Today the two men decided against taking their usual walk around the tree-lined quad of the University of St. Thomas campus. In this heat, even the shade of the towering live oaks offered little respite.
No, today they were comfortably settled in Fred’s studio apartment, overlooking a quiet street in the Medical Center area of Houston. Both had removed their suit coats and were enjoying their weekly catch-up in their short-sleeved clericals—Fred in his usual light blue, Matt in his standard black.
“So.” Fred sat back, and his blue eyes twinkled. “I’ve heard that you’ve gotten Elsbeth Novak in quite a tizzy.”
Matt suppressed a groan. “You’ve heard about that.”
“I keep up with a few of my old parishioners who’ve settled in Houston for retirement. I understand she’s pretty steamed at you, and she’s going to take that up with the church council?”
“I let my temper get the best of me and told her off,” Matt admitted. “It felt good at the time, but now…”
“With Elsbeth, that is often a temptation.” Fred nodded. “What happened?”
“She made some nasty insinuations about Grace’s new pre-school director.”
“Any truth to them?”
Matt shook his head. “Mandy Culver is a young widow whose only sin is that she wants to donate new altar cloths to the church—at my suggestion.”
Fred’s eyes rounded. “That would do it. First, Elsbeth feels she is the Altar Guild. Second, apparently, the lady in question has money. Third, this Mandy is single.” His gaze narrowed on Matt’s face. “As are you.”
“Right on all counts.” Matt stared into his tea. “Any advice?”
“Sure. Stay away from Elsbeth and let Norm Krall handle her.”
Matt had to laugh. “That’s what everyone is telling me. I don’t know how this can go on for much longer, though.”
“It won’t. Just wait. Sooner or later Elsbeth is going to need something from you, and then everything will get patched over. Just let the storm pass.”
“I think that’s a little unrealistic.”
“Nope. Take my word for it. I got her all fussed up one time about sanctuary paint colors and she went around telling the world that I had a gambling problem.”
Matt averted his gaze to the window.
“Wait a minute. She said something to you about that?” Fred demanded.
Matt felt the blush creep from his collar up to his face. “It came to my attention, anyway.”
“Why, that little—” Fred stopped short, then leaned his head back and laughed with a full belly sound that filled the room. “Not to worry, Matt. A Lutheran church here in Houston sponsors a bus to Coushatta in Louisiana once a month. I tithe my winnings and my losses. The folks’re a fun group. You should join us sometime.
Matt glared at Fred. “Not likely. I’ve got enough problems with Elsbeth.”
“Well, keep the trip in mind if you want to really get away from it all for a day. We go on the first Tuesday of every month.” Fred sipped his tea. “What else is going on in quiet ole peaceful Wilks?”
“It’s hot,” Matt said with a chuckle, then thought for a moment. Fred had the pulpit in Wilks ten years back. Maybe he knew something about Melinda Platt. “Actually, we do have some news happening in town. Do you remember Melinda Platt? Callie Mae’s daughter?”
Fred nodded. “That girl caused her mother a lot of pain, running off to—what was it? The rodeo? I tried to counsel Callie Mae, but short of talking about the prodigal son returning someday, there wasn’t much I could do to comfort her.”
“Well, the prodigal daughter returned—or perhaps never left. They found her body in the Colorado River, not far from the bend by the church. It had been there a long time.”
“Really.” Fred’s face saddened immediately. “How is Callie Mae handling that?”
“She’s blaming God…and me.” Matt took a long sip from his tea.
Fred shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“I figure the only way to give her any comfort is to help find out what happened to Melinda.” Matt leaned forward. “Since you remember the situation, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Shoot.”
“Everybody says she was a great barrel racer, but it didn’t appear that she had a horse. How did that work?”
Fred sat up straighter. “Now you’re getting into dangerous territory, my friend.”
Intrigued, Matt nodded. “Go on.”
