by Dixie Cash
Walking alongside the young officer, she reached inside her purse and found her cell phone. “May I make a call?”
“Er, yes, ma’am, I guess so.” He looked around as if he wished someone would come to his rescue. “You’re not under arrest. The captain just wants me to take you so you can give them your statement.”
Debbie Sue had already started to key in Buddy’s number. But she paused. She could hear Buddy’s voice now, “Debbie Sue, how do you and Ed end up in these messes?” Fuck!
Dammit, this time she and Edwina truly hadn’t done anything. They and the band had been patiently waiting onstage when someone jabbed a nail file into Roxie’s neck. Where had everyone been during that time? Darla? Or Bob? Or Valetta Rose? Debbie Sue and Edwina had been with Darla in her dressing room, but not for fifteen or twenty minutes. Could you kill someone in fifteen minutes?
She thought back on her own brief encounters with the now deceased Roxie Denman. She had wanted to throw her under that tour bus within a minute of meeting her and drive the bus over her. But that didn’t mean she wanted to kill her.
With her own eyes she had seen Darla angry enough to throw articles at Roxie in Hogg’s. She had heard Darla’s sniping remarks about her. But no one could ever make her believe Darla had killed her, no matter what she had said. A new idea began to form in Debbie Sue’s mind. If Darla was confessing guilt to a murder, she was covering up for someone else. It had to be someone important to her, someone for whom she had strong feelings. Was that someone Bob Denman?
Bob. He was the type to be right in the middle of things, but seeing Darla handcuffed and arrested seemed to have left him speechless. Debbie Sue wondered what he might be doing now. He was, after all, the grieving spouse. She supposed it would be only logical that he would be somewhere grieving or talking to relatives of the deceased.
As she and the young officer exited the civic center, she dropped her phone back into her purse. She would put off calling Buddy until she knew more. She needed to talk to the one person who could read people as well as Buddy could, the one who, in spite of her initial hysteria, had probably already sized up the situation and would know exactly what was going on. She needed to talk to Edwina.
Chapter Eighteen
By the time the police officer drove Debbie Sue back to the civic center and she was able to catch up with Edwina, hours had passed.
“How’s Darla?” was Edwina’s first question.
“A basket case,” Debbie Sue answered. “Listen, Ed, she confessed that she did it. Right there in front of me and Captain Fuller.”
“She did not!”
“I heard her with my own two ears.”
“Oh, Debbie Sue, that’s more shocking to me than Roxie being dead.”
“I know. We haven’t known her long, but I just don’t think she’s capable of killing someone. What keeps sticking in my mind is that she was so excited about this tour. Making a comeback meant everything to her. A woman intent on reviving her career wouldn’t kill someone, would she?”
“Haven’t you ever heard of a crime of passion? Maybe Roxie said the wrong thing one time too many and ol’ Darla just snapped.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“Okay. Then, if she didn’t do it, she confessed to cover up for somebody.”
“My thought exactly.”
“And I can think of only one person she’d make that kind of sacrifice for.”
In unison, Debbie Sue and Edwina said, “Bob.”
“Where is Bob?” Debbie Sue asked.
“He was here a little while ago,” Edwina answered. “After the cops talked to him, he said they told him he could go back to Salt Lick to collect some phone numbers. He wanted to call Roxie’s parents. He said he’s never met them. She hardly ever spoke of them. All he knows about them is that they’re separated and live apart somewhere in the Los Angeles area. He said Roxie had an address book in her suitcase, but if her parents’ numbers aren’t in it, he doesn’t know how to reach them.”
“For some reason, Darla must feel the need to cover for him,” Debbie Sue said. “But my gut tells me he didn’t do it either.”
“My gut says the same thing. Female intuition. You should never sell it short.”
“That’s exactly what I tell Buddy.”
“God, Debbie Sue, we’ve got to help Darla. What are we gonna do?”
