Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery)

by Hamrick, Janice

  A lion? Something seemed wrong about that, but I shelved it for later.

  “But why now?” I asked. “Did something specific happen?”

  Billy shrugged. “Him and Carl had a fight. Well, you saw.”

  “He didn’t say what it was about?” I pressed.

  Billy’s eyes shifted. “How the hell should I know? Why don’t you ask Carl?”

  I stared at him. For one thing, he was lying. He knew exactly what Eddy and Carl had fought about. For another, apparently the Crannys weren’t on the main branch of the Sand Creek grapevine. Kyla opened her mouth to correct this gap in Billy’s education, but I gripped her arm hard enough to make her squeak. It was not a subtle move, but then Billy was in the process of hawking up a ball of phlegm and didn’t seem to notice.

  He spit, watched the arc of the loogie until it pinged against an empty beer can, then wiped the backsplash from his lips with his hand. The same hand he’d used to shake mine. I suppressed the urge to rub my fingers vigorously against Kyla’s jacket.

  “Are you thinking you might step in for Eddy and start working for Carl?” I asked.

  “Don’t see why not. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “Aren’t you worried that Carl might have had something to do with Eddy’s death?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Yeah. I’m sure Eddy thought that, too.”

  He was scornful now. “Eddy was in over his head. I won’t be.”

  “And Carl? Was he in over his head, too?”

  Billy did not understand this, but was not the type to admit it. “We’re done here.” He took a menacing step toward us.

  Well, sort of menacing. Kyla and I both topped him by a couple of inches, and I was pretty sure my left thigh weighed more than he did. Still, I hardly wanted to engage in a backyard brawl with the scrawny brother of my dead cousin-in-law.

  “Fine,” I said, then turned to Kyla who was already in her fight stance. “You have something to write on? I want to give him my phone number.”

  She threw me a disapproving look but began digging in her purse. Billy unpuffed himself, looking at the two of us with some perplexity. It probably wasn’t often that his imitation of a crazed terrier didn’t produce instant results.

  “Carl Cress is dead. Shot in the throat,” I said as bluntly as I could.

  “What?” he said, his voice squeaking a little.

  I was watching him closely, and I was convinced that he hadn’t known. But his shocked expression was swiftly followed by something else, something I couldn’t quite identify. Whatever it was, he controlled himself and met my eyes defiantly.

  I knew I’d lost. “You still won’t tell me what he and Eddy fought about? Fine. Here’s my phone number if you change your mind. Or you can call the police. But not Sheriff Bob,” I added. “Call the county.”

  He reluctantly took the crumpled receipt on which Kyla had scrawled my name and phone number, and we returned to my car. He was still standing motionless where we left him as I reversed and drove away.

  “I don’t like how that turned out,” I said. “He was planning something, and probably something not smart.”

  “Gee, there’s a shocker. Billy ‘the Drooling Idiot’ Cranny doing something stupid? What a complete waste of time.”

  “Not quite,” I answered. “We learned a couple of things. Eddy was planning to leave town because he was scared. That tells us he was involved in something pretty bad and almost certainly illegal.”

  “And he was working for Carl Cress,” Kyla agreed. “You think Carl killed him?”

  “I did until Carl turned up dead,” I said.

  “Maybe he killed himself out of remorse or because he figured he’d be caught,” she suggested.

  “I keep telling you, I don’t think he killed himself.”

  “So there’s someone else involved. Someone who wanted both Eddy and Carl dead? Besides every right-thinking person who ever met either of them, who do you have in mind?”

  I didn’t answer. I was replaying our conversation with Billy over in my head. I had the feeling that he’d said something important, but I just couldn’t quite grasp the fleeting thought.

  She continued, “Sheriff Bob thinks it’s Kel, with or without Uncle Herman’s support. I suppose you don’t agree.”

  “No. But what about Sheriff Bob?”

  “What about him?”

  “No, I mean what about Sheriff Bob as the killer?”

