Roped (Gail McCarthy Mysteries)

by Laura Crum

  A long time before he reached us it was clear he was not just a little drunk; he was very drunk. The smile on his face was matched by his unfocused eyes. I sighed. This could be trouble. Glancing at Tim, I saw he looked pleased. Great.

  Lisa shot Tim a sidelong look. "Don't get in a fight, Tim, huh?"

  Tim didn't say a word, just kept meeting Charles's eyes.

  Domini finished the trip up to our table and stood staring down at Tim with the same silly, unpleasant grin. Tim cocked his chair back a little and looked up into the older man's face. Tim wore a bright blue BENNETT RANCH baseball cap, and he tipped it farther back on his head as if to get a better view.

  "Howdy, Charles," he said. The lazy drawl was almost an insult in itself.

  Such subtleties were lost on Domini. He rocked slightly from side to side as he stood over Tim, grinning down at him. "Howdy, Mr. Big Shot Bennett," Charles said. I sighed inwardly. Charles continued, "Son of the original Big Shot Bennett, who is only the biggest asshole in Santa Cruz County. Maybe in the state of California. I'd have to give it some thought."

  Not a muscle twitched in Tim's face. He cocked his chair a little farther back. He looked completely relaxed. I wasn't fooled. "Now why would you say that, Charles?" Tim said in a soft, friendly voice.

  "Because it's true." Charles's voice was getting louder. Various people turned to stare at us. Tim looked as unconcerned as usual. Charles went on. "Your asshole of a father thinks his shit don't stink. He thinks he can do anything he wants to do and no one can stop him. Well, he's wrong. He's gonna find that out. He can be stopped, all right. He's just a dumb prick."

  On the last words, I sensed the sudden coil of muscle in Tim, like a wound spring, heard the click of his chair legs hitting the floor, tensed myself to grab him. Domini took a step back and cocked his arm; it was clear to him that he'd provoked a fight. In the split second before our motionless group could erupt into a shambles of lunging men, spilled beer, and overturned tables, Pat fairly leaped between Tim and Charles.

  She grabbed Charles by the arm and put her body squarely in front of his. I caught a whiff of her perfume, which reminded me of jasmine, and I felt the tension ebb out of Tim. His chair tipped back again. I relaxed. I heard Lisa let out a long breath next to me.

  Pat looked at Tim. "I'm sorry," she said flatly. "I didn't notice what he was up to." Then she looked at Charles. "You've had too much to drink, dear," she said with a totally phony sweetness. "I think we'd better go home."

  Charles didn't seem to be mentally organized enough to argue. Pat grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door. She gave us an apologetic smile over one shoulder as they disappeared through it.

  "I like Pat," Lisa said abruptly. "I sure wish Dad had married her instead of Joyce."

  "There's just the slight problem of that asshole she's married to," Tim drawled.

  "There's such a thing as divorce," Lisa told him.

  Tim swiveled his eyes to meet hers. There was a sudden un-Tim-like intensity in them. But he spoke in his usual slow, relaxed way. "Well, Pat might divorce old Charles, I'll agree to that. But Dad will never in a million years divorce Joyce."

  The bitterness in Tim's voice surprised me.

  "He won't do it because he's more interested in his stupid goddamn pride than he is in anything else. A messy divorce wouldn't make him look good. He'd rather suffer on like some kind of martyr than lose face."

  Lisa looked as startled as I felt. "But, Tim," she said carefully, "everybody knows about him and Pat. What's the difference?"

  "The difference is that he doesn't think everybody knows. Has he ever admitted to you or me or anybody else that he has a thing going with Pat? No. Do we even really know for sure they've got something going?"

  Lisa shrugged.

  "We don't," Tim said. "Dad just goes on thinking he looks like the ultimate in upright, moral behavior. The great Glen Bennett, pillar of the community."

  Tim's voice was angry and sarcastic, and it stunned both Lisa and me to silence. Tim got up abruptly and walked over to the bar.

  Lisa looked at me. "That wasn't like him."

  "No," I agreed.

