The Troubled Texan

by Phyliss Miranda

  “Whatever she’s having.” Deuce nodded toward Sylvie’s plate. “But make mine with some meat.”

  “Gotcha covered, handsome.” From her apron pocket, the waitress produced Tabasco and slid the bottle on the table. “Here ya go.”

  Sylvie seized Deuce’s glass and poured tea before refilling her own. “You might as well add two slices of Granny’s Special Chocolate Cake.” She beamed a sweet, wary smile and batted her eyes across the table. “Deuce does love his chocolate.”

  Deuce shifted his attention away from her, and tilted his face up to the waitress. “Want you to meet a friend of mine, Rainey, uh, Rainey Michaels. She’s the lady Wilson leased the ol’ Rock Island to.”

  “Glad to meetcha.” Long, I-Can’t-Believe-I’m-A-Waitress red, enameled nails reached toward Rainey’s hand. “Any friend of his has a hot cup waitin’ for ’em here.”

  Rainey wiped her unmanicured, practical length fingertips on a paper napkin before accepting her shake. “Thanks, Miss—”

  “Old man named me Clara, but everybody calls me Pumpkin. Been hitched up more times than a skinny cowpoke’s pants, so cain’t even remember my ex’s last name. Be back in a jiffy.” The spunk-fire sashayed away leaving Rainey wondering how much money Pumpkin would save if she fired the janitor and attached brooms to each of her wig-wagging hips.

  “I need to powder my nose before I get back to work.” Sylvie huddled close to Deuce, touching his bare arm. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  He stood and stepped aside to allow her to scoot from the booth.

  “I’ve got to hurry back to the post office. Today is the release date for the new Forever stamp. Every time there’s an increase in postage, they seem to issue another Forever stamp. The new ones should have already been here, but haven’t arrived, so I know Gideon will be waiting for me to get back from lunch to see if those new stamps came in on today’s truck. He always buys up every first-day issue, so unless I hide them, there won’t be any for anyone else. The perils of the government leasing space in Gideon’s store for the post office.” Giving Deuce a shy, schoolgirl smile, she flounced to the restroom.

  Rainey shook her head. “She seems nice, kinda quaint.” Taking a chance on Deuce thinking her catty, she looked down. “But doesn’t she realize we’re in the twenty-first century?”

  “Sylvie’s a great gal and is honest to the core.”

  “She has an interesting wardrobe,” Rainey said.

  “I heard that her father made Sylvie wear her mother’s clothes after she died. No telling what other abuse he laid on her. I’ve always suspected she’ll swoon over any man who gives her any attention. Never dates, so now I think wearing her mother’s clothes is more about Sylvie missing her mama than any embarrassment from people’s comments.”

  “And what about her father?”

  “He died a lonely ol’ soul a couple of years ago, before I became sheriff.”

  “I admire her for being her own self, regardless of what people say.”

  “Right now, I’m more concerned with you. What’s wrong?” Deuce leaned into the table and crossed his arms. “And don’t say nothing—those pretty dimples betray you every time. It was that damn kiss, wasn’t it? Rainey, it didn’t mean a thing.”

  “Of course not. It didn’t mean anything to me either.”

  “I know you’re in some kind of trouble. What?”

  “No,” she responded a shade too quickly. “I am not in any trouble. It is, well, that I don’t want to look like some kind of desperate woman that shimmied out of her widow weeds before the hearse got out of the cemetery.”

  “Nobody will think that. They don’t even know you’re a widow, and unless you believe it’s important they do, just leave it alone. Let them think what they may.”

  “But she knows.” Rainey motioned toward the bathroom.

  “Damnation!” He flattened his hand on the table.

  “It’s okay. I knew I’d have to tell sooner or later.”

  “Damn again over!”

  Rainey stared at him, trying to piece together the reason he acted so surprised. After all, he had to have been the one who told Sylvie. It seemed that she wasn’t kidding about knowing everything that went on in the town.

  “She’s not a Rhodes scholar, but she’s a hard worker and a good friend.” He reached out and touched Rainey’s hand, as though apologizing for his bluntness. “She’ll be your friend, too. If you ask her to keep quiet, she’ll do it. So don’t get all upset, okay?”

