by Jodi Linton
“Heard about Gunner being back in town and Pacey Monroe’s dead body turning up on Bosley’s ranch,” my father said between guzzles of beer.
I watched my mother’s green eyes narrow. She was fixing to get nasty, so I said hastily, “Gunner’s here to work the case.”
“I won’t have you speaking the name Gunner Wilson at this dinner table,” my mother said, undeterred by my attempt to keep things civil.
My father looked from one to the other of us before slamming his hands down on the white, lace table cloth. “I don’t understand the two of ya’ll. It’s not like Gunner didn’t use to eat every goddamn meal at this table before Laney put a load of rock salt in his ass.”
“It was an accident,” we both yelled.
“Ladies, just keep telling yourselves that. I still don’t know why to this dang day”—he cut an eye my way—“the two of y’all couldn’t have patched things up. Gunner’s a good man. It’d be wise for you to remember that, Laney.”
“I caught him banging Wynona in our bed, dad,” I said.
My father tossed back a slug of beer and shook his head. “Pumpkin…we all have our moments.”
Wondering what his moment had been, I gave him a look and took a sip of water, trying to wash down the lump of lettuce lodged in my throat. “You know we arrested Bosley?” I asked, changing the subject.
My mother gasped. “For heaven’s sake, what for?”
“Well, we did find his ranch hand dead on his land,” I answered, “plus he took a swing at me, which is grounds for immediate arrest.”
My mother’s fork dropped and clanked against her wedding china. “Was Nathan called out?”
“Yeah, Dobbs called him to attend to the dead cattle. He’s doing tests to see what killed them.”
If I wasn’t imaging things, then I would have to say that was steam shooting out my mother’s ears.
“And Nathan met Gunner?”
“Yes, but it wasn’t like I planned it,” I blurted, buckling under my mother’s hard stare. “Gunner and I got in a fight and…” I gulped and shut up. There was just no need to go on.
“Well, shit,” my mother fumed, sliding deeper into her chair.
That pretty much put an end to the conversation at lunch.
When the food was gone, my father went back to his rocker on the porch. I dropped the last dish into the sink and was about to leave when he hollered through the screen door, “Laney, phone.”
I walked outside and took the portable from him. “Hello.”
“It’s Sheriff Dobbs,” the sheriff said, “We just caught a break. I need you to head over to Rusty’s.”
“Give me five minutes.” I hung up and handed the phone back to my dad, giving him a kiss on the forehead. “Mom,” I shouted into the kitchen, “I have to leave.”
“Don’t forget about the dress fitting this Thursday.”
“I won’t,” I said, wanting nothing more than to put the fitting on the back burner. I’d rather stick a needle in my eye or do just about anything other than spending another afternoon with my mother.
…
Minutes later, I pulled up to Rusty’s Saloon and parked in the back lot adjacent to the alley. Relief washed over me when I didn’t see Gunner’s Yukon parked at the curb once I reached the metal door at the back of the bar. I’d had enough of him for the day. I grappled with the door handle and finally managed to open the door—which I regretted the moment the unsettling stench of formaldehyde and moth balls hit me. The bar’s owner, Rusty Weir, ran his taxidermy business in the old garage behind the bar. If the bar’s doors were open, and the day was hot, the odor from Rusty’s side business would sometimes drift in. The smell was especially bad by the pool table, which is never pleasant when you’re trying to sling back a Shiner.
I scrunched my nose up and scooted inside. The lighting was dim. Overhead, a couple of dangling florescent lamps swayed in the rafters. I blinked, readjusting my sight, and walked further inside, my boots making squeaky-tacky noises as I crossed the sticky floor.
I found Sheriff Dobbs standing a few feet back from a five-foot stainless steel table. He’d covered his mouth and nose with a sterile mask. Laid out across the table was a two-ton heifer whose head hung off the side of the table, its tongue drooping out of its mouth. I was suddenly glad all I’d eaten for lunch was a plate of lettuce, because if it had been anything else, it would have wound up on the floor right now.
“Would you like a mask, Laney?” Rusty asked, coming out from behind a meat locker.