  "Why do you think he's so down on Dad?" Lisa sounded confused.

  "I don't know. I haven't seen much of Tim in years. And we've never known each other all that well." Inwardly, though, I wondered if I didn't understand. Glen had always been larger than life; I wasn't the only one who'd admired him. Rich, successful, handsome, charming with women, respected by men ... almost a king in his little kingdom.

  And Tim was supposed to be the crown prince. Tim was almost thirty and had never had a job-just helped his dad with the ranch. At some level, even though he wouldn't show it, he must be fighting out his own terms of adulthood. And maybe finding it impossible to do with this improbable hero of a father always looming over him, making whatever he did seem small and insignificant. Maybe he just needed to find some holes in Glen, chop him down to size, make him seem human. If Tim could make Glen seem small, Tim could feel bigger.

  I watched Tim standing at the bar in his loose, relaxed slouch, waiting for Janey to walk over to him. Even as Glen stood square and straight, shoulders back, head up, Tim had looked just the opposite ever since I'd known him. Shambling, humorous, spine in an easy curve, an obvious reluctance to take anything seriously-that was Tim.

  It did occur to me to wonder how deep Tim's resentment might go. Then I dropped the thought. I could not picture Tim digging holes in Glen's arena.

  Tim came back over to our table, beer in hand. His usual easy grin was back in place.

  "Getting anywhere with Janey?" I asked him.

  "Never do," he said. "She's meaner than cat shit. I don't know why I bother. Now that's more like it," he added.

  Lisa and I followed his glance. Coming in the door at the far end of the bar were two girls. They looked barely old enough to be in the bar, and both had lush, overripe bodies that seemed about to spill out of their tight clothes. Taking lessons from Janey, I thought cynically. Lisa rolled her eyes.

  Tim arched his eyebrows at her. "I'll take the one in the pink top," he said.

  Lisa looked at him in exasperation. "For God's sake, Tim. The one in the pink top is Tony Alvarez's new wife. They just got married a year ago. You want to get shot? That's Tony's cousin over there, next to Danny Bell."

  Tim shrugged. "Watch this," he said.

  He ambled across the bar to where the two girls were settling themselves on bar stools and managed to end up seated between them. Pretty quick we could hear a laughing argument over who would buy the drinks.

  "Now that is really stupid," Lisa said. "It'd serve him right if he did get shot. Those girls aren't worth it."

  I had to agree with her. The girls looked young and dumb, their hair frothing in elaborate perms, their faces heavily made up. Both of them seemed prone to giggling. I felt a little sad as I looked at them.

  Lisa met my eyes. "Makes you feel old, huh?"

  "Yeah, it does. Though I hope I was never that young and dumb."

  "We were, though. Or at least I was. Sometimes I wish I could go back, start over, be young again. Make different choices."

  I thought about it. "I wouldn't be young again," I told her.

  Lisa smiled sadly. "I might. Maybe I'd pick a better man this time and end up happily married."

  "You still could," I pointed out.

  "I don't know. I feel like it's all passed me by. That girl Tim's trying to hustle, the one who just married Tony, that's Bob White's daughter. I used to baby-sit her. I was twenty-four when she was ten years old. It makes me feel ancient."

  I punched her lightly on the arm. "Just start looking at older men," I teased, and was immediately sorry.

  "You mean like Lonny Peterson?" Lisa sounded mischievous. "I always thought he was attractive. So, when are you two getting hitched?"

  The question was too much for my fragile equilibrium. "Not in the foreseeable future." I tried to keep my tone light but knew
the edge was there.

  "Oh."

  I could tell Lisa felt she'd said the wrong thing and hastened to reassure her. "It's no big deal. Things aren't going too well right now, that's all."

  "Is it something you want to talk about?"

  "Hell, Lisa, I don't know. Lonny's seeing his wife again."

  "You mean he's not divorced?" Lisa sounded surprised.

  "No. Separated, but not divorced."

  Someone had put a quarter in the jukebox, and the opening bars of "Amarillo by Morning" drifted around the room. Once again I felt like crying. Shaking my head hard, I told Lisa, "I guess I don't really want to talk about it."

