Revenge at the Rodeo

by Gilbert, Morris

  Packard wheeled and stumbled down the stairs. Sixkiller smiled then and turned back to Dani’s room. She was standing at the door, where she had watched the scene, her face pale.

  “Let’s make some of that rotten coffee,” Luke suggested, taking her arm and stepping inside. “It’s not much good, but it’s the same stuff they use in the restaurant.” He moved to the machine, and as he busied himself with the coffee, he chatted freely.

  Dani moved to one of the chairs and sat down suddenly, her legs weak. As Luke whistled off-key at the coffeemaker, she studied him, not quite able to believe that he had not been affected by the encounter. When he brought her coffee, she took it, sipped carefully, and asked, “Luke, didn’t that bother you?”

  He blinked as though confused, then glanced at the door. “Oh, that bit with the big, bad wolf? Not much.” He sipped his own coffee, then added, “He’s not a bad one, Dani. He wouldn’t last half a day in one of the bad sections of New Orleans. They’d have him for lunch.” He changed the subject, and she knew that there was no way she would ever be able to take violence the way Luke and Ben did. They had gone through a hard school, and they had either had to grow hard or die.

  “I’m going to miss Megan,” Luke said after a while. “She was a good one. You two were really close.”

  Dani nodded, taking a quick swallow of the hot coffee to get rid of the lump that rose in her throat. When she finally got control, she shared, “She loved old movies, Luke, just like I do. We’d stay up half the night watching the Marx Brothers or even the Three Stooges. And she was always taping things with her video. She hid it in her room once and taped a bunch of silly stuff we did.” Then she abruptly volunteered, “She didn’t do it, Luke.”

  He rolled the cup around in his powerful hands, not answering for a long moment. Then he gave her an odd look. “Because she was a convert?”

  “That’s one reason I can’t buy it.”

  “The law won’t look at it that way.”

  “No, it won’t. But it’s not just that, Luke.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you think she did it?”

  “Nope.”

  The simple expression from Sixkiller brought a light into, Dani’s eyes. “Why not?”

  “She’s not the type.”

  “The law won’t buy that either, Luke.”

  “I’m not the law now,” Luke slowly pointed out. “If it was my case, I’d pretty well ignore anyone who told me she didn’t do it because she wasn’t the type. Even before she got converted she wasn’t the type. She wasn’t a killer—and she wasn’t the type for suicide. But that’s the way it’ll probably come out when the cops here add it all up.”

  Dani shook her head in a fierce gesture. “No! Megan deserves better than that! We’ve got to get whoever really killed her.”

  “And Clint,” Sixkiller reminded her.

  “Yes, Clint, too.” They talked about the case until it was time to go to the station. When they got there, they were directed to Room 216. The room was big enough for the ten or so people they found inside—all of them from the rodeo.

  Clyde and Fran moved to Dani at once, both of them obviously nervous. Fran’s lipstick, usually geometrically perfect, was smeared, and her mascara ran down onto her cheeks. Her speech was slurred as she cried, “What a terrible thing! I can’t believe it!”

  Dani caught the smell of liquor on her breath but had no time to answer. Fran was on a talking jag, and after mourning over Clint, began cursing Megan. “The little tramp! I knew she was no good from the time I saw her!”

  Clyde took her arm, his own face weary and drawn with strain. “Shut down, will you, Fran?” he said tightly. “She’s dead. There’s no point in bad-mouthing her.”

  Fran yanked her arm away with a curse, but at that moment the outer door opened, and Lieutenant Stark walked in, accompanied by a large man wearing cowboy boots and belt. They moved to the front of the room, and Stark spoke, “Sit down, please.” There was a scurry as they all found seats. “Thank you all for coming. This is Captain Little of the Homicide Squad.”

  The captain had an east Texas twang and a pair of small, blue eyes. He was lean, with a blanched face. “All right, I’ll make this short as I can. You’ve heard some details on the TV, most of them wrong. Here’s what we’ve got. The victims were both shot with a .38 colt revolver registered to Megan Carr. Thomas died of a gunshot to the head and Megan Carr of a gunshot in the heart. Both of them died instantly. The coroner puts the time of death between seven and nine o’clock last night,” he pronounced flatly.

