"Well, maybe she was tired. Her boss, Reece Morgan, had her work a double shift. Then he had her come in on her day off a couple, three days before her dea... her murder. After she worked them long hours, she was different. Not the same bubbly Trudy as before."
I pictured the girl's ready smile. "Maybe she didn't get paid overtime. Could she have been angry because the spa stiffed her on wages?"
"Naw, it weren't that. Morgan was good about pay. That's why everyone stayed and put up with him."
There wasn't enough money in all the banks on the planet to make me want to work for Reece Morgan.
"Can you tell me how she was after workin' those long shifts? How did she act?" I had softened my tone to appear nonthreatening.
"She seemed uneasy. It's hard to say, but maybe fearful, too."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, I picked her up after work one evenin'. When she came out a walkin' toward my car, I could swear, just for a second, fear flashed in her eyes."
I waited a moment, to see if he would say anything else. He didn't. "You're sure it was fear?"
"Yeah, it was. I've seen it in a fight." He shrugged one shoulder and made a face indicating he'd been in a few altercations. Then he added, "Or, out on a trail when a newbie come upon a puma for the first time and don't know how shy they are."
I wanted more from him, but said nothing, hoping he'd fill in the silence as people often do. He did.
"Bein' a macho idiot, I went right to askin' her if anyone in that fancy dude ranch had overstepped his bounds. 'Cause if some fella did, I'd set him straight." He licked his lips. "She said it weren't nothin' like that."
"Really?" I fell back into silence.
"Nothin' like that means it was somethin', just not what I was gettin' hot and bothered about." He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Any ideas what that somethin' could be?"
Logan shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "It's like maybe everyone workin' there knew somethin' wasn't above board. But because they were makin' real good money didn't ask too many questions. Trudy was like a kid, kinda. At times, whatever she was thinkin' would pop right out of her mouth. I always thought that was real cute."
I nodded, again using silence to pull more from him.
He looked into mid-space and his cheek muscle on one side contracted, then released. "Maybe what she was thinkin' was the wrong thing to say?"
"If somethin' is goin' on there, do you think all the others will keep silent after Mark Ingels' murder and now Trudy's?"
"Mark Ingels wasn't from these parts. Maybe folks feel he stuck his nose in where it didn't belong. Trudy's killin', I don't know… couldn't say how deaf, dumb, and blind they can stay to keep the gravy train goin'."
I thanked him for his time.
He turned and shuffled toward the battered Suburban.
When I fired up the cruiser to leave, my lip twitched. "Yep, that's the deal, awright," came out low and rasping. I agreed with Logan about one thing. The Estella Ranch and Spa had the feel of a dude ranch. Reece Morgan sure looked high-toned, like a Hollywood Boulevard cowboy. His duds, designer, if not custom made.
I had to learn what had Trudy Bobkirk so upset she might've made a fatal mistake.
Whether that meant stepping on the toes of the Abilene Police Department or not, I'd surprise a few spa employees and ask a few questions. I also needed to interview Cassidy Renault's seamstress at the store while the owner was in New York for Mark Ingels' funeral. That would be next.
On the drive to the mall in south Abilene, the image of Jimmy Logan in a brawl flitted across my mind. He was solid-built, but wiry, more than stout. I reckoned he could hold his own. He was the jealous type, but more inclined to use his fists than a gun, in my opinion. He'd have to be added to my suspect list, but at the bottom. My gut told me the Ingels and Bobkirk murders were related and Logan had no motive to kill Mark Ingles.
I pulled into the mall parking lot. This is where I'd first met Ronnie, but on that day had no idea she'd slide into my life under the radar. As much as I might toy with a fantasy of her and me, I couldn't expect her to stick around Abilene after Mark Ingle's murder was solved. The reality of the situation was plain. She had an apartment and a career in New York City.
I found a spot in front of the bridal salon. The store was a woman's world and I was out of place in it. For a moment, I had concerns my boots would soil the carpeting. I shook that off and proceeded through rows of billowing white dresses to a large desk in the back with curlicue legs, its top polished to a high gloss. A phone sat at one end, next to it a fancy gold-tone tissue dispenser and an array of bridal magazines.
