by Sandra Brown
Alex laughed. “Junior, I doubt you’re ever bored. Especially when there are women around. Do most of them fall for your b.s.?”
“Almost without exception. If you go with me tonight, it’ll be unanimous.”
“Tonight?”
“Sure, tonight. Did I fail to mention that? Sorry I couldn’t give you more notice.”
“You’re actually serious?”
“Would I joke about something as important as the monthly get-together at the Horse and Gun Club?”
“Of course you wouldn’t. Forgive my flippancy.”
“All’s forgiven if you’ll go.”
“I really can’t. I’m exhausted. Last night—”
“Yeah, I heard about that. Jeez, that must’ve been awful, you finding Pasty Hickam that way. I want to help take your mind off it.”
“I appreciate your consideration, but I can’t go.”
“I refuse to take no for an answer.”
While talking, she had struggled out of her dress and was now standing in her slip and stockings, cradling the telephone receiver between her shoulder and her ear while trying to pull on her robe. The housekeeper always turned off the heat after she cleaned the room. Every evening Alex had a frigid homecoming to dread.
She glanced toward the alcove where her clothes were hanging. “I really can’t go, Junior.”
“How come?”
“All my dressy clothes are in Austin. I don’t have anything to wear.”
“Surely a lady as articulate as you isn’t resorting to that cliché.”
“It happens to be the truth.”
“And the occasion calls for casual. Wear that leather skirt you had on the other day. It’s a knockout.”
Alex had finally managed to wriggle herself into the robe without dropping the phone. She sat down on the edge of the bed and snuggled deeper into the terry cloth. “I still have to say no.”
“Why? I know it’s rude to put you on the spot like this, but I’m not going to be gracious and let you bow out without giving me a valid reason.”
“I just don’t think it would be a good idea for us to socialize.”
“Because you’re hoping I’ll soon be a resident of the Huntsville State Prison?”
“No!”
“Then, what?”
“I don’t want to send you to prison, but you are a key suspect in a murder case.”
“Alex, you’ve had time to form an opinion of me. Do you honestly believe that I could commit such a violent crime?”
She remembered how Reede had laughed at the notion of Junior going to war. He was lazy, unambitious, a philanderer. Violent outbursts didn’t fit into his image. “No, I don’t,” she replied softly. “But you’re still a suspect. It wouldn’t do for us to be seen fraternizing.”
“I like that word,” he snarled. “It sounds dirty, incestuous. And for your peace of mind, I do all my fraternizing privately. That is, except for a few times, when I was younger. Reede and I used to—”
“Please,” she groaned, “I don’t want to know.”
“Okay, I’ll spare you the lurid details, on one condition.”
“What?”
“Say you’ll go tonight. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I can’t.”
“Alex, Alex,” he moaned dramatically, “look at it this way. During the course of the evening I’ll have a drink or two, possibly more. I might start reminiscing, get maudlin, say something indiscreet. When I do, you’ll be there to hear it. No telling what stunning confessions I might blurt out in my inebriation. Consider this evening one long interrogation. It’s part of your job to wear down the defenses of your suspects, isn’t it?
“You’d be shirking your duty if you didn’t take advantage of every opportunity to rout out the truth. How can you selfishly languish in the luxury of the Westerner Motel while a suspect is shooting off his mouth over drinks at the Horse and Gun Club? Shame on you. You owe this to the taxpaying public who’re footing the bill for this investigation. Do it for your country, Alex.”
Again, she groaned dramatically. “If I consent to go, will you promise not to make any more speeches?”
“Seven o’clock.”
She could hear the triumph in his voice.
The moment she entered the clubhouse, she was glad she had come. There was music and laughter. She caught snatches of several conversations, none of which were centered around Celina Gaither’s murder. That in itself was a refreshing change. She looked forward to several hours of relaxation, and felt that the break had been earned.
Nevertheless, she rationalized being there. Not for a minute did she believe that Junior would make a public spectacle of himself while under the influence. She wasn’t likely to hear any startling confessions.
