by Lisa Jackson
His smile was as bright as a dying twenty-five-watt lightbulb. “Fair enough, Shelby. You’re in.”
“Thank you,” she said without a trace of sincerity. She dropped the brush onto the bureau, straightened her dress and hoped he couldn’t tell that a part of her—the cowardly part she’d always fought and tamped down—was suggesting she run like hell. She’d never liked Shep Marson, didn’t want to deal with him now, but she had to do this if she intended to find Elizabeth, and above all else, Shelby was determined to locate her child.
Within ten minutes, headlights flashed through the trees and Crockett began barking, only to be cut off with a sharp word from Nevada as he and Shelby emerged from the house.
Shep hauled his body out of his pickup, and Shelby let out her breath, relieved that he hadn’t arrived in his cruiser. He wasn’t even in uniform, but as he reached the weak illumination thrown by a single bulb on the porch, she noticed his expression was set, his eyes deep in the sockets of his fleshy face. A moustache covered his upper lip, and as his eyes met Shelby’s the muscles near the corners of his mouth pulled tight.
“ ’Evenin’,” he drawled, tipping his head, a wad of chaw bulging in his cheek. “Shelby, I heard you were back in town. What’s it been now? ’Bout a week?” His eyes dragged over her and her wrinkled dress. Nevada hadn’t bothered tucking in his shirt and his feet were bare, but if Shep noticed, he had the decency not to comment.
“Not quite a week,” she hedged, her nerves on edge. She’d never trusted Shep and wasn’t going to start tonight on this dusty porch.
“You staying with your pa, the way I heard it.”
“That’s right.”
“What’s this about Caleb?” Nevada cut in. He was standing next to Shelby, his arm nearly touching hers, but not quite. He was tense, like a boxer ready to deflect the first blow.
“Found dead by an orderly. Half an hour before, he’d been drinkin’ juice and braggin’ to one of the nurses that he was gonna leave this earth a rich man. Then all of a sudden, he’s gone. Looks like someone might have helped him get to those Pearly Gates he’s been findin’ so fascinatin’ lately.”
“But he was already dying,” Nevada pointed out. “Why would anyone bother?”
“Good question. One I’m workin’ on. Caleb, he had a lot more enemies than friends.”
“Why do you think he just didn’t die?” Shelby asked.
“The doctors, they’re the ones who were surprised it hit so sudden-like. They thought he’d have a few more weeks. But we’ll see. Maybe this is all fer nothin’. Maybe Caleb did just give up the ghost, but until we know that fer sure, we’re checking his IV for any traces of somethin’ that shouldn’ta been there, doin’ an autopsy, checkin’ the hospital records to see who’d come to see him this afternoon. But you know how it is up ta Coopersville, security at the hospital is kinda lax.” He hitched his pants up a bit, then spat a stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth and over the rail of the porch at a dried bush..
“What’s the motive?” Nevada asked.
“Who knows? Maybe someone didn’t like the fact that ol’ Caleb was talkin’ too much.” Shep pinned Nevada with humorless eyes. “Someone pr’bly didn’t like it much that he was singin’ like a birdie to that reporter woman.”
“Who?” Nevada asked.
“Well, that’s what I was hopin’ you might tell me. McCallum, he’s already free; if it weren’t for ol’ Caleb recantin’ his story, Ross would still be doin’ time, so it don’t seem he would be likely to kill our boy. Caleb didn’t have any family aside from that daughter of his, and we already checked. Celeste hasn’t left El Paso for over a month.” He bent down and scratched Crockett behind an ear before straightening again. “So we’ve been checkin’ all the people who’ve visited Caleb in the last week or two. Your name came up.” His gaze was uncompromising as he stared at Nevada.
“I saw him at the hospital.”
“Why?”
“Just wondered why he changed his story,” Nevada said, every muscle in his body taut. “Turns out it was all for a buck. So he could die and leave his daughter with a sizable inheritance.” He glared at Shep. “Is your stopping by an official visit?”