  "OK. Are you ready for dinner?"

  "You bet."

  I followed her into the restaurant section of the building, squeezed into a narrow booth across from her, and ordered a steak. It seemed appropriate. All through dinner, Lisa kept up a running monologue, mostly about her father's horse-breeding program and the colts she was starting for him. As we had coffee, I told her about my two horses, Plumber and Gunner, both six years old this year, how I was just starting to rope on Gunner and how I was having trouble getting Plumber sound. I'd operated on him twice now for a fractured sesamoid bone, an injury that had been the reason I acquired him, but this time I was sure I had the problem solved and would be riding the horse this summer.

  On and on we chatted, the touchy subjects of Lonny and Glen and the stalker forgotten for the moment, horses providing both of us with a means to reestablish our old friendship. A common interest in horses had drawn us together as teenagers, and that same interest ran equally strong now that we were adults. It made a bond-a bond I could feel we were renewing.

  Eventually Lisa excused herself to go to the bathroom, disappearing through the door of the bar. I stared after her, thinking aimless thoughts: how good it felt to chat to another woman this way, how much I enjoyed talking to Lonny about horses, how fragile happiness was. Strains of the gently melancholic song "Pancho and Lefty" wafted out the bar entrance. I could hear the rumble of male voices, the heavy sound of laughter.

  Lisa reappeared in the doorway; I started to smile, but the smile froze on my face. Lisa looked like a ghost-drawn-faced, drained of color, terrified.

  "Gail, come on; let's go. Tim's getting a ride home. I need to go." She hurried through the words.

  I stared at her, still not comprehending this sudden change, but she had already turned and was heading out the door. I got up and followed her.

  She was in her pickup when I got outside, and I opened the passenger door and climbed in.

  "Lock it," she said, her voice brusque.

  "Lisa, what is going on?" I asked as I obediently pushed the lock down.

  She stared straight ahead through the windshield, eyes riveted on the doorway, tension plain in every line of her face and body. "Sonny just walked in that bar," she said.

  NINE

  Sonny Santos? Your ex?"

  "Yeah, him." Lisa started the truck and began backing out of the parking lot.

  "Wait a minute," I said.

  "Why?"

  "I want to get a look at him."

  "What in hell for?"

  "Lisa," I said gently, "I know this is hard for you, but if you really are worried that Sonny's stalking your dad, and you really think I can help, I need to be able to at least recognize Sonny if I see him."

  "Gail, I can't go in there. I can't be around him."

  "OK. Just sit out here. Keep the doors locked. It won't take me a minute."

  Lisa started to protest, then said, "He has black hair, and he's wearing a blue shirt."

  I got out of the truck. "I'll be right back," I told her.

  Marching firmly to the door, I pulled it open and walked into the bar. Heads turned at my entrance; curious glances came my way. Ordinary curious glances, the sort that are directed at any newcomer entering a bar. I scanned the room.

  Tim still sat at the counter with the two girls he'd spotted earlier and barely looked at me. Al Borba was in his accustomed place. Janey stood behind the bar; her eyes ran over me dispassionately, the steady, practical, aloof eyes of a bartender. I had no idea if she recognized me or not. Three men in a group, too old to be Sonny, two younger men whom I'd seen at the roping today at a table-they weren't Sonny, either.

  But at the table in the corner, the table where Lisa and I had been sitting, was a dark man in a white straw cowboy hat and light blue shirt. He had the high cheekbones and hard-planed face that came with a predominantly Spanish lineage, and he was every bit as good-looking as Lisa had said. And even from across the room, he seemed arrogant as hell.

  I knew a little bit about Sonny Santos. Anyone who had anything to do with team roping had heard of him. He came from a famous rodeo family; both his father and brother had been national champions, so Sonny had been raised in a world where he was royalty. Not only that, but he'd fulfilled tradition by becoming a national champion himself. It didn't surprise me that he looked arrogant.

  Sonny raised his eyes from his drink and met my stare. His own gaze was dark and cold-appraising, dismissive, callous. I wasn't young and good-looking enough for him. No question about it; in his mind I was just another woman who would like to take him home. He looked away.

