"I know, and I will. I just don't know what to tell her. You know how she is about this issue."
"This is murder, Ronnie, not just infidelity. Call her. I think she can handle more than you give her credit for."
"Alright, I promise."
He cleared his throat. "What am I looking for?"
I took a long breath. "Look for any reference to a Stanley Fishburn. When we were undercover at Cassidy's Bridal Couture, one of the employees ran out with a message from this Fishburn guy for Cassidy."
"You went undercover out there?"
"Yeah, brown wig, big rhinestone framed glasses. The works. And truth be told, Cassidy didn't look too happy to be getting that message in front of prospective customers."
"Oh, brother. Maybe she made you?"
"I don't think she knew it was me. Still, today when I was at the spa Mark belonged to, I saw that same employee and she hurried away from me."
"Baby, I don't like the sound of this. They don't want you nosing around."
There he went calling me baby again. "I'm okay. Just see what you can find on Stanley Fishburn."
"Will do, but you keep an eye out. You might be ruffling some feathers."
*****
Abilene
Day Seven, Afternoon
Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes
I strode through the front door of Mad Merv Java, needing another cup of coffee -- bad.
Merv met me at the counter. "Howdy, Deputy. What can I get you?"
"I'll have a large cup of your Hawaiian Kona. And while I'm at it, might as well get lunch. Your grilled cheese special is always good. I'll have the broccoli-cheddar soup with that."
I took my tray to the fixings counter and added a splash of half 'n half to my coffee. There weren't any tables available, so I figured I'd eat my lunch standing. That's when I saw Bertha waving to me. Ronnie sat beside her, looking as if she didn't know if she should smile at me or run.
"Yoo-hoo, Deputy Hughes, why don't you come sit with us?"
I brought my tray to their table. "What brings you ladies to Abilene?"
Bertha grimaced. "Ronnie talked me into takin' a yoga class at the spa. I'll never do that again, I tell you."
Ronnie's gaze swung my way as a jolt of defiance flashed dazzling-blue in her eyes.
I eyeballed her straight on. "You're still nosin' around at that spa? That could land you in a world of trouble, but it's not like I haven't already told you that."
She blinked. "I wouldn't call it nosing, exactly. I'm simply curious."
Something in my gut clenched and I realized I feared for this infuriating woman. "Good thing you're not a cat because you know how that old sayin' goes."
"Yeah, that curiosity wasn't so healthy for the cat."
"Exactly. Listen, Ronnie, there's a killer out there who may not find your intrusion all that amusin'."
"Hon, maybe you ought to listen to him." Bertha chimed in.
I turned toward Ronnie and nodded. "Since you brought up the cat, let me remind you what happened to him. It wasn't a pleasant end."
Chapter Thirteen
Arroyo
Day Eight, Morning
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Pete walked in to the Chuck Wagon, and on his way to his usual back booth, asked me to bring him a menu. I nearly fell on the floor.
I plunked it in front of him. "Do you need a moment to peruse the menu before you order the same thing you order day in and day out?"
"Well, I don't know about no persuin', but I'm gonna give it a gander." He took a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket.
I turned to see if any of my other customers needed something, Winslow Chandler strode in with a look on his face that would've scared little children. Without waiting to be seated, he slid into a front booth.
I approached trying to hide my annoyance and placed a menu on his table. I don't like bullies. "Can I get you coffee?"
He stuck his nose in the menu and barked, "Yeah."
I brought him a heavy ceramic mug filled with coffee, and a stainless steel creamer. "Can I take your order?"
"I'm good with coffee." He closed the menu.
I pivoted to walk away, before the look on my face showed I'd gone from annoyance to dislike. He could've sat at the counter for coffee. Some nerve.
"Just a minute, young lady." His voice had a hard edge to it.
I wasn't in the mood to be young-ladied by him and spun around to face him. "Yes, young man?"
His head jerked up. "What?"
"You wanted something besides coffee?" I held my order pad in front of him so he'd get the hint.
"Why, you're just as smart as they say you are." He sneered.