“We talked about getting on the bad side of Elsbeth Novak?” Fred grimaced. “It was nothing compared to getting on the bad side of Elsbeth’s mother-in-law, Miss Olivia.”
“What did Melinda have to do with Miss Olivia?”
Fred looked out the window, remembering. “You’re right. Melinda didn’t have a horse. But Warren Yeck had a couple of them. Back when Warren still owned a farm, he and his wife were big into FFA—Future Farmers of America. He’d teach kids how to raise cattle, and his wife gave horse-riding lessons. That woman loved her horses.” Fred finally looked at Matt. “Melinda was one of her star pupils.”
“So she rode one of Warren’s horses.”
“She started showing horses when she was in grade school and racing barrels in middle school—the junior division, of course. And she was good. I remember her at the Fayette County Fair one time. Took first place, as I recall.”
“What happened?”
“Well, about the time Miss Olivia’s grandson—you know, Jimmy Novak Jr., the sheriff’s son who’s running for governor?”
Matt swallowed hard. He already didn’t like where this was going.
“Well, he was in his…second year, I think…in law school at the University of Texas. Melinda was a senior. In high school. And she set her eyes on Jimmy Jr.”
“Uh oh.”
“Big time. Nobody really understood that Jimmy Jr. even knew her until he came home for spring break, and Melinda made it obvious the two had met.”
“How did they meet?”
“She was in a rodeo up in Austin. I don’t think he knew how young she was, exactly. She had a way of looking and acting a whole lot older than she was.”
“Was it serious?”
“I doubt it. Melinda had a lot of horse sense, but not much of any other kind of sense. She started talking about her and Jimmy Jr. getting serious—which, frankly, I think was the last thing on Jimmy Jr.’s mind, especially when he found out how young she was. He was already setting his sights on public office, for Pete’s sake. Still, the word was out, and I promise you that it was pretty ugly when Miss Olivia got wind of it.”
“What happened?”
“Miss Olivia did what she did best. She ‘fixed’ the situation. By the time summer had rolled around, Miss Olivia had put the skids on Warren Yeck letting Melinda ride his horses for barrel racing, in hopes that would put an end to Melinda going up to Austin’s rodeos and seeing Jimmy Jr.”
“So that was the end of that.”
“Not exactly.” Fred picked up his iced tea, saw that it was empty and gestured to Matt. “Need more?”
“No, I’m good.” He got up and followed Fred into the kitchen. “What do you mean, not exactly?”
“Melinda was just about as stubborn as Miss Olivia. You couldn’t say no to either one. Anyway, Melinda figured out a way to make some money so she could buy her own horse, and get back up to Austin.”
“How?”
Fred took his time pouring the tea into his glass, and it was obvious to Matt that he was reluctant to say much more.
“Fred,” Matt said, “it might be important. Melinda was last seen getting on a bus to Austin.”
Fred shook his head. “Can’t believe I’m actually missing Ernie Masterson right now. I’d rather you heard this from him than from me.”
“Ernie?”
“Yeah. He knew everything about everyone in town, his gas station being in the middle of it. And whenever he thought he had a tidbit that would be of benefit to him, he’d pass it on
to Miss Olivia. Who, seeing as she considered herself responsible for the good name of Wilks, would pass it on to me, hoping that I would create a Sunday-morning sermon that would keep the town in line.”
Matt nodded. Miss Olivia had done exactly the same thing with him before she passed away last January. The matriarch had been an imposing woman, to say the least.
“So what did Ernie tell her?”
“That Melinda was working for a woman up in Austin who ran a bar that featured night-time barrel races.” Fred returned the pitcher to the fridge and shut the door. “Bikini barrel races.”
Matt took a moment to take that in. “Did Jimmy Jr. ever go to those races?”
“No idea. But Melinda was making up to five hundred dollars a night between riding and waitressing. According to Ernie.”
“Wow.” Matt leaned against the counter. “Well, that answers a lot of questions, but it brings up a whole lot more.” He spied Fred’s computer on the front room desk. “Mind if I look something up, real quick?”