A young brunette approached me with halting steps, yet offering a ready smile. She showed gleaming white teeth, as they do in beauty pageants. "Can I help you?"
I didn't remove my hat. "I'd like to see the seamstress who works here."
"Sally Crimmins?"
"Is that the name of your seamstress?"
"Yes, sir." Her artfully painted lips turned into a pout.
"Then that's who I'd like to see."
She disappeared into the back.
In less than a minute, a woman came out with a pincushion fastened at her wrist and a cloth measuring tape draped around her neck. She extended a hand with long fake tangerine-colored nails, one of them slightly chipped. Perhaps the one that pushed and pulled out all the straight pins. "I'm Sally Crimmins."
I shook her hand. "Deputy Dawson Hughes. I need to ask you a few questions."
Ms. Crimmins ran a hand through her voluminous strawberry blond curls and turned to the sales clerk. "That will be all, Denise."
The girl's pout deepened, then she walked to the front of the store.
"Ma'am, I need you to tell me what you know about the nature of the relationship between Cassidy Renault and Mark Ingels."
She slid a fingernail under the double-strand gold chain that disappeared into her cleavage. "You can call me, Sally."
"Thank you, ma'am, but regulations demand I keep this professional. What do you know about Mr. Ingels and Ms. Renault?"
"What a pity, about regulations, I mean." She cleared her throat. "Well, I guess everyone who works here knew Cassidy and Mark were seeing each other."
"Did you know he was married?"
"My, no. When his wife turned up from New York it came as quite a shock."
"Were there any other goin's on here at work that concerned you?"
She snatched up one of the bridal magazines and clutched it to her bosom. "No, nothin' like that."
I didn't believe her. "Like what?"
She held the magazine tighter. "Nothin' suspicious."
I saw a flicker of fear in her hazel eyes, which brought to mind what Jimmy Logan had said about Trudy Bobkirk.
"Besides your salesgirl Denise, who else works in the store?"
"The only other employee is Pedro Martinez, our stock clerk. He's in the back."
I nodded. "I'll need to speak with both of them. I'll start with Mr. Martinez."
"Is that absolutely necessary?" Now she clutched the magazine so tight her knuckles turned white.
"Yes, ma'am, it is."
She returned the magazine to the desk with a slight slap. "All right. Follow me."
She pulled back a pastel pink drape and we walked past several dressing rooms. She pointed to them and with forced bravado said, "We don't have any fittin's now, or I couldn't allow you to come back here."
Behind the fitting rooms, a large utilitarian area had been divided into two. White gowns, in heavy, clear, zipped plastic bags, hung on racks covering two thirds of the room. Each one had a last name and a date attached to it. Bolts of flimsy white cloth stood behind two sewing machines in the remaining part of the room.
A man carried two bridal gowns not in garment bags. The dresses obstructed his view of me. "Sally, jou want me to put these on the sale rack?" He had a thick Spanish accent.
"Pedro, you'd better put those down. A d
eputy is here to see you, actually to see all of us."
The short dark-skinned man jerked the gowns to the side and eyeballed me. "I'm legal. Got my green card."
He slung the dresses onto a rack. Then he fumbled for his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a greenish drivers' license size card. His permanent resident card.
I was glad to see it, but shrugged. This was about drug smuggling and murder, not immigration. So, that green card meant nothing. "I'm not here about your legal status."
"Oh." His shoulders relaxed. He returned the card to his wallet and slid it into his back pants pocket.
I turned to face the woman. "I need to talk to Mr. Martinez in private."
She hesitated, then pivoted, and left us.
"So, Mr. Martinez, are you aware that a man who was in a relationship with your employer has been murdered?"
He took a step back. "Jes."
"This man, Mark Ingels... did he come into the store often?"
"He come a few times, no too much."
"Did you ever notice anythin' strange goin' on here? Not havin' to do with bridal gowns?"
The man's gaze found his shoes. "No, nothin' like that."
