Death of a Rancher's Daughter

by Susan P. Baker

  A long, dark dance-hall bar, with numerous beer bottles and cans lined up across it, ran in front of the west wall on which a huge mirror hung. Behind the bar stood two no-nonsense-looking middle-aged women in long-sleeved western shirts and jeans. They were taking orders from the people who had formed a line. No music played, but talk and laughter reverberated from the tall ceilings to the plank floor. If she'd wanted a change of atmosphere, Sandra had come to the right place.

  Beer bottles clinked as a woman cleared the two-person table next to Sandra's, reminding her of the wind chimes hanging on her balcony back in Galveston. One more day and she could return home. She crossed the room to the bar, stopping at the end of the short line. When she got to the front, she asked, “Can y'all recommend a German beer?”

  The woman was all business. “Spaten Oktoberfest is pretty good. You want some food, too, before we get busy with the after-five crowd?”

  How big could the after-five crowd be? “You have a grilled chicken salad?”

  “Yup.”

  Sandra handed over her credit card. “Italian dressing, please.”

  The second woman pulled a bottle out of an old beer box. “Here's your beer.”

  The first woman said, “Pick up your salad at the window behind you—the one next to the stage.” She gave Sandra a square plastic contraption and returned the credit card. “When the lights flash on this thing, it'll be ready.”

  “Thanks a bunch.” Sandra smiled and the woman inclined her head in acknowledgment. Sandra scooted back to her table and sat down, putting her feet on the rung of the chair across from her. The beer tasted cold and strong. Just what she wanted. After punching the office number into her cell, she heard, “Law Offices of Townley and Salinsky.”

  “Hey, Patricia. It's me. Wanted to tell you we're still in Gillespie County.”

  “Things didn't go well?”

  “Reasonably well—I'll fill you in when we get home—but the judge wouldn't set bail without a hearing tomorrow morning at nine. We should get out of here before lunch.”

  “So cancel your appointments? And hey, remember you said you’d do the Cutler divorce tomorrow on the uncontested docket? Want me to call her and tell her you'll meet her on Friday morning?”

  Sandra sat back, heaving a huge sigh. The past two days had worn her out. She still had the bail hearing the next morning, but it shouldn't take long. And then the five-to-six-hour drive back to Galveston. Closed inside a car with Erma. “Yes, please, Patricia. Friday would be great. I know we'll be tired when we get back and have some catching up to do.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes and disconnected. Sandra took another swallow of the Spaten Oktoberfest. Ordinarily, she didn't drink beer, but something about the German cowboy atmosphere had made her want to stray from wine. She scrolled through the texts on her phone, responded to some, and then the emails. When she glanced up, what a few minutes earlier had been an almost empty room was filling fast. Most of the people looked like white-collar workers stopping off for a drink after work, but several of the men could have just come in off a tractor. They wore heavy coats and work boots. She sat back and watched. When the lights on the contraption flashed, she trekked to the kitchen where the only thing on the serving bar was a salad in a washtub-sized stainless-steel bowl. She glanced at the cook, who grinned. “You haven't been here before. You're going to need a to-go box.”

  “I think you're right.” She picked up the bowl, plastic utensils, a packet of dressing, and crossed the old dance hall floor where her heels sounded clunky in conjunction with the chatter. Someone had laid and lit a fire in a limestone fireplace, which looked like something out of a medieval castle. Long tongues of flame licked the blackened stone. The wood smell brought holiday memories. Christmas was about the only time they lit a fire in Galveston at Erma's house, the climate being so mild.

  As she started to call Mel before she tackled the salad, her eyes met those of a tall blond man. His hand rested on the chair on which she'd propped her feet. “May I help you?” She peered into glimmering green eyes. Or were they hazel?

  “Mind if I borrow this? There are five of us.” He indicated an adjacent table that only had four chairs. He, as well as the others—some of whom were women—wore office attire.

  She looked him over. Broad-shouldered, small-waisted. One of those country-boy types who could single-handedly lift a bale of hay. She shrugged and dropped her feet. “Be my guest.”