“Hell, no. Just two ol’ boys who used to work together talkin’, that’s all,” Shep said, lies slipping past his teeth as easily as a cottonmouth gliding through a swamp. Shelby didn’t believe him for a moment. “I’m just wonderin’ who would want to do the old boy in.”
“I’m still bettin’ on McCallum.”
“But then, you’re kind of a one-note song now, ain’t cha?” Shep spat again, then curled his lower lip down thoughtfully. “As I just said, the way I see it, Ross should be kissin’ the ground Caleb walked on. Without Swaggert’s new-found piety, he would never have cleansed his soul and set the record straight. Ross would still be up ta the big house.”
“But Caleb’s testimony sent him there in the first place.”
“With more than a little nudge from you.” Shep’s eyes gleamed, two pinpricks of light that seemed almost evil in his big face. “Now if you remember anything else that might help out, you give me a call.” He tipped his head toward Shelby. “Always a pleasure, Shelby. Give the Judge my best.” With that, he swaggered off the porch.
He climbed into his pickup and fired the engine. The smells of dust and exhaust mingled in the air as Shep drove off, putting the old truck through its gears. From nearby a horse neighed, then quieted.
“He thinks you killed Caleb,” Shelby said as the night grew still.
“Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know, but Shep seems convinced.”
“He’s grasping at straws.” Nevada turned toward the house. “Come on in, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“I think I’d better go,” she said, shaking her head. This night had already been too emotional, and she needed to put some distance between Nevada and herself, needed some time to clear her head.
“You could stay.”
His words seemed to hang on the air, suspended by invisible cords. “I—I don’t think so.” Oh, God, it was tempting. To lie in Nevada’s strong arms, make love to him again, wake up sated in the morning with sunlight playing upon his face and bare skin. Her throat turned to sand.
“I don’t bite.”
“Sure you do,” she teased, arching an eyebrow. “I remember.”
“You’re wicked, darlin’.”
“Am I?”
So swiftly that she couldn’t step back, he grabbed her with those damnably strong arms and pulled her hard against him. “Decidedly so.” His fingers dug into the muscles of her forearms, and his lips crashed down on hers. Hard. Hot. Promising passion. She closed her eyes, and for a moment her bones melted. “Decidedly so,” he repeated, lifting his head, his eyes as dark as the night.
“I—I’ll take a rain check.”
One side of his mouth lifted into that crooked, cocky grin she remembered from her youth. “I’ll hold you to it.” And then he released her. She nearly stumbled backward, but somehow grabbed her things and made it to her car. She drove by rote, seeing his profile in her rearview mirror, his feet wide apart, his shirttails flapping in a small breath of wind, his profile all male.
Dear Lord, what was she getting herself into? She was losing her sense of purpose, letting herself fall in love with him all over—no! Her fingers suddenly gripped the wheel so hard they ached. She wasn’t falling in love with him. That was a ludicrous notion. She got caught up in the moment, that was all. Emotion overran common sense, and she ended up in bed with him. What they did hardly constituted love. So he’d brought her to orgasm. So he’d held her. So he’d told her everything would be all right. So what? It wasn’t the first time those things had happened in this universe.
No, but it’s the first time they happened to you!
She set her jaw and reminded herself that it couldn’t happen again. She couldn’t be derailed. Her purpose was simple—to find Elizabeth.
/> Come hell or high water.
She drove toward Bad Luck and noticed headlights in her rearview mirror, twin beams that, no matter if she stepped on the accelerator or eased onto the brake, stayed the same safe distance behind.
“You’re imagining things,” she told herself and tried to remember when she’d first noticed that she was being followed. Was it just after she’d turned on to the road from Nevada’s lane, or had it been later, a rig that had been waiting at one of the forks in the road? “It’s nothing,” she said out loud but kept her eyes glued to the mirror.
As she slowed to the speed limit as she approached Bad Luck, she expected the car behind to catch up to her. Instead, before the streetlights could illuminate the make or model, it turned off, probably headed to the driver’s intended destination.