All the same, something beneficial might come out of the evening. The exclusivity of the Horse and Gun Club suggested that only Purcell’s upper crust were members. Reede had told her that the people who had signed the letter she had received were local businessmen and professionals. It was conceivable that she would meet some of them tonight, and get a feel for the extent of their animosity.
More important, she would have an opportunity to mingle with locals, people who knew the Mintons and Reede well and might shed light on their characters.
Junior had picked her up in his red Jaguar. He’d driven it with a lack of regard for the speed limit. His festive mood had been contagious. Whether she was acting in a professional capacity or not, it felt good to be standing beside the handsomest man in the room, with his hand riding lightly, but proprietorially, on the small of her back.
“The bar’s this way,” he said close to her ear, making himself heard over the music. They wended their way through the crowd.
The club wasn’t glitzy. It didn’t resemble the slick, neon nightclubs that were bursting out like new stars in the cities, catering to yuppies who flocked to them in BMWs and designer couture.
The Purcell Horse and Gun Club was quintessentially Texan. The bartender could have been sent over by Central Casting. He had a handlebar mustache, black bow tie and vest, and red satin garters on his sleeves. A pair of longhorns, which spanned six feet from polished tip to polished tip, were mounted above the ornately carved nineteenth-century bar.
The walls were adorned with pictures of racehorses, prizewinning bulls with testicles as large as punching bags, and landscapes where either yucca or bluebonnets abounded. In almost every instance the paintings featured an obligatory windmill, looking lonesome and stark against the sunstreaked horizon. Alex was Texan enough to find it comfortable and endearing. She was sophisticated enough to recognize its gaucheness.
“White wine,” she told the bartender, who was unabashedly giving her a once-over.
“Lucky son of a bitch,” he muttered to Junior as he served them their drinks. The grin beneath the lavish mustache was lecherous.
Junior saluted him with his scotch and water. “Ain’t I just?” He propped his elbow on the bar and turned to face Alex, who was seated on the stool. “The music’s a little too country and western for my taste, but if you want to dance, I’m game.”
She shook her head. “Thanks, but no. I’d rather watch.”
A few songs later, Junior leaned close and whispered, “Most of them learned to dance in a pasture. They still look like they’re trying to avoid stepping in a pile of cow shit.”
The wine had taken effect. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. Feeling a pleasant buzz, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and laughed.
“Come on,” he said, placing his hand beneath her elbow and helping her off the stool. “Mother and Dad are at their table.”
Alex moved with him along the perimeter of the dance floor to the cluster of tables set up for dining. Sarah Jo and Angus were seated at one. He was puffing on a cigar. Sarah Jo was idly waving the offensive smoke away from her face.
Alex had been apprehensive about wearing the russet leather skirt and matching, leather-trimmed swea
ter, but she felt more comfortable in them than she would have wearing Sarah Jo’s burgundy satin dress and looking out of place in a room where people were stamping out “Cotton-Eyed Joe,” yelling “bullshit” in the appropriate places, and drinking beer straight from opaque amber bottles.
“Hello, Alex,” Angus said around his cigar.
“Hello. Junior was hospitable enough to invite me,” she said as she sat down in the chair Junior was holding out for her.
“I had to do some arm-twisting,” he told his parents, taking the chair next to her. “She plays hard to get.”
“Her mother certainly didn’t.”
Sarah Jo’s cool, catty remark momentarily stifled the conversation. It served to counteract the potency of Alex’s glass of wine. Her giddiness fizzled and went flat as day-old soda. She nodded toward Sarah Jo and said, “Hello, Mrs. Minton. You look lovely tonight.”
Even though her dress was inappropriate, she did look lovely in it. Not vibrant, Alex thought. Sarah Jo could never look vivacious and animated. Her beauty had an ethereal quality, as though her visitation on earth was temporary and tenuous. She gave Alex one of her vague, secretive smiles and murmured a thank-you as she took a sip of wine.
