I settled in. The tiny bedroom, on the second floor, near the back stairs, featured a twin bed with a chintz floral spread and a small window covered with a similar but not matching calico print curtain. Not my style, but it was neat and clean, and the bed didn't sag.
Bertha, the lunch and dinner waitress, who brought to mind the classic war-movie saying Big Bertha, occupied the larger middle bedroom. As I settled in for the night, through the wall, I heard her humming some melody I didn't recognize. Perhaps an old folk tune or spiritual. Kinda hokey, but also strangely comforting.
Hoot and his coonhound Rascal had the front room. We all shared a bathroom with a shower in a claw-footed tub that sported a shower curtain around it.
At breakfast the next morning, Hoot had me jump right in. I ran a super deluxe pancake special to a cowboy named Pete sitting in the back booth. Five buttermilk flapjacks slathered in butter with a small pitcher of hot pancake syrup on the side, three country sausages and two eggs over easy on a side plate, as well as unlimited coffee. Pete had a scar running the length of his chin. I later found out he was a clown in the rodeo who, when bull riders were thrown, drew the attention of the raging, thousand pound beast to himself.
Pete grinned at me and scratched a chin that needed a shave. "Thanks, little lady. I hear tell they rush around like a banshee's a chasin' 'em where y'all come from, but honest, Hoot'll let you walk with them orders."
That's how it went all morning, with nearly fifty percent of the men dubbing me little lady and a fair number of women calling me honey. Wouldda been useless to fight it.
Guess waitressing's like riding a bicycle. I hadn't forgotten how from the jobs I'd held during college. I did pretty well, only mixing up one order and was feeling proud of myself when the sheriff's deputy with the piercing eyes came in but didn't take a seat.
He stood in the doorway, his Stetson low on his brow, and his steel-gray orbs focused on me.
Something about his gaze set alarms off in the depths of my mind. I approached him. "Can I help you? Table for one?"
"Actually, table for two. I'd like you to sit with me." The resemblance was uncanny to that country-western star I'd seen on the cover of People magazine wearing a black ten-gallon hat and looking fantabulous in a tux.
Hoot strode out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on the butcher's apron tied around his waist. "Well, I'll be. Deputy Dawson Hughes, what brings you to the Chuck Wagon this early? Your fancy coffee maker broke?"
The deputy gave a short nod. "Hoot, good to see you. I need to talk to Mrs. Ingels, if you don't mind."
Hoot frowned. "Since you know her last name, I reckon this is an official visit."
"That it is." The deputy motioned to an empty booth.
My gaze followed his hand, then I walked over and slid onto the seat.
He sat after I did.
I cleared my throat. "How did you find me here? Nobody but my boss knows where I am."
He chuckled. "You'll know anyway soon as you talk to Hoot. I live in Arroyo. Spotted that green go-cart you drive on my way in to work."
"I see." Why did I feel the last thing I needed was Hawkeye in the neighborhood?
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Ma'am, is Mark Ingels your husband?"
"Ye--es."
"I'm sorry to be blunt, but it so happens he died last night of a gunshot wound to the head."
"No." I gasped. Despite my anger, I couldn't deny my deep feelings for Mark. That's why his betrayal hurt so badly. "Wa... was it a robbery?"
"It doesn't appear to be. On the surface, it looks like suicide, but that could've been staged. On the other hand, it might be a professional hit, as y'all say where you come from."
Jack's joking around yesterday flitted into my mind, and I pushed it away. This wasn't funny. Not at all.
"I can't believe this." I hugged myself as a shiver raced down my back. Was the deputy trying to rattle me? If so, he was doing a good job.
"Cassidy Renault, owner of the bridal shop in the Mall of Abilene, says you're an excellent shot." He removed his hat, revealing a full head of thick, wavy brown hair.
"I'm trained with weapons. It goes with my profession." My mind ran through every possible scenario and immediately ruled out suicide. This had to be a random shooting, a matter of extremely bad luck. What else could it be?
He grinned but the effect was mirthless. "Ah, yes, a New York City lady PI."
