"Now, Ronnie, you know I was faithful as the day is long to Marjorie."
"Yeah, but what about the nights." I really should practice biting my tongue.
A long sigh traversed the line. "Nights? I fell asleep in front of the TV after dinner. She had nothing to worry about."
"Sorry, Jack, I didn't mean to imply otherwise." What a dope I was.
"I know. Listen, kid, you hang in there. Be careful, someone's already tried to use you for target practice." He clicked off.
A comforting parting shot if I'd ever heard one. Punning myself was intended. I put my cell away and carried the bag with my newly purchased jeans to the car. After firing up the engine, I turned the air conditioning to full force, and pulled away from the curb. My mind spinning with possibilities about the case, I made a wrong turn and found myself on the back streets of Arroyo.
Five minutes later, unsure of which way to go, I turned down a narrow alley, not so much a street. The sign proclaimed Lone Horn Lane. I turned on my GPS to get back to the Chuck Wagon. Following the woman's voice brought me past a small ranch house with an adobe red-tiled roof that might not have ordinarily caught my attention. However, Dawson Hughes happened to be out front replacing a few slats on a four-foot high cedar picket fence.
I pulled over, got out, and watched him. "Say, you're not too bad with a hammer and nails."
"So glad I meet your approval." He tossed a half smirk my way. "What brings you here?"
"I took a wrong turn and then followed Mandy."
"Mandy?"
"The woman in my GPS." My exasperation showed when the words came out in a growl, proving once again social graces were not my forte. My palms began to sweat and I couldn't meet his eyes. My history displayed a long list of social blunders, starting just after my dad began staying out late at night. I never felt quite good enough after that.
Hughes wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. "I was about to take a break. Can I interest you in a glass of sweet iced tea?"
"Do you freeze your glasses like they do at Billy-Joe's?"
He wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans. "No, I can't say that I do, but maybe I should start."
He led me up the cement walk and into a comfortable living room. Two matching tan recliners with buffalo-check blankets on each headrest sat kitty-cornered before a stone fireplace. A low-table nestled between them with a few Field and Stream magazines strewn about on top. I couldn't help imagining one of the pair had been his former wife's seat.
"Come on into the kitchen." He motioned with his hand.
I pulled out a ladder-backed wooden chair at the round pine table and plunked down my tush. Opposite me, a red and white checked valance hung from the top of the window over the counter. A microwave, toaster oven, and a high-end coffee maker sat to one side of the sink. On the other side, a restaurant quality cappuccino/latte machine took up most of the space.
"That's the machine Hoot teases you about." I pointed, not able to hide a slight smirk.
"Aw, he's just sore 'cause I don't come in and drink his mediocre brew." Hughes grinned.
I walked over to the coffee maker and inspected it then went on to the fancy jobbie. It had the ability to brew espresso and spew steamed milk.
The open shelves above the machine housed a white ceramic Melita, a glass French press, and several sugar and creamer sets. Eight large mugs hung from hooks beneath the shelves.
I pivoted to face him. "I'm impressed."
He held up gritty hands. "Listen, I've got to get cleaned up before I put out the sweet tea."
I hiked one shoulder and grinned. "I kinda like a little dirt on a man." It had to be a giddy moment. There could be no other explanation for that comment.
Tiny sparks seemed to dance mischievously in his eyes. He laughed, turned, and walked down a short hallway, shaking his head. "New York woman."
That's what Winslow Chandler had called me. Somehow, it sounded very different coming out of Hughes' mouth. Sounded kinda nice.
A moment later, a door closed and the sound of running water drifted down the hallway and into the kitchen.
I ducked into the living room to see what kind of a fix I could get on him from his surroundings. Photos on the mantel showed him hunting with Hoot and another fellow, him at a rodeo, and him at what looked like a county fair. No pictures of an ex-wife. I let out a long sigh and realized I'd been holding my breath.
