“I appreciate your talking with them. I’d like to see this resolved sooner rather than later. I have a whole lot of nervous competitors. I need to know they’re comfortable coming back next year. They need to know they’ll be safe.”
He didn’t intend to cause Keena the tension he saw in her expression but that was as honest as anything he could offer. Regardless of the outcome of the investigation. Regardless of who was arrested. What had happened needed resolution for all of them. The less than honest part was that Cade didn’t think the city police were going to be the ones to solve this case.
He glanced at the time as Keena dropped him off close to where she’d picked him up, relieved that they’d been gone barely an hour. Aleta would have called if anything ominous had happened in his absence but he was relieved to be back on the premises.
He collected Townsend from the show office and headed to the coliseum giving a brief thought to Trouble’s whereabouts but knowing the cat was independent and self-sufficient to say the least.
I DON’T THINK our time was entirely wasted in perusing the stock trailers. I also don’t necessarily think it garnered us any new information. It certainly gave me no opportunity to reveal the identity of the cowboy who sent Quinn Rivers to his death. Frustrating, that. I’m not certain and cannot prove that he damaged that bull rope but I’m convinced beyond reasonable doubt that he knew the damage existed and what the consequences could be.
To that end, I must gather up Mr. Silver Eyes and get him to the bucking chutes where we are most likely to encounter the miscreant. I’ve checked the show office and Townie is no longer ensconced there so I’ve no doubt they are on the grounds together someplace. I strongly suspect that he has sought the presence of Ms. Rodeo so, first stop, the barn area where she will be readying for tonight’s barrel race.
All things considered, I shall keep my senses on alert as I navigate that distance. So many occurrences in such short order make it imperative that I miss nothing, whether it seems of immediate interest or not.
The sport of rodeo does pull a crowd and generates an amazing sense of energy. Each day the spectator parking areas become more and more crowded as the day goes along. Morning is lightest in terms of spectators and interest but the crowd grows throughout the day and peaks each evening when the barrel racing and rough stock riding takes place.
I move lightly among the coming and going of spectators, young parents pushing strollers, children tugging at the hands of their parents, adults navigating the elderly in wheelchairs or walking slowly beside them as they maneuver their walkers. Rodeo, it seems, appeals to all ages. I find the sport of interest but am not overly fond of the clowns, outside their role in bullfighters. Their skill and courage astound me. Then, disappointingly, they descend into the ignoble depths of loud noises and inept comedy routines that – for some reason – delight the crowds.
Ms. Rodeo is exactly where I expected her to be, brushing a lovely blue roan to a high gloss. I am fond of the color of this one’s coat perhaps because it stands out in a world of bays and sorrels, rather like a black cat amongst the more mundane tabbies.
Joss is busy with scrubbing and filling water buckets, a never-ending chore it would seem.
I see no sign of my real target so I suppose he’s tied up in the running of things, a necessary but often thankless task.
Joss moves to stand in the open doorway, watching. “How do you ride this one?”
I would think that an odd question had I not become so conversant with barrel speak. Once, I would have answered in my head with some disdain that the horse would be ridden astride with saddle as they all are.
“Frisco runs to the left which is always tricky for me. I have to be careful that I don’t pull him off point. He’s also a push-style so I can’t sit too quick, not nearly as early as most of the others. If I do, he’ll slow too soon. If I ride him right, he’ll pull a check.” She stops grooming to look at Joss, giving her a smile. “If I don’t pull a check you can ask me what I did wrong.”
Joss smiles back. “I won’t have to.”
Her faith is complete. And understandable.
Soon, the roan is saddled and ready. Joss retrieves the requisite western hat from its hook in the stall they have set up as a temporary tack and feed room. It keeps everything they need close at hand for the care of the horses. Along we go to the warm-up pen, while I keep my eyes ‘peeled’ in private eye jargon for Mr. Silver Eyes. I do not understand my own rising tension. I have an increasing sense of foreboding as if time and opportunity were slipping away. Though it is unexplained, I have learned not to ignore those feelings. Something as yet unknown to my consciousness is unsettling me.