“Heard you were the one who discovered Pasty’s body.”
“Dad, this is a party,” Junior said. “Alex won’t want to talk about something nasty like that.”
“No, it’s all right, Junior. I would have brought it up myself, sooner or later.”
“I don’t reckon it was coincidence that you met him at that honky-tonk and climbed into his pickup with him,” Angus said, rolling the cigar from one corner of his lips to the other.
“No.” She paraphrased for them her telephone conversations with Pasty.
“That cowboy was a liar, a fornicator, and, worse than all his other vices put together, he cheated at poker,” Angus said with some vehemence. “In the last few years he’d gone plumb goofy and irresponsible. That’s why I had to let him go. I figure you’ve got better sense than to put any stock in what he told you.”
In the middle of his monologue, Angus signaled the waiter to bring another round of drinks. “Oh, sure, Pasty might’ve seen who went into that stable with Celina, but the one he saw was Gooney Bud.”
Having said his piece, and giving Alex no opportunity to dispute it, he launched into a glowing review of a jockey from Ruidoso that he wanted to ride for them. Since the Mintons were her hosts, Alex graciously let the topic of Pasty Hickam die for the moment.
When they’d finished their drinks, Angus and Junior offered to go through the barbecue buffet for the ladies. Alex would just as soon have gone through the line herself. She found it difficult to make small talk with Sarah Jo, but after the men withdrew, she valiantly made an attempt.
“Have you been members of the club for a long time?”
“Angus was one of the charter members,” Sarah Jo supplied distractedly. She kept her eyes on the couples doing the two-step in an eternal circle around the dance floor.
“He seems to have a finger in just about every pie in town,” Alex remarked.
“Hmm, he likes to know everything that’s going on.”
“And be a part of it.”
“Yes. He makes things happen and spreads himself thin.” She gave a delicate sigh. “Angus has this need to be well liked, you see. He’s always politicking, as though it matters what other people think.”
Alex folded her hands beneath her chin and propped her elbows on the table. “You don’t believe it matters?”
“No.” Her entrancement with the dancers ended. For the first time that evening, she looked directly at Alex. “Don’t you read too much into the way Junior treats you.”
“Oh?”
“He flirts with every woman he meets.”
Alex slowly lowered her hands to her lap. Anger roiled inside, but she managed to keep her voice low and level. “I resent your implication, Mrs. Minton.”
Sarah Jo lifted one shoulder indifferently. “Both of my men are charming and they know it. Most women don’t realize that their flirting is meaningless.”
“I’m sure that’s true of Angus, but I don’t know about Junior. Three ex-wives might disagree with you about his flirting.”
“They were all wrong for him.”
“What about my mother? Would she have been wrong for him?”
Sarah Jo fixed her empty stare on Alex again. “Absolutely wrong. You’re a lot like her, you know.”
“Am I?”
“You enjoy causing dissonance. Your mother was never content to leave bothersome things alone. The only difference is that you’re even better at making trouble and creating ill will than she was. You’re direct to the point of being tactless, a trait I’ve always attributed to bad breeding.” She lifted her eyes to someone who had moved up behind Alex.
“Good evening, Sarah Jo.”
“Judge Wallace.” A sweet smile broke across Sarah Jo’s face. One would never guess she had had her stinger out seconds earlier. “Hello, Stacey.”
Alex, her face hot with indignation over Sarah Jo’s unwarranted criticism, turned around. Judge Joe Wallace was staring down at her with disapproval, as though her being there was a breach of the club’s standards.
“Miss Gaither.”
“Hello, Judge Wallace.” The woman standing beside him looked at Alex with a censure that matched his, though for what reason, Alex couldn’t guess. Obviously, Junior was the only friendly face she was going to find in this crowd.
The judge gave the woman’s arm a nudge and they moved toward another table. “Is that his wife?” Alex asked, following their progress.
“Good heavens, no,” Sarah Jo said. “His daughter. Poor Stacey. Eternally dowdy.”