A tuft of dust caught my attention at the bottom of a small bookcase in the otherwise immaculate room. I dashed over. He read Vince Flynn and David Baldacci. Grabbing the thick book at the bottom, I gave a yank. To my astonishment, I stood there eyeballing a Bible, covered in a thin layer of soft gray grit. Hughes vouched for this book, but it didn't look like he read it. I realized the water had stopped running. So, I shoved the volume back where I'd found it, stood and took two quick steps bringing me back to the center of the room.
"Find anythin' interestin'?" He leaned lazily against the doorjamb, one weathered boot crossed over the other.
Startled, I pivoted and dug the heel of my running shoe into the textured pile area rug, nearly lost my footing and had to reach out and grab hold of one of the recliners. How long had he watched me? "Oh, sorry, I've been a professional snoop so long, it's second nature."
He motioned with his hand. "Come back into the kitchen, take a load off, and I'll get the tea."
I followed him. "While we're on the topic of snooping, my boss, Jack, has tracked down Stanley Fishburn. I'm sure your pregnant deputy told you the seamstress came out with a message for Cassidy to phone that individual. By the way, she's huge. Bertha speculated she might be having twins."
Hughes took down two tall glasses from one of the higher open-shelves, placed them on the counter, and shook his head. "Yes, Deputy Watts did mention that and no, I wouldn't know anythin' about her medical condition. I don't know how you do things in your neck of the woods, but in Texas that sort of thing is considered personal. So, who is Fishburn?"
Once again, I'd proved I had the aplomb of a stevedore. I cleared my throat. "He's the accountant at some fancy-schmancy day-spa in Westhampton Beach on the south shore of Long Island. About two hours east of Brooklyn if traffic's moving."
"The goin's on at two posh spas more than a thousand miles apart intersectin' in a murder investigation, and it bein' an accident? I don't think so." He scowled, opened his refrigerator, and took out a store-bought, plastic gallon jug of sweet tea with lemon.
"I'm flabbergasted. I thought you were a purist. That you'd brew your own."
"If it were iced coffee, I'd brew it." He poured the tea into the glasses.
"That's your passion, coffee, I mean."
He nodded. "One of them."
He screwed the cap back on the jug and the muscles in his jaw tightened. "Listen, gettin' shot at is serious stuff. If you ever want to talk it out, I'm here."
"Thanks." I took the offered glass. While the twisting in my gut proclaimed my belief that Cassidy had been the shooter, I wasn't about to belabor that point... just yet.
He raised his glass. "To justice."
"To solving this murder and putting the guilty party away." I clinked my glass to his.
He nodded. "I'm goin' to pass along the little tidbit you just gave me. I'm sure the Abilene PD rookie detective would appreciate knowin' about Fishburn and that other day-spa."
"You going to tell him the info came from me?"
"Yeah, and I'll probably tell him what a pain in the butt you are, too."
"If that's the case, I can always keep information to myself." I gave him my best gotcha smile.
"I'm bankin' on the fact that because you're the consummate professional, you won't do that." His grin proclaimed self-assurance.
"Speaking of information, you know an awful lot about my sordid life. If you don't mind a brazen New York woman reminding you... at Billy-Joe's you said you'd tell me about your divorce."
He sat opposite me at the table. "Ah, yes, I di
d."
I leaned back in my seat, trying not to appear as eager as I felt.
"My wife, Ellie, miscarried our baby in her fourth month. It was a bloody and traumatizin' affair for her."
"Oh, how awful." There weren't words.
"Ellie couldn't shake the depression that followed. Her mom moved in with us and neither woman seemed to understand I'd lost a baby, too."
Leaning across the table, I covered his hand with mine and gave it a couple of quick pats. "I'm so sorry."
"Yeah, well, they began to shut me out, and I became a workaholic for a time."
"I understand the workaholic bit. I loved Mark with all my heart and soul, but still put in long hours, but then so did he, and now I know his reasons." My stomach lurched and seemed to press against my backbone.
Hughes drummed his fingers on the table. "To make a long story short, I came home one evenin' and Ellie's mom met me at the door. Said they'd packed up and Ellie was gone. That I'd hear from my wife's attorney. Her mom handed me two sets of keys to the house, got in her car, and drove off."
