You're Not Safe

by Mary Burton

  “Sandy,” Bragg said.

  “Ranger Bragg.” A broad smile brightened tired eyes. “Good to see you.”

  “You too. My nephew’s with me, and we’re looking to eat. What’s the wait?”

  She picked up two menus. Her smile turned sly. “Your reservation was for six-thirty, and I’ve your table right over here.”

  He grinned. “Thanks.”

  She led them to a table in the back, seated them, and handed them menus. “Your waitress will be right up.”

  “Appreciate it, Sandy.”

  She tossed an admiring glance at Mitch and then smiled at Bragg. “No problem.”

  Mitch met her gaze. “Thanks.”

  Her grin broadened, and she returned back to her station crowded with waiting families.

  Bragg scanned the menu. “The T-bone is good. Bread is great. It’s all good. Order whatever you want.”

  He nodded. “T-bone sounds good.”

  “Sure there isn’t something else you might want? Don’t order it on my account.” He wanted to fix the pain the kid carried, but didn’t know how. Best he could do now was offer him a great meal.

  “T-bone is fine.”

  Bragg resisted the urge to challenge and when the waitress came to the table he ordered two steaks with all the fixings plus bread. He waited until she returned with their soda order before asking, “How’d your day go?”

  Mitch sipped on his soda straw. “Good.”

  “What’s good mean?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

  After a moment’s silence, he said, “Got offered a job today.”

  That tiny bit of news had him sitting straighter and leaning forward. However, he did his best to curb his enthusiasm and the rapid-fire questions begging to be asked. “That so? What’s the job?”

  Before he could answer the waitress appeared with hot rolls and butter. More hungry for information than the bread, he waited as the boy tore into his bread and took a couple of bites.

  Finally, Mitch said, “I’m not really sure. Farmhand, I think.”

  “Farmhand.” It was a hard road to hoe working the land. He wanted his nephew to get an education and have the world open up to him. But that was the big picture. Right now he simply wanted the kid to talk, engage in life. Farmhand would suit fine.

  “You know about farms. Mom said Grandpa had you riding a tractor at eight.”

  “Yeah. I know farms and ranches. Tough work but there’s a sense of satisfaction at the end of the day.”

  Mitch grunted.

  “You’ll be working the fields, managing a barn, what?”

  “Don’t know. She just said to show up tomorrow at nine, and she’d put me to work.”

  He wanted to know who was hiring Mitch and what plans this woman had for him. But he reminded himself Mitch wasn’t a kid, and if he babied him it likely would ruin what little they’d gained tonight. “How’d she hear about you?”

  “Remember that support group I tried a couple of times?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She knows the guy that runs it. Said she owed him a favor.”

  “And you’re the favor?” The lack of details fueled his frustration, but he kept it to himself.

  “I guess.” Mitch tore more bread and ate it.

  “You know where the farm is?”

  He pulled a card from his pocket and tossed it on the table. “She said it’s about thirty miles west of Austin. Some kind of vineyard.”

  Bragg picked up the card. “Vineyard?”

  He glanced at the vineyard’s name: BONNEVILLE VINEYARDS. Rory Edward’s crime scene had been located on the edge of a vineyard. His gaze slid to the name of the woman who’d contacted Mitch: GREER TEMPLETON.

  For a moment the sounds of the restaurant faded away, and there was only the thump, thump of his heart in his ears. His first thought was for Elizabeth Templeton, the woman in the picture. Templeton wasn’t a common name, but not so uncommon that he didn’t suspect a connection. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

  Bragg kept his voice steady. “You know any facts about Greer Templeton?”

  “Pretty, dark hair, kind of skinny. Not friendly.”

  Dark hair not blond. He flicked the edge of the card with his index finger. “What else do you know about her?”

  “She drives a truck. And she cuts to the chase.”