  Fat chance of Miss Party Line keeping quiet.

  “And if she doesn’t?” Rainey asked.

  “She’ll do it if I ask her to. Trust me, okay?”

  Trusting Deuce wasn’t the problem, but putting trust in Sylvie might be a doozie, even a double-doozie.

  The postmistress appeared from the back, and stopped near the lunch counter, head cocked toward the television.

  Over the hustle and bustle of the diner, the voice of one of the men at the lunch counter split the air. “Pumpkin!” he growled. “Change that damn channel. Nobody gives a bunghole about a missing scum-suckin’ lawyer all the way out in California.”

  “Shut up, you buttnocker. I’m trying to get some smarts off that news station,” the missing link to the Beavis and Butt-Head combo challenged.

  Deuce became instantly alert, zeroing in on the dim-witted duo.

  Rainey clasped her fingers over Deuce’s hand, encouraging him not to insert himself in the escalating argument between Stupid and Ignorant. She cast her gaze over the counter toward the television and watched as a reporter began a newscast.

  Sylvie stood, glued to the news report.

  In well-formed words the reporter began: “We are waiting the arrival of the Los Angeles County DA, Judith Mason, to begin her news conference to update our viewers on the case of the reported missing deputy DA. Reliable sources have told CNN that Miss Mason will announce . . . And here’s the district attorney now.”

  A close-up shot of Rainey’s former boss and close friend in front of a chorus of microphones filled the screen.

  Stark white fear rushed over Rainey. She had seen nothing on the news or in the newspaper about her disappearance, but that wouldn’t be uncommon with nearly a thousand deputy DAs employed there. She had presumed that Judith had figured out that Rainey had disappeared on her own, since she was the one who had told Rainey about the son-of-slime car lot salesman who in turn got her the car and a new identity. The only thing she had seen about the LA County District Attorney’s office was that Judith has lost the election and would no longer be the district attorney in another couple of months.

  But Rainey had to hold it together, although she’d rather be dead than to watch the television report at the moment.

  In a confident voice Judith articulated: “Thank you for coming. I have a short statement concerning the reported disappearance of Deputy District Attorney—”

  “Pumpkin!” Beavis of the lunch counter sect bellowed, drowning out the reporter. “Get this crap off this TV or you won’t be seeing my ugly mug around this place again.”

  “Dreams do come true,” the waitress quipped and then meandered up to the kitchen window and picked up some plates of food. She wandered over to Sylvie and shot over her shoulder, “If you don’t like the TV here, go down to Winnie’s ’cause that husband of hers won’t allow no TV down there.”

  Rainey stared squarely at the television, as a random selection of library clips of the reported missing DDA appeared in rapid succession.

  Rainey quickly pulled some hair around her face and grabbed her purse. She pulled out some reading glasses and put them on. “I’m so hungry,” she said as she snatched up the menu. She tried to keep her face hidden as much as possible under the pretense of reading the menu, while peeping over the top at the news report.

  Holding a platter high above her head, Pumpkin peered up at the television. “Hey, Deuce, she looks like your friend there.” She twisted around and nodded toward Rainey.

/>   “No, she doesn’t. That woman’s a blonde and that one back there—” Butt-Head tossed his head toward Deuce and Rainey’s table.

  “Yeah, it does, except that woman up there . . .” the third man joined in and pointed at the screen. “That woman is fatter. A whole bunch fatter. And she ain’t as pretty.”

  “Except for the hair and the glasses, she does look like her.” Pumpkin turned and ambled toward Rainey and Deuce. “But, kids, she isn’t all that fat. I hear tell that television puts twenty pounds on you.”

  Panic, stark and vivid, rioted in Rainey’s stomach, sending shockwave after shockwave through her body. Paralyzed with fear and scared to breathe, she clenched the menu.

  The waitress placed a T-bone steak the size of Rhode Island in front of Deuce. “Whatcha think, cowboy? Think that missin’ woman looks like your lady friend?” She planted the tray under her arm and a fist on her hip.

  Time halted while she waited for his reply.