  “Thanks.” He looked her over in return and took the chair. Sandra punched in Mel's number.

  Mel's voice mail answered, “Hi. I can't talk now. Leave me a message and I'll call you back.”

  Sandra disconnected. She texted:

  Erma and I are stuck in Gillespie County for another night for a hearing in the a.m. If we don’t get home tomorrow in time to see you, guess we’ll see you on Wednesday after school. ❤️ Mom

  Though she'd had lunch at the brewery on Main Street, for some reason Sandra felt extremely hungry. Later, when she had eaten her fill of the salad and returned some more messages, the country boy dragged the chair he’d borrowed next to her and sat down. What could he possibly want?

  Recorded country music played so loud that when he spoke his words were lost. He smelled of beer and something fried. When Sandra asked him to repeat himself, the man leaned toward her and cupped his hands next to her ear. His breath made the tendrils of her hair tickle her cheek. “I said you look like you're from out of town.” He'd removed his jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves.

  His delicious manly aroma rang alarms inside Sandra. No way. After the fiasco with her former partner, Stuart, she was through with men. Some guy she didn't even know was not going to arouse her by breathing into her ear. Ridiculous. She would nip that in the bud right then. She nodded but didn't reply. If she was unresponsive, maybe he'd go back to the farm.

  “I'm Jared Longley,” he said when the music stopped.

  The waitress came, and Jared ordered himself another beer. “Bring this stranger what she's drinking, too, Libby.”

  “No need for that. I'm fine.”

  “One more won't kill you. So what's your name?”

  “Attorney Sandra Salinsky.” She hoped he would be put off, since some men didn't like professional women. They shook. His hand was warm and, though hers was large, his was massive. She hadn't gone there to get picked up, even by someone as interesting-looking as him. His closely-cropped blond hair was white at his temples, belying a first impression that he was quite young. He had a smallish nose for someone his size; a scar ran across it to his right cheekbone. He was quite huge. Farm boy for sure.

  “The beer's to thank you for the chair. Besides, I'm curious about you. Would you, by any chance, be the attorney who helped out my little sister with her divorce this morning?”

  “Yeah, that would be me.” So maybe he didn't intend to pick her up. Still, she needed to be careful. “Your sister seemed eager to get it done, and her lawyer didn't show.”

  “That would've been me. I was running really late.”

  Baling hay, no doubt. “Well, it wasn't fatal.”

  “Thanks for doing that. You made her day.”

  “You're welcome.”

  “So what are you doing here?”

  “In Will's or in Fredericksburg?”

  “Clearly you're hiding out in Will's, because if you wanted a good meal there are some wonderful restaurants around town.”

  The waitress had returned and slapped him on the arm. “Don't let Bob hear you say that, Jared.” She set their beers down and took the empties. “He thinks he's a pretty good chef.” She shook her head as she walked off.

  “So why are you here?”

  “You don't know? I thought in small towns everyone knew everything about everybody. And, actually, my salad wasn't bad.”

  He took a swig of beer and glanced at his friends, who were scooting out their chairs. “See you guys later,” he called. They yelled their goodbyes.

&nbs
p; “So what kind of lawyer are you?” Sandra asked, raising an eyebrow. “Besides the tardy kind.”

  “Usually real estate. And you're not answering my question. Should I guess?”

  Sandra didn't want to like the guy but talking with him wouldn't hurt anything. The fact the waitress knew him by name, and he'd arrived with a bunch of other businesspeople, told her he was local and known in town. She and Erma would be going home on Tuesday after the bail hearing and, she hoped, not returning for several months unless they had to come back for some pre-trial motions. Since he practiced real estate law, they'd probably never run into each other again. She toyed with the label on her beer bottle.

  “Okay, I'll guess.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “The Schindler murder case.”

  “I knew you'd know about it. Billie Jo Schindler hired my mother, who is my law partner, and me to defend Rufina Barboza.”

  “Whew. Mrs. Schindler wants you to represent the murderer of her daughter? Isn't that extraordinary?”