  I smiled quietly to myself, scanned the bar once more as if I were looking for someone, shrugged slightly, and turned and went out the door.

  Lisa was still in her pickup, and the engine was running. She flicked the locked door open when I reached for the handle. As soon as I was inside, she pulled out of the parking lot and started down Lone Oak Road.

  "Did you see him?"

  "Yeah, I saw him. He is good-looking."

  "A good-looking bastard."

  "Do you really think he's behind your accidents?"

  "I don't know. Sonny is a strange man. The only thing he cares about is his pride. I can still see the look on his face when Dad ran him off that night; it really scares me."

  I thought about it. Sonny Santos might just be the kind of person who considered himself above any laws of human behavior. If Lisa and Glen, between them, had upset his private fantasy of Sonny as God, maybe it was possible that he would go to some trouble to avenge himself.

  "I don't know, Lisa," I said at last.

  "Who else could it be, if it's not him?"

  "Susan?"

  She shrugged. And then, slowly, "Or Charles Domini, maybe."

  "Charles? Charles has been around here forever. Why would he suddenly start bothering Glen?"

  "I'm not sure. I always thought Charles was mostly hot air. And Dad's thing with Pat, if it is a thing, has been going on for years. But Charles seemed different tonight-more hostile. And one thing I can tell you: Charles can be violent."

  "Yeah, I know. I've seen him get in fistfights before. But that's not the same as stalking someone."

  "It's more than that." Lisa was talking quietly, as if to herself. "Charles can be vicious. We gathered cattle on his ranch once. Charles and I ended up riding this one field together, just by accident. There was a dog trotting across the field, a little dog, a beagle or something, and Charles pulled a pistol out of his saddlebag and shot him."

  I sighed. "Lisa, a lot of ranchers will shoot a dog that's in with their cattle. They have a legal right to do it."

  "Gail, I know that. I was raised in this country, remember? It wasn't like that. This little dog was just trotting across the field, minding his own business; there weren't any cattle in sight. When Charles got that pistol out of his saddlebag, I was shocked. Still, like you said, it was his legal right. Nobody else I know would have shot the dog; he was clearly somebody's pet on his way home, and not the type of dog who usually chases cattle. But Charles got the gun out and he had this grin on his face. The same grin he had tonight when he was trying to start a fight with Tim. I swear to God, Gail, I was afraid to say anything to him. Before I could get up my nerve, he shot the dog. Not to kill. He shot one of the dog's legs off."

&nb
sp; I could see the scene in my mind, the little dog crying, the blood spurting, Charles grinning. I felt sick.

  "He did it on purpose," Lisa said quietly. "He's a real good shot. He took a while to finish killing that dog. He was enjoying himself. That's what he looked like tonight when he was heckling Tim. He didn't act like a dumb drunk trying to pick a fight. He acted smug, happy, like he was enjoying it."

  We were both quiet. I tried to visualize Charles Domini digging holes in Glen's arena. It didn't seem likely. We were rolling down the mountain road now, nearing the town of Corralitos. "So where do you live?" Lisa asked.

  "In Soquel. Up Old San Jose Road."

  I could see her nod, in the faint light from the dashboard. Soquel was a half hour away. We made the drive in silence. Neither Lisa nor I seemed inclined to break it.

  When she pulled in my driveway, I felt a slight reluctance to get out of the truck. In one short day, Lisa and her problems had become a part of my life. Lisa seemed to feel the same way. The look she turned on me verged on pleading, "Come on up to the ranch tomorrow, Gail, please. We're going to gather. You can help us. That is, if you're not busy," she added belatedly.

  Busy. No, I wasn't busy that I knew of I had this whole weekend off. And, for all I was aware, by tomorrow Sara might be moved back in with Lonny. Great thought.

  "My horses are out at Lonny's," I told Lisa. "And he owns the rig that hauls them. I don't exactly want to ask him for a favor right now."

  "No problem. You can ride Chester."

  "Chester?"