  “No. The woman in the picture was taller.” He grabbed the Tabasco and loosened the cap.

  “That could be.” Pumpkin glanced back at the television. “Hush up, you jackleg shovel jockeys. None of you got sense enough to spit downwind.” She barked at the quarrelsome construction workers, “I wanna hear this.”

  “Don’t getcha drawers in a wad, Pumpkin, or we ain’t ever gonna get that bypass built for you.”

  “What part of hush up don’t you understand?” Pumpkin sighed.

  Silence. All eyes turned to the interview.

  “I will answer three questions only,” the district attorney announced, before acknowledging a female reporter in a red suit.

  “Ms. Mason, then it’s true that Miss Clarkson disappeared willingly?”

  “Our investigation concluded that there was no foul play involved. She simply resigned. Next.” The DA pointed to a gray-haired man. “Mr. Samuels, you have a question?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s been reported that you know the whereabouts of Ms. Clarkson.”

  “Sam, you know that it’s my policy to neither acknowledge nor deny rumors. I reiterate . . . that Ms. Clarkson willingly resigned. Thank you for coming.” Not waiting for the third question, the DA disappeared behind closed doors.

  “Well, I still think that girl is fat,” Butt-Head snapped.

  Deuce spoke up. “Pumpkin, change the damn channel so the Three Stooges over there will can it.” A muscle quivered in his jaw, and a shallow frown creased his forehead. “I don’t think she looked all that fat.”

  “How about a refill?” He pushed Rainey’s coffee cup toward the waitress, who nodded and sauntered to the corner and picked up the remote control.

  Before Rainey could thank Deuce for running interference, he rose to allow Sylvie back into the booth. Apparently, she had changed her mind about the urgency of returning to work. Her eyelids and lips sported a fresh coat of war paint, and the sweet scent of counterfeit White Shoulders hovered heavily overhead.

  “That was your pictures on the TV.” Sylvie’s eyes narrowed and a knowing tone emphasized her words.

  “Knock it off, Sylvie. . . .” Deuce lowered his voice. “I’ve known Rainey for years. She isn’t the woman on TV.” His in-no-uncertain-terms tone left little room for debate.

  Deuce saturated his steak with Tabasco and cut off a bite, exposing a red gushy middle. Setting down his knife with purpose, he stabbed the meat.

  “Oh! Okay, whatever you say, sheriff.” Catching Rainey’s eyes, Sylvie zipped her lips shut with her fingers, twisted an imaginary key, and tossed it over her shoulder.

  Rainey fought off a wretched stomach to mutter, “He’s right. I just moved back to Texas from New York.”

  “I didn’t know where you moved from, but should have known by the license plates,” Sylvie said.

  Deuce’s brows knitted together in a deep frown as he glared at his potatoes and went to work pulverizing them with a fork.

  Sylvie turned to small talk. “I heard you’ve already butted heads with the security company.”

  “Yes. Mr. Wilson notified them that I had leased the building, but didn’t give me the access code. It was a maddening experience.” She cut her eyes back to Deuce, who now peppered his potato with vengeance.

  “I can only imagine late at night being at that old spooky depot and new in town.” Sylvie picked up the tea pitcher. “I don’t know why store owners around here even bother to have security systems since they all use the same code.” She filled the glasses. “It only serves to keep out teenagers. Doesn’t it, Deuce?” She batted her overly-mascaraed lashes.

  The sheriff lifted his head and shot Sylvie a look of disapproval.

  Rainey eyed first the hunkasarus, then the shrinking violet who acted like a pair of mismatched bookends, and then replaced the menu and took off her reading glasses. So the code she’d been given by Wilson was the same one everyone else used. Unbelievable! Storing her glasses in her purse, she said, “Not as hungry as I thought I was.” She issued a weak smile.

  Shifting her focus back to more serious problems that were multiplying quicker than a rabbit on fertility drugs, Rainey took stock of her options. And the most logical choice: Consider the money paid Wilson a bad investment, move on, and try to forget she had ever set foot in Kasota Springs, Texas. Her trying to break the lease would only lead to lengthy litigation and more attention drawn to her. The last thing she needed was to be deposed and be forced to answer questions under oath about her background, particularly a dead husband she never had in the first place. A good lawyer would scour the bowels of the earth to find dirt to be used in a piece of litigation.