  Habit sent the follow-up question back rapid-fire. “And she offered you the job as a favor?”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Bragg summoned another question but held back, as if Sue had laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy had said more in the last few minutes than in the last month. Go easy. He wanted to go easy. He did.

  But he’d been a Ranger too long not to toy with his suspicions. The Templeton name had been attached to a murder investigation this morning. Though the girl in the picture did not match Mitch’s description it had been a dozen years and people changed a lot. He’d not had much time today to dig into Elizabeth Templeton’s accident, but it would be first on his agenda after dinner. Rory’s apartment would keep until morning.

  Their waitress brought two more sodas and another basket stacked high with warm rolls. She told them that dinner would be right up before hurrying to another table.

  Bragg drank his second soda. He didn’t want to discourage the boy but at the same time wanted him to understand the lay of the land.

  Bragg eased back in his chair. “You thinking about taking the job?”

  Mitch grabbed a roll, tore it, and watched the steam rise. “Don’t know.”

  As frustrating as pulling teeth. “Did she talk about pay?”

  “No.”

  He reached for bread. “Had a murder investigation this morning. Don’t need to get into a lot of details, but an Elizabeth Templeton’s name came up.”

  Mitch glanced up from his soda, his gaze showing a spark of interest. “She kill someone?”

  “No. At least I don’t think so.” He wanted to tell him about the picture but hesitated. It was a detail in an active murder investigation. “Wanted you to know, seeing as a Templeton offered you a job.”

  “Kind of a stretch, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. But it’s my job to connect dots no one else notices.”

  Mitch nodded as if mulling what Bragg had told him. “Maybe I’ll ride out there tomorrow. See what she has to offer.”

  Their waitress brought two large steaming plates, each sporting a T-bone and a baked potato with generous sides of butter and sour cream. No green vegetables because it was a shame to serve what neither would eat.

  Bragg was about to ask him to wait on the job until he could poke around in the woman’s background when the boy glanced at his steak, picked up his fork and knife, and cut a large bite. He ate the piece and then another and then another. Strain banding Bragg’s lower back eased a notch. Whoever the hell Greer Templeton was, she had made an impact on this kid, which for now, appeared to be for the better. As much as he wanted to tell Mitch to stay clear, he held back.

  Later he’d do a little digging.

  Dinner ended with slices of apple pie with heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream. Mitch hadn’t said much more during dinner, but he’d eaten his entire meal and the pie. Some might view eating a meal as a baby step but as far as Bragg was concerned it was the first sign of life he’d seen in the boy since he’d returned home.

  They arrived home right at nine. Mitch thanked him for the meal, another first, and headed straight to his room.

  While a pot of coffee brewed, Bragg changed into jeans and a faded Texas A&M T-shirt. Then, coffee in hand, he settled in front of his laptop and clicked it on. He searched Bonneville Vineyards.

  Immediately the vineyard’s Web site popped up. It featured rolling land and rows and rows of thick grapevines stretching toward the setting sun on the horizon. Another picture showcased a group of smiling people, wineglasses in hand around a table. An older woman with long graying hair smiled and laughed with them
. The caption underneath read:

  Bonneville Vineyard owner, Lydia Bonneville, greets guests at spring tasting.

  Bragg clicked through more images, read some of the site’s blog entries, and on the events page news of an upcoming fund-raiser for the Crisis Center. Though he dug through the entire site he found no telling tidbit about the woman who’d offered his nephew a job today.

  Sipping his coffee he searched Greer Templeton. No hits came up. On the Crisis Center site there was a mention of her six months ago when she’d joined the board. The blurb also mentioned she’d been volunteering at the center for the last decade. There was also a piece about a fund-raiser this Wednesday at the vineyard, but no picture of Greer Templeton.

  None of this set well in his gut. None of it. The Templeton name was associated with a murder investigation and a Templeton meets Mitch. And Rory Edwards’s body had been found at a vineyard near Bonneville.

  Coincidence did happen but not often by his way of thinking.