  “Why, that was when the show was on!” Tom Leathers remarked grimly.

  “Just keep quiet until I finish,” Little ordered, giving the cowboy an impatient look. “The crime took place in an Airstream motor home parked in the area set aside for trailers. There was no sign of a struggle, and nobody reported gunshots.” He looked around the room and took out a miniature cigar and peeled it as he went on. “But the stereo was turned up full volume—which was customary with Clint Thomas, it appears.” He put the cigar between his teeth, pulled a kitchen match from his shirt pocket, lit it with one rake of his thumbnail, then touched it to the cigar. He took his time, and Dani felt suddenly that it was all an act—the tough cop playing cowboy.

  “The body was discovered by a man named Boone Hardin. He says he went by to see Thomas, and when nobody answered his knock, he tried the door. It was unlocked, so he opened it and looked inside, finding the two victims. He was coming out of the trailer, on his way to report the shooting, he says, when he met another man, Hank Lowe. He told Lowe what had happened, and the two of them went to a phone and called the station. The time of his call was ten minutes after ten.” He sent a puff of blue smoke toward the ceiling, then asked, “Any questions?”

  “Where are Boone and Hank?” Bake demanded.

  “They’re being held for questioning. As soon as we’re through in here, I’ll have them released. Now, I asked Lieutenant Stark to get you here because you people have been close to Clint Thomas for some time. I’ll be calling some of you in for individual questioning later, but right now I want some basic information. When I call your name, stand up and tell me two things. Number one, what’s your relationship with the two victims, and number two, where were you between seven and nine o’clock last night. First, Clyde Lockyear.”

  Clyde stood up awkwardly, swallowed, then announced, “Well, Captain, I’m Clyde Lockyear. I furnish bucking stock for rodeos. I haven’t known Megan Carr for long—only about six weeks. She was writing a story about rodeo, and we had coffee together while she interviewed me. ‘Course I’ve known Clint for ten years or more.”

  “You ever have any trouble with either one of the victims, Mr. Lockyear?”

  Clyde opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind then swallowed hard. “Well—yes, sir, I guess so.” He turned to Fran, saying, “My wife was married to Clint Thomas.”

  The captain’s eyes drilled into Fran, and when Clyde offered no more, he insisted, “Tell me about the trouble.”

  Clyde countered quickly, his round cheeks flushing, “Oh never an actual fight, Captain Little. He’d have killed me, if it had come to that, I guess. It was always verbal. He’d make remarks about Fran—that’s my wife—and I’d take it up. That kind of thing.”

  Little studied him, then asked, “Where were you when the murder was committed?”

  “Why, taking care of the stock, Captain!” Lockyear looked surprised at the question. “I’m busy as a one-armed paper-hanger during a show. Got to get bulls, barebacks, and saddle broncs in place, then get them into the chute—it’s a split-second kind of thing. You can ask anybody, I guess. I was right there all that time.”

  “All right. Mrs. Lockyear?”

  Fran stood up, her face flushed. “Like Clyde says, Clint and I were married once.”

  “Why’d you split?”

  Fran hesitated, then admitted reluctantly, “He left me for another woman.” Anger laced her voice. “He always ha
d another woman!” Then she blinked and licked her lips. “But I had nothing to do with the killing!”

  “And where were you from seven to nine?” Little demanded, puffing like a furnace on the stogie.

  “Why, at the show, of course! But I move around a lot. Sometimes I’m back with Clyde, helping with the books. Getting the right horse to the right chute at the right time—that takes some book work. Lots of people saw me.”

  “I see,” Little acknowledged her words, then nodded. “All right. Bake Dempsey?”

  Dempsey got to his feet, his face sober. “Don’t really know Megan Carr, Captain. Just talked to her a few times.”

  “But you know Clint Thomas, don’t you? Didn’t I read that you’ve missed being number one the last three years, when Thomas beat you out for it?”

