Bertha came with my chicken and coffee. I waited for her to leave. "Hicks goes straight by the book. Well, we all do, but he doesn't know you and isn't familiar with the case."
Thunder gulped down a huge mouthful of chili. "Hicks is a good man."
"Mark's body was released this morning." She changed the subject.
I gave her hand a squeeze. "Are you flyin' east for the funeral?"
"My in-laws insisted on making the arrangements, which is just as well under the circumstances. They informed me Cassidy is on her way there and will be staying in their home."
"Guess you'll sit tight here." Thunder took a slurp of coffee.
"Yeah, but Jack Cooney's going to attend the funeral and while he's there try to shadow Cassidy."
My wrist locked and my cup stopped in midair. "This is somthin' I'll have to inform the sheriff about, and the Abilene detective. I'm sure this info won't make their day."
She gave a shrug I'd always thought was the stuff of New York City tough-guy movies, as if to convey that meant nothing.
I bit my lower lip to hide my annoyance with her attitude. "Wonder if Ms. Renault will take a trip out to the spa in Westhampton Beach?"
She nodded. "I wonder that too, and I'm sure Jack's wondering. Great minds think alike."
Since we were all wondering, I wondered if the a/c had been turned up. It was as if a blast of cold air slipped past my collar and down my back. I had progressed to chewing my lip. I didn't need her aging PI boss blowing my case. "Is this Cooney fella up to surveillance?"
She snorted. "Better than the Abilene rookie detective. That's for sure."
I sipped my coffee. She had a point. And neither department was about to send personnel to the Big Apple to tail this woman. It could be a blessing in disguise.
"He goes invisible. She won't even know he's there." Ronnie's eyes blazed as if she greatly desired for Cassidy to be bested.
"Not like some people I know who keep gettin' in the way of Texas law enforcement." I chuckled hoping to defuse the atmosphere.
She ran her finger around the rim of her cup and a major pout overtook her facial muscles. "Yeah, well, a stone cold killer's out there who's racked up two notches on his belt and may kill again."
Thunder's elbows landed on the table. "Ma'am, if you don't mind a well-intentioned warnin'. You might be the next person in the killer's sights."
Chapter Seventeen
Abilene
Day Ten, Evening
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Nights were the worst with nothing to do. Sometimes, I'd sit at the staff table during Bertha's dinner shift and she'd talk to me in snatches when she had a free minute. But, as time went on, I felt awkward with her babysitting me during her work hours. A few evenings, I borrowed Rascal and wrestled with him on my bed, and wound up cuddling him, sometimes with tears streaming down my face. For sure, it would've been worse alone in the apartment I'd shared with Mark in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. But, that was cold comfort.
If not a total loss, my life seemed to be close to that. I'd married a man who appeared to have ripped a page from my father's playbook.
My adult self knew my father left Mom because he was a selfish, irresponsible fool, and a womanizer. As I child, I'd thought if I could just be a better daughter maybe he'd stay for my sake. That's what I heard whispered about back then. They stayed together for the sake of the children. So when he left, I figured he didn't consider me worthy enough to make the effort to stay married to Mom. Now, of course, I knew he was the one who wasn't worthy of us.
Almost two weeks had passed, and there'd been no significant movement on Mark's case. I'd put together a timeline, arranged and rearranged my notes to no avail. Trudy's horrific murder added further complications as far as who would have had motive and opportunity to commit both acts.
Frustration began to overwhelm me. I stared into the mirror above my dresser, then tore out the band holding my ponytail and gave my hair a good brushing for lack of anything better to do.
Then I spotted yesterday's edition of the Arroyo Free Press. Bertha had been working on the crossword puzzle and must've left it in my room when she visited for a few minutes last night. I picked it up, thumbed through it, and noticed an ad for the Town and Country Drive-In theatre. My mom had talked about going to drive-in movies as a girl and how her parents would only let her go with girls, fearing a drive-in date would turn into a major make-out session. She raised me fairly conservatively. Mark's parents were a lot more permissive.