  She turned in her seat to stare at me. “Sheriff Bob. The Sheriff Bob who drives the lead tractor in the Miss Sand Creek pageant parade on the Fourth of July? The Sheriff Bob who sits in the dunking booth at the carnival? The Sheriff Bob who puts on a Santa suit and lets the kids climb all over him at the Lion’s Club Christmas pancake breakfast? That Sheriff Bob?”

  “For someone who hasn’t been out here in years, you sure know a lot about Sheriff Bob.”

  She sniffed. “We both visited often enough when we were kids. And don’t change the subject.”

  I sighed. “Fine. But think about it. He hasn’t been exactly on top of things, has he? He didn’t want to look for Ruby June. He hasn’t been out to talk with Billy. He told Aunt Elaine that Colin was going to Austin, even though he knew otherwise.”

  “He says he didn’t tell Elaine that. And the other stuff? This is a man who spends most of his time dealing with cows breaking their fences and wandering onto the highway. He’s not exactly Sherlock Holmes, now is he?”

  “Maybe not, but he’s hardly Inspector Clouseau, either,” I said. For all his good-natured community participation, Bob had always struck me as being both bright and dedicated.

  “I’m sure he’s fine with what he usually has to do. But let’s face it, there hasn’t been a murder out here in this century. And being out of his depth hardly makes him a suspect.”

  “Why are you defending him?” I asked.

  “I’m not. He might be the killer for all I know. I just think your reasoning is flawed.”

  She was right, of course. I had a handful of dubious facts and a bad feeling in my gut. Not enough to stand up in a court of law, but then again, I wasn’t in court. And no matter what Kyla said, something was not adding up when it came to Sheriff Bob.

  Kyla said, “I didn’t know you supported the death penalty. Or was that just talk for Billy’s sake?”

  “I go back and forth. Life in prison means getting beaten by the other inmates on a regular basis, which I’m all for. But then I figure that some of that time they aren’t being beaten and they might even be happy, so then I lean toward the death penalty. It’s a hard call.”

  She stared. “You have thought about this way too much.”

  I shrugged. She might be right. But on the other hand her best friend had not been murdered.

  We drove another few miles in silence, and we were just turning onto the road that led to the ranch when a thought occurred to me.

  “Do you think T.J. is still having his barbecue?”

  “Um … no. He doesn’t have a lot to celebrate, now does he?” Kyla said. She had pulled a nail file from her purse and was busy rasping away at one of her nails.

  “He said rain or shine, win or lose.”

  “Yes, but that was before his jockey got shot. Why do you care anyway?”

  “I think we should go.”

  She stopped filing. “Are you kidding me? After he accused Kel of attempted murder? After he’s been hiding Ruby June?”

  “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  I shrugged. “We were invited. I’d like to find out what kind of work Eddy and Carl were doing for him. Besides, he might know something about Carl’s other activities, and if he doesn’t, then maybe one of his people does.”

  “Even if he does, do you really think he’s going to tell us?”

  “No, but I think he might tell you.” I grinned at her. “I think he’d tell you anything you asked.”

  She glanced down at her pink cardigan wit
h its frills and pintucks. “Hmm.”

  “Don’t you want to see him again? You were pretty interested this morning.”

  “Yeah, but I told you—I didn’t like the way he tried to blame the whole racecourse shooting on Kel.”

  “No, that wasn’t very smart if he was trying to impress you. On the other hand, he was upset. Did you get the feeling that an awful lot of money was on the line?”

  “Now that you mention it, yes.” She frowned. “I wonder what happened with the bets.”

  I hadn’t thought about that. “Surely the race was declared null and void or … well, whatever you declare a race. They won’t be able to award the prizes would they?”

  She shrugged. “Uncle Herman’s horse crossed the finish line. I have no idea what they’ll do. But that’s something else we could ask T.J.”

  I turned the car between two massive stone pillars that marked the entrance to T.J.’s ranch. The wrought-iron gate stood wide open, topped with two distinctive Ks under a single bar, and someone had tied a bouquet of red balloons to the bar.

  “Looks like the party is still on.”

  Kyla didn’t answer, and I felt a pang of remorse. “Look, if you don’t want to see him again, I can take you back.”

