his pick of any of them. Even toyed with staying in Austin after law school and putting his time in, then throwing his hat in the ring for politics.

But Fort Stockton had been home, and home had a big draw. Having experienced the big city and all that went with it, going home held more appeal than any other points on the map could offer. Franklin Danbury knew he was a big fish and sometimes big fish like small ponds just fine. There had been latin blood on his mother’s side, making him appear as though he had a perpetual tan to go with his dark hair and black piercing eyes. “Don’t seem right that the boy would be gifted with looks and brains,” Trixie over at the Klip-N-Dye used to tell whoever was in the chair in front of her. “And what’s up with that stubble of a beard? With the money he makes, can’t he afford a dad-gum razor?” More than one of her customers responded that they wouldn’t mind feeling that stubble brush over areas that don’t normally see the sun.

Danbury was hired by the most prestigious attorney in town. The name changed from ‘Hempstead, Attorney at Law’ to ‘Hempstead and Danbury’. Within just a few years, it was changed once again to ‘Danbury Law Firm’, Franklin having bought out the business so Hempstead could go off and enjoy the profits of decades of practice and leave the grind to someone younger and hungrier. Franklin Danbury moved into the third story corner office third story in the red brick building on the square, across from the Pecos County Courthouse. Within a few years the practice had grown to the point that three new attorneys had been hired and a new attractive secretaries for each.

By 1957, life was as good as Franklin Danbury could have imagined, both for himself and the team of lawyers in his firm. When his secretary knocked on his door and said there was someone on their way to meet with him, Danbury was surprised. He kept his calendar clear on Friday afternoons for a late round of golf with a preferred client, drinks at the club with associates or friends, or perhaps a drive out of town to meet up with one of his several rotating female companions. Everyone knew Franklin Danbury had a string of girlfriends, but none of them were ever from Fort Stockton. He kept his life very compartmentalized, and the women he saw were in compartments located far outside the limits of Pecos county. It was just cleaner that way.

“I thought we had an understanding . . .” he started to tell Mrs. Patterson.

“You thought correctly,” she shot back.  “However, I think it would be in your best interest to make time for this appointment.  Number one, she wouldn’t take ‘No’ for an answer.  Number two, she is already on her way.  Number three, it is Angela Crane.”

At the mention of number three, Danbury looked up quickly.  “”Send everyone home early.  Don’t tell them why.  Close the door behind you as you leave.”

Angela Crane was the female equivalent of Franklin Danbury, if there was such a thing. Smart, educated, and built like an absolute brick outhouse, Angela turned heads when she was still Angela Conroe in high school, two years behind Danbury a decade back, and had only gotten better with age. Many would have said that wasn’t possible, but it was. Her bare shoulders could stir more emotions in men than most other completely naked women. Honey blond hair cascaded down her neck and swirled around those shoulders like riptides that could suck you in before you knew it. Her eyes were either green or cobalt, depending on who you asked or how long they’d peered into them. Trixie said, “It’s all depending on what she’s wearing. Or isn’t.” That was speculation on Trixie’s part, of course. Trixie’s speculations were generally more dependable than what you might read in the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch, though Trixie never had sources that were verifiable.

Angela had been sculpted by God himself, back before using surgery to attain perfection was even a possibility. Every curve was perfectly placed. Every angle chiseled to perfection and buffed to an astonishingly flawless finish.

Angela Conroe had been crowned Homecoming Queen, Prom Queen, and Miss Cattle Prod before escaping high school and moving on to bigger challenges and awards.  She didn’t really date in high school, but folks surmised she probably made up for that once she was firmly ensconced at Texas Christian University in Fort Worth.  She graduated with a degree in something difficult that was never to be used again.

Everyone at the Piggly Wiggly speculated Angela would never come back to Fort Stockton.  Just like they had speculated Franklin Danbury wouldn’t.  But Fort Stockton’s got a pull that people who live here who’ve never left don’t understand.  It ain’t the scenery.  But something draws people back.  Maybe they feel like it’s better to go back to the devil you know instead of moving in with the one you don’t.

Angela Conroe came back.  Prettier, more educated, and more worldly.  The dresses she wore were lower cut, the skirts tighter.  Everybody noticed it, without Trixie having to point it out, but she did anyway, to everyone that would listen.  Who seemed to notice it more than anyone else was one Theo Crane.

Theodore Crane was one of the wealthiest men in town. From land to cattle to oil to investments in things nobody knew about, or if they knew, they didn’t fully comprehend. He had ‘the touch’. That touch soon extended to Angela Conroe. She became the second Mrs. Crane, though Theodore was two years older than her own father. The first Mrs. Crane had passed two decades ago, leaving Theodore alone after a brief illness that quickly took its toll. Well, not completely alone.