  “Alleged murderer. And she's innocent.”

  “Of course you'd say that.” He took another swallow of beer and tipped back in his chair, waiting for her reaction.

  Sandra's stomach clenched. Was he a redneck? A bigot? Did he hate Latinos? And was he reflective of most of the people in town? “I don't even know you, and you're trying to aggravate me?”

  He laughed. “Just giving you a hard time. I did a little criminal defense when I first got my law license. I have an idea of what you're up against.”

  “Then you know more than I do. I'm worried about the kind of people who'll be in the jury pool.”

  “When's the trial? Got a date yet?”

  She shook her head. “Hope to get one tomorrow at the bail bond hearing.” She studied him a moment. Since he was a local attorney, she might be able to get some useful information out of him.

  The music started up again, so loud Sandra wanted to cover her ears.

  Jared cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “Hey, do you want to go somewhere for dinner? My treat to thank you for taking care of my sister.”

  Sandra glanced at the half-empty salad tub. “Ate already.”

  “Oh. I guess I ate too. What about another beer? There's a brew pub a few blocks from here. Why don't we go there? Might be a little quieter.”

  “I know where it is. I had lunch there.”

  “Believe it or not, on weeknights this place heats up, and the brewery is, I guess you could say, more conducive to conversation.”

  Sandra glanced at her watch. She could either submit to a boring evening at BJ's with Erma, BJ, and her obnoxious son, if Rex hadn't gone back wherever he crawled out of. Or she could have another beer and pick this lawyer's brain. Not a difficult choice. She could drive down the street to the brew pub, so she'd have her car. She just needed to limit what she drank. Boy, would District Attorney Holt love it if she got arrested for driving while intoxicated.

  Chapter Nine

  Erma clicked off the phone and left the bedroom. “We can go ahead and eat, BJ, because Sandra's not returning until later.” She finished the one bourbon on the rocks BJ allowed her and set the glass on the bar before sitting down at the dining room table. Over lunch, they'd settled into a discussion about the girls. Thankfully, Rex didn't return from town until hours later. Kathy Lynn came and went before Erma had a chance to spend any significant time with her, like a private interview. She was hoping Kathy Lynn might have dinner with them.

  Now, Rex and Elgin Burgess were deep in conversation. Each held a Mexican blown, blue-rimmed shot glass. Elgin appeared right at home. Earlier, she had noticed when Elgin entered the house, he knew his way around. Roy and Elgin had been friends for a while, but did his familiarity with the Schindler home mean anything more?

  “Not interrupting anything, boys, are we?” BJ rounded the table and started to pull out her chair at the table's head.

  “Not a thing, Ma.” Rex wore what must be his customary, rosy-cheeked smile.

  Elgin jumped up and held BJ's chair. Erma could understand if he was interested in the widow Schindler but didn't see how BJ could be attracted to him, even given the fact that decent, eligible older men were few and far between. His face resembled a bull frog's. Maybe he had a quality that wasn't apparent on the surface. Elgin sat to BJ's left and shook out his napkin while keeping his eyes on BJ. Erma was at BJ's right, while Rex took the seat opposite his mother, the position of the man of the house.

  “Hey, Erma.” Rex held up his glass. “You want some mezcal? This is some fine stuff.”

  Erma took the shot glass from Rex and sniffed it. Smoky. No surprise that Rex bought the good stuff. He looked like he'd had a bit too much already. She handed the mezcal back. “I've been given my ration of booze tonight, son, but thanks for asking.” She winked at BJ, hoping BJ understood she was forgiven for rationing out the booze. “So tell me, Elgin, how'd you happen to come by at dinner time?”

  “He manages to drop by for dinner several times a week.” Rex snickered like a horse. He threw the amber liquid down his throat and grimaced.

  Elgin tossed his mezcal down as well. “Billie Jo tells me that after the arraignment, she went ahead and hired you and your daughter to represent Rufina in the trial. Isn't that an awful lot of trouble for someone from so far away?”