  Bake stared at him, then stiffly answered, “Sure. Clint beat us all out. He was the best.”

  “Not what you said to a few witnesses.”

  “Why—sure, I brag a little,” Bake answered quickly. “But it was just talk. And I didn’t go near that place of Thomas’s last night. I rode a bronc at eight-thirty.”

  “What about after that?”

  Bake swallowed, and Dani saw that he was uneasy. “I got hurt a little. Went home and rubbed some liniment on and went to sleep.”

  “Any witnesses?” Little asked.

  “I bunk alone.”

  Little gave him a careful look, then proposed, “We’ll talk more about your movements.”

  “Ruby Costner?”

  “That’s me.” Ruby stood up, her face set defiantly. “Let me put it all on the front porch. I don’t know the Carr woman, but I used to live with Clint Thomas. He threw me out for Ruth Cantrell. I hated his guts, and I’m glad somebody took him out. I’d have done it myself, but I didn’t want to wash clothes in a women’s prison for ten years.”

  Her attitude seemed to interest Captain Little. He lowered the cigar, smiled faintly, then nodded. “Very clear statement. Can you account for your movements last night during the times mentioned?”

  “No!”

  Little flicked the ash off his cigar, then nodded again. “Maybe you’ll remember more later, Miss Costner.”

  “Clay Dixon?”

  Dixon rose, a sullen look on his face. “I’m Dixon. Don’t know much about the Carr woman—except she was stuck-up.”

  “How do you mean that?”

  Dixon shifted his eyes around the room and realized that plenty of witnesses were available to the policeman. “Aw, she wouldn’t have nothing to do with me,” he mumbled.

  “And Clint Thomas? Any trouble with him?”

  “Well, he broke a chair over my head a while back,” Dixon conceded. “But I busted him when he took out after Ruby.”

  “Oh? You were Miss Costner’s boyfriend?”

  “Yeah, I was.” He shrugged his big shoulders, admitting, “You’ll hear it anyway. Me and Clint had a fight over her. I busted him up good that time.” Then he gave the captain a nod. “And I was with Rocky James the whole time last night. You can ask him.”

  When James stood up at Little’s request, he verified Dixon’s testimony. “Sure, we went out after the rodeo and got drunk.”

  “But you’re a bull rider aren’t you? You couldn’t have been with anybody when you were working the bull riding.”

  “Well—all except that time I was with him.”

  Little sorted through the rest of the crowd, and Dani saw that despite his garish dress, he was a careful man who missed very little. Finally he got to the end of his list, saying, “Miss Ross?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Carr woman spent a lot of time with you?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Little chewed the stub of his cigar, then crushed it in an ashtray on the table. “No sense keeping the rest of you. Stay available for questioning.”

  “We can’t stay in Houston, Captain Little!” Clyde protested. “The rodeo ended, and we’ve all got to make shows in other places!”

  Little nodded reluctantly. “I guess that’s right. But I want a phone number where I can reach every one of you. There’s going to be an inquest, and you may have to come back for it. If I can’t find you easy, you’ll come back the hard way.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal, and they all filed out. As soon as they were gone, Little commanded, “Come with me,” and left the room. Stark stepped aside for Dani, and the two of them left the large room, following Little down the hall to a door with a small sign, CAPTAIN AMOS LITTLE. When Dani stepped inside, she found Luke Sixkiller sitting in a leather chair, reading a tattered copy of Field and Stream.

  He got to his feet and came to stand beside Dani. Both watched as Little walked behind the desk and plumped himself down. Stark moved to stand against the wall to their right, and Dani saw that he was unhappy.

  “Well, Danielle Ross, I understand you’re a private detective working to find an extortioner who is shaking down rodeo people,” the captain challenged.

  Dani shot a look at Luke, but the captain caught it. “Oh, I didn’t find out from the lieutenant here.” He pulled out another cigar and went through his little ritual, giving them time to worry. Finally he lifted his eyes to meet Dani’s. “Nice the way you let us in on all of it.”

  Dani replied rather breathlessly “Well, Lieutenant Stark did know that Luke had been a policeman in New Orleans.”