"Nobody's ever accused me of being dumb." I tapped the pad with my pen.
"I hear you're runnin' around usin' my wife's name to worm your way in at the spa."
"I don't have to worm my way in. I'm a member, and everything I said was true. Your wife has openly praised the spa."
He stood, towering over me, his eyes dark and menacing, and threw a ten-dollar bill on the table. "Do not involve my wife in your shabby schemes."
"I didn't involve her in anything. She involved herself when she accompanied Cassidy Renault to my murdered husband's hotel room."
"What's goin' on here?" Hoot advanced from the kitchen wiping his hands on his butcher's apron.
Chandler turned to face him. "This New York woman has overstepped her bounds." He pronounced the word woe-man.
"Ronnie's my employee and in this here restaurant and she's under my cover. You can't come in here raisin' your voice to her. I suggest you leave."
The big man turned and pointed at me. "If you mess with Winslow Chandler, this won't be the end." He stormed out.
Hoot grabbed the ten off the table and offered it to me. "Take this. I don't need his money."
I stepped back. "I don't want it."
"I'll give it to the church." He stuck the ten in his shirt pocket.
After my shift was over, I asked Hoot if I could take Rascal with me and ride Henry into the hills to relax.
Hoot had been giving me a few riding lessons. With Henry, all I had to do was stay in the saddle.
The mule followed the road and then took a trail branching off into the hills. It was wide enough, but at such a steep incline, only a four-wheel drive vehicle could navigate it. Henry went at an even pace, never in a hurry. When I wanted to return, all I'd have to do was turn him around. Rascal always stayed at Henry's side and perfectly responded to the few commands Hoot had taught him.
Hoot insisted I take his Remington rifle because of its fluid action and also take some extra ammo. Nervous about the feral hogs I'd heard roamed the hills by the hundreds, I also took my Glock and had my .22 at my ankle.
Once we hit the trail, it was obvious Henry was sure-footed, as Hoot had bragged. He traversed the stony upward lane with ease. Rascal loped ahead, then fell behind, then took the lead again.
"Whew." I whipped off the straw cowboy hat I'd purchased in town and fanned my face, glad for its protection from the sun.
Rascal slanted his head and gazed at me, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.
"Thirsty, boy?"
Drool dripped off his tongue.
"When we get halfway up this ridge, we'll stop under those scraggly pine trees and have a drink. How's that, fella?"
He gave me a huge doggie smile.
I dismounted under the first bedraggled tree, part of a group of windswept pines, took a cold bottle of water from one of the pockets of the insulated saddlebag and drank half of it. I took out a second bottle and an aluminum dish from the other pocket and then watered Henry and Rascal.
As I was about to return the bottles and the dish to the saddlebag, a shot rang out. Whop. I froze. I knew what it was on a visceral level, but it took my brain a couple seconds to catch up.
The bullet hit the dirt about five feet in front of Henry, kicking up a piece of sod.
&nb
sp; Whop. Another shot fired. Another piece of sod kicked up. This time the clod of dirt struck the mule and he shied. I dropped the bottles and dish, grabbed the reins and pushed him back from the edge so he wouldn't go over into the gorge. Hoot loved Henry and I wasn't about to lose him.
Straining every muscle I possessed, I fought the frightened animal and backed him down the hill until we found cover behind a rock formation. After I calmed Henry, I gave Rascal a sit command behind the grouping of boulders. He sat and stayed put.
"Good dog." I patted him. "Not much of a shot, are they boy, to miss twice from up above?"
Stroking Henry, I spoke again, soothing and gentle, to keep the animals calm. "You think Ava Chandler's any good with a rifle?" The mule stared at me, wide eyed. His muscles rippled and he pawed the dirt. I stroked him again.
I whipped the Remington out of the saddle scabbard and got off a round in the direction from which the shooting had come, just for good measure. At least I was doing something in my own defense, though not a chance I could hit the shooter from this far below. Then I ducked, and tried to call 911, but my cell phone had no service. That seemed to be a reoccurring pattern with me. When I needed the phone, it was useless.