Rusty was a burly man, resembling a grizzly bear more than an actual person. He’d adorned his monstrous body in a black rubber apron, green gardening gloves squeezed up to the elbows, and a pair of bi-focal glasses hanging from his nose. He was a board certified pathologist who’d decided years back that he preferred a bar full of drunks to a roomful of bodies awaiting post mortems any day. These days, he was more experienced at stuffing the occasional deer head to be tacked up as trophies on the walls of trailer homes, but didn’t mind occasionally going back to his roots and moonlighting as the county coroner—as long as he didn’t have to do it as a full time job, that is.
“Thanks.” I took the mask from him, not the least bit embarrassed to strap it across my face. Hey, there was tough, then there was knowing what I could handle. “Is that one of Bosley’s cows?” I asked, taking three steps forward.
Rusty laid a pair of pliers on the steel table. I was grateful not to have seen what he did with them. “Yeah, a truck load of the damn things were dropped off an hour ago.” Rusty coughed, covering his mouth with a gloved hand. “Your fiancé sent them.”
“So did you call to have me come look at some more dead cows?” I looked at Dobbs. “I thought you said there was news.”
Dobbs laughed. “No. I figured you’ve seen enough of them.” He followed Rusty over to a desk wedged into the corner. “Called you out because we got the report back on Pacey Monroe.”
He handed the paperwork to me. I gave it a quick scan and handed it back. Pacey Monroe had died from a cerebral aneurism due to being kicked in the head and trampled by the dying cows. By the time I finished reading the full post mortem details, my hands were trembling and my stomach felt squirrely. The details of Pacey’s death were not for the squeamish. The problem right now was that I was one of those people who’d never really had the stomach for such things.
“You okay, Laney?” Rusty asked.
“Yeah, fine. I just didn’t eat much for lunch, you know, with the wedding and all.” I pinched the side of my waist. “I need to stay trim for that dress.”
Rusty grabbed a bag off the moveable rack that held his taxidermy knives. “Pork rinds,” he asked shoving it in my face.
I gagged and pushed them away. “No, thank you.” I swallowed hard, forcing my lunch back down.
In the kindest move he’d ever made, Dobbs roughly grabbed my hand. “Rusty, thanks for the info, but Laney and I should talk in private.”
“Anytime,” Rusty said in his raspy, smoke-ravaged voice.
Dobbs pulled me through the musty room to the door. I waited until I saw the light of day before I ripped off my mask, pleased to be back out in the smothering heat.
“Looked like you were fixing to lose it back there,” Dobbs said, taking off his own mask.
“Nah, I’m alright.”
“You sure?”
“This is nothing. I just finished lunch with my mother.”
Dobbs shook his head and yanked a handkerchief from his trousers pocket to wipe the sides of his forehead. “Just thought you might want to be the first to know how Pacey Monroe’s fate was dealt out.”
I nodded weakly and asked. “Is Rusty sure that he was bludgeoned to death and not kicked by a horse? That horseshoe mark was pretty distinctive.”
“Pretty dang positive,” Dobbs wheezed, the heat already getting to him.
I brushed a few stray hairs back into their pins. “Do you think Bosley is capable of murder?”
/> “If I was a betting man… no,” he said, “but people are full of surprises.”
My head began to throb. “Is Bosley still not talking?”
“No.” Dobbs sighed, scratching his head. “Figured you and Gunner could hit the Four Spurs Ranch tomorrow and have a little discussion with Luke Wagner.”
“Sounds like a great idea.”
Yeah, a great idea. And afterwards, I could go to my mother’s and listen to her flap her jaws while she pulled my fingernails off with a set of pliers.
Dobbs tapped my arm. “Don’t let Gunner or anyone else get to you, Laney.”
Knowing that was a lost cause, I waved good-bye and watched Dobbs ease his Jeep out of the parking lot.
…
Needing to collect my thoughts over the collection of cases we had piled up, I headed home a little after three o’clock. I shifted the Malibu into park and rushed inside where the shower was beckoning. I could barely wait to get the foulness of Rusty’s den of death off my skin. When I crossed through the kitchen I noticed the red light was blinking on my answering machine. I hit the button and heard airplanes rumbling in the background, then Nathan’s voice telling me he’d landed safely and would call back later. I peeled off my smelly clothes, ditched the dingy things in the mud room, and sprinted up the stairs butt naked. The warm water hit my face, washing down my grimy cheeks. I shampooed my hair twice, ran a loofa over all my nooks and crannies—scrubbing especially earnestly under my arms—and then turned off the water. I pulled on an old and worn pair of denim jeans, shrugged a white tank top over my head, and stepped into my favorite pair of red cowboy boots that I’d had since high school. Then I poured myself a tall glass of sweet tea and grabbed my sunglasses and headed out the back door.
