Wink of an Eye

by Lynn Chandler Willis

  I followed the driveway like Claire had said and finally, a mile and a half later, pulled up to a cedar-sided log house not quite as large as the main house. I couldn’t help but grin—that was my Claire. She’d always dreamed of a log cabin. How could two people who were such polar opposites be so in tune with one another?

  She bounded out onto the front porch, grinning like a giddy teenager, and motioned for me to park near the steps. I did as she wanted and parked about ten feet from the steps leading to the porch. I got out, turned and stared at the van parked haphazardly in the yard, then turned back to Claire. “Is that the handicap spot?”

  She smiled. “I figured it would be easier for you. The swelling really has gone down, hasn’t it?” She looked at my foot and nodded approvingly.

  I spread my arms and laughed. “Look, ma, no crutch.” I had no idea how I was going to make it up the stairs without it but I was going to give it my best effort. Heaven was waiting for me at the top.

  I was able to put a little weight on my toes and probably looked like a creatively challenged dancer clumsily prancing about. It took a minute or two but I made it up all seven steps. I wrapped my arms around Claire’s waist and locked her in a tight embrace. Partly for support, and partly because she just looked so damn good standing there.

  She pulled back slightly then kissed me hard on the mouth.

  “Hello to you, too,” I said.

  She wiped a transferred smudge of lipstick from the corner of my lips with the tip of her index finger. She sighed contentedly, then took my hand and led me into the house, adjusting her usually fast-paced steps to my gimping gait.

  The house was large, but not a ridiculous show of wealth. It was open and airy and decorated in standard west-Texas flair, complete with bleached cattle skulls and Navajo-inspired blankets. The furniture was worn brown leather, purposely distressed and softer than a cloud.

  “You want a beer or a drink?” She headed toward a wet bar in the corner of the family room.

  “Whatcha got?” I’m a picky drinker.

  She ducked behind the bar, then popped back up a minute later with a smile and a full bottle of Johnnie Walker Black. “That’ll work just fine,” I said, my mouth watering with anticipation.

  She fixed us each a drink, then brought them, and the bottle, over to the sofa. She sat close to me, tucking one leg under her perfect ass so she could face me. She was so close her warm breath lightly tickled my neck. Despite every nerve ending in my body on pleasure high alert, I reminded myself this really needed to be a business call. It was easier to be objective if our clothes stayed on. Besides, I reminded myself, she was married. And I don’t make it a habit of doing married women. Not even if that woman was Claire Kinley.

  “Claire,” I said after a stout swig of my drink. “We really need to finish the conversation we started in the hospital.”

  She ran her finger lightly around the collar of my shirt, gently tickling my neck. “About me and you, or you and that Mexican reporter?” she said, her voice a breathy whisper.

  I gently clasped her playful finger and moved her hand to her lap. “I was talking about the investigation and the ranch.”

  She frowned. “You said you weren’t investigating the ranch.”

  “Not directly. But some things have come up that I was hoping you could explain.”

  She sighed heavily, then finished her drink in one long swallow. She refilled both our glasses, then sat the bottle on the coffee table. “I’ve already explained the illegal workers. I’m not sure what else there is to talk about.”

  “Tell me about Mark Peterson.”

  For a second, I thought I was going to have to smack her and force her to breathe. Her gaze darted all around the room, focusing on everything and nothing, avoiding looking at me altogether.

  “I know he’s your brother-in-law. But I want to know about the business deal you have with him.”

  She still wouldn’t look at me. She took a sip of her drink, then sat the glass on the table. “I thought this was going to be a picnic. I wasn’t expecting an inquisition.”

  “Claire,” I said with a sigh. “It’s not an inquisition. Mark Peterson may be involved in things that would not be good for you to be involved in. I’m trying to find out where you fit into this picture.”

  She finally looked at me. Her eyes were blue as ice and just as cold. “What kind of things?”

  I swallowed the rest of my drink, then poured myself another. “I can’t really say yet.”

  She guffawed. “Oh. Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You come in here and tell me my brother-in-law is involved in some kind of criminal activity, but you can’t tell me what, and oh, yeah, it may involve me. Is that about the gist of it?” Her voice was rising in pitch, which meant her temper wasn’t far behind.

  “Claire … I’m trying to protect you. I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Seems like you do know what’s going on. Why don’t you tell me, then we’ll both know.” She sprang up from the couch and paced back and forth in front of the picture window. I imagined if I could hear the thoughts running through her head at that moment, it would sound like crashing ocean waves.

  “Claire, I know you have business dealings with him—”

  “How would you know that unless you’ve…” She stopped pacing and glared at me so hard I caught a chill. “You’ve pulled my financial records? Oh … my … God. You sonofabitch!”

  “Claire, wait a minute. It’s not like that.” I hobbled over to her, keeping an arm’s-length distance between us just in case.

  “You knew about the illegals, you knew about Steven when you fucked me. What else do you know about me, Gypsy? Is there something else you want to know? Ask me, I’ll tell you. You don’t have to dig it up.”