I quickly removed the extra ammo from the saddlebag and turned Henry around so he faced the trail going back to the Chuck Wagon. After taking two more shots in rapid succession at the top of the ridge to keep the shooter down, I slapped Henry on the rump as hard as I could with my cowboy hat, screaming, "Get."
The mule took off at a trot down the trail. I hoped Hoot was right, that Henry would always find his way home. When he showed up riderless, Hoot would come looking for me.
"God's speed Henry." I took two more shots at the top of the ridge, hoping to keep the shooter pinned and unable to fire, though whoever it was had the advantage being on higher ground.
Whop. The shot kicked up dust about five feet from Henry. The shooter must be further away than I'd originally figured, or was a much worse shot. I took a deep breath, feeling a tad safer.
It seemed as if an eternity had gone by, but it was probably less than a minute when another couple of rounds rained down on me, hitting the top boulder of the rock formation making two cracking sounds in rapid succession.
I ducked, as rock fragments flew through the air. Whoever was up there was taking their time and their aim had improved. Though, the protruding rocks protected me from the hail of bullets.
I didn't return fire, in order to preserve ammunition. I figured the only way the shooter could hit me or my buddy Rascal was by attacking our flank, but then I'd have a clear shot at my assailant. I patted the hound. "We'll be fine right here. We'll wait for Hoot to come."
A few minutes later, up above on the ridge, I thought I heard the rumble of a vehicle's engine. I stroked Rascal. "Maybe the shooter left."
I didn't trust that perception, so I stayed where I was, safely behind the boulders.
Five minutes after that, Hoot came up the trail in his Army-green Jeep Wrangler Sport. He pulled up behind the rocks and jumped out, holding in one hand a Browning X Bolt with a scope.
He hunched over and waddle-walked toward me. "You all right, Ronnie?"
"Someone's using me for target practice, but yeah, I'm good. Not too sure, but the shooter might've taken off. I thought I heard an engine start up a few minutes ago."
"Let's stay here and not take chances. I phoned Dawson Hughes before I left. He'll arrive soon."
*****
Hill-Country, Behind Arroyo
Day Eight, Afternoon
Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes
They were huddled behind a pile of boulders, both well-armed. Thank God.
I knew although the cruiser had four-wheel drive, due to its low suspension, it still might have difficulty making it up the trail. So I took my Dodge Ram. I pulled behind Hoot's Jeep, threw the door open and got out, crouching behind it while drawing my Smith and Wesson. On the passenger side, Deputy Wyatt Thunder, the youngest member of the sheriff's department, slid out, took cover behind his door, and pulled back the bolt action on a Ruger Hawkeye Tactical Rifle.
Hoot called out, "We think the shooter's gone."
I stood and turned toward my deputy. "Thunder, get on the horn and ask the sheriff to get a chopper in the air. It's probably too late, but we might get lucky."
"You, bet." The kid grabbed for the speaker on my truck's radio system.
"Are you all right?" I advanced toward Ronnie.
"I suppose you're here to tell me I told you so?" Her cheeks flared a bright pink that had nothing to do with the fierce sun overhead.
"No, I wasn't gonna say that, but since you said it for me, perhaps you should listen to yourself." I had to shove my hands into my pockets... afraid I'd either strangle her or wrap her in my arms and clinch her to me.
The four of us walked up the trail, bullets in our chambers. At the top of the ridge, we found boot tracks. Could've belonged to a medium sized to tall woman or a small to medium sized man. I wondered what size boot Reece Morgan wore, whipped out my cell, and dialed for CSI to come check the prints out.
As Thunder walked the perimeter, he stroked the Ruger's stock. "No shell casin's left behind. Took 'em all."
I turned and kicked a stone over the edge of the ridge and it plummeted into a deep abyss. What would it take to keep this woman out of trouble?
I pivoted back. "Shooter's no dummy."
Chapter Fourteen
Arroyo
Day Nine, Noon
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Breakfast had been unusually busy and now I had a pocket full of tips. I thought maybe spending money was one way to get over the jitters from just having been used for target practice the previous afternoon. Good thing it didn't happen too often… I'd be broke.