My garden was an abomination. I had spaded the land between the backdoor and the shed five years back, hoping to make gardening my hobby after Gunner left me.
I snuffed out that unpleasant memory with a quick gulp of tea and unlatched the broken gate. The white picket fence squaring off the patch of plowed land had fallen. Weeds had started to encroach upon the crusty soil. I squatted and picked at a flaky carrot leaf popping from the dirt that was still parched even after this morning’s downpour. It immediately crumbled in my hand.
I swatted a fly from my glass, picked up the hand rake, and started chipping away at the soil. It was a chunky, stubborn mess, sending rocks and dirt clods up into my face. The scorching sun beat down on my back. My tank top melted to my skin. I wiped my brow and moved my way through the uneven path of the garden. It felt cathartic getting to hack away at what was left of my pathetic patch. This whole damn case was a frustrating surprise. Nothing was adding up. First, there were a couple of dozen dead cows. On top of that, a dead boy. And then, like there wasn’t enough on the shit pile, Gunner seemed to believe that the outbreak of ketamine in this area was somehow linked back to drug dealers in Houston. I needed to get a handle on this case fast. I tossed the rack aside at the end of my battle with the garden. From the looks of it, I think the cracked dirt won. The rows were uneven and jagged, and I’d sort of uprooted the only vegetable that’d sprouted.
I smeared my dirty hands on my jeans and took a seat in a nearby lawn chair. The Mason jar dangled from my fingertips as the sunrays pierced through the tinted lenses of my sunglasses. I was just on the verge of dozing off when I heard the phone ring inside the house. I picked up the jar and headed for the porch. The screen door had just slammed shut behind me when my phone went off again. It was Dobbs.
“Laney, I need you out at Horseshoe Trailer Park,” Dobbs said huffily.
I groaned. “What’s it this time?” I asked.
“Skinny Picket’s barricaded himself inside his trailer,” Dobbs replied. “Can you be here in five?”
Well, knock me over with a feather. What luck. I wasn’t surprised by Skinny going all bat shit crazy and locking himself in his trailer. It was a weekly event in the Horseshoe Trailer Park, but I was surprised Dobbs had taken the call instead of sending Elroy to corral the mess. Maybe he’d stumbled across some new information. Maybe Skinny had slipped up and given us the lead we were all waiting for.
Hoping this wouldn’t be some crazy-ass, wild goose chase, I said “Sure,” and hung up.
I grabbed my keys and clipped my 9mm to the back of my jeans. The smooth, leather-covered clip rubbed the small of my back as I locked the door and headed out.
Chapter Five
Horseshoe Trailer Park was on the south side of town directly across from the railroad tracks. About half the residents of Pistol Rock called the park home. The trailers were dented up pieces of scrap metal purchased back in the sixties by a guy named Hunter Beard. He’d never been known to do much for the place expect tape up eviction notices when rent was a day late. Tattered clothes lines ran from one beat-up trailer to the next. Trash was piled underneath the big oak tree and the aboveground pool was a popular pissing spot for the boozers around the park.
I prayed Dobbs hadn’t alerted Gunner to the situation; I’d had more than enough of my hunky ex for one day. Avoiding any possibility for a stand-off with that ornery Texas Ranger, I by-passed the park’s entrance to buy myself more time, only coming to a dead end and having to circle back around. The metal gates flew by my windows as I cruised down the dirt path toward Skinny’s trailer, feeling slightly antsy. Sure enough, parked in the middle of the long dirt drive, the black Yukon blocked me from going any further.
Gunner leaned against the SUV’s bumper. I parked a short distance away and exited my vehicle, managing not to look back over my shoulder as his heated gaze followed me to where Dobbs was plunked down on a picnic table bench. Skinny had lived in this same white and blue trailer since birth and probably still slept on the same John Deere sheets he’d had back in grade school. The trailer he’d inherited when his mother passed was wedged between two tall mesquite trees. Skinny’s ’72 gold Ford Pinto was parked under the torn, black and white awning.