"Like what?"
He looked up, a hint of a plea in his eyes. "Nothin' strange." He looked down again.
"You went to a lot of trouble to get into this country legally. Withholdin' evidence of criminal activity could jeopardize your status."
He didn't raise his head, but balled a fist and tapped his chest. "Me, I don't know nothin'."
He was not telling the truth, and he was scared. A lot of that going around. "Thank you, Mr. Martinez. If I have further questions, I'll be back."
I strode into the front of the store and approached the sales girl. "Denise, is it? Denise what?"
"Yes, sir. Denise Jennings."
There was no percentage in asking her if there had been unusual happenings at the bridal salon. I'd get the same answer the other two had given me. "Tell me, Denise, how is it workin' here? Are your coworkers nice?"
She gave me her pageant smile again. "Yes, they are. And Sally's very talented with sewin' and design."
"Really, that's high praise."
"She's gonna make me a dress for the evenin' gown competition in the next pageant I enter."
Bingo, her smile had been honed on the runway.
"Do you socialize with Ms. Crimmins outside of the store?"
"A little. Sometimes we stop in the mall at Chick fil-A for a bite."
"And Ms. Renault. Did the two of you have a personal relationship outside of work?"
She began to giggle and pushed it down. "No... no."
I knew the answer would be a negative, but pursued that line of questioning anyway. "Would you say Ms. Renault was friendly with staff?"
This time Denise couldn't hold the nervous laughter down. "Like... she's the boss."
"Well, some bosses are chummy and supportive of their employees."
She giggled again. "Way not, Cassidy. She never lets us forget we're beneath her."
I feigned disbelief. "No, and she's even that way with Ms. Crimmins?"
"Um... not to Sally so much. But to me and Pedro... yeah, all the time."
"Well, you hang in there, you hear, and best wishes with your pageant."
She tossed me a super big smile, this one with some genuine warmth. "Thanks."
My later interviews with Uma Kantrel, Marjean Barnes, and Nellie Johnson went in a similar fashion. Everyone reticent and with a tinge of fear, Uma Kantrel adding a dash of smugness. The one thing I'd learned was there was enough fear going around at the spa and bridal salon to bottle it.
Chapter Nineteen
Arroyo
Day Eleven, Morning
Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI
Ten days at the Chuck Wagon and I'd served Pete the super deluxe breakfast special every single morning. He smiled as I set down the stack of five pancakes drenched in butter, hot syrup on the side, two fried eggs, and coffee he insisted I keep coming. Grabbing his fork, he began shoveling it in. If nothing else, the man relished his food. He probably burned the calories running away from fifteen-hundred pound horned beasts.
Hughes slid into a booth, waved the menu away, and ordered two scrambled with bacon, home fries, and coffee. His usual, as well.
I glanced at the round school-clock on the wall behind the register. "You're here a little late this morning. Doug's on his third cup of java."
He placed his hat on the seat beside him. "Got an important phone call that tied me up some."
"Hopefully some movement on the case." My voice rose in expectation.
"On a case. But not your case. You might be surprised to find out Taylor County pays me to investigate more than your concerns Mrs. Ingels." He threw me a slightly mocking look and a soft laugh.
I smiled sweetly, but my tone matched his attempt at piercing humor. "Well then, let's get food into you so you'll have fortification to do your job for the fine citizens of this county."
I put the order in and got Doug a cup to go. The man seemed to run on caffeine.
A middle-aged couple I'd never seen before walked in. I motioned for them to seat themselves. It was a good possibility they were here for the weekend festivities at the Grange Hall featuring Morris Dancing. It was Arroyo's one and only summer tourist event and many of the small businesses needed it to be a success. Tonight, I'd be working Bertha's dinner shift as Hoot planned to sashay her around the floor when the line dancing started. Would this be the night? Would he pop the question?
Hoot hit the bell and I stalked toward the service shelf with half a mind to lecture him on the merits of perfect timing. Instead, I merely brought Hughes his order.
Then I set out menus before the couple, he sporting salt and pepper sideburns and she with a pair of bifocals perched on her nose.