  “And come back by yourself? No, that’s silly. I went on one date with him, and it was fun. There’s no reason not to go to his party. Besides, I have to admit I’m curious to see his place.”

  I drove on. The road, though paved with caliche and gravel like most roads in the area, was in excellent condition and had been newly graded. Unlike most roads in the area that connected point A to point B in the most efficient way possible, this one meandered through thick groves of trees and around rocky outcroppings covered with prickly pear and yucca and across the dry rocky bed of a creek as though it had all the time in the world. Around another gentle curve, the trees suddenly opened to reveal a sweep of lawn and a ranch house that in any other location I might have referred to as a manor. Built in the style of a Spanish hacienda, the sprawling home was all white stone and stucco beneath a red tile roof. In the gray light of this fading November day, golden light spilled from arched windows onto stone walkways and landscaped beds of yucca, ocotillo, and agave. Half a dozen vehicles lined the curved drive, including a big SUV, a couple of extended-cab pickups, one black Mercedes, and a glossy yellow Hummer that reminded me of a bumblebee.

  I parked beside the Mercedes, and we got out.

  Kyla looked around. “This is impressive.”

  “And new. T.J. must have built all this himself. Those gates are just the tip of the iceberg.”

  “Guess the exotic hunting business is better than we thought.”

  Perhaps. I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much all these improvements must have cost, but that didn’t mean they were paid for. Living beyond your means wasn’t something I usually associated with Sand Creek, but it was common enough in Austin. More than one of my students had left school in the middle of the year, family split by debt and foreclosure. I thought again of T.J.’s anxiety at the races and wondered if he was trying to pay for his lifestyle by gambling. Not a financial strategy I could endorse.

  The carved wooden front door flew open as we approached, and T.J. stood bathed in the warm light. He wore jeans and a freshly pressed white shirt, cowboy boots, and a tooled belt that somehow on him looked just right. His eyes lit up at the sight of Kyla.

  “You came! I didn’t think you would,” he said, his pleasure obvious.

  She looked up at him through her long lashes. “Is the party still on?”

  “Of course! I told you, rain or shine, win or lose. I’m so glad you’re here. Come in!” He followed her with his eyes as she passed him, then belatedly noticed me. “And Jocelyn.”

  “Hi T.J. Thank you for inviting us,” I said, suppressing a grin. Give him credit, he made an effort to appear pleased to see me. I figured this must be what it felt like to be a celebrity’s assistant … or pet monkey.

  “Come in and meet everyone,” he said, closing the door and leading the way down a short, tiled hall.

  I had the brief impression of cool Saltillo tile, Spanish wrought iron, and weathered wood, and then we were in a magnificent living room. On the far wall was an enormous stone fireplace, fire crackling merrily behind an ornate fire screen. The room was furnished with oversize leather armchairs and sofas, heavy wooden tables, and bright Mexican rugs. A group of four men wearing camouflage hunting gear stood talking and sipping drinks beneath the glow of a huge chandelier made of antlers and branding irons. Two more lamps made of wagon wheels hung at each end of the room. However, everything else was overshadowed by the animals. I stopped and stared openmouthed at the soaring walls. At least six deer heads stared sightlessly back, each bearing a razor-tipped arrow in multipointed antlers. The long face of an oryx hung beside a bighorn sheep, its curling horns framing its delicate face like a 1950s hairstyle. In one corner, a recessed shelf hosted a grouping of unlikely companions that included a coyote with a mangy coat, a boar with beady eyes glinting above wicked looking tusks, a blackbuck, and a whitetail deer. In another corner, the head and forequarters of a mouflon sheep protruded from the wall as though it were just stepping through the paneling. I recognized longhorn and zebra, antelope and bison. At least forty sets of glass eyes glittered in the flickering glow of firelight and lamps.

  Kyla also stopped. “It’s a dead zoo,” she said.

  T.J. cast her one startled glance and then laughed. “Beautiful, aren’t they? Of course, some of them weren’t taken on this ranch—we’ve only been going three years after all—but I wanted a display that would show what was available.”