“Help yourself.”
Matt went to the computer and typed in a search. Pleased with the result, he hit on a website, waited for it to load, then began to search its documents. “Doggone it,” he said finally, then stood. “Mind if I leave you a little earlier than usual?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“What I need is on microfilm. I’d like to run by the Houston library.”
“Sure, go ahead.” Fred was curious, but he didn’t ask Matt any questions. That was one of the things that Matt had always appreciated about his mentor.
Matt headed for the door, then stopped. “Almost forgot. I have a favor to ask. Are you available around Christmas to help out at Grace?”
“Had enough of Advent and Christmas last year to know you don’t want to go it alone?” Fred grinned. “I knew the bishop was throwing you into the deep end of the pool starting you right after Thanksgiving.”
“No,” Matt said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I might need you to come in and sub for me that month.”
“You planning in advance to be in a car accident or something? ‘Cuz tire tracks down your back are about the only thing that folks will accept could keep you from doing Christmas at your own church.”
“Yeah, I know. I can’t explain it right now, but I’d appreciate it if you’d put me down for your December pulpit fills. And keep it under your hat.”
“Sure, Matt. I’ll be glad to help out. But—”
“Thanks, Fred. I appreciate it.” Matt headed out the door before Fred could begin to ask those questions.
***
The Houston Public Library had interesting architecture. The building on the north was all modern windows and cement and angles. To the south, the original library had been preserved with its 1890s brick façade and wood floors and the scent of books that had sat on shelves for over a century.
Matt was directed to the old building, where ancient microfilm readers, slide projectors, microfiche machines and other outdated technology were housed. Here the records were kept for those items that had not yet been digitized, or might never see another form of preservation.
He checked out the microfilmed Austin Statesman newspapers from ten years back. If there had been a rodeo in town or a bar that sold tickets, there should have been some form of advertisement in the town’s newspaper.
The librarian helped him load the microfilm onto the reels and feed it through the projector’s lamp. The image appeared on the two-foot-square screen above the controls.
He began rolling through the microfilm, spinning the reels much like reel-to-reel audio tape recorders used to work and slowed as he reached February of the year that Melinda and Diane had gone missing.
After he had perused several issues, it became apparent that most of the weekend events were listed in the Thursday edition of the Statesman. He began shuttling through the weeks, looking mostly for the Thursday papers. He found little in February except advertisements for the upcoming Austin rodeo in March.
By the first week of March, the issue was full of advertisements for rodeo clothing, gear, happy-hour specials and the like.
He passed more slowly through the newspapers. Finally, in the Thursday, March 15, issue he found an article in the entertainment section titled “Bikini Barrel Racers Coming to Austin.”
He began reading.
For better or worse, Austin continues its quest to be weird. Opening this week on the east side of town in the building formerly occupied by Ludwig’s Lumber Yard is Midnight Cowgirl—a bar and barrel-racing venue whose concept was developed by former Rodeo Queen Hester Honeywell. Midnight Cowgirl will feature bikini-clad barrel racers Thursday through Saturday nights. Doors open at nine p.m., with live music beginning at nine-thirty.
Hester Honeywell is well known in the rodeo business for her own achievements on the barrel-racing circuit. Honeywell won the coveted National Title for Barrel Racing three years in a row and is among the top earners of prize money in her sport. Honeywell’s career was cut short when her horse flipped on her in a practice round at the Las Vegas National Finals Rodeo three years ago, breaking her back. Though Honeywell is now ambulatory, she can no longer participate in her beloved sport.
“That’s why I’m opening up my place here in Austin,” Honeywell explains. I’m sitting with her on the bleachers overlooking the dirt-floored arena of her new establishment. “I had to find something new to make money at—I like money—but I wanted to be around horses, and I wanted to come home. I figured I could drink, watch rodeo, make money and see my cousins all at the same time.”
I ask if the bikini barrel racers are a necessary part of a rodeo bar since the concept seems a tad demeaning to women.