Time is of the essence and action must be taken. I will figure out the rest as I go. I always do.
I veer off from the ladies, more determined than ever to find Mr. Silver Eyes and give him the information he needs, the information he asked of me.
CADE WAS DETERMINED to be waiting when Malone left the arena this time and he’d be damned if he’d yield one inch to LaMonte. He almost hoped the other guy would dare just so he could plant him one. And wouldn’t that be the icing on the cake for a man who was supposed to be an example for his members. A good example.
Hell. He was losing it. He made a brief stop at the concession stand where he was handed a bottle of chilled water and his money was declined because he was recognized. Oh, yeah, it’d be real wise of him to get into a fistfight with LaMonte.
Just as he’d decided to take a seat in the stands for a few minutes, he saw Trouble prowling the broad, crowd-thronged hallway. He stopped to see which way the cat was headed when Trouble turned and looked him in the eyes. Without hesitation, the cat wove his way through the cowboy boots and sneakers around him never taking his eyes off Cade.
When Trouble reached Cade, he didn’t stop but continued on, glancing back once to be sure Cade followed. Cade did.
Trouble led him without hesitation to the bucking chutes where the first bronc rider was limping in painful victory from the arena. He’d made his ride, now he’d be praying his points would be worth the pain of the landing. Cade heard the announcer call his score as he rounded the corner. It was a good one. He felt certain the cowboy had heard as well, judging by the grin on his face.
Cade felt a sense of urgency to complete whatever Trouble’s mission might be and make his way to the other end of the arena before Malone’s run.
While the bronc riders were competing for their moment of glory, the bull riders were warming up with stretches and making last minute checks on their equipment. Only the barrel racers stood between them and their event. Nerves were heightened. He heard it in the ribbing each gave the other, saw it in the taut expressions on their faces, in the knee bends and elbow pulls against pipe railing around the livestock enclosures as they tried to work the tension from their muscles.
He followed in Trouble’s wake, the black cat casting glances his way from time to time to ensure obedience. Cade felt a grim sort of amusement at his situation. Amusement faded as he realized who the cat had lined up in his sight.
The cowboy stood propped against the fence, his back to Cade, his bull rope slung over one shoulder, the bell hanging low. If Dawson saw the cat, he gave no evidence of it, even when Trouble moved close enough to touch him. Trouble sat on his haunches and turned one last glance toward Cade before he pushed upward and touched the dangling bell lightly with extended claw.
Something, some subtle movement of the rope, the tiny swing of the bell, or the light sound of it caught Dawson’s attention, pulling it away from conversation with fellow competitors and the tension of knowing his ride was sheer minutes away. He glanced down at the cat and pushed him away.
Cade felt gut-punched as he watched the swing of the bell slowly subside. There were a multitude of things he would have liked to do in that moment. He did none of them.
Dawson turned and his glance met Cade’s briefly before he gave an offhand nod and looked back tow
ard the activity in the arena.
Cade had knowledge. He was certain of it. But he had no proof. Without proof, he had no clear path forward. But, with fury rising from the pit of his stomach, he knew he would find it. As much as he wished for action, there was nothing to be done here or now. He couldn’t afford to show his hand and put Dawson on the run.
Meeting Trouble’s gaze, Cade turned back the way he had come. Halfway around, he heard Malone’s name over the loudspeaker and cursed. He’d missed her run. Again.
I FEAR my human was less observant in the moment just passed than I could wish. I’m almost positive he failed to see the look of fury I received at bringing attention to our cowboy. How he shielded that fury in the look he gave his rodeo director. Not that Dawson White by any means comprehends that my paw on that small brass bell was a well-planned signal, an actual ID of the guilty. Nor would he believe it, if I were able to gloat to him over the fact at any point.