Heat flamed my cheeks. He'd obviously interviewed my nemesis and come away with the wrong impression. "Sounds like Cassidy told you a lot about me."
He hiked one shoulder in a noncommittal half-shrug. "You were once sorority sisters in college?"
I let out a sigh that seemed to come up from my toes. "And best friends. Inseparable, actually. Then my family finances took a down turn… mom's and mine that is. I had to leave college here in Texas and go back home."
"Ms. Renault said your parents divorced."
Anger lodged in the back of my throat choking me. I swallowed twice. "She had no trouble airing my family's dirty laundry, did she?"
He offered a wan smile. "By the story she told, I'd guess she's not your biggest fan."
The throbbing behind my eyes intensified. "Let me set the record straight. My dad was a successful stockbroker. He divorced my mom when I was in high school and she got a very nice settlement. I guess he got tired of making payments. During my freshman year at college, he hid his income and declared bankruptcy. I came home, finished my associate's degree in Criminal Justice at the local community college, and went to work first as an armed security guard. Then Jack Cooney Investigations hired me."
He had a way of not breaking eye contact. "Well, that's a might different than the way Ms. Renault told it."
"I'll just bet." I took a deep breath, then clamped my jaws shut. As much as I wanted to turn the tables on Cassidy by telling him about her cheating heart, I put the brakes on my tongue. I'd already told him way too much about my life and broken one of my cardinal rules. During an interrogation, answer only questions asked. Never volunteer anything to the cops.
His eyes bore into me. "I believe it was you I saw barrelin' out of the Mall of Abilene parking lot yesterday. You had quite a head of steam on. Where did you go after that?"
I related the call to Jack, getting lost in the hills, and finally arriving in Arroyo.
He drummed his fingers on the table. "Did you bring any weapons to Texas?"
I shifted in my seat. "I'm licensed to carry here. I brought my Glock and a Colt twenty-two."
He sat back, and his eyes bored into me. "You came after your cheatin' spouse and you brought two guns with you?"
"I didn't come after anyone. This was the last place I thought he'd be. I came to see a woman I thought was my best friend." My voice raised an octave.
"When you got here, you found out Cassidy Renault wasn't the friend you thought she was."
"You got that right."
He leaned forward. "I'm going to have to take possession of your weapons as well as the clothing you wore last night."
Fear ran through me, leaving a metallic taste in my mouth. "You're going to test the handguns to see if they've been fired and test my clothes for gun powder residue."
He nodded. "I see you know the drill."
The deputy followed me upstairs to my room.
I handed him both weapons as well as the jeans and the big shirt I'd worn on the flight. "The guns are clean, haven't been fired recently. But, I'm sure you know as well as I do, the test for gunpowder residue is unreliable. Residue hangs around. It's likely on every garment I own. My shoes and handbags might have it on them as well."
"My job is to bag the evidence and have it tested. If it goes to trial, ma'am, you're defense attorney will have to make that argument to a jury."
Chapter Three
Abilene, TX
Day Four, Early Afternoon
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Three days later, I stood inside the sheriff's
department signing a receipt. I returned the Glock to my conceal and carry shoulder bag, pulled up the hem of my GAP straight-leg jeans, and slid the Colt into to its ankle holster.
Crushing the paper bag with my garments to my chest, I got into the front seat of the deputy's patrol car. They'd told me what I already knew, the weapons hadn't been fired and the clothes had gunpowder residue on them. Thankfully, there had been only a small amount of powder particles, which hadn't raised any alarm bells. That kinda trouble a girl doesn't need.
Keeping my facial muscles from sliding into a smirk wasn't the easiest thing, as I fought down the urge to tell the deputy: I told you so. Instead, I made a production of slipping my seatbelt into its clasp. When I turned to face him, I'd mustered a modicum of self-control, though now, my unreliable emotions had slipped toward bitterness.
"I had no idea Mark bought a house in Abilene. Some PI, huh? Not a clue what my own husband was up to, and that's what I do for a living. Guess I was in wife mode as far as he was concerned. What is it they say? The wife is the last to know."
The deputy pulled out of his assigned parking spot. "All too often that old sayin' is very true."