  “And Captain Sixkiller, he hunted our man up and told him all about it?”

  “Well, no, not exactly—”

  “Not exactly, my foot!” Captain Little suddenly smashed his fist against the desk, sending a glass resting on the edge flying. He ignored it, raking them with a pair of the angriest eyes Dani had ever seen, and his voice would have cut glass.

  “You come waltzing in without a word to us poor suckers who try to do a job here, meddle around like a pair of comic-strip characters, playing cowboy, and now we’ve got two deaths on our hands!” He pointed his cigar at Luke. “Sixkiller, I don’t expect any private detective to have sense, but you should have a little! What would you do to a pair who came on your turf making this kind of mess?”

  Sixkiller conceded soberly, “I’d do just about what you’re doing, Captain. Maybe worse.”

  His ready confession seemed to irritate the tall officer. “Don’t give me any false humility, Sixkiller!” he snorted. “I talked to your superior officer in New Orleans, and he told me to stomp you hard.”

  “He doesn’t like me,” Luke maintained. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

  Dani saw the anger rising even higher in Little’s eyes and interjected hurriedly, “Captain, it was my fault. Luke wanted to tell you what we were doing, but I wouldn’t let him.”

  Little stared at her, then retorted abruptly, “I talked to a guy about you, too. Dom Costello in Boston.” Costello was a police captain in that city, and Dani knew he had given her a good word. They had worked together on several cases when she had been with the attorney general’s office, and he was one of the few men who’d treated her with absolute fairness.

  “I hope he gave me a good reference,” she declared quietly.

  Little stared at her, his eyes scrunched together, then relaxed. He puffed on the cigar and shrugged. “He said you were okay—for a woman.”

  Dani knew Costello hadn’t said that, but she smiled. “I am sorry, Captain, really I am. But I knew the rodeo would be over in a few days, and we didn’t have a thing to give you.” Then she asked curiously, “What’s all this business with the timing—trying to find out where people were when it happened?”

  Little gave Stark a glance, seeming to debate something. Then he rubbed his forehead in a weary gesture. “Megan Carr didn’t kill Clint Thomas. And she didn’t shoot herself either.” He glanced up, seeing the quick reaction in both Sixkiller and Dani. “It’s a frame.”

  “How’d you get it?” Sixkiller wondered aloud.

  “The Carr woman was holding the gun in her right hand—” Little began, but Dan
i exclaimed, “And Megan was left-handed!”

  “Whoever did it slipped up,” Little confirmed. Then he allowed himself a smile. “I hope you two don’t have any plans for a while.”

  Dani asked in surprise, “Why not, Captain?”

  “Because you’re going to work for me.” He grinned openly. “I’m not going to pay you, but you’re going to stick with the investigation until you nail this guy. Then you’ll bring him back here, and I’ll take all the credit. How’s that strike you?”

  Dani glanced at Luke, then smiled. “It’s the best offer I’ve had all day!”

  16

  A Woman in Black

  * * *

  Dani went by to feed Big Boy early Tuesday morning and found the Astrodome being torn apart. All the rodeo gear was being removed, and she barely had time to speak to Clyde and Fran, who were almost ready to pull out with a trailer load of stock.

  “We’re on our way to Fort Smith, Dani,” Clyde explained hurriedly. “You going to be there?”

  “Yes, but I’m staying for the funeral.”

  She meant Clint’s funeral, for she had learned the day before that Megan’s body would be shipped back to her home in Pennsylvania for burial. Clyde’s lips drew tight. “We’re not staying, Dani. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not that much of a hypocrite.” He nodded good-bye, saying, “We’ll see you in Fort Smith.”

  He went to the big diesel, climbed behind the wheel, and pulled out, with Fran following in a brand new Buick Road-master. Dani waved at her, then went to take care of the big horse. He lifted his head and made a slobbering noise when she appeared, and she smiled. Reaching into her pocket, she got some cubes of sugar and fed him. The memory of Biscuit came with the action, but she had learned to accept that. Big Boy needed exercise, so she rode him for an hour, finding out that she was learning his movements better.