Inn the Spirit of Trickery

by Becki Willis

  The man continued with his complaints. “We don’t need him grouching about everything little thing.”

  “This is Rusty we’re talking about. He’d complain if we hung him with a new rope.”

  “His attitude is getting worse. And if he keeps this up, he’s going to call attention to us.”

  “I said I’d talk to him. You just worry about things on your end.”

  He resented the reminder, as if he weren’t a professional. “I have the turnstile set to drop a number, every thirty-two turns, so the head count could be off by a few. Dozen.” He flashed a humorless smile. “In that case, the profits might be skewed in our favor.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, in a venue this small? That’s dropping four of every hundred tickets. You don’t think they’ll notice the numbers are off?”

  “Would you notice the difference between ninety-six people and a hundred?” the man scoffed. “My eyes start to cross after I see a dozen or more of these yahoos.”

  “This is a smaller venue than we normally work,” his companion reminded him, “