  Elgin stopped speaking when Lucia, one of the Hispanic women Erma had met earlier, laid the serving dishes on the table.

  “Don't worry about us.” Erma reached for the bowl nearest her, dished out some squash, and handed it to BJ. “We practice law all over the State. Elgin, you want to hand me the roast, or you keeping it all for yourself?”

  Elgin took a couple of slices of meat and started the platter circulating. “You think she did it?”

  “Everyone's entitled to the best defense they can afford, regardless,” Erma said. “Don't you know that?”

  “Elgin, I wish you'd stop.” BJ's voice was strident, like she was at the end of her rope. “Ever since they arrested Rufina you've been like a broken record. I won't have it.”

  “Darlin',” Elgin said, patting BJ's arm. “I don't mean anything by it. I guess I'm wondering whether Miz Townley has some idea of who might have done it if it wasn't Rufina.”

  “Goddamn, Elgin, I only got here last night. And the name's Erma.” She took a slice of pork. “This sure smells good, BJ.” She held out the platter to Rex. “Are you going to pass that rice?” She hoped Elgin wasn't one of those people who had a sense of morbid curiosity—who liked to discuss cases ad nauseam when they didn't know what the hell they were talking about.

  Rex laughed. “I guess she told you, huh, Elgin.”

  “I tell you what, as soon as I figure out who really killed Katy Jo, you'll be the first person I tell.” Erma spooned some gravy over the rice. She cut into the roast and took a healthy bite. Perfect, tender and moist.

  Elgin ate heartily, which was no surprise for a man his size. He was physically enough of a man for BJ, if that's what his dropping by was about, but he was ugly as homemade soap. How long had he had designs on her? BJ had said he owned the spread next door. She hadn't mentioned Elgin to her, ever. Not that they talked that frequently. When they did, often it was about matters having to do with the estate since Erma was the estate's attorney. Lucia returned to the room with a bowl of applesauce. She kept her eyes down the whole time she was there.

  Elgin cut each piece of pork into large pieces and scraped the squash, rice, and gravy on top of it. He closed one eye and studied Erma with the other. When he seemed to have arranged everything on his plate to his satisfaction, he forked an enormous bite into his mouth.

  “Let's talk about something else.” BJ took a bite of food herself.

  Erma should probably abide by BJ's desires, but there might not be another opportunity this good to ask questions. Rex appeared to focus on the plate in front of him. “Where were you, Rex, when your sister died?”

  Rex shook his head like he wasn't believi
ng she asked him that. “Ma—”

  BJ's knife clattered onto her plate. “Erma, please.”

  Erma put a spoonful of applesauce next to the pork. Why did people related to a victim always think they shouldn't have to answer for themselves? She'd found families amusing on more than one occasion.

  “My question is simple enough, Rex. I'm sure the police or sheriff or whoever must have asked you the same thing.”

  Rex poured Elgin another shot of mezcal, then filled his own glass.

  “You're not the cops, Miz Townley.” Elgin swallowed about half a glass of water and stared at her.

  “If I'm—we're—to defend Rufina, we have to investigate. I thought you understood that, BJ.” Erma hated to put her on the spot. “By the way, were y'all drinking mezcal the night Katy Jo died?”

  Rex grinned before shooting a look at his mother that asked her to shut Erma down.

  “I guess I knew you'd have to quiz us,” BJ said, “but can we wait until after dinner?”

  Erma wanted to hear Elgin's story, too. He acted like the man of the house except he hadn't yet achieved the place of honor at the other end of the dining table.

  “I told the sheriff's office where I was.” Rex raised an eyebrow. “After we ate, I put Elgin in his truck and went to bed.”

  “Okay. All right. No sense getting your bowels in an uproar.” Since they hadn't answered her mezcal question, she would assume the answer was in the affirmative. With their pink cheeks and veined noses, though Rex's face paled in comparison to Elgin's, they could easily be a couple of alcoholics. She would know since she had a long history of heavy drinking herself. These days she powdered her nose heavily every morning to cover the evidence.