“Stop it,” Shelby growled at herself. She wasn’t usually so edgy, didn’t take much stock in any kind of cloak-and-dagger stuff.
She was just too wound up because of being with Nevada and Caleb’s death and her fruitless search for Elizabeth. She needed another course of action, another avenue to explore. Inside the city limits, she surveyed the dusty little town where she’d grown up—a town filled with secrets and lies, a tightly knit community of friends and enemies. She drove past the pharmacy and the feed store, then took a right to cruise past Estevan’s market, still open, Spanish music wafting into the street. Vianca strolled out the door, lit a cigarette and cocked one knee, leaning like a stork against the plate-glass windows. She drew on her cigarette, flicked her ash and watched sullenly as Shelby drove by.
All in all, the Estevans’ store had changed little in the ten years since Ram6n Estevan was killed, and Shelby tried to imagine what had happened ten years ago.
From what she understood, Ram6n had been working alone that night, waiting for his son, Roberto, to relieve him. Vianca had worked earlier in the evening, then gone home to see to her mother, but had returned just before Roberto was due to arrive. She had spoken with her father; then, before Roberto drove up, Ramón had walked into the back storeroom to smoke a cigarette and wasn’t seen again until nearly three hours later. His body had been found in the dumpster behind Walt Sawyer’s mechanic’s shop in an alley a quarter of a mile away. A .38-caliber bullet was lodged deep in Ram6n’s brain. The murder weapon had never been recovered.
According to the Judge, who had told Shelby what had happened, dozens of suspects and witnesses had been questioned about the murder. Ramón, though successful and a very visible Hispanic, wasn’t popular with everyone. Rumored to be so tight he squeaked, he made as many enemies as friends and was said to have had a nasty temper. Few people dared cross Ramón. Some of the Anglos in town thought him “uppity” and didn’t like the fact that he and his family worked all hours and prospered when many of them, less industrious than the Estevans, had languished. Ramón Estevan’s success had caused more than one case of envy.
Ross McCallum had been vocal in his dislike of the “snotty-nosed Beaner.” Badger Collins had broken out one of the store’s windows years before, and Nell Hart, a waitress in the local diner, had been run out of town for seeing Ramón on the sly. It hadn’t been because Ramón was married that Nell was shunned; it was because he was Mexican-American.
Shame, shame, white girl!
Prejudice oftentimes seemed to seep into the water system in Bad Luck. Even Shelby’s father, the Judge, a man who was supposed to mete out justice fairly to each citizen regardless of race, color or creed, had disapproved of Nell’s behavior.
That had been years ago, of course, when Shelby was a young girl, before her mother had died. Attitudes had softened somewhat since then. But, even now, just beneath the surface of civility, simmering under a facade of political correctness, old grudges and intolerance still existed in this small town. Bigotry didn’t die overnight
At the next stop, she turned right and wheeled past the hardware store and an electrician’s office only to ease off the gas pedal as she reached a quaint, two-storied structure on Liberty Street. As old as Bad Luck itself, the building housed her father’s suite of offices. She pulled into the vacant parking lot, letting the Cadillac’s engine idle near the back door, and wondered what secrets the ancient structure held. Suspecting she wouldn’t be so lucky as to gain entrance, she climbed out of her car anyway and checked both the front and back door. Each was locked firmly, and there were small stickers in the windows warning anyone eager enough to break in that the building was protected by a security company. Shelby would have to wait.
But she wasn’t ready to give up. Not yet. She drove to the Estevans’ market as it was the only store open, walked inside and paid for a cup of self-serve coffee. Vianca was behind the cash register.
“Anything else?” she asked without much inflection. Red lips pulled tight over her teeth, and if looks could kill, Shelby would already be coffin-bound. Vianca handed Shelby a paper coffee cup.
“This’ll do ... no, wait.” It had been hours since she’d eaten, and Shelby had been so keyed up she hadn’t noticed that she was hungry, but now her stomach rumbled and she couldn’t resist the candy display. She grabbed a bag of peanut M&Ms. “Add these in.”