“So what’s the plan?” I asked, reaching Dobbs.
He turned around, wheezing from the heat, his khaki shirt stuck to his back. “I’m not sure. Skinny has dead-bolted the God damn door. Abby Sims, who lives two trailers down, called in the disorderly conduct. She’s worried sick Skinny is going to blow his doublewide sky high.” Dobbs waved over at Abby, whose nose was smashed against the storm door as she hip-cradled a baby. She frowned at the sheriff and slammed the door closed. “The fool’s been ranting and raving for the past half hour about how some ketamine dealers stole his stash of meth as punishment for not following along with their agreement.”
“I can see how that could be a problem.”
“Only if someone wants to get in, and I can’t think of anyone who would,” Gunner said, coming up behind me. When I ignored him, he shouldered past me. “Are you two just going to stand here all night?” he barked. “I don’t even know what we’re doing here, but let’s get to it.”
Dobbs sighed and pressed his palm to his head. “We could kick down the door.”
Gunner took a step forward. “Or we could just knock first and see what happens.”
I knew damn well that was directed primarily at Dobbs. Even when Gunner was wound up tighter than a car lot owner during a hail storm, he would never suggest that I step foot inside Skinny’s trailer. The place was known as being a stashing point for methamphetamine.
I pulled my revolver out and carefully placed my finger over the trigger.
Gunner shot his head around. “Laney, you stay back.”
I looked at him.
“I’m not asking,” he said.
“Are you telling me that’s an order?”
“Well, yeah,” he snapped, even though he wasn’t my superior and had no call to give me orders. Only Dobbs could do that.
“Dobbs?” I asked.
“Maybe Gunner’s right,” he said with a heavy sigh. “You never know what Skinny might do.”
“Damn the both of you,” I bit out, cutting Gun
ner a ‘go to hell’ look. I felt more like a disgruntled teenager than a deputy. I wasn’t even entirely sure why Dobbs had bothered calling me to come out if he wasn’t going to let me do the work I was paid to do.
I watched impatiently as Gunner squeezed himself behind a dead spider fern near the front door of Skinny’s trailer and kicked the tip of his cowboy boot against the bottom of the white screen door. “Texas Ranger,” he hollered.
I heard the screen door creak, then saw fingers wrapped around the edge.
“Where’s Laney?” Skinny’s nasally voice asked. “I’ll only talk to her.” He wiggled his finger at me.
Giving Gunner a ‘hey when you got it’ grin, I stood and slowly dusted off my jeans before heading to the trailer, swinging my hips the whole way. At the top step, I nudged Gunner out of the way as I took my place. He scowled at me. Winking at him, I leaned into the door and pressed my ear against the screen. “Skinny,” I yelled.
His paced across the trailer, the lock jolted, and I saw the door swing halfway open. Skinny was wearing a Guns-N-Roses T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and a pair of baggy, denim cut-off shorts swung against his knobby knees.
“Where’s the other guy?” he asked, darting his sunken eyes around the porch.
Gunner lifted a flat hand. “Right here,” he huffed, annoyed.
Giving Gunner a ‘watch me do my job’ smile, I stepped to the side of the screen, putting myself in front of Skinny, who smiled uneasily back at me. Then he reached out, took hold of my wrist, and pulled me inside. I could hear Gunner yelling as the door was slammed in his face.
The first thing I noticed was that the trailer smelled like dirty diapers, and I was pretty damn sure that Skinny didn’t have any children. Brown, worn carpet had been stapled to the floor, a rabbit-eared television was parked on top of a television tray, and Skinny’s plum recliner was covered in soda cracker crumbs. A tiny, narrow kitchen was to my left. Piles of food-crusted dishes spilled out of the sink. In the corner, his dining table was cluttered with an array of items: empty liter bottles of Pepsi attached to small, thin plastic tubes, dozens of pill boxes, and a gallon, blue water jug sitting on a stack of newspapers. When I caught the dense, putrid smell of ammonia, I knew I’d gotten myself into deep shit here. Apparently, Skinny had moved up the ladder of dope heads. He not only disturbed the meth, but he was also mixing up his own blend of the drug.