Stacey Wallace was still staring at Alex with such malice that she was captivated by it. She didn’t break her stare until Junior’s knee bumped hers when he resumed his seat and set two plates of food on the table.
“I hope you like ribs and beans.” His gaze followed the direction of hers. “Hey, Stacey.” He winked at her and raised his hand in a friendly wave.
The woman’s puckered mouth relaxed into a faltering smile. Blushing, she raised her hand to her neckline like a flustered girl and called back shyly, “Hi, Junior.”
“Well?”
Though she was still curious about the judge and his chameleon daughter, Junior’s one-word inquiry brought Alex’s head around. “Sorry?”
“Do you like ribs and beans?”
“Watch me,” she laughed, spreading the napkin over her lap.
She did unladylike damage to her plate of food, but her healthy appetite earned her a compliment from Angus. “Sarah Jo eats like a bird. Don’t you like the ribs, honey?” he asked, looking into her plate, which had barely been disturbed.
“They’re a little dry.”
“Want me to order you something else?”
“No, thank you.”
After they’d eaten, Angus took a fresh cigar from his pocket and lit it. Fanning out the match, he said, “Why don’t you two dance?”
“Are you game?” Junior asked.
“Sure.” Alex pushed back her chair and stood up. “But this kind of dancing isn’t my forte, so nothing too fancy, please.”
Junior drew her into his arms and, disobeying her request, executed a series of intricate turns and dips. “Very nice,” he said, smiling down at her when they lapsed into a more sedate two-step. Using the arm he had placed around her waist, he pulled her tighter against him. “Very, very nice.”
Alex let him hold her close because it felt good to have two strong arms around her. Her partner was handsome and charming and knew how to make a woman feel beautiful. She was a victim of his charm, but knowing it was her safety net.
She could never actually fall for a glib charmer like Junior, but small doses of attention from one was fun temporarily, especially since every time she was around Reede, her confidence and ego took a beating.
“I
s Reede a club member?” she asked casually.
“Are you kiddin’?”
“He hasn’t been invited to join?”
“Oh, sure, as soon as he won sheriff the first time. It’s just that he feels more at home in another crowd. He doesn’t give a fuck—excuse me—for society stuff.” He stroked her back. “You seem more relaxed than when I picked you up. Having fun?”
“Yes, but you got me here under false pretenses,” she accused. “You’re a long way from becoming drunk and talkative.”
His smile was unrepentant. “Ask me anything.”
“Okay. Who’s the man over there, the one with the white hair?” Junior identified him by name. Her instincts proved correct. His name had been among those at the bottom of her letter. “Introduce us when the band takes its next break.”
“He’s married.”
She shot him a look. “My interest in him isn’t romantic.”
“Ah, good, good.”
He did as she asked. The banker she had picked out of the crowd seemed disconcerted when Junior introduced her. As she shook hands with him, she said, “I received your letter, Mr. Longstreet.”
Her straightforwardness surprised him, but he recovered admirably. “I see that you’re taking it to heart.” He slid a knowing glance toward Junior.
“Don’t let my being here tonight with Junior fool you. I can appreciate what he, his father, and Mr. Lambert mean to Purcell and its economy, but that does not mean I’ll suspend my investigation. It’ll take more than a letter to scare me off.”
Clearly irritated, Junior spoke to her out of the side of his mouth as he escorted her back onto the dance floor a few minutes later. “You could have warned me.”
“About what?”
“That you are armed and dangerous. Longstreet’s a big wheel who shouldn’t be put on the defensive. What’s all this about a letter, anyway?”
She explained, reciting as many of the names as she could recall. “I hoped to meet some of them here tonight.”
He pulled a deep frown, regarding her with asperity. Eventually, however, he shrugged and fashioned a beguiling smile. “And here I thought I’d swept you off your feet.” Sighing in resignation, he added, “Well, I’d just as well help you out. Want to meet the rest of your adversaries?”