Cowboy Trouble

by Joanne Kennedy

  LIBBY HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN HER APPOINTMENT WITH David to fix the chicken house, but he arrived Monday at noon as promised, pedaling an old balloon-tire bicycle.

  "Puppies! Lookit all the puppies!" he exclaimed. Before Libby could say a word, he was prostrate in the grass, letting the Terrors jump all over him and lick his face. He giggled enthusiastically as the pup pies played.

  "I'm looking for homes for some of these critters, if you're interested," Libby said. "Looks like you're just the guy to take on a couple of the Terrors yourself."

  David extricated himself from the mound of puppies and stood up, brushing dog hair off his jeans. He was wearing a T-shirt that read "Kiss Me, I'm Irish."

  The man was obsessed.

  "Sorry. Can't," he said. "I live up over the Roundup, so pets are a health code violation." He shook himself, as if shedding his doggie persona and becoming human again. "But let's get down to business, chicken lady. Show me the task at hand, and I'll amaze you with my manly prowess with hammer and nails. Or whatever."

  Libby smiled. "Manly prowess is just what this job needs. That needs to be transformed into a state-of-the art chicken house ASAP. Think you can do it?" She gestured toward the would-be chicken house, which currently looked more like a random stack of lumber.

  A feathered head poked out from between two crooked boards and let out a squawk that sounded like Wolverine's claws tearing up a blackboard.

  "Holy shit," David said. "What is that?"

  "That's Wild Thing," Libby said. "Just stand real still. She'll go away."

  "They're not all like that, are they?" David whispered. "Cause if they are, you might want to go for a maximum security facility here."

  "No, she's pretty unique."

  Wild Thing squeezed between the boards and stalked across the lawn, casting evil glares in David's direction. She'd somehow lost most of her tail feathers, and her comb was crooked.

  "Looks like she got in a fight with a coyote or some thing," David said.

  "Yeah. Scary thing is, she probably won," Libby said.

  David shuddered and returned his attention to the shed. "Looks like we'll need some two-by-fours to square things up, and asphalt shingles for the roof."

  "Just make me a list of the supplies you need. I'll go over to Ace and pick them up. What do you charge for this kind of thing?"

  "How about ten bucks an hour?"

  "Sounds more than fair to me. "

  He glanced around the yard. "Where are the other chickens?"

  "They're in the barn. Be real careful the puppies don't get in there. They'd love to play with them."

  "I'll be careful." He whistled an off-tune rendition of "Ripple" as he strode off toward the chicken coop, and the puppies fell all over themselves tumbling after him. Ivan, lying stoically on the porch, simply watched him with wary eyes.

  By late afternoon, the shed was well on its way to being transformed into the chicken house of her dreams, and Libby was having a hard time thinking of David as a suspect. It was almost impossible not to like a guy who worked that hard. He'd patched the roof, fastened chicken wire over all the windows, whitewashed the inside walls, and even built a miniature doorway in one side with a chicken-sized ramp leading up to it. He'd also insisted Libby pick up paint so he could slap a coat of white latex onto the sunbaked boards.

  "After that, I'll work on the fence. We'll make sure those chickens stay right where they belong, and these guys stay out." He nodded toward the puppies, who had spent all day assisting him in his labors and now lay about the grass, speckled with whitewash and thoroughly exhausted. Apparently Jack Russells had two speeds— high and off. When they quit, they quit hard.

  "Can I help paint?" Libby asked. "I'll pay you the same."

  "Sure. You'd better change, though. Put something over your hair. I paint messy."

  It was a clear, hot day, with a cloudless sky so blue it looked like a painted backdrop. Grasshoppers clicked in the dry weeds as David and Libby slapped white paint on the parched gray clapboards. They worked in companionable silence for a while before she got up the nerve to get nosey.

  "So did you grow up here in Lackaduck?" she asked.

  "I did." He leaned back to assess his efforts, then bent to refill his brush. "My dad was the bank manager at First National. My mom died when I was little, so I was on my own a lot. Dad thought he'd make up for his twelve-hour workdays by being extra strict when he was home. That didn't sit too well with me, so I took off when I was fifteen." He laughed. "I was a teenage runaway."

  "Where did you go?"

  "All over," he said, his painting rhythm picking up. "Me and my friends slept in the woods and hopped trains to get from town to town. It was cool—the best time of my life. Except for now." He grinned. "Now's good. You know Josie?"

  "From the diner?"

  David nodded. "We're going to get married."

  "Really? That's great." She could see the two of them together, a perfect match. "When?"

  "Probably about a year after I talk her into dating me," he said. "I'm getting close."

  "Good for you," Libby said—but she wasn't sure she meant it. Was the guy a stalker? He didn't seem like the type. Judging by the light in his eyes, he was in love with the girl, and Libby suspected Josie could do a lot worse. Still, it was a red flag.

  "So what made you come home and settle down?" she asked, shifting back to the topic at hand.

  "I crashed and burned." David carefully captured a drip with his brush. "At first, me and my friends just smoked a lot of dope, but then we got into meth. I OD'd when I was seventeen and got sent home to Daddy."