"From what you mentioned in the station, I gather it's a house, not a condo." The thought rankled me. Mark hadn't wanted to go for a house in Brooklyn. Of course, houses were very expensive there, and you didn't get much square footage for what you paid.
"It's a three bedroom Spanish-style hacienda with a detached casita. Nothin's in there yet, of course, and the windows are bare."
"What's a casita and who showed you the house?" I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice.
He gave a soft chuckle. "A casita is a detached bungalow for guests. The real estate broker gave the Abilene PD detective the nickel tour, not me... but I want to see it for myself."
"I see."
"They just closed on the house and a second set of keys for Ms. Renault hadn't been made yet."
I gazed out the car window. Scrappy trees... miles and miles of rolling, arid-hills and plenty of cacti. Devastatingly beautiful, but somehow I missed cement and the smell of exhaust... longed to hear birds coughing in the morning. Of course, they'd be big black pigeons, mostly. Rats with wings, some called them. "I guess after we leave, the agent can give the keys to Cassidy."
"Actually, no. You're still the wife. The house belongs to you."
I swiveled in my seat to face him and laughed. "Isn't that a weird kind of poetic justice in this sad, sorry mess? I get the house Cassidy wanted, only I don't want it."
Hughes pulled into the driveway of a ranch-style home with a tiled roof. A red brick wall to one side with shrubbery in front of it hid a private courtyard. The most interesting feature was a square room jutting out of the roof, reminiscent of a fort's lookout tower. I imagined a conservatory of some type up there.
The real estate broker's Lexus was parked in front of one of the garage doors. When we got out of the patrol car, a woman in a stylish black suit with a pale blue silk blouse opened the front door and greeted us. "I'm Kayla Anderson. I handled the sale of the house to Mark."
"Hmm." I stepped across the threshold, both hands holding onto the strap of my shoulder bag. So, it was a chummy first name basis. "Do you mind me asking how much Mark paid for this house?"
"Not at all, as it's your house now, you're entitled to know. He paid eight hundred fifty."
"Thousand? Of course, thousand." I gave a nervous giggle.
"There's a swimmin' pool in the back. Would you like to see it?" The agent motioned with her hand.
Hughes nodded. "Let's get a tour of the entire property."
Having covered every inch of the house and grounds, we finally climbed the one staircase to the only room I had any interest in... the one I would've turned into a conservatory. That is if I weren't going to immediately dump the place. "Mark's not from around here. How did he hear of your agency?"
"I met Mark at the Estella Guest Ranch and Spa. He was doin' a series on leadership and I had signed up for weekly yoga lessons. We hit it off and he said he was lookin' for a house because he was goin' to get married." She covered her mouth. "I'm sorry, this is terribly awkward."
Hughes cleared his throat. "If you'll give me the keys, Mrs. Ingels and I will be on our way."
Before we left, I pulled the agent aside. "I want the house back on the market as soon as it's out of probate."
*****
South Abilene
Day Four, Moments Later
Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes
Suspicion comes with the territory for a lawman, and I had been suspicious of Veronica Ingels. The fact that she hailed from New York City had not been a plus in my book.
I drove farther into hill-country keeping the cruiser at a steady fifty-five miles per hour until I spotted the arched sign over the entrance of a long driveway leading to a sprawling Spanish-style villa. The sign read: Estella Guest Ranch and Spa. I slowed and turned into the driveway, I'd had occasion to navigate the previous spring for a charity function. What a lavish soiree that had been. All the stops pulled out.
Horses grazed in paddocks on either side as I proceeded toward the house. Palominos, bays, a spotted appaloosa, and a few buckskins. I spotted an elegant liver chestnut.
Mrs. Ingels twisted this way and that in her seat to get a better view of the acreage. "My, he was living quite the elite lifestyle." Stunned disbelief transmitted from her brilliant-blue eyes. It hurt my heart, yet I knew showing her pity would further belittle her.
The Abilene Police Department had worked the crime scene, but since I'd found Mrs. Ingels, the sheriff decided we'd question her ourselves. He had pretty much cleared her, but I wasn't sure. I'd taken her to the house and now the spa to gauge her reaction. Her obvious distress made me feel small.