But when humans are guilty they are suspicious of everything. Dawson is now suspicious of Mr. Silver Eyes, wondering why he was there, why he was watching. This exchange, however well intended, may have put my human partner at risk.
After all, two are dead. What is one more to a murderer? Or murderers? Something about his exchange with Quinn, seconds before the bull rider’s death, makes me doubt he is guilty of breaking Roland Walker’s neck. At least not hands on … and certainly no pun is intended.
I decide it is in the best interest of the case to see where Dawson goes after his ride. And who he talks with.
Uh-oh, I have company. Why is Tyge following us? Well, perhaps not us. I don’t think he has noticed me. But he is without doubt on Dawson’s tail. I don’t need this complication. Tyge could gum up the works. I haven’t completely dissected his role in all of this but I suspect that – for reasons of his own – he is skirting a line between the master villain and the law. And a fine, thin line it is.
I fall behind him to ensure I remain undetected. Unexpectedly, Tyge veers away. I look up to see what has alarmed him but there’s nothing save the typical bunch of cowboys before us. Dawson wades into their midst with the jovial tossing of insults toward the other rough stock riders. That repartee I’ve recognized as a bit of stock-in-trade for their sport.
After a moment, Dawson maneuvers his way through the cowboys and continues on which is a bit of a relief to me. I apply myself faithfully to my craft but it is late and I’m as tired as I am hungry. Well, perhaps not quite as tired but close. I endure much for my profession.
Ah, a familiar pair, Dawson greets young Luke and his father who are walking slowly and seeming lost in talk. I think they fared well in this morning’s team-roping competition. Likely they are dissecting what they did right and what could be improved. I have learned this rehashing is a common practice among competitors. Regardless, it is heartening to see a father and son so close. I was more fortunate than some that my sire took a real interest in my formative years. His mentoring has played no small part in my success. A certain amount of talent can be passed through the genes but my father imparted his knowledge to me as well his aptitude. I am forever grateful for the time he took to do that.
I anticipate Dawson will pass them by on whatever mission draws him. Unexpectedly, he slows his step and falls into conversation with the father-son team. They draw near the Roberts’ trailer and Luke gives his dad a nod and goes inside. I'm fascinated by this nomadic lifestyle of rodeo competitors. I can’t help but wonder which feels more like a home, these trailers with minute quarters in which they live and travel for weeks, even months on end, or the houses to which they return.
To my surprise, Frank and Dawson prop against the rear bumper of a truck pulled close to the trailer, as if settling in for a bit of conversation. Feeling more comfortable now that I am amongst friends, so to speak, I leap lightly to the hood of the truck then on to the cab. Dawson pays me no mind. Frank casts a curious glance my way before losing interest as I curl into a ball. As I am determined to wait this out until Dawson continues on his way, I may as well take the opportunity to rest a bit.
I am quickly disabused of that notion as Frank glances towards the closed door of the trailer before turning a hard look toward Dawson. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice is low but as unwelcoming as his expression.
So much for a friendly chat.
“You worried because your precious son knows we’re out here talking?”
“Shut the hell up.” Mr. Roberts no longer looks merely irritated. He is furious. I also detect a bit of apprehension. And so much for my good opinion of him. Something is definitely awry.
“I’ll shut up. When I’m ready. You owe me. You owe me a hell of a lot more than you know. But, see, the problem for you is I don’t trust you. Roland did. Quinn did. I don’t. You need to know that I don’t. And, you need to know I’ve taken out some insurance just in case something happens to me.”
“Somebody got overzealous with Roland Walker, I’ll admit, but I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about with Rivers.” And there’s the confession. At least one. I will admit to being stunned and a bit sickened. This is the father figure I so recently admired?
“Don’t you?” Dawson’s voice is quiet and menacing. “I did what I had to do but I blame you. Never forget that.”
Clearly the underling believes himself to have the upper hand. And perhaps he does, as even my villain pales at his blatant admission of murder.
“You need to get out of here and if you’re smart, you’ll disappear for a good long time.”