  Rainey watched the scowl on Deuce’s face deepen, realizing she couldn’t get out of town quick enough to suit the obviously peeved lawman.

  Seemingly snatching words out of thin air, Sylvie piped up, “I’d never do anything to hurt our friendship.” She spoke to Deuce, but eyed Rainey, before placing her hand over Rainey’s. “I know we just met, but I’ll be there for you, too.”

  “Thanks.” Rainey tried to smile, but was abruptly distracted by a man peering through the café window.

  Hooded, black, beady eyes bore into hers.

  Fear spewed through her like an erupting volcano.

  Frightened.

  Electrified.

  The bell over the front door jingled.

  Rainey looked up to see a shadow of someone coming into the café.

  Choking back a cry, she barely got out the words, “I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room,” before bolting from the booth and slamming her knee against the table leg in the process.

  Dishes toppled and crashed, shattering glass in their wake. The tea pitcher hit the tiled floor, bouncing to a stop against the lunch counter baseboard.

  Rainey rushed to the restroom, but instead of going inside, she turned towards the back door, fleeing danger. Or she thought she had.

  Chapter Seven

  “Noooooo!” Rainey screamed.

  Butting the backdoor screen with her palms, she ran from the café, zigzagging through empty bread trays and milk crates stacked outside the rear exit. Rounding the building, she tripped on a grease bucket. Mucky, tar-colored liquid splashed her pants leg and ran down onto her foot.

  Her heart sped out of control.

  Hammering . . . pounding . . . beating uncontrollably against her ribs.

  Behind her she heard the screen door slam and boots hitting the hard soil mixed with patches of concrete and asphalt.

  Alonzo Hunter had escaped and found her as he had threatened.

  Those hooded, beady eyes were undeniable.

  Mocking . . . menacing . . . promising.

  All the memories of the trial came rushing back. Every grisly image. Every morbid photograph. Every bloody detail.

  Brands seared on nine bodies like cattle!

  To no avail, Rainey’s trembling fingers attempted to unlock the Malibu. Steadying her shaking wrist with her free hand, she tried again.

  Click!


  Clambering inside, she threw the car in gear and raced from the parking lot, leaving an opaque ribbon of gravelly whirlwinds behind.

  The Malibu flew down Main Street. Tiny rocks and hardened earth crackled, propelled from beneath the tires, as she braked to a stop in front of the Rock Island Depot. Whether she had bothered to yield, much less halted at the stop signs, didn’t matter. She had to hurry. Time was running out. She had to get her measly belongings and get out of town.

  Scrambling through the front door, she locked it behind her before disarming and resetting the alarm. Raw emotions battled fright for control and won out.

  Sliding to the floor, Rainey drew her knees tight against her chest, and buried her face. Hot tears escaped, falling into her lap.

  Like a scolded child needing comfort, she rocked . . . back and forth . . . back and forth.

  Heaving, the tears continued until there were no more.

  How could Alonzo Hunter have found her? He couldn’t be free. She had watched three deputies subdue him and escort him from the courtroom to be restrained before removing him from the courthouse.

  Three months later, she had watched a vehicle pull away, heading for San Quentin State Prison, where he had been sentenced to stay for the rest of his life.

  Oh, God, would she ever be free from the nightmare?

  Seizing composure, weak-kneed, she stumbled to the dinky, filthy restroom, filled her hands with tepid bottled water and washed her tearstained cheeks.

  Grasping each side of the sink, she stared into the mirror. Where could she turn? What should she do?

  The decision had been made for her.

  Piling her dirty clothes and cosmetic bag into her satchel, she headed towards the door.

  If she didn’t stop any more than was necessary, she could make it back to New York City in two days. Three days tops. Rainey Michaels could melt into the crowd and get lost forever.

  She set the alarm and tossed the keys to the depot on the counter, then headed out the door. After wedging the gym bag between the Malibu’s front and back seats, she slammed the passenger door shut.