  “It’s not you I’m investigating. But damn if you don’t have a lot of connections to Mark Peterson. I know money’s changed hands between you and Peterson, Claire. If he’s got something on you, you’ve got to tell me.”

  Her icy stare bore a hole straight through to my soul. Finally, after a long moment, she sighed and pushed her hand through her hair. “Gypsy—he’s my brother-in-law. He’s married to Steven’s sister. He doesn’t manage their money very well. We’re always having to bail them out of one financial crisis after another.” She turned away and stared out the window. “What are you investigating him for?” Her voice was low, somber.

  I closed the distance between us. “I can’t tell you that, Claire. You know that.”

  “How involved is he?” She continued to look out the window, her back to me.

  “He’s involved. That’s all I can say right now.”

  I watched her shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath, then she turned around and looked me in the eyes. “And I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know if he’s gambling it away, or if he’s using drugs … I don’t know what he’s using the money for.”

  It wasn’t adding up. There were too many dollars changing hands. Claire was too shrewd to be her brother-in-law’s personal bank. “How much is he into you for?” I knew the exact amount that had been exchanged. But I wanted to hear what she had to say.

  She pushed her hand through her hair again, then slowly moved back to the sofa. She poured herself another drink then sat down. “Couple thousand, maybe.”

  Closer to a quarter of a million but who was counting? “You said that y’all were always having to bail them out—does that mean Steven knows about it?”

  She glanced at me, then took a sip of her drink. She swallowed slowly, then slowly shook her head. “I meant we, as in me and the ranch. I gave him the money from the ranch account.”

  “And Steven doesn’t know?”

  She shook her head again. “He doesn’t have a clue what goes on at the ranch and he wouldn’t know how to read a ledger sheet if it came with instructions.”

  That was worthy of a little concern considering the man was involved with the state’s budget.
“Why’d you keep paying Peterson? Why not just cut him off?” I sat back down beside her on the sofa.

  “He’s married to Steven’s sister.”

  “But Steven doesn’t know anything about it.”

  She stared at me, her eyes searching mine. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Was she protecting her husband … or herself? I fixed myself another drink and took a slow sip, steeling my nerves. “Claire … the undocumented workers you have working for you … how’d you find them?”

  She looked confused, like she didn’t understand the question. “What do mean, how’d I find them? I needed help. They applied for the job. I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “How’d they know to come here?”

  She thought about it a moment, then shrugged. “Word of mouth, I suppose. I don’t understand why you’re asking these questions.” The hurt in her eyes was real.

  I wasn’t sure how much to tell her, how much I could trust her with. Or not trust her was more like it. “The men that work for you … do you know anything about them?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. I mean, I know they’re hard workers. It may sound cold, but I try not to get real involved with the employees’ lives outside the ranch. I figure what they do after hours is their own business.” Her eyes then narrowed and she turned a sharp gaze at me. “Why? Has one of them done something?”

  I shook my head. “Other than come here illegally? No. They haven’t done anything wrong, Claire. They’re the victims.”

  She was taken aback. “Victims? What do you mean?”

  “You have at least three illegals working for you whose teenage kids have gone missing.”

  Her face twisted with concern. “When? Recently?”

  “Pretty recent, yes.”

  She got up again and slowly moved around the room, her face etched with concentration. “Do you think they’re connected?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I didn’t trust her enough to play all my cards.

  “Do you think maybe they ran away?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  She stopped in front of the window and gazed out at the ranch she loved more than life itself. “That’s terrible. Your daughter disappears and you never know what happened to her. And you can’t report it to the police because you run the risk of being deported.”

  How did she know they didn’t file police reports? How did she know the missing kids were daughters? My heart felt like it had been coiled in a cable and tossed overboard with a cast-iron anchor. No matter how much I tried to convince myself she wasn’t involved, this boat was going down and it was taking Claire with it.

  CHAPTER 22

  That evening, Sophia and I followed Sheriff Denny home again, waited while he changed clothes, then tailed him to the Grove Street Methodist Church. He was dressed in the same ill-fitting athletic pants and another golf shirt more wrinkled than the one he had worn last night.

  Sophia looked over the printout of Denny’s schedule. “It’s Tuesday night so that counts out church service. Maybe they have men’s Bible study or something?”

  I glanced over at the schedule. “Boy Scouts.”

  “They meet at churches?”

  I slowly nodded, remembering my six months of wearing the uniform. I can’t remember if I got kicked out or if Mom was the one they didn’t want back. Her one attempt at being involved in her kids’ lives ended with her receiving a certified letter and threat of a lawsuit.

  We were parked across the street with a clear shot of the church parking lot. Something about Denny being involved with a scout troop made me uncomfortable. The man had two daughters, but no sons. Yet he was an assistant leader for a Boy Scout Troop. He went to a kids’ movie by himself with, at least in my opinion, the intention of meeting someone. I wasn’t sure I liked the direction my thoughts were going.

  Neither did I like the direction my thoughts were going with Claire. She was in too deep for me to pull her out.