  “I thought this was your house. Is it some kind of lodge?”

  “Right now it’s both. The original ranch house is about half a mile away. I can stay there if I need some privacy, but this place is much more comfortable, and I can make sure my guests are having a good time. My rooms are in a separate wing than the guest quarters, so it works out pretty well. Eventually I might decide to update the older place.”

  T.J. had not yet taken his eyes from Kyla, and he hovered well within what I would have considered the personal space circle. He wasn’t actually touching her, but he could not have marked his territory more thoroughly if he had wrapped both arms around her. She did not seem to mind.

  “Do you have animal heads in your bedroom?” she asked, looking up into his face with a mischievous smile.

  “I don’t,” he answered in a low tone. “Is that a problem?”

  I rolled my eyes and wandered away, hoping that she would remember she was supposed to ask T.J. about Carl’s activities, illicit and otherwise. I joined the group of men near an elegant bar.

  They parted amiably, including me in their circle, and the tallest asked, “Something to drink? They’ve got just about anything you could want, and I mix a mean Mexican martini.”

  I smiled. “How about a beer?”

  “You got it,” he said and pulled a Negra Modelo from the half-size refrigerator and obligingly peeled back the gold foil and popped the cap for me.

  “So have you been hunting today?” I asked.

  They laughed. “I was hunting,” said my new beer buddy. “The rest of ’em were shooting.”

  “I still can’t believe you missed that blackbuck, Ken,” said a short man wearing gold-rimmed glasses. He turned to me and held out a hand. “Eric Palmer. This here’s Jim Stolzman, Rick Albrenner, and our crack shot, Ken Staukowsky.”

  “Jocelyn Shore. I’m here visiting family on the next ranch over,” I said, thinking I might as well provide some context for my presence. “What were you hunting?”

  Ken grinned. “I’m here for an axis deer, but I’d have taken a blackbuck. Maybe I’ll get lucky tomorrow.”

  “Or maybe not,” said Eric. “Me on the other hand, I got my first mouflon. I’m gonna have it processed and taxidermied over at Sand Creek. Gorgeous critter.”

  They all nodded.

/>   “Processed? You can eat these animals?” I asked, glancing around the walls. I’m not sure why I was surprised, except that with their twisted horns and strange colors, they looked more like fairy-tale creatures than eating stock.

  “Absolutely,” answered Ken. “It would be wasteful to kill them just for the trophy. Well, the deer-type species anyway. You’d have to be starving before you’d eat something like a coyote,” he said with a glance at the mangy mount in the corner.

  “Or a snake,” grinned Eric.

  “I’ve tried rattlesnake,” said Ken. “We killed a big monster—seven feet long if it was an inch—a couple of hunts back out at Big Spring and chicken-fried it in an iron skillet over a campfire.”

  We all turned to him.

  “And?” I asked.

  “Yeah, it was as bad as it sounds. The meat had the consistency and color of a tough scallop, and the taste of…” He paused, groping for the word.

  “Chicken?” offered Rick helpfully.

  We laughed, but Ken shook his head. “I wish.”

  “So are you all trying to shoot something specific or just whatever you come across?” I asked. “I haven’t been to an exotic ranch before.”

  Ken answered, “Well, this isn’t like regular hunting. T.J. there breeds a load of different animals, and he can also bring in whatever a hunter wants from somewhere else. I’m sure you saw the high fences on the way in? Those mean that the animals on the ranch stay on the ranch so there’s a lot more game here than you’d find on an ordinary place.”

  “Yeah, and you pay by the kill,” added Rick.

  “Right. And that ain’t cheap, so you don’t want to go blasting just anything you see. Plus, if you’re after trophies, which we are, the goal isn’t finding any animal to kill, it’s finding a specific animal, which makes it a lot harder. Specially when you spook a herd of blackbucks and they spook the axis deer that you’re after,” said Ken.

  “Oh, is that your excuse?” said Eric.

  The man named Jim spoke for the first time. “Tonight will be special, though. Never hunted something that could hunt me back.”