The theatre wasn't too far off Route 20, so I figured I could get there, no sweat. I'd never gone to a drive-in and thought it would be fun. It would be more fun if I had company. I asked Hoot if I could take Rascal with me and he agreed, but only if I took his Jeep. He wanted the dog to be comfortable.
I had Rascal lay down on the seat in the back as we drove in, not knowing if having a canine companion would be an issue or not. I paid eight dollars admission, five dollars less than an adult ticket at the freezing-cold, air-conditioned, ultramodern, wide-screen, in-door theatre in Brooklyn. I drove along the gravel-covered rows and pulled up to a speaker in the middle of the lot, not far from the concession stand and bathrooms.
After giving Rascal a stay command, my running shoes crunched gravel as I walked to get myself a snack. Dusk was rapidly turning to darkness as row after row of parked cars lowered then raised their windows to hook, affix, and set the volume of their speakers.
The familiar scent of melted buttered popcorn drew me to the squat, poured concrete snack bar. The prices for popcorn and soda reflected the same price differential as the entrance ticket had. I got myself a small-popcorn, a small Coke, and a large box of Good 'n Plenty. There'd be no way I could sit through a movie without an ample supply of those heavenly licorice morsels covered with white and pink sugar candy.
I wheeled around, with my loot in my hands, and nearly ran into Marjean and Nellie as they entered the refreshment stand.
When Nellie saw me, she teared up. "You found Trudy's bod... um Trudy."
"Yes, I did." A lump formed in my throat seeing her distress. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Marjean wrapped an arm around Nellie's shoulders. "What happened to Trudy was senseless. Awful." She blanched. "I didn't mean to imply what happened to your husband wasn't."
I nodded. "No need to explain. This entire situation is horrid."
"She could be unsure of herself and was a little goofy with her butterflies, hearts, and peace signs, and she got overlooked a lot, but Trudy was a really good person. It's all so terribly wrong." Nellie sniffled twice in a row.
At first, I couldn't meet her eyes, out of guilt for having been one of those who'd looked straight through Trudy. Other than a smiling face, she'd been invisible to me. Before I could beat myself up even more, I got a grip. The girl had been a receptionist, after all. The usual was a quick meet and greet and then you moved on. I shook my head to stop my brooding. "Do you have any idea why this happened to Trudy?"
"She musta learned somethin' maybe she shouldn'ta known about."
Marjean cleared her throat, loudly. "We'd better get our snacks before the movie starts."
Nellie's gaze sought the floor as they walked past me.
"Enjoy the film." I pivoted to go, and then turned back. "Nellie, if you think of anything, call me at the Chuck Wagon."
Marjean grabbed Nellie's elbow, not allowing her to turn toward me, and hustled her into the short line for snacks.
"Nellie, I'm going to try to find some justice for Trudy," I called after her. "Promise."
She turned back toward me, but Marjean had a firm hold on her and pushed her forward.
Suddenly, the snacks in my hands felt heavy. I trudged through the doorway and out to Hoot's Jeep, hoping I wouldn't miss the beginning of the movie. Rascal greeted me with enthusiastic, slurping doggie kisses. At least someone was glad to see me.
*****
Abilene
Day Ten, Evening
&n
bsp; Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes
Deputy Ornis Hicks pestered me mercilessly until I agreed to step out with him and hear his little sister Mabel sing. She was the headliner, if you could call it that, in what might be Taylor County's most rundown hole-in-the-wall honky tonk, the Broken Spur Saloon off Route 83 in Tuscola. It had a reputation for good grub and genuine country western music. Unfortunately, more than one of its regular patrons had done some time in the Taylor County Jail.
Finding a spot for my Ram in front of what looked like a large galvanized chicken coop, I wondered if Trudy Bobkirk had frequented the place. The Silverado Apartments wouldn't be more than a five-minute drive. Hicks and I had searched her apartment every which way and found nothing. Tonight the odds were slim to none, but since we came up empty there, I was hoping a lead would turn up here.
I met Hicks at the bar. A sign above the register warned: No bare feet. No indecent or extreme dancing.