  "He must have been relieved to get you back."

  "Not really. Having a son in detox wasn't good for his reputation as a businessman. He sent me off to various schools and recovery centers, but I couldn't stay clean. Finally, I ended up in prison."

  Libby dipped her brush in the paint, then wiped it on the rim of the can. "How long were you in jail?"

  "Six years."

  His voice had gone flat, and the good-natured spar kle faded from his eyes. One of the puppies toddled over to him and fell at his feet, rolling over for a belly rub. He set his brush down and obliged, his customary smile returning.

  "So, you see?" he said. "You're helping an ex-con become a useful member of society."

  Libby watched him out of the corner of her eye while she painted. David seemed like a nice guy, but he'd had a rough life.

  "So did you know that girl that disappeared? Della McCarthy?"

  "I just met her a couple times. And I was at the Roundup that night she—you know. That last night."

  Libby nodded. "What was she like?" She set her brush down and took a break so she could watch David's body language as he responded to her questions.

  "Adorable." David started on the window frame, tilting his brush to avoid smearing the panes. "She had on tight jeans—the kind all the young things wear, you know, real low on the hips—and a low-cut top, too. She was so tiny, such a little girl, but the way she was dressed—you could tell—I mean, she obviously was no kid." His hand was unsteady as he edged around the glass.

  "Did you talk to her?"

  "Not much. I mean, she was a friend of Josie's, but she was way out of my league." His shoulders slumped. "With my criminal record and all, I know better than to talk to girls like that."

  Libby wondered just how much that bothered David. "So what happened that night?"

  David chuckled. "She came into the bar and hoisted her little self onto a barstool and tried to order a Cosmopolitan, like some sophisticated lady. Crystal asked her for ID and she said she'd lost it. Made a big show of going through her purse, looking. Then Cash got up, did his big tough-guy thing, and tried to scare her. Asked her did she know the penalty for underage drinking, and did her parents know where she was."

  "What did she say to that?"

  "She just laughed, like she thought he was kidding. Then she ordered a root beer and some nachos, and sat there at
the bar sipping through a straw like a kid at a soda fountain. Man, she was cute, Libby."

  "Did anybody pay a lot of attention to her?"

  "Well, Cash, of course. You'd have thought he was her dad. Seemed like he was really mad she was there. And Crazy Mike. He just kept staring at her the way he does."

  "Anyone else talk to her?" Libby reached for her brush and rejoined the painting effort, working her way around the door frame.

  "There were two other guys there, guys I didn't know. Pipeline workers, probably. They come through all the time, don't stay real long. They looked like bikers. One of them drank too much, tried to hit on Della, but Cash warned him off."

  Libby froze, her brush in the air, as David continued.

  "They left right after Cash settled their hash. Nobody in the place took very kindly to their hitting on Della—she was so young. They took off in a black Dodge pickup. Pretty wild looking. Lots of chrome."

  It sounded like the two bikers from the Roundup parking lot. She knew from experience that they didn't take it too well when a woman said no.

  "Maybe they waited down the road and followed her."

  "No. That was me." David smoothed a final brush stroke onto the window frame and turned to face Libby. "I followed her back to the hotel and then I killed her."

  Chapter 19

  LIBBY JUMPED TO HER FEET, NEARLY OVERTURNING THE paint can. Instinctively, she held her dripping paintbrush in front of her, pointing it at David like a weapon. It dripped latex into the spreading white pool in the grass. Her hand jerked, spattering paint everywhere and leav ing a white streak across David's shirt. "What do you mean?" she stammered. "What…"

  David laughed. "I'm kidding. But isn't that what you were looking for? I know I'm a suspect, Libby. I live upstairs at the saloon, remember? The place is as full of holes as Swiss cheese. I heard every word you and Mrs. McCarthy said."

  "Shoot." Libby remembered what Mary had said about David. He was on the suspect list, and he knew it. "I'm sorry." She set the paintbrush down and sat beside it on the lawn.

  "That's okay," he said with a philosophical shrug. "She said she suspected me because I seem so happy, despite my past. That's sort of a compliment." He dipped his brush in the paint again and continued his work. "Shows how far I've come."

  "I don't suspect you, David." Libby yanked a handful of crabgrass out of the lawn and tossed it aside.

  "I know. You don't think a drug addict has enough energy to commit that kind of crime." She winced. He really had heard everything. "But now that you've seen me at work, I'm afraid you'll change your mind," he continued with mock seriousness. "After all, it's taken a fair amount of energy to transform this broken-down old shed into a shining example of henhouse architecture."

  Libby laughed as David slapped a last stroke of paint up by the eaves of the chicken house, and stood back.

  "There. Beautiful," he said. "There's just one prob lem, Libby."

  "What?" she asked. "It looks great."

  "Yeah, but now all your other buildings look like crap. You're going to have to let me paint them too."

  "You know, that's not a bad idea." He was right; the rest of the place looked awful by comparison. "Come back tomorrow afternoon, if you want. I'll pick up more paint. I have some stuff to do tomorrow, though, so I won't be able to help you."

  "That's okay. What are you working on?"

