Stag Party (Blanco County Mysteries Book 8)

by Ben Rehder

  “Sure,” he said.

  She straightened up and turned around. He quickly raised his eyes to meet hers. They’d rented a room at the Swiss Lodge in the small town of Blanco, Texas, which wasn’t too far from the Endicott ranch. Liam hadn’t been able to figure out what was Swiss about the place—it was just a basic motel, as far as he could tell—but it was clean and affordable.

  “What were you saying?” she said.

  God, that tight shirt. Didn’t she realize what she was doing to him? Was his face flushed? Did the guilt show in his eyes? Jessi had to know what kinds of filthy, sordid thoughts were crossing his mind. He was a disgusting animal, ruled by the same lowly instincts that drove a stray dog to copulate in the street.

  “Liam?”

  He shifted his eyes to the TV, out of sheer necessity. So he could focus. There was no more putting it off—it was time to lay the cards on the table.

  “We haven’t figured out what we’re gonna do yet,” he said.

  “Oh, right,” Jessi said.

  She came over and sat down on the edge of her matching bed, so now they were facing, with their knees no more than four inches apart. She had great knees. Fantastic knees. She had freshened up when they’d first checked in, about thirty minutes ago, and she must have dabbed on a bit of perfume. He could smell it. Heavenly.

  She stared at him. He stared back. He wasn’t sure how to begin. Fortunately, she began for him, saying, “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot. There are a lot of options.”

  “If we could do anything you wanted,” she said, raising an eyebrow, “what would it be?”

  Hold on a second. What did she mean by that? Was she still talking about the way they were going to send a message to the Endicotts? Or was she being coy? Could there be a chance she was flirting? That wasn’t so crazy, was it, considering that they were spending their second night in a motel room together?

  Liam said, “I have a lot of wild ideas, you know? But I don’t want to, like, pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Oh, you won’t,” Jessi said. “I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions. And I like being wild. I like it a lot.”

  That didn’t help at all. What was she talking about? There seemed to be a double meaning to her words. Was it his imagination? Was she talking about sex?

  “Did you, uh, have any ideas of your own?” Liam said.

  “You bet,” she said without any hesitation at all. “But you go first.”

  He tried to grin. “No, you. Ladies first.”

  Was that a copout? Was he being a wimp? He should just tell her exactly what he wanted to do. But that could be a disaster. What if he said something like, “Well, I’d really like to motorboat your incredible boobs for a good half hour,” and then it turned out she wasn’t making innuendos?

  “Okay,” she said. “I’ll start with the best idea. But it’s pretty far out there. Promise you won’t freak out?”

  “I won’t...” he said, and his voice cracked. “I won’t freak out,” he said, trying to keep it together. He could feel that he was starting to get a stiffy.

  Now she leaned forward and placed one hand on each of his knees. Her touch was almost like electricity.

  “What I think we ought to do...”

  She took a pause to make her announcement more dramatic. What was she going to say? Liam was almost squirming with anticipation.

  “...is sneak onto their ranch and burn their fucking house down.”

  Wait, what? Burn their house down?Good god. Really? Liam’s face must have shown surprise or disappointment or shock or something, because Jessi said, “Okay, I freaked you out, didn’t I?”

  “What? No. Not at all,” he lied.

  “I did. I freaked you out. It’s too extreme.” She leaned back, removing her hands from his knees.

  “No, I promise. It’s cool. I was just expecting something else.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. I like your plan. I do. In fact, I love it.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “Totally. It’s huge. Talk about sending a message.”

  “It’s not like we’ll be hurting anyone,” she said, her hands returning to his knees to add emphasis to her words. “I mean, we’ll make sure the house is empty, so all we’ll be doing is destroying their stuff. Their possessions.”

  “It’s perfect, really,” Liam said. “They’ll lose all their guns—and their animal mounts.”