"Glad you could make it, Hughes. You won't be disappointed. My sister sings like an angel, even though she don't live like one." He emitted a low, mirthless laugh.
The bartender brought an order of wings and placed it next to Hick's draft. He wiped his hands on his worn Levis and leaned on the bar. "What'll it be?"
"I'll have a Coke." I hadn't had an alcoholic drink since that one night three weeks after my divorce when I tied a vicious one on. Woke up in a woman's motel room and she had her long black wig tossed over the TV. Her real hair was cut so short she resembled a cancer patient. Never found out if she was or not. Just tried to get out of there as gracefully as possible after having acted like a fool.
"Help yourself to the wings," Hicks said.
I took one and bit. "Whoa, call the fire department."
Hicks grinned. "You know I like 'em hot."
The barkeep placed my drink on the bar and I took a gulp of soda.
A young man walked in with a guitar hanging from his back, stepped up to the bar, and ordered a draft.
The manager took to the microphone. "This here's open mic night. That don't mean our own Mabel Hicks won't be singin'. She'll just be obliged to share the stage. However, there ain't no hippie music allowed. Don't get carried away with yourself and go off on no endless guitar solo. Only one could pull that off was Jimmy Hendrix and he's pushin' up daisies."
The kid at the bar laughed and took a sip of beer.
Mabel Hicks took to the small bandstand. A grizzled man sat at the upright piano behind her. Next to him, a tall fellow with long gray hair set up a bass fiddle. She was more Christina Aguilera than Dolly Parton. For an angel, she had a deep voice as she belted out the old Johnny Cash hit "Ring of Fire."
After two more songs, those popularized by women vocalists, she ended with Gretchen Wilson's "Redneck Woman," stepped off the stage, and walked over to us.
The kid with the guitar carried his beer to the stage, wet his whistle again and set it down. He pulled a Fender acoustic guitar wired for audio out of his case and plugged it into the restaurant's sound system. Looking cocky as all get out, he started playing a few outlaw western songs. His rendition of Billy Joe Shaver's "Freedom's Child" got a rousing ovation.
I pulled over an empty barstool. Mabel Hicks hopped on, and crossed her legs, the slit in her fringed skirt exposing most of her thigh. "Ornis, you want to introduce me to your friend here?"
Hicks straightened up. "Now, Mabel, this here's Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes, my boss in the department."
She brushed voluminous blond curls off her shoulder and winked at me. Tamping down the heat somewhat, she shifted gears to more conspiratorial than flirtatious. "A lawman. I like that."
The barman approached. "Mabel, you want your usual?"
"That'd be fine, Floyd."
A few minutes later, he brought her a Margarita.
I raised my glass. "To good music."
We all clinked.
I took a sip and leaned closer to Mabel. "Did you ever know a young girl to come in here named Trudy Bobkirk?"
With a provocative flick of her tongue, Mabel licked the salt off the rim of her stemmed glass. "What did she look like?"
"She had wheat blond hair, an easy smile, but could become easily confounded. She wore bright colors and favored butterfly type earring' and the like."
"I know who you mean. Not too long ago she started up with a guy who hangs here a lot." Mabel twisted and leaned over the bar. "Floyd, you got a minute?"
The barman approached. "Yeah."
"You know the guy sits way in the corner." She pointed. "Started to fancy that blond gal wearin' all them hearts and flowers who come in from time to time? What's his name?"
"Jimmy Logan. He's a car mechanic at the Mobil station a ways down on Route 83."
I nodded to both of them. "Thank you. That's very helpful."
Floyd left to serve another customer.
Mabel walked her fingers along the bar, up my hand, and along the sleeve of my shirt. "Anythin' to help the law." Then she quickly took back her hand and tossed out a mocking laugh.
I stifled the urge to rub the back of my hand on my pant leg and simply slipped my digits into my jeans pocket.
Hicks raised his glass in a quasi-salute toward the bandstand and said, "That kid is good."
I used that as an excuse to step away from Mabel and scrutinize the musicians. "He is, and the fellas who play here regular are good too."