Another couple came in. These two in their mid-thirties. After I seated them and handed out menus, Hughes flagged me down for a check.
He met me at the register and paid. "Looks like the Chuck Wagon is makin' some business off the dancin' this weekend."
I nodded. "Yes, and it's a welcome change from the same-old, same-old every day."
He made that sad-doggie face of his. "Are you sayin' Pete, Doug, and I are borin'?"
"About as exciting as standing by until water boils."
His shoulders sagged. He shook his head and walked out, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
I took orders from the two couples and clipped the chits up for Hoot. The woman with bifocals had noted my accent wasn't from anywhere in Texas. Her eyes twinkled with amusement when I told her I hailed from Brooklyn. Her husband informed me they'd driven up from Corpus Christi.
My cell phone rang and it was Jack.
I yelled to Hoot, "I've got Jack here. Can you cover the tables a second so I can run out front and tell Hughes?"
"Git ya goin'."
I raced out. "Hughes, hold up. I've got Jack Cooney on the line. He's at Mark's viewing."
Hughes shut his car door and turned to face me.
I pressed a button on my phone. "Go ahead, Jack. I've got Deputy Hughes here and I have you on speaker."
"Yeah, well, I've already had the pleasure of meeting Cassidy Renault. Came right up to me asking how I knew Mark."
"What did you tell her?"
"That I got to know him running along the waterfront in Shore Road Park in Bay Ridge."
"Don't tell me you told her you were Alfred Gilhouly?"
"In the flesh. Signed the guest book Alfred Gilhouly, the third. Have a business card in my wallet if required."
I felt my eyes crossing. "The one that says Gilhouly's an ornithologist?"
"Hey, that's plausible. I like birds and actually know something about them. It's also excellent cover when carrying binoculars and a camera."
I sighed. He enjoyed his games way too much. "And I suppose it also gives you a reason to carry a Smith and Wesson?"
> Jack gave a throaty laugh. "That's an entirely different matter."
I took a deep breath. "Um… how does he look… my husband?"
"He doesn't. Sorry, kid, it's a closed casket."
Although I knew that would be the case, his remark smarted. My one small comfort was Jack had fewer social graces than I possessed.
Hughes placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Ronnie, he was shot in the head."
Jack's gravelly voice came at us. "There's some kind of memorial table set up next to the coffin with three framed photos. One when he graduated from Brooklyn College, the second where he's speaking at some seminar, and the third on a golf course. There's a golf ball and two tees."
"Yeah, if Mark wasn't in front of an audience, he was on the golf course. Come to think of it, Cassidy golfs."
Hughes gave my hand a squeeze. "Don't go there."
I nodded and turned toward the phone. "Okay, so, who showed up?"
"Being a world class PI, I pulled out my trusty cell phone and got a shot of the signatures in the guest book." Jack chuckled.
Hughes leaned across me, to get closer to the phone. "Can you email those to Ronnie?"
"Oh, sure," Jack rumbled back at us. "I'll try to get another shot when there's more signatures then I'll send them."
"Very good. Thanks. Maybe something will turn up." Hughes rubbed his hands together.
My husband's funeral and I wasn't there. My stomach burned and I was sorry I'd eaten Hoot's five-alarm chili for lunch. "Is Stanley Fishburn's name on the list?"
Jack cleared his throat. "No, but people are still coming in."
"Who all is there?" My impatience leapt toward the satellite and beamed off it to Jack.
"Your husband's parents and a few of their Wall Street friends… or so it appears."
"Even though they made it clear I wasn't worthy of their son, I feel sorry for them." They had disdained rough-hewn Jack Cooney to such an extent they'd gone to great lengths not to meet him. This worked to his advantage now.
"Ronnie, you must know the tall thin fellow with reddish-brown hair. He said he was Mark's booking agent. Then there's a handful of workout buddies from his gym and some little Jewish guy who's a tobacconist."
"Henry Schwartz."
Killer Reads: A Collection of the Best in Inspirational Suspense Page 117