“Sí.” Vianca rang up the items, her perfectly manicured nails moving swiftly over the keys while her expressive eyes avoided Shelby’s. “One eighty-nine,” she said.
Shelby handed her a five-dollar bill, waited for her change and walked to the counter where three chrome coffeepots marked with differing blends sat. She poured decaf into her cup and split open a packet of powdered creamer. The door opened again but Shelby, stirring her coffee, barely noticed.
She lifted the cup to her lips, tasted the hot brew and wondered how she was going to get into her father’s office. She could try to break in, or steal his keys, or pay him a visit and then hide in the restroom or—
“You’re Shelby Cole!”
Shelby jumped at the sound of the woman’s voice. Hot coffee slopped over the rim of her cup, burning her fingers as she looked up and stared into the eyes of a petite woman she didn’t recognize.
“Katrina Nedelesky,” the woman said, extending her hand.
“The reporter.”
“Right. Lone Star magazine.” She took Shelby’s palm in small, strong fingers and gave it a quick, perfunctory shake.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
Shelby glanced up to the curved mirrors mounted near the ceiling. In the distorted reflection she saw Vianca watching from the cash register. “About what?”
“Everything. You’ve probably heard that I was doing an exclusive with Caleb Swaggert, but he died this afternoon.”
Shelby stared into the woman’s blue eyes. Though she’d never seen her before, there was something about Katrina that was familiar, and a long-buried memory threatened to surface, but, like her own image in the security mirror, it was misshapen and just out of reach. “I don’t know how I could help,” Shelby said, feeling the weight of Vianca’s gaze upon her back.
As if Katrina finally got the message that this wasn’t the place to discuss the Estevan murder, she said, “I’ll call you. You’re living with your father, aren’t you?”
“For the time being.”
“How long will that be?”
“I’m not really sure.” She took another sip of coffee and felt beads of sweat gather on her scalp.
“Then I’ll give you a call.”
The door banged open and Roberto, Vianca’s brother, stormed in. He was rattling off Spanish so quickly that Shelby couldn’t understand more than a few words, but his face was red, his hands shaking as he shoved them through his hair, and the one word that kept cropping up was madre. Shelby couldn’t make out much of the conversation, but the names McCallum and Swaggert were hard to misinterpret. At one point Roberto said something about a cabrón, but Vianca cut him off and sent a harsh glance Shelby’s way. Roberto didn’t take the hint and railed on in Spanish, the names Swaggert, Smith and McCallum punctuated by curses. Vianca
’s face drained of color. She began speaking wildly, slung the strap of a beaded leather bag over her shoulder and flew out the front door. Roberto was still muttering in short bursts of angry Spanish.
Katrina watched the drama with elevated eyebrows. “I wonder what all that was about,” she said, following Vianca’s hasty exit with her interested gaze.
Through the smudged glass, Shelby saw Vianca slide into the interior of her El Camino and tear out of the parking lot. “I couldn’t hazard a guess.”
“I bet I could. Isn’t her mother kind of ... well, to put it kindly, a little off?”
“As in off her rocker.”
“Exactly.”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Well, I’ve been talking to quite a few people here in Bad Luck. The word is that Aloise—that’s her name, right? The mother’s name?”
“I think so.”
“That she’s a few cards short of a full deck.”
“As I said, I don’t know the Estevans,” Shelby replied, and again Katrina focused those hard blue orbs on her. “So, how about tomorrow?” Katrina asked. “I could meet you in the early afternoon.”
“I really don’t think there’s anything I can tell you.”
Katrina smiled. “You might be surprised,” she said with a mirthless gleam in her eye—as if she was hinting that she knew something Shelby didn’t, something important. “See you then.”
“Call first.”
“Oh, I will.” Katrina turned and walked to the counter while Shelby tried to shake the feeling that the reporter was just plain bad news.
The Estevan house was in an uproar. An ambulance, lights strobing the night, was parked haphazardly on the street, a police car idling nearby, one officer on the radio, the other, presumably, in the house.