  “I hadn’t even thought of that!” she said. “That is awesome!” There was an actual gleam in her eye. She was enjoying herself. She seemed even more animated now than she’d been on the dance floor.

  “Of course, we’ll have to, you know, be careful, so we don’t get caught,” Liam said.

  “We will,” Jessi said. She rubbed his knees. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re on board with this! I was worried you’d think it was too much.”

  “No, it’s cool.”

  She was giving him a look now. Like there was something else she wanted to say—maybe a second part of the plan.

  “What?” he said.

  “There’s one more thing I think we should do,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “This might freak you out, too...” she said.

  “Let’s hear it,” Liam said. He couldn’t imagine what it would be. Wasn’t arson enough?

  “You sure?” Jessi said.

  “Why not?”

  “Okay, here we go.”

  In one smooth and practiced move, Jessi pulled her shirt over her head, and Liam nearly emitted an audible gasp.

  Proponents of the straight-edge lifestyle shunned casual sex, but Liam took comfort in knowing he and Jessi weren’t overstepping those bounds, because there wasn’t anything casual about what happened in that motel room over the next six hours.

  Prior to becoming a straight edger, Liam had had multiple sex partners—because, to be technical, a quantity of two counted as “multiple”—but those encounters, in hindsight, seemed so mundane. Even trivial. Conversely, he and Jessi generated a level of intensity, creativity, and pure physical bliss that he wouldn’t have guessed possible.

  There were several moments when Liam wanted to compliment Jessi on her talents, but he wondered if she might take that the wrong way, and he absolutely did not want to risk bringing the proceedings to a halt. Finally, sometime in the early morning hours, they had no choice but to sleep.

  When Liam woke, light was sneaking in through the curtains. Jessi had returned to her own bed, and now she was reclining against the headboard, wearing red pajama bottoms and a white bra, with an iPad propped in her lap. Her hair was wrapped in a bath towel, which meant she had gotten up and showered. Liam hadn’t heard any of it.

  She noticed him stirring and looked over. She gave him a grin that said, Well, we got into all kinds of trouble last night, didn’t we?

  Liam returned the grin.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “How long have you been up?” he said.

  “An hour or so.”

  She returned her attention to her iPad.

  “Want to grab some breakfast?” he said.

  “Hmm?”

  “There are a bunch of little restaurants around the courthouse. We could go down there and eat, or I could go get some food and bring it back.”

  Jessi didn’t answer.

  “Maybe some French toast?” Liam said. “Or pancakes? Whatever you want.” His appetite was enormous. He was going to max out his credit card on this trip, but what the hell.

  Jessi said, “Hey, did you know the Endicotts live in four different houses on their ranch? At least that’s what it looks like on this Google satellite view.”

  Liam’s eyes settled on Jessi’s bra. Crisp and white, with a tiny bow in the center. No padding, because she didn’t need any. He was hungry as hell,
but he decided that could wait for awhile, because he was rested and ready to go again. Maybe several times. He had to admit that he was impressed with his own stamina. It had never been tested before quite like this.

  “So I guess we need to decide which house,” Jessi added.

  “Yeah,” Liam said.

  “One of these houses is pretty close to a county road running past on the west side,” Jessi said. “It’s about a half-mile or so. Of course, I’m assuming it’s a house. It might be some other kind of building. And on the other side of the county road, there’s an empty piece of land. It has a dirt road leading on to it, but there aren’t any buildings. So we could park on that dirt road. Nobody would see us there in the middle of the night.”

  “I have an idea,” Liam said.

  “Huh?” Jessi said, without looking over.

  “Why don’t you come over here for a few minutes, and then later, we’ll go eat?”

  It was so much easier now to simply ask for what he wanted. Just be direct. He should have done this a long time ago. Why had he always been so shy with girls?

  But Jessi didn’t hear. She kept fooling around with her iPad.

  “Jessi?” Liam said. He was remembering some of the things they’d done last night, and he wanted to do them again.