I wondered if Ronnie would like to have a bona fide Texas honky tonk experience one evening. My mind strayed to Mabel and all the spiteful manipulation she might indulge in at Ronnie's expense, and thought better of it.
Mabel finished her Margarita and then sauntered to the stage, her hips swaying rhythmically. She took the microphone, and the kid stayed up there adding to her backup.
Hicks put his glass on the bar. "You gonna question the mechanic? You think maybe he killed her?"
"I'm goin' to question him, but my hunch is that girl was murdered because of whatever is goin' on at the spa."
"Maybe Mark Ingels played with fire and got burned, but that girl sure didn't deserve to die that way," Hicks spat out, and took a swig of beer.
I nodded. "I'm hopin' her boyfriend knows somethin'. Maybe somethin' he doesn't even know he knows."
Things started winding down around two in the morning and I was amazed I'd hung around till closing. I slapped Hicks on the back, walked across the room and made a pit stop in the men's room before leaving.
High quality speakers transported Mabel belting out Martina McBride's "Independence Day." I flushed the urinal and laughed at her gusto.
She finished to a round of applause and the manager took the microphone. "We been closin' the joint with 'A Closer Walk With Thee' since the day we opened and we ain't never had a drivin' fatality yet. Only a couple fender benders here 'n there."
A baritone voice called out. "That's 'cause you always make me drive Rory home."
"That's a fact." The manager affirmed and the crowd gave up raucous laughter.
I washed my hands, left the lavatory, and exited the bar as a heartfelt, off-key rendition of the hymn washed over me. I found myself humming along as I clicked my key fob and unlocked the Ram's doors. No way would I doubt there were believers among that drunken bunch of skunks. But I wasn't sure I was one anymore, although I sometimes wanted to be more than anything. These days, just couldn't quite find the faith.
Chapter Eighteen
Route 83, south of Abilene
Day Eleven, morning
Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes
After filling the cruiser's tank at the pumps, I pulled the vehicle to the side of the service station, and parked it. The garage door was open, so I walked into the auto-repair bay.
A middle-aged man in overalls approached me. "I'm Frank Dobbins, the owner here. Hep ya, Deputy?"
"Yes, sir. I'm lookin' for an employee of yours... Jimmy Logan."
"Jimmy's my mechanic."
"Yes, sir."
Dobbin's eyes narrowed.
"Is there a problem with the law?"
I shook my head. "He's not in any trouble. Need to ask him a few questions."
The man visibly relaxed. "All right, then. He's the best mechanic in Taylor County, too. I can attest to that."
"If you could direct me to him?"
Dobbins pointed to a young man lying on a red-creeper with his legs and steel-toed work boots protruding from the front end of a beat up Chevy Suburban. "Jimmy, come on out from under there, son. Someone here to see ya."
The mechanic slid out from under the truck and wiped his hands on a soiled rag. He stood for a moment staring at me, walked over, and jutted out his chin. "So, what's the deal here?"
"I'll leave you two alone." Dobbins walked away.
"Mr. Logan, I have a few questions to ask you about Trudy Bobkirk."
His light-brown eyes dimmed for a moment. His shoulders slumped. "I figured you wanted to talk about Trudy. I didn't kill her."
I widened my stance, evenly distributing my weight between my feet. "What makes you think I'm here to accuse you of that?"
He swallowed. "Isn't that what deputies do?"
"Sorry to disappoint you. Most of the work law enforcement does is pure drudgery. Askin' the same questions in different ways over and over to a number of people." I chuckled when his eyes grew wide.
"Then, what do you want to know?"
"Let's take a walk." I led him outside of the station onto the gravel drive, took my miniature recorder out of my pocket, and held it up for him to see. "Do you mind if I record our conversation?"
He shook his head.
I hit the on button, held the recorder facing him, and had him state his consent to the interview for the record. Next I had him give his name and other particulars. Then I asked, "Did Trudy say or do anythin' unusual in the weeks before her murder?"
Logan kicked a stone with the side of his scuffed boot. "First off, we was just gettin' acquainted, so I might not know if somethin' she did was unusual or not. But, she became real moody."
"How's that?"
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 116