  “Foot hurting?” Sophia asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “I asked if your foot was hurting. You’re kind of quiet tonight.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment, then shook my head. “Nah, the foot’s fine. Just a lot on my mind, I guess.” I probably should have let Rodney handle tonight’s surveillance; he would have thought he’d died and gone to heaven. Especially with the shorts and tight T-shirt Sophia was wearing tonight.

  She nodded, watching me for a moment, then turned her attention back to the parking lot.

  Silence settled over us like a comfortable blanket, not too heavy or cumbersome. We were content to leave the other alone in thought. And my thoughts kept going back to Claire. “Why did you investigate Senator Sellars?” I asked.

  Sophia turned to me, then shrugged. “Routine campaign stuff. Why?”

  “Did you find anything?”

  She shook her head. “Not enough to keep him from getting elected. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.” It was a lame answer, but it was all I was willing to give up at the moment. I gnawed on my bottom lip wondering how much I should tell Sophia. I didn’t want to see Claire’s name strewn across a headline. I still needed time to figure out if there was a way to keep her out of it.

  “How long do Boy Scout meetings usually last?” Sophia asked, her voice was growing bored senseless.

  “I don’t remember. About two hours, I guess.”

  “Surveillance work sucks.” She went back to watching the parking lot.

  “Yeah. Sometimes it does.” I hesitated a moment, then said, “You asked me how long I’d been sleeping with Claire Sellars.”

  She turned and glared at me, even lifting her sunglasses to get an unobstructed view. “I don’t believe those were the exact words I used.”

  I laughed lightly. “Claire and I have history. We go back to when we could do it in a backseat and not worry about a leg cramp.”

  She lowered her glasses, then turned back to the parking lot. “And you’re telling me this because…”

  “You asked. And I have a favor to ask.”

  Without taking her attention from the parking lot, she blew a deep breath through her nose. “Isn’t a favor how I got involved in this in the first place?”

  She had a point. And a memory like a freaking elephant. “The K-Bar Ranch may be more involved with this whole thing than I originally thought. Until I know the depth of Claire’s involvement, I’d appreciate it if you can keep her out of it.”

  Her jaw tightened first, then her whole body followed. I thought I saw a plume of smoke shoot from her nostrils like a raging bull’s. “That wasn’t part of the deal, Gypsy. I don’t tell you how to run your investigation and you don’t tell me what to write. That was the deal.”

  I scratched at the back of my neck. It was hot in the van. And getting hotter. “I’m not telling you what to write,” I said, my voice taking on an unintended whiny tone. “I’m just asking if you can keep Claire out of it. That’s all.”

  She turned and glared at me hard. Her eyes were so cold they could have caused hypothermia. “You’re asking me to keep your girlfriend out of it but you’re not telling me what to write?”

  We stared at each other for a long moment, the reality of my request sinking deep into my steel-encased brain. I slammed my hand hard against the steering wheel. “Dammit!”

  She shook her head, then looked away, blowing more air out of her nose. “You know, if she’s that involved in this whole thing … why is she someone you would want to protect?”

  I pushed both hands deep through my hair and sighed. I could remember only a few times in my life that I was truly confused, and each time involved Claire. “I don’t know why I want to protect her. If she is involved, then she deserves whatever comes to her.”

  Sophia looked at me and her features softened. The rock-hard jaw went slack. “Gypsy—despite what you may think, I don’t have some proverbial ax to grind with Claire Sellars. W
hatever I write will be fair. That I can promise you.”

  I supposed that was all I could really ask.

  She turned her attention back to the parking lot. “Finally,” she said with a huff.

  A cluster of boys in their khaki-and-green uniforms spilled out of the church, laughing and playfully punching one another while their mothers and fathers hurried them along to their individual cars. They were as anxious as Sophia and I to call this meeting over. A few minutes later, Denny and a short, squat man with calves bigger than my thighs came out of the church. The bulldog turned and locked the door behind, then he and Denny chatted a moment. There was some head nodding, some bobbing from one foot to the other, a clap on the back. They parted ways and Denny climbed into his Caddy. The bulldog climbed into a shiny Ford 350 and drove away. I cranked the van’s engine and waited for Denny. He pulled out of the parking lot, and instead of turning back toward home, he turned left.

  “Where’s he going?” Sophia asked.

  “I guess we’ll soon find out.” I waited for the few passing cars that constituted Kermit’s heavy traffic, then picked up Denny’s trail as he turned onto Highway 302.

  After twenty minutes of driving, I was fairly certain he was headed to Odessa. “What’s he got going on in Odessa?” I asked quietly, more to myself than to my partner.

  “Maybe he’s got another meeting.”

  I threw a glance in Sophia’s direction and frowned. “Really? It’s almost nine-thirty. Why don’t you want to believe this doddering old man could be up to something?”

  “Why does every odd behavior have to be criminal? You’re too tainted.”

  Tainted? I’d been called a lot of things in my life but couldn’t remember ever being called tainted. Cans of rotten tuna were tainted.

  “Bet I can prove you wrong,” I said. “Your doddering old man isn’t as nice as you want to believe he is.”