  “I’m trying to zoom in tighter,” she said. “Don’t know why it’s not working right now.”

  “So you should try later,” Liam said, “and do something else right now.” He patted the bed beside him.

  She finally looked at him again, amused. “God, are you always this horny?”

  He took that as a compliment. “It’s your fault,” he said. “You’re so beautiful. Have you seen yourself in a mirror?”

  “That’s sweet, but don’t you want to figure out the details of our plan?”

  “Well, sure,” he said, but for some reason, their mission didn’t seem quite as urgent as it had before.

  17

  “Question for you,” Marlin said. “Any chance Harley Frizzell was struck with a cane?”

  He had stopped for a visit with Lem Tucker at the Blanco County morgue, which had previously been a Dairy Queen many years earlier. The only equipment that remained from those days was the walk-in freezer, which had obviously come in handy. Somebody had finally scraped the friendly “Y’all come back” sticker off the inside of the glass front door.

  Lem was sitting at his battered desk, dressed casually in blue jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt. No autopsies today, apparently. He was a trim man a few years younger than Marlin, but his graying hair was beginning to recede. Marlin was seated in a chair across from him.

  Tucker rubbed his chin and pondered the question. “Can’t rule it out,” he finally said. “Don’t mean to be wishy-washy, but all I can say is it was a blunt object. Not a fist. Nothing with a sharp edge or a recognizable pattern. Didn’t leave behind any material or residue.”

  “A rounded, cylindrical object?” Marlin asked.

  “Possibly, leaning toward probably. Is that vague enough?”

  “Any idea of the angle of the blow?”

  “Coming from overhead, swinging downward.”

  “Like with a cane?” Marlin said.

  Tucker grinned. “Possibly. Or a croquet mallet, baseball bat, axe handle, steel pipe, nightstick, wooden dowel, or even the side of a palm, karate-chop style. I don’t think the blow was particularly strong, and the blunt object might not have been very heavy, but it was enough to cause a subdural hematoma. The bleeding—probably over several hours or even a full day—eventually put pressure on Harley’s brain. It became an emergency situation, and without immediate care, he didn’t have a chance.”

  The men sat in grim silence for a few moments.

  “He was struck only once?” Marlin asked.

  “Once,” Tucker said. “Or maybe twice, in the same spot, but no more than that. You got a particular cane-carrying individual in mind?”

  “I don’t know,” Marlin said. “Maybe. But it’s probably a long shot.”

  “Hey, now you’re waffling as much as me,” Tucker said.

  “Guess it’s contagious,” Marlin said.

  “And now you know why I often wear a mask,” Tucker said.

  Marlin thanked Tucker for his time and headed out toward his truck. He’d been hoping for something more definitive, but he didn’t want the medical examiner to compromise his opinion as to what type of object might or might not have been used to strike Harley. If Tucker couldn’t nail it down, that was just the breaks.

  Maybe Bobby Garza would have better luck today. He’d told Marlin about a woman he was planning to interview today. Based on Harley’s phone records, this woman was the sole person with whom Harley seemed to have regular, ongoing contact.

  Her first name—her actual real name, given at birth—was Sparrow. Sparrow Holliday. She was 71 years old. Harley Frizzell had been 31 years her senior.

  “He liked younger women,” Sparrow Holliday said with a sparkle in her eye. “He was really robbing the cradle with me. Of course, if he’d tried to find a lady his own age, he would’ve been a lonely man. How many people do you know over the age of, say, 90 or so?”

  They were seated in her “conversation area”—what she called it—Sheriff Bobby Garza in a chair, Sparrow on a sofa. She had offered iced tea, but he had passed. Garza could smell pot—an odor that he had always found acrid and unpleasant—but he wasn’t planning to ask her about it. What would be the point? He figured marijuana was going to wind up legal in most states, including Texas, before too much longer. This woman had probably been smoking it for most of her life, but she didn’t appear stoned right now, and that was the important thing.