There had been one son, Thomas.  About the same age as Angela, but a rare site around Fort Stockton.  He was sent off to boarding schools back east, coming back home only for short stays in the summer and at Christmas.  His father would fly out to see him several times a year.  The boy reminded him so much of his late wife that it pained Theodore to see him.  Thomas had a different interpretation of that situation and the two were never close.

Most folks viewed the marriage as transactional.  “They both got exactly what they were looking for,” Trixie used to say.  “He got the best female trophy in town; she got everything she ever wanted handed to her on a silver platter wrapped in a velvet bow.”  The wedding was very small, out at the Crane estate.  Only a handful of guests, Thomas not being one of them.  As soon as the reception was over, they took the Lone Star Flyer to Houston, then boarded a plane to New York and on to Paris.  They were gone for a month.  “I hope she doesn’t give the ol’ coot a heart attack,” Trixie snickered.

“If you had to go, that’d be my method of choice,” Rusty said when she made the same comment to him at the hardware store.

The May – December couple had laid low since their nuptials.  They were seen at the country club and the occasional civic event, particularly if Theodore had been hit up for a donation.  By and large, they weren’t heard from very often.  Danbury felt like he might have heard something if there was trouble in paradise.  Trixie knew about marriages, divorces, and pregnancies before the actual participants did sometimes, and didn’t hesitate to pass word along to others.  He’d heard nothing.  Of course, she could be coming to talk about a trivial lawsuit, a will, or advice on something to do with a business deal.  But it was usually divorce in these situations.  The age difference, the money, the way Angela had been kept out of sight since the wedding made him think she might be ready to move on.  In the back of his mind, Danbury even hoped so a little bit.

Danbury was standing at the window of his third floor corner office, looking out on the setting sun when the dark blue Dual-Ghia convertible rounded the corner on Houston Street, passed by the courthouse, and pulled up to a spot directly below him.  As a testament to Angela’s beauty, the Dual Ghia was not the first thing he noticed.  The tumbler in his hand filled with two fingers of Old Kentucky Bourbon almost slipped from his hand and onto the floor.  The setting sun glistening off her cleavage exposed by the black low-cut blouse made Danbury wonder which of the two of God’s creations visible out the window was the most magnificent.  It didn’t take him too long to decide.

Anglea checked her Ruby Red Max Factor lipstick in the rearview mirror, glanced up at the window and then adjusted her blouse, providing an even better view, if that was possible.  She grabbed her purse off the passenger seat, opened the door, and exited the car as though she was arriving at a Hollywood premier rather than an appointment with an attorney.  As she made her way to the front door, Danbury gazed into the cockpit of the Dual Ghia and thought how perfectly the automobile matched the owner.  Exquisite in every detail.  The finest craftsmanship of anything he’d ever seen.  The blue and cream upholstery was finer than the finest suits he had tailored in Houston, and those were some expensive suits.  Every detail seemed immaculate and perfect for its purpose. The scene below was picture perfect, particularly from that angel of view.

Moments later, Angela walked through the door to his paneled office.  The Dual Ghia took a back seat again.  “Please.  Come in and sit down.  Can I pour you a drink?”

Angela walked over to one of the two leather chairs in front of his desk.  Well, not walked really.  She glided.  “Sure.  Whatever you’re having.”

Danbury was instantly struck by how quickly the aroma of bourbon and cigar smoke that had filled his office since long before it was his could be displaced by Channel Number 5 and female magnetism. He handed her a crystal tumbler full of the same bourbon he was drinking, and topped off his own before turning around and handing it to her. He walked around to the business side of his desk, took a sip, and sat down.

In the awkward pause that followed, she reached into her bag, pulled out a cigarette, and a gold engraved lighter.  She held out the lighter towards his direction as she slid the Salem into her red painted lips.  He took it from her hand, lit the cigarette, and handed it back to her so she could slide it back into her black leather bag.  An ever so slight nod of thanks was given while he slid a silver ash tray to the edge of the desk for her to use.

“Beautiful car,” Danbury said.  “Never seen one in person, just read about them.”

Angela glanced towards the window, pretending she hadn’t seen him from the car when she arrived.  “It was a gift.  Fifth Anniversary.  Only made a handful.  Lovely, isn’t it?”

Danbury picked up the sterling Parker fountain pen, removed the cover, and dated the top page of the yellow legal pad that was in the middle of his desk.  Not much ever made him nervous, so he was surprised that she did.  “How can I help you?”

“It’s my husband,” Angela replied.

Danbury put the pen down.  “I thought that might be the case.  Let me just say, before we even get started, that divorce is a complicated, messy situation.  Especially if there are a lot of assets involved.”

Angela threw her head back and a laugh exited her lips right after the cigarette did.  She flicked the ashes gathered at the end of it into the ashtray on Danbury’s desk.  “Divorce?”  she said.  “No.  I’m not here to see you about divorcing my husband.  I’ve just murdered him.  I’ll be needing an attorney.”

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