  "I need to write up Friday's Grange meeting, and then I'm interviewing Gloria Stanhouse. She's been crochet ing doilies for the troops overseas."

  "Yeah, she's covered every surface in Lackaduck with those things, so the troops are the only market she's got left. Bet those antimacassars really dress up a Humvee."

  Libby laughed. "Anyway, the shed looks great. See you tomorrow."

  "You bet! With bells on." He did a brief shuffling jig, clicking his heels like a crazed leprechaun, then climbed onto his bike and set off down the driveway. Penny scrambled to her feet and watched him go.

  "Say 'bye,' Penny," Libby said. "'Bye' to your new friend."

  ***

  By the next day, Libby was a little concerned about Penny and Ivan. It was only natural for a mother to be protective of her young, but the way the twelve-pound terrier bossed the big lug worried her. She'd snarl and lunge for his throat at the slightest provocation, despite the fact that the puppies had played a rousing game of king o' the mountain on his recumbent body without even waking him up.

  Ivan had to be ten times Penny's size, and Libby was worried that sooner or later, he'd tire of the bullying. But as she watched him lie patiently on the hearth rug with a puppy worrying each ear, she realized he wasn't a threat—to anyone. Hopefully, would-be burglars wouldn't realize that her fearsome attack dog had the soft, squishy heart of a bunny rabbit.

  In any case, a new dog provided a great excuse to revisit the veterinarian. After their first encounter, she'd hoped to steer clear of the Ronster, but she'd noticed a festering cut on one of Ivan's pads. Besides, the vet was the second suspect on Mary's list.

  When they arrived at the small frame building that held the vet's office, Ivan leapt to the ground obediently and padded in by Libby's side. Ron was sitting in the waiting room, thumbing through a well-worn copy of Cosmo.

  "Ms. Brown! Always a pleasure." He shoved the magazine under a pile of stock journals and rose to greet her. "And this is…" He drew back a little. Libby was gratified to see that even a seasoned veterinarian, ac customed to cattle and horses, was shocked by the size of her new companion.

  "This is Ivan," she said. "The Terrible."

  "Ah." Ron knelt and extended a cautious hand toward Ivan. "Hello, old boy. Nice to meet you."

  Ivan rumbled a low growl.

  "Ivan!" Libby tried to sound shocked, but the dog thumped his tail as if she'd praised him. Hopefully Ron wasn't equally attuned to her true feelings. "I got him as a gift," she said. "He seems fairly gentle, but he's protective."

  "Well, that's good," Ron said. "A pretty lady like you, out there on her own in the middle of nowhere— you need a good watchdog. Now I think he'd like me a lot better if you came over here and let me give you a little hug. Just so he sees we're friends, you know."

  Libby glowered. "I don't think so. Don't you veteri narians have ways of handling dogs like this?"

  "Yes, of course." His light tone changed abruptly. "They're called tranquilizers, but I'd rather not resort to that. Just come over here and shake hands, at least."

  Libby obliged, and was rewarded with a limp, fishy handshake that felt like the last good-bye of a catch-and release trout. She responded with a brief but firm pump of his pudgy hand. "Ivan, come," she commanded.

  Ivan trotted over and sat at their feet. To Libby's cha grin, he allowed the Ronster to caress his crooked ears. "That's better, old pal," Ron cooed. "We'll be friends now. We have so much in common, old boy. I can tell you like Ms. Brown a lot too. We'll both look out for her, out there on that lonesome ranch, won't we?"

  That was twice now that Ron had mentioned Libby's isolated homestead. The guy gave her the creeps.

  "Ivan provides all the looking after I need, thanks,"

  she told him. She led the dog into the examining room. "I wondered if you could look at this cut on his foot." She lifted Ivan's back leg and gestured toward the wound. It was red and swollen.

  Ron bent to examine it. "Infected," he said. "Probably stepped on a cactus or something." He probed the pad with his fingers. Ivan panted and gave Libby a pleading look, but made no move to stop the examination. "I'll give him a shot of antibiotics and some pills for you to take home."

  He turned and began sorting through a cabinet stocked with bottles of clear liquid. Libby thought about the drugs and medicines available to animal doctors and shuddered. It would be easy enough for the Ronster to subdue a victim if his libido got the better of him.

  "You said you use tranquilizers on animals some times. Would those be given in a shot, or do you have oral medications—you know, something you coul
d put in a drink or some food?" She congratulated herself on the smooth segue into her investigation.

  "Normally, we'd give a shot before an operation or a complex procedure. But if we had a big guy like this, and we really couldn't handle him, we'd put some medi cine in a treat, and get it in him that way."

  "How long would that keep him unconscious?" she asked.

  "Depends on the dosage," Ron said. He rummaged in a drawer and came out with a huge hypodermic. Upending a vial from the cabinet, he shoved the needle into the stopper and drew back the plunger. Libby could feel her breakfast getting restless.

  She couldn't help watching as he handled the needle with casual skill. Her breakfast flipped over again while she turned her questions over in her mind, try ing to find a delicate way to pursue her inquiries. If Ron was really a homicidal maniac, she didn't want to arouse his suspicions.