“We should try to reason with her if we’re ever allowed to talk to her. But who knows? Maybe forensic evidence will clear it up.” Debbie Sue paused a few beats. “Ed, you didn’t tell the police you thought Bob did it, did you?”
“How could I? Why should I? Until you just now said it, I didn’t know Darla said she did it. Did you tell them?”
“No, and I’m not going to. I told them there were several people who might’ve done it. And that’s the truth.”
A few beats of silence passed. Then Edwina asked the question Debbie Sue knew she would ask. “Have you called Buddy and told him?”
“I don’t want him knowing we’re involved in the case.”
“We aren’t involved in it.”
“Of course we are, Ed. The cops may have forensics and even DNA on their side, but we can trump them.”
“How?”
“We know all the players and we have that good ol’ female intuition. With the experience and resources we have, we—”
“Forensics and DNA are science stuff. Intuition and being acquainted with somebody doesn’t trump science.” Edwina shook her head. “And even if that weren’t true, Buddy will never stand still for us to even go close to a Midland police investigation.” Edwina shook her head again. “I don’t know how you’re going to convince him otherwise.”
“Maybe he’ll never know about it.”
“Listen to yourself, girlfriend. A famous person is sitting in a Midland jail facing a murder charge. And a murder in Midland is a big deal even for an un-famous person.”
“Oh hell, you’re right, Ed. Buddy’s probably already heard about it.”
“And he knows we were supposed to be performing with these people. They’re staying in your house, for crying out loud.”
Debbie Sue bit down on her lower lip. “Fuck. I’m pretty sure him and his Ranger buddies are already talking about it in Austin. I haven’t checked my cell phone because I’m pretty sure he’s called with a million questions.”
“Oh dear,” Edwina lamented.
“What are you oh-dearing about?”
“We’re gonna end up in trouble. Again.”
“Darla’s the one in trouble. Why do you think trying to help her is going to get us in trouble?”
“Just call it that good ol’ female intuition, laced with a shot of having a really good memory.”
Darla Denman released a breath that could extinguish the candles on a centennial birthday cake. Last night seemed a million years ago. The sight of poor Roxie’s corpse was still a vivid picture in her mind. Indeed she hadn’t liked the girl, but she hadn’t wished her a horrible death. She had lapsed into some kind of shock and had been slow to come around, but now she was fully functional and completely aware of everything. And like it or not, the picture of her future wasn’t pretty.
She had been hauled to jail in the back of a police car, handcuffed, bawling her eyes out and clinging to the tiny bit of dignity she had left. Not exactly the splash she had meant to make in Midland, Texas. Not only had her life taken a downward turn, she would need a bulldozer to dig a hole deeper than the one she now found herself in. How had her big comeback ended up like this? She was supposed to be signing autographs and new recording contracts, sipping champagne in the back of a limo and embracing her loyal fans.
Captain Fuller had been patient and kind to her, but when she said she didn’t have an attorney, he had abruptly stopped everything and brought her to this cell, promising that a court-appointed lawyer would come by to see her soon.
The lawyer hadn’t shown up yet and that was fine with her. She didn’t want to ta
lk to anyone. She wanted to be left alone.
When they first brought her in, they had put her in a stark room with green walls and no windows because they thought she might hurt herself. Later they moved her to the cell where she now sat on the edge of a cot, which was really nothing more than a thin, smelly mattress thrown on a concrete bench. She looked down at her clothing—an orange jumpsuit her jailers had ordered her to wear. Her eyes watered with new tears. Her beautiful bespangled leather jacket and her custom-made cowboy boots floated into her mind. She had no idea where they were. She tugged at the jumpsuit’s waistband, which was too tight around the middle. But she wasn’t about to ask for a larger size.
Jumpsuits. Now who in God’s name came up with that idea? And in neon, glow-in-the-dark orange? She had red hair, for God’s sake. Redheads didn’t wear orange.
Besides that, this outfit was meant for someone much taller than her five-foot-barely-three-inch frame. Bending over, she rolled up another inch of one pant leg, but even that gesture revealed another source of distress. The shoes. She couldn’t remember the last time she had worn canvas shoes, or tennis shoes, as she had always called them.
And the laces had been removed. What in the hell did they think she would do with the laces? Two tied together wouldn’t be long enough for her to hang herself, even if she were so inclined—and she wasn’t. She supposed she could tear out the aglet and poke her eye out, but then she’d be a one-eyed, middle-aged, heavyset woman in an unflattering jumpsuit, wearing ugly shoes with no laces. She could attempt to swallow the aglets, but instead of strangling her they’d probably add more weight to her body.
At this point all of her choices were bad ones.
Sighing again, she lay back on the cot and hid her face with her forearm, hoping to discourage her neighbor, who had begun to stir, from talking to her. The middle-aged woman had been brought in last night drunk and belligerent. She had fallen across her one-inch-thick mattress and was snoring before the cell door could be locked again.
“Hey,” a raspy smoker’s voice said now. “You awake over there?”
Darla didn’t respond. The last thing she needed at this point was a talkative stranger.
“Hey,” the woman bellowed. “Did I miss breakfast? I’d kill for a cup of coffee and a cigarette.”
Darla winced at the word kill. She was torn. She didn’t want to develop a jail buddy, but she didn’t want to be confronted because of her silence, either. Keeping her arm in place over her eyes, she muttered, “They haven’t brought anything yet.”
“The last time I was in,” the woman continued, “they came at around seven o’clock. Wonder what time it is.”
Great, Darla thought. Her neighbor had been in jail enough times to have the schedule down pat. Not a comforting bit of news. “Don’t know. I don’t wear a watch. And even if I did, they probably would have taken it.”
“God, I feel like hell. I must have tied on a good one last night. The last thing I remember was someone saying, ‘Hey, wanna come back to my trailer and party?’ ” Her laughter ended in a smoker’s cough. “Guess I must have.”
Darla detected more movement, but didn’t open her eyes.
“Man, I gotta pee.”
That announcement was followed by the sound of a shower curtain—the only form of privacy in the cells—sliding on its metallic rings. Darla cringed even further into herself.
A flushing of water and more metallic ring sliding told Darla the woman had finished. Darla moved her arm and opened her eyes.
“Yep,” the woman continued, “this place ain’t bad, but if you ever want to get tossed in a really nice place you should get picked up in Andrews County. The sheriff’s wife is the cook, and man, she can really dish out a great meal. Not like this powdered eggs-hard baloney-stale bread crap they give you everywhere else. She makes meat loaf and mashed potatoes, yeast rolls and desserts to die for. She’s got a good heart beating in her chest.”
Darla didn’t know which was worse—the vision of the food making her stomach growl from intense hunger or the fact that she appeared to be stuck with the Travelocity spokesperson for West Texas jails.
“My name’s Judy,” the woman said. “Judy Jones. What’s yours?”
Darla looked at the hand that was extended toward her, a strong hand that showed manual work and nails bitten short. Considering herself a coward, Darla decided getting along was the best approach. She sat up and cleared her throat. “Darla,” she said, returning the handshake with limp fingers.
“Seems like I’ve seen you before,” Judy said.
Darla smiled faintly. “I don’t know where it would’ve been.”
“Let me guess why you’re in here, Darla. I kind of pride myself on reading people. It’s a skill I’ve developed over the years. You got to have it in my line of work.”
“Really? What’s your line of work?” Darla asked, trying to sound interested but half fearing what she might hear.
“I’m a bail bondsman.” Judy laughed to the point of coughing again. “Ain’t that a hoot? I make my living getting people out of jail, and here I am. Life’s a schizophrenic bitch, ain’t she, Darla? There’s days she’s on her medication and everything’s fine, and then boom, she gets all weird.”
Perhaps Judy Jones’s knowledge of the area jails came from hearing about them from her clients as opposed to first-hand experiences. Besides that, she was earthy and likeable. Darla began to warm to her.
Judy seemed to be studying her intently with watery no-color eyes. “Okay, now lemme think.” After a few uncomfortable minutes of scrutiny, she said, “It’s easy to see you’re well kept. Hair dyed, manicured nails. Face looks like you get facials two or three times a week. Hey, your lips were recently tattooed. Someone really did a good job, too. And judging from the tan lines on your fingers you had some pretty big rings on.”
Darla gave her a look. All of that was true.
“Your eyes are swollen from crying,” Judy continued, “so I’m guessing you’re not accustomed to being in jail.”
Tilting her head, Darla stared at her.
“So I’m close, huh?” Her tone was laced with pride, as if she knew just how close she was.
Darla gave a bitter chuckle. “You must be good at your business, Judy.”
“Oh, I am, honey. I got clients all over West Texas. It’s a damned lucrative business, I’ll tell you that. Another thing, you don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m just an ol’ party gal that don’t know when to stop or say no.”
Darla made a bitter huff. “The truth is, Judy, I’ve been in that spot a time or two myself.”
“Have you now?” Judy braced a hand on her knee and cocked her head. Her eyes scrunched into a squinty stare. “I’ll bet you’re in here because of some man, am I right? You just look like the type that’d have a man hanging around. Ninety-nine percent of the women I help are in trouble because of a man. Maybe not directly, but somewhere along the way a man had his hand in it.”
“Right again.” Darla sighed, feeling tears welling up behind her eyes.
“Did he beat you? Force you to give him money, take everything you got, then put out a peace bond on you?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. Bob’s a wonderful man. I thought we had a chance. . . .” A sob broke through and Darla pressed her face into her hands.
“Come on now, honey. Things look bad now, but tomorrow’s another day. And that means you got another chance to make things good. After all, it ain’t like you committed murder.”
Darla’s sobs became wails and she dropped her face into her hands.
“You didn’t, did you? Murder someone, that is? Damn, darlin’, did you murder ol’ Bob?”
“No,” Darla wailed. “I wouldn’t harm a hair on his head. I’ve been in love with him my whole adult life. I can’t even hurt his feelings.”
Judy sighed. “Well that’s a relief. You had me going there for a second. I thought you were going to tell me you murdered somebody.”
“I
did, but it wasn’t Bob.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Who was it?
“His wife. I confessed to killing his wife.”
“The hell you say.” Judy hesitated, then stood up, walked over to the bars and yelled toward the door at the end of the hall, “Hey, could we get some coffee in here?” She turned back to Darla. “We both need some good, strong coffee, don’t we?”
Darla didn’t answer, she just cried harder. She felt a touch on her arm and opened her eyes, saw Judy holding out a business card. “You’re gonna need my help, sugar.”
Whimpering, Darla took the card and stared at it.
“They’ll get that coffee in here in a minute,” Judy said.
Darla slipped Judy’s card into the breast pocket of her county-issued jumpsuit. It was going to take a lot more than coffee to raise her spirits. A lot more.
Chapter Nineteen
Debbie Sue lay in bed, but she had been awake for what seemed like hours. She was so wired she could scarcely be still. She and Edwina had made it back to Salt Lick around midnight. Then she’d had a phone conversation with Buddy, which had been enough to set her mind to churning. He had called the minute she got home last night to make sure she was safe, and once that had been confirmed, he had forbidden her involvement in the case.
Forbidden!
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table and was surprised to see that it was seven o’clock, much later than she would have guessed.
Coffee. She definitely needed some strong coffee. Throwing back the covers, she walked barefoot from her carpeted bedroom and across the braided rug in the living room to the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor. Her nerve endings seemed to be on fire and she reacted to each change under her feet with a start.
She removed the cake cover from the plate it covered and stared at the cinnamon coffee cake left from yesterday morning. Had it been only twenty-four hours since Darla Denman, confessed murderess, had baked this coffee cake in this kitchen? Twenty-four hours since Darla, Debbie Sue and Edwina had sat and shared it, laughing and talking about their lives and what the evening ahead might hold?