“No can do.” Dawson’s expression is almost taunting. “I’m leading the circuit right now. Lot of money riding on that – more than what you’ve paid me the past six months – and I ain’t walking away from it. I’m here to let you know that it’s best you make sure I come out of all this safe and sound. It won’t go well for you – or your son – if I don’t.”
Uh-oh, Frank Roberts’ complexion has gone flushed rather than ashen. He looks much closer to stroke-city as the younger set of humans might say. “Shut your damn mouth about Luke. He has nothing to do with any of this.”
“Well, the way I have it set up in my insurance policy, it sure looks like he does. Remember, if I die or go to jail, you go down, and him with you.”
Dawson pushes away from his comfortable prop against the tailgate of the truck but he has one last thing to say. “And that girl Luke’s so sweet on?” I tense at the words. What has this to do with our Joss? “The one that caught Roland’s attention? He wasn’t fooling around and let it get out of hand. He said there was something familiar about her, something that made him nervous. He wanted a better look at her. Didn’t that last load of girls get away from your drivers at the Lake Charles rodeo? I happen to know that Malone Summers was running that weekend.”
Frank is now as taut as I. He stares at Dawson’s retreating back as if he’d like to place a sharp blade between those shoulders. I suspect he would if he had a weapon in hand and if he were not now frightened of whatever Dawson has put in place as insurance for his own safety.
But I care nothing for the fate of Frank Roberts at the hands of Dawson. I must protect those in my care. My mind is racing as to how I can impart this momentous new knowledge to Mr. Silver Eyes in order to enlist his aid. I rise slowly and stretch as nonchalantly as I am able in my highly alarmed frame of mind. Frank has turned and is staring toward the trailer where his son rests, his expression a mix of fear and frustration. I am feeling something of the same.
His steps are heavy as he goes inside and I am free to leap down and hurry along the railing of the bed of the truck. As I prepare to leap again, to the pavement below, something catches my attention. There, in the bed of the truck, a spur, unbuckled and discarded. A single spur with an inlay of black filigree. And there I have it. The means with which to persuade Mr. Silver Eyes that a man he has likely known for half a lifetime is not worthy of his high regard. Such losses are regrettable but unavoidable.
I have no time to waste on lamenting the fact. Joss, and Ms. Rodeo by association, are now in great danger.
I turn to go and am startled by the realization that Tyge has reappeared. He’s in the shadows but clearly visible due to my superior vision. He is certainly within hearing distance of the exchange between Frank and Dawson. Alas I cannot wait to see what he may or may not do with his knowledge. I leave him staring at the door of the Roberts’ trailer in my haste to find Mr. Silver Eyes.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
M alone was more than pleased with her run and Joss was almost vibrating with excitement when she met her in the paddock outside of the arena.
“Oh my gosh, that was awesome. You were flying!”
Malone grinned as she leaned against the gelding’s neck, breathing in the warm clean scent of horse and victory. “Frisco did his job and he did it well.”
As they made their way back to the barn, Malone’s mind slid from her success in the arena to the stress that lay ahead. She pondered how to broach the subject with Joss who, as usual, gave her an easy opening.
“What’s wrong? You quit smiling.”
“Honestly, nothing, but we do need to talk.”
Joss gave a snort of laughter. “I’ve heard that’s the kiss of death to a relationship.”
Malone smiled. “Only in the movies or romantic novels. Ours is solid. I’ve got your back, Joss, I promise.” Despite the fact that Joss had expressed a desire to protect other girls from her foster home experience, Malone was worried. Would she panic at the thought of talking with an officer of the law? Decide to run? The mere possibility sent a crushing weight through Malone.
“Now you’re really worrying me.”
“You worry me all the time.” Malone gave her a hug and was pleased when Joss didn’t stiffen on her. “You said you wanted to do something about your foster parents. Do you still?”
“Almost more than anything,” Joss said fiercely.
Turning for Trouble: Book 7 of Cat Detective Familiar Legacy mystery series Page 18