Honeywell laughs and puffs on her cigarette. “I gotta get the customers in the door, don’t I? Besides, I’m doing the girls a lot of good. It’s expensive to be on the circuit—you’ve gotta own your own horse, have to have a trailer to haul it, then a truck to haul the trailer, plus you gotta feed the horse and yourself, and my God the equipment is expensive—all the while being away from family and friends.”
I’m a little cynical. “So you’re doing this as a charity for the women?”
“Hell no. I’m doing it for the money. I come from Austin, and I know this town. Austin’s always been a little on the edge, willing to try new ventures no matter how bizarre it sounds at first. You know, ‘Keep Austin Weird.’ But this here’s a way for the girls to benefit, the town to benefit, and hell, for me to benefit.”
I have to smile. Honeywell is a seasoned veteran at the realities of life. Something about her raspy voice and sun-lined face makes me believe she’s got a plan for success.
“I can’t help but notice you’re opening up the week of the Austin rodeo.”
“Hell, yes. All my pro-circuit friends are in town. It’s gonna be a party. An ‘after-party’ if you will, for all the official events. If ever a rodeo fan wanted to rub elbows with real cowboys and cowgirls, this is the week to come to the Midnight Cowgirl.”
The article ended with a review of the address, hours and live band line-up scheduled for the Midnight Cowgirl.
“Well, that sounds like something that would fit Melinda Platt just perfect,” Matt said. He wrote down the details, rewound the microfilm, and thanked the librarian on his way out the door.
He checked his watch. It was three o’clock. Not enough time to get all the way to Austin, but plenty of time to get home and do some sleuthing on his own computer.
Chapter Thirteen
Something Liquid This Way Comes
Angie almost dropped the beer she was pouring when Chelsea walked in Thursday afternoon for her four o’clock shift.
The girl had shaved her hair. Well, a bunch of it anyway. One side was the same—Cleopatra long, black and blunt-cut.
But at the part, the other side was shaved to within a quarter inch of her scalp. What was left she had dyed neon blue.
Chelsea walked through to the kitch
en, shoved her purse in the designated locker and walked back out to the bar.
Angie wasn’t able to utter a word, nor was she mindful that her mouth was agape.
“What?” Chelsea finally demanded. “I’m fully clothed.”
Angie closed her mouth. “You’re not workin’ behind the bar tonight. You’ve got the floor.”
Chelsea shrugged. “No matter to me. Tonight’s trivia night. We should have a good crowd.”
Angie pursed her lips. She had hoped the assignment to the restaurant and porch would have been a slap at Chelsea’s new look. Instead, she would apparently be making some pretty healthy tips tonight anyway.
And what the hell was trivia night?
Angie pushed through the swinging bar doors that separated the front from the kitchen and gave Dorothy Jo a long stare. “What the hell is trivia night?”
Dorothy Jo looked up from the red gravy she was making for the night’s special, shrimp and grits. “It started about the time you put in the new TVs. Every Thursday there’s a coupla teams that come in to play trivia against some online thing.”
“Online?”
“Yeah. There’s bars all over the U.S. who play. I think one of our teams made top ten percent in May.”
“And who’s payin’ for this internet feed?”
“The teams are. It’s a regular league.” Dorothy Jo shot Angie a look. “What are you all bothered about? It brings in the customers. Even the church has a team.”
“Matt’s church?” Angie demanded.
“Yep. Though they keep quiet about it on Sunday mornin’s, if you get my drift.”
“I’m guessin’ Elsbeth isn’t a member.” Angie glared.
“Well, all I can say is it sure has perked up business on Thursday nights. It was Chelsea’s idea.”
Angie turned on her heel and stalked back into the bar. She was getting sick and tired of hearing how Chelsea had brought in customers.
Angrily she jerked a dirty drink glass out of the dishpan and scrubbed it. She slammed it down on the counter, and bit off an obscenity when it cracked at the force. Shards of glass sailed across the counter and floor.
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