"Did you see your wife after that?" I wanted to use her name, but couldn't.
"Yeah, six months later at her attorney's office when she wanted to increase the amount of her settlement. She'd changed so much I almost didn't recognize her, a showcase for gold jewelry. As I was leavin', a body builder type got out of a red mustang parked right behind the law office. He pulled Ellie toward him, opened the front passenger door, and thrust her in. Then he turned and the muscles in his neck rippled." Hughes released a sad laugh. "That's when my attorney practically frog-marched me to my car."
"Did you sign the papers giving her the bigger settlement?" It was none of my business, but I thought I'd go for it.
"Six months after that, we signed the final papers. Still with the muscle man, she sported even more gold. But, no, she didn't get the settlement she wanted. By then she signed because she just wanted to get rid of me."
Hughes stood and sighed. "Let's sit in the livin' room. A change of scenery might be a good idea."
I left my iced-tea on the kitchen table and walked to one of the two matching recliners. "I see you've kept the his-and-hers chairs."
"Actually, I've changed everythin' in this room. Ellie didn't care for reclinin' chairs. She had a small deep cushioned couch in front of the fireplace. It was comfortable, but I didn't fit into it very well. She called it a settee."
I sat in one of the recliners, pulled the lever, and leaned back. "Hmm, very relaxing."
"So glad it's to your likin'." He laugh-snorted.
I jerked the recliner upright, leapt out of the chair, fearing I'd overstepped my bounds. "You have a very nice house."
"The one room I kept as it was is the baby's room. It's half painted. The crib's not assembled. Still in the box."
*****
Route 20
Day Nine, Half An Hour Later
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
I drove, generally aware of heading toward Abilene. I had to get away from Arroyo, from anything that had to do with the case, and away from Dawson Hughes.
Mark had wrapped me in a gilded cocoon of warmth, excitement, and passion. Then he'd cheated on me with a woman I'd called my friend. My judgment as far as men went had proved to be more than faulty. It had been catastrophic. He'd been dead just over a week and I certainly wasn't ready to take another chance on a relationship.
I made a turn, south onto Route 83, keeping up with the flow of traffic. I changed radio stations from conservative talk, to sports, to gospel, but couldn't keep my mind on any of them and turned it off.
Up ahead a white sign with red lettering announced: Church of the Byways Annual Bazaar. It was something to do, an activity not associated with my present situation. I pulled off the highway and into the gravel parking lot to the side of the church. A low stucco structure with a red-tile roof, it had a squat, square steeple protruding from its pitched roof.
Long folding tables with colorful plastic tablecloths dotted the scruffy lawn on the other side of the building. The first table belonged to the women's ministry and displayed cakes and pies that looked as if they would be nearly as tasty as Bertha's. The next table provided face painting for children. A woman carefully stroked whiskers onto a young girl who fancied herself a kitty. Two women stood just beyond that showing silver and turquoise jewelry. I took a quick look around, fearing I might have another run in with Ava Chandler. She was nowhere in sight and I released a deep breath.
I meandered from table to table and soon found myself heading for a bevy of food trucks. Oh, goody, lunch.
I started for Chubby's Sandwich Wagon where I ordered a grilled chicken wrap. The meat, marinated in an aromatic sauce, tantalized. My stomach growled, and I polished the whole thing off in four large bites. I twirled on my heel, about to move on to Juliane's Juice when someone bumped into me and a gelled spike of bright pink hair nearly speared my eye. Just what I didn't need. Uma Kantrel. She'd gone from pixie to punk.
I didn't have a clue why I was so surprised she showed up here. This little church was less than a fifteen-minute drive from the spa. She could live in the immediate environs.
Her pale blue eyes turned glacial. "For someone who supposedly doesn't know the area, you sure get around."
I threw up my hands, palms out, to show I didn't want to tangle with her. "Enjoy the bazaar."
She spun on her heel, stalked away, and disappeared into a group of people sporting tee shirts emblazoned with Faith Alive Singles. In the distance, she approached a man with sculpted blond hair in a black shirt, his back to me. She gestured angrily with her hands as she spoke to him. Reece Morgan?