  “How long did you know Harley?” Garza asked. He had pulled one full year of Harley’s phone records. Roughly three-quarters of the calls had been between Harley and Sparrow—but there weren’t that many calls to begin with. Harley had lived as solitary a lifestyle as Garza had ever encountered.

  “Oh, maybe fifteen years,” Sparrow said.

  “How did y’all meet?”

  “I bought a blowtorch he was selling. Is that romantic or what?”

  “So it was a romantic relationship?”

  She laughed sharply. “Well, sure. We enjoyed each other’s company.”

  “Was it serious?”

  She laughed again. “Sheriff, I haven’t had a serious relationship in about thirty years, and I don’t think he did either. We spent time together when we felt like it, and when we didn’t, we didn’t.”

  “I’m afraid I need to ask an indelicate question,” Garza said.

  She waved her hand: Won’t bother me. “Go right ahead. You won’t embarrass me.”

  “Were the two of you, uh, sexually active?” Garza could feel his face flushing and his cheeks turning warm. Even with all his years on the job, it made him uncomfortable to ask an elderly woman such a personal question. But the discovery of Viagra in Harley’s possessions required this line of questioning. Was he using the Viagra with Sparrow? Or with someone else?

  “Indeed we were,” Sparrow said quickly, without a hint of self-consciousness. “I realize, with his age, you have to wonder, but Harley had no trouble in that department at all. In fact, I’ve known much younger men who couldn’t perform half as well.”

  It took some effort for Garza to stop himself from laughing. This woman was happy to share all sorts of intimate details.

  “Do you know if Harley saw other women?” Garza asked.

  “Are you asking if he had other lovers? As far as I know, he did not—but that would have been his own private business, as long as he used a condom for health purposes. If you’re wondering if I saw other men, the answer is no. One man offers all the pleasure—and trouble—I need in life.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have been angry at Harley?” Garza said. “Anyone who might have wanted to do him harm?”

  “You know,” Sparrow said, “I’ve been giving that a lot of t
hought—trying to remember some of our recent conversations—but I’ve drawn a blank. He had no enemies—and that includes Red O’Brien.”

  “Pardon?” Garza said.

  “Yes?”

  “Why would you mention Red O’Brien?”

  In hindsight, it was obvious to Dirk Endicott that Jasper became the star of the show because of the incident during the first season that became known as “the bulge.” The sad part was, it could have been Dirk in the spotlight instead. It should have been Dirk. If Dirk could go back and change his decision, he would, no question.

  It started with a call from Ron Rosen, who said, “I’m emailing you a photo. Let me know when you get it.”

  Dirk checked his phone. “Got it. That’s...what’s his name.”

  “Jon Hamm.”

  “Right. The actor. Okay. Why are you sending me this?”

  It was a typical Us Weekly type of photo—a celebrity strolling down the street, walking his dog, and holding hands with some pretty woman Dirk didn’t recognize.

  “Look closer,” Rosen said.

  Dirk zoomed in. Looked up. Looked down. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Now you see it?”

  “How could I miss it?”

  Hamm, the heartthrob from Mad Men, was dressed casually in a light-blue pearl-snap shirt and gray khakis. Tight khakis. It was apparent that the actor was quite generously endowed.

  “This is gross,” Dirk said. “You can totally see the outline of his dick. He’s not even wearing underwear.”

  “Brilliant, huh?”

  “What, you’re saying he was showing off on purpose?”

  “Well, sure. There are dozens of pics of him like that. He goes out into public, knowing the paparazzi are out there, just waiting. In fact, there are websites devoted entirely to Jon Hamm’s wang.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “Not even a little. Not just him, but other celebrities, too. It’s an easy way to stay in the news. Want some quick, easy press? Just parade down Broadway with your package on display. Which brings me to the reason for this call.”

  Rosen paused, apparently waiting for Dirk to figure it out. And he did. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?” he said.