Oglethorpe's Western Wear's aisles held excitement for me in the same way a Toys 'R' Us would for a child. I found myself drifting from display to display, enthralled.
I needed another pair of jeans, but on this shopping excursion, the dancers' clogs fascinated me. I picked up a leather silver-toned, oxford-type shoe with steel taps on the toes and the heels. Mr. Oglethorpe happened to mention Arroyo had an award winning dance team, and he kept shoes for them in several styles and colors.
The Grange Hall, where Hoot intended to take Bertha on their next date, would have skilled cloggers and Morris dancers tapping and twirling on the floor, not to mention line dancing. The thought of her pure happiness warmed my heart. There was indeed such a thing as true love. I wondered if she'd wear yellow again. That seemed to be their color.
I made my way down an aisle and threw several pair of denims over my arm, then headed for the dressing room. Once I'd pulled the curtain closed, I climbed in and out of Levis, Wranglers, and several brands until a pair of black stretch jeans by an outfit called Rock 'n Roll Cowgirl won out. Slimming and comfortable. Couldn't beat that combo. I'd been in fitting rooms where women were reduced to tears trying on jeans.
Mr. Oglethorpe smiled as I approached the register. "How're you enjoyin' that straw cowboy hat you got last week?"
Recalling how I'd slapped Henry's rump with it, sending the mule to alert Hoot of my dilemma on the trail, I grinned. "It's come in real handy."
He nodded and rang up the purchase, I carried the bag outside into the noonday heat. Oppressive was the word. I wasn't out there more than a few minutes when I wiped my brow.
My cell phone rang.
"Ronnie, it's Jack. I've run down this Stanley Fishburn."
"Jack, you're the best. Who is he?"
"He's the accountant husband of a socialite who's an heir to the Leafy Green Vegetable fortune. They grow, pick, ship, and sell lettuce, and other green stuff like arugula to supermarkets on the east coast."
"He's the accountant for Leafy Green and she's the heir?"
"Nope. She's a distant heir. Daughter of a cousin to the CEO, but she's got some company stock that's worth a bundle, and she inherited money o
n her mother's side, too."
"So, her husband has an accounting firm?" My mind strained to put the pieces together.
"No, he works for her. She put her inheritance money to good use and opened an upscale day-spa in Westhampton Beach."
"A spa." I shivered, even though the mercury rose by the minute.
"Yeah, interesting, since all leads on your end point to a spa."
"As you know, in murder, I believe there's no such thing as a coincidence. So, there's got to be a connection between these two spas."
"She went all biblical and called it Eden's Essence Day Spa." He gave a dry, humorless laugh.
"I've met good people here who take the Bible very seriously."
"When I was a kid, I had to go to religious instruction. Come to think of it, wasn't Nero fiddling in a spa, didn't David see Bathsheba in a spa? Looks to me like they're up to no good in spas. Seriously, no offense. She's the one who named the place."
"None taken." Now it was my turn to laugh. I had to check myself out. Wow, how people got all bent out of shape these days when no offense was intended.
"Oh, and by the way, she goes by her maiden name. Whitney Berensen."
"That sounds upper crust." My tone came off snide.
"Yeah, well, who do you think lives in Westhampton Beach, and vacations out there in the summer?" His laugh sounded more like a gargle. "Rich people, that's who."
"Yeah, yeah. So, can you get anything else on this Whitney Berensen and her spa?"
"I'm already on it. I have a former divorcee client in Westhampton Beach who loves me to pieces for getting her daughter out of a cult. I asked her if she'd like to take a couples' massage with me at the day-spa. Stunning woman, and she knows Whitney. They've worked on a few celebrity charity events together."
"Jack, could you try to keep it all business?"
"Why? That's no fun. But no matter, the lady declined. She did agree to have a facial while I get a massage. So, we're going to pay the day-spa a visit. When I find out more, I'll let you know."
"Men. You're all alike." I regretted the bitter tone in my voice.
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 113