Well, so much for having left my situation behind. After getting a pomegranate-cranberry juice, I moseyed over to the crafts table, slurping the sweet-tart liquid through a straw. An array of small corkboards framed in pink print fabric for a little girl's room caught my eye, as well as a group of pink tufted felt flowers on headbands. Pink must've been on my mind -- big time. I shook my head to clear it and walked away from the table.
At the woodworking table, I purchased a small walnut finished, treasure-box to keep the few pieces of jewelry I'd brought with me from sprawling all over the top of my bureau. I made a pit stop at the jelly, jams, and preserves table and picked up a gooseberry jam for Bertha.
Happy with my purchases, I strolled back to my car, only to find my driver's side back tire slashed to smithereens. I dialed 911 to report the vandalism and then phoned the rental car company.
In ten minutes, a sheriff's cruiser pulled up beside my green bug. Deputy Thunder sat in the front passenger's seat, but his usual partner, Deputy Hicks, wasn't at the wheel. I knew that immediately, from the description of Hicks I'd picked up at the Chuck Wagon's counter. It wasn't gossip, per se, just my three old-timers shooting the breeze and whiling the day away.
The driver approached me, all solid muscle beneath his uniform shirt. There was no doubt he spent hours at the gym. He took one look at my car and smirked, then cleared his throat. "You've got some trouble here?"
I pointed at the rear wheel. "Someone's slashed my tires."
"Not a nice thing to do and in a church parkin' lot, either. What's the world comin' to?" He didn't want an answer. He was just another Texan passing the time as he filled out routine portions of the report. "This could be the handiwork of kids. We've had some vandalism in this area lately." He smirked again. "Probably didn't like your car."
"What?" I crossed my arms.
He made a quick note. "Do you have Triple-A?"
I decided not to tell him about meeting up with Uma Kantrel, as I would sound like a paranoid nut job. I'd let Hughes know about that later. "It's a rental. I've already phoned the company. They're going to send a truck out to deal with the plug kit and that stupid canister of air. What am I supposed to do with that?"
He turned away from me. "Thunder, we've got a camera in the trunk. Why don't you get a photo of the tire?"
I gave him a weak smile, and then leaned closer and whispered. "Where's this Deputy Hicks I've been hearing about? I thought you rode with him."
The young deputy flushed, glanced at the ground, kicked a stone, and then looked up at me again. "The speed at which word travels around here, you'll find out soon enough, so I don't mind fillin' you in. Deputy Watts doctor's sayin' she's got to be careful for the duration, so Hicks is takin' over her duties."
"I-is she al-all right?" I sputtered.
"Far as I know she is. She had the sick time comin' and her husband insisted she take it."
I smiled and nodded. However the snide part of my mind, tucked way in the back, noted with smug satisfaction, not everyone in Texas kept medical information private.
The cruiser's radio crackled. The trim deputy answered and yelled over his shoulder. "Thunder, let's roll out. We've got another call."
Thunder glanced around the lot. "You should be fine until the truck comes, bein' it's daylight and all, and you're in a church lot."
"I'm sure I will be. There are people all around."
"Yeah." He ran to the cruiser, got in, and shot me a half-wave goodbye.
I scanned the lot and my serenity dissolved. My car should've been all right before, out here in a church lot, and in daylight, but it hadn't been.
Chapter Fifteen
Arroyo
Day Ten, Morning
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Walking the length of the counter while refilling coffee cups could boost a girl's self-confidence, or not. Most often in my case, it tickled my funny bone. My scruffy trio of well-seasoned cowpokes and wranglers bestowed bashful grins upon me while engaging in something akin to a pissing contest as they back-handed what they thought were compliments.
"You know, Ronnie, for a city-gal, you caught on real good." Amos scratched the slight paunch peeking over his belt.
"Ain't you a wonder?" Curly ran a hand through his mop of gray curls.
"Little lady, you can fill my cup any day." Jasper pulled on one end of his silver horseshoe mustache.
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