I parked my vehicle in front of the house and waited for the lady to get out. I cupped her elbow and guided her up the steps of the palatial front porch and into the mansion. Being from New York City, I thought she'd resist what she might see as male chauvinism, but she must've been overwhelmed by all the information coming at her about her husband. I gave her elbow a squeeze. "Quite the set-up they have here."
A wagon wheel chandelier with vintage hanging lanterns was the focal point of the lobby. Plush carpeting, soft chairs and matching sofas in desert tones designed for weary bodies to sink into set an opulent tone. A series of impressive ceramic bowls dominated the fireplace mantle. I'd heard they'd been created for the spa by a Native American artist of some repute. On one side, a ceramic tipping jar fountain bubbled over polished rocks, its gurgles soothing. On the other, an automated glass sliding door led to a courtyard with a fire pit, not presently in use, as the temperature had to be over eighty, normal for May.
A young woman in a bright-pink feminine-cut tee, butterfly earrings, and a pair of black yoga pants offered a ready smile from behind the main desk. Her nametag introduced her as Trudy. "Good day, can I help you?"
I stepped forward and braced myself for a not-so-welcome trip down memory lane. "Yes, thanks. I'd like to see the director."
Her smile wavered as she picked up the phone and pressed a few digits. "There's a sheriff's deputy here to see you."
Reece Morgan materialized as if from thin air.
Nothing had changed. The guy had a way of creeping up on other students when we were at Texas State Technical College-Abilene. Interesting that after two years, we both transferred out. I went to study criminology at Abilene Christian University and Reece to the more prestigious Hardin-Simmons University where he majored in Athletic Training and Sports Medicine. It was obvious he'd put his college education to good and profitable use.
Morgan walked directly to me. His razor cut blond hair feathered at his ears. All in black, he seemed like some western-wear designer's softer version of Johnny Cash. Still, I couldn't help but admire the man's hand-tooled boots.
"Long time no see." He gave what had to be his standard professional smile, as there was little
warmth in it, and extended his hand.
I took the proffered hand then inclined my head. "Reece, this here is Veronica Ingels, widow of one of your members."
He placed two fingers on his chin and gazed at the ceiling for a moment, as if struggling for recollection. "Ah, yes, there was somethin' in the news about Mark Ingels committin' suicide a ways out beyond Kirby Lake."
I nailed him with my best I mean business look. "Mr. Ingels gave a leadership lecture series here. I'm goin' to need the names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone who attended."
"Well, um... let's see. Yes, he did speak here." He searched the ceiling again.
"A printout of the roster will do, plus all registration forms."
"Certainly, no problem. I'll have to get that info to you."
"I want the originals. I'll send a deputy out tomorrow afternoon to pick them up."
As if coming back from some distant place, Mrs. Ingels pivoted toward us. "Mark wouldn't commit suicide. He's not the type and besides, he had too much to live..." Her voice quavered.
The smarmy look I remembered from college overtook Morgan's face. "Unfortunately, those closest to the victim often don't have the clearest judgment in the matter. I'm sorry to say."
I wanted to wipe that air of superiority off the man's face... real bad. "The medical examiner doesn't think it was suicide. The angle of trajectory isn't right. Besides, Mark Ingels had enough barbiturates and alcohol in his system to knock out a bronco. The ME doubts he could've driven to where he was found in his car. There's also a question as to whether he was capable of pullin' the trigger."
Mrs. Ingels piped up again. "Sounds like someone slipped him a Mickey."
I nodded. Smart lady.
Morgan squinted, peered down his nose at her and scowled.
Chapter Four
South Abilene
Day Four, Afternoon
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
If a gal who felt like a total fool had to be schlepped around Texas hill-country, I guess I could do worse than Deputy Hughes as my guide. Next stop was the Hilton Garden Inn. In no way shabby, still the lobby was a far cry from that of the Estella Guest Ranch and Spa. I ran a hand over the top of one of four sand and taupe lowbacked easy chairs positioned in a cluster around a coffee table.
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