  Shit.

  Yeah, he’d be driving out to Bonneville Vineyards first thing in the morning.

  Bragg glanced at the clock. It wasn’t ten yet and he had time to get by Rory’s room. Refilling his mug, he changed, retrieved his gun, badge, and hat. A quick check into Mitch’s room found him sleeping. He left as quickly as he could.

  The drive to Rory’s took fifteen minutes, long enough to finish the coffee and summon a second bolt of energy. He was accustomed to going long stretches without sleep and tonight he’d get little. It didn’t take much time to spot the Mexican restaurant with the blue chili in the window.

  Inside, he was greeted by a dimly lit interior and the blend of recorded guitar and trumpet music. Small round tables with patrons filled the room, and in the back a bartender poured shots of tequila. Colored lights draped the walls alongside pictures of Mexico.

  Bragg stopped at the register where a short stocky man with thick black hair and mocha skin stared up at him. The man wore a brightly colored shirt and a silver chain around his neck.

  “You here for dinner?”

  “I’m with the Texas Rangers. I’m here to search Rory Edwards’s room.” He showed the man his badge. “I’ve been told he’s renting a room upstairs.”

  The man glanced at the badge and back up at Bragg. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “I don’t want any. Just want to have a look at his room.”

  “Second door on the right.” He fumbled in his pocket for a ring of keys, slid one free, and handed it to Bragg. “I don’t want trouble.”

  “Appreciate it.” Bragg took the key. “Rory get many visitors to his room?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t ask. Long as they pay, I don’t ask.”

  “No commotion. No trouble.”

  “He paid his first week in cash and the second week wasn’t due until Wednesday. Good enough for me.”

  Bragg followed the stairs behind the register up to a hallway lit by a single flickering bulb. There were four doors on the hallway. He unlocked the second on the right and flipped on the light.

  The room was small, not more than eight by eight, and it was filthy. Soiled rumpled sheets covered the bed, and dozens of empty food cartons littered the floor. A mouse scurried under the bed.

  A pile of dirty clothes was mounded at the foot of the bed beside a pair of expensive cowboy boots. The boots were nice but not as nice as the ones found on Rory’s body. Wherever Rory had thought he was going, he’d dressed up for the occasion.

  In a small closet he found a couple of jackets and a muddy pair of boots. He was on the verge of closing the door when he spotted the box on the floor. He picked it up and opened it. Inside were dozens of pictures of a woman. At first glance he didn’t recognize her, but closer inspection identified her. Elizabeth Templeton.

  All the photographs appeared to have been taken not twelve years ago but recently. Elizabeth standing on the front porch of a ranch house. Elizabeth surrounded by long rows of grapevines. Driving a red pickup truck. Leaving a store.

  Rory had been keeping close tabs on Elizabeth.

  Her face had leaned out in the last twelve years, and her hair had gone from blond to dark brown. But her figure was still slight. In most of the images she was frowning and he remembered what Mitch had said about the woman who’d hired him. Dark hair. Not nice.

  Frowning, Bragg retrieved his phone and snapped pictures of the images before setting them aside to continue his search. He found a small careworn Bible and a stack of note cards with handwritten affirmations. Do it! One step at a time! Believe!

  However, no strings to connect Rory to Elizabeth.

  Bragg descended the stairs and found the manager. He showed the man his phone sporting an image of Elizabeth. “You ever seen her here?”

  “I don’t ask questions.”

  “Yeah, I know, as long as they pay. Look real close, partner. Look real close because if I find out you’ve seen her you’re going to get some real trouble from me.”

  The man glanced at the picture and shook his head. “Never seen her.”

  “You sure?”

  “Never seen her. ’Sides, she’s too pretty for Rory. He thought he was sober for good and better than everybody, but he hadn’t changed. No good. Barely had enough for a week’s rent. I was figuring he’d not show tomorrow with the rent, and I’d have to toss him out.”

  “He have any visitors?”

  “No. Kept to himself. Heard him on his cell phone once or twice, but I never made out what he was saying.”

  There’d been no cell in Rory’s belongings. Bragg pulled a card from his front shirt pocket. “You call me if you hear anyone talking about Rory.”

  “Where is he? Is he coming back?”

  “No, sir, he is not coming back.”

  The man muttered an oath in Spanish. “What about his room?”

  “I’m calling a forensic team now to dust it for prints.” The man smoothed agitated fingers over oiled black hair. “Are you gonna stay here and wait for them?”

  “Yes, sir, I am. That a problem?”

  The man’s frown deepened. “You are bad for business.”

  Bragg grinned. “I’ve been called worse.”

  He returned to Rory’s room and called in a team. As he waited he sifted through each picture of Elizabeth. Beautiful. Striking. But stern and solemn. He sensed life hadn’t much eased the burden of her tragedy.

  “What the hell was going on between you and Rory?”

  Chapter Four

  Tuesday, June 3, 6:30 A.M.

  Bragg left Austin before the morning tangles on I-35 south. He also wanted to arrive early at Bonneville Vineyards not only to meet with the woman who’d offered Mitch a job, but the woman who owned the land near his crime scene. Even if she didn’t have a connection to the case he wanted to meet her and find out how she’d found Mitch.

  Remembering yesterday’s route to the crime scene, he took the rural route exit off of the interstate and followed it another twenty miles before his GPS directed him over more back roads familiar to him. There were no directional signs to guide people to the vineyard, suggesting visitors weren’t welcome.

  An unpaved gravel ribbon of road wandered alongside a barbed-wire fence corralling row after row of vines bursting with a thick canopy of green leaves sheltering plump grapes clinging to well-maintained trellises. In the distance, the sun rose above the horizon casting a warm glow over the hills.

  The entire area was lush and green and all he could think about was what it cost the family in water bills. Drought had been a problem in central Texas the last couple of years and signs were the hard times weren’t letting up anytime soon.

  Hard to believe Rory Edwards had been strung up right over the hill to his left.

  Around the bend, a ranch house came into view. Complete with a wide front porch, its original windows and tin roof hinted of nineteenth-century cowboys. However, the ranch’s porch now sported potted lavender, rocking chairs, and a sign on the front porch
read PRIVATE and directed visitors to a larger stone building where the road dead-ended. Near the house stood a small barn painted with fading chipped red paint and a small corral.

  The larger one-story main building just beyond was made of stone and glass, and though it had the air of new construction was styled like a medieval European keep. But unlike a fortress, it didn’t dominate the land but hugged it as if the designer wanted a seamless connection between structure and terrain.

  Small succulents floated in beds filled with earth-toned landscaping stones to add interest. However, it was the yellow and white wildflowers in brightly colored clay pots and a turquoise front door that rescued the place from being bland. To the right a stone patio outfitted with wrought-iron furniture overlooked vineyards that would catch the setting sun. Beyond the main building the land had been cleared for more construction.

  Again, he gave credit to the site manager. He wasn’t a wine drinker but the place might have lured him in for a look if there’d been signs along the road to coax and welcome.

  He pulled up behind an older dark truck with a bed filled with tables and chairs. Grabbing his white Stetson from the passenger seat, he settled it on his head and eased out of the Bronco. In the distance a dog barked. Resting his hand on the hip close to his gun, he surveyed the area.

  As he approached the building, a woman pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance. She wasn’t tall, barely standing over five feet, but she held her shoulders back and her clear blue eyes cut. Not more than thirty, she had gently tanned smooth skin that accentuated a high slash of cheekbones. She wore her light brown hair in a braid that brushed slender shoulders, a white BONNEVILLE VINEYARDS T-shirt billowing over full breasts and tucked into faded work jeans hugging gently rounded hips. Her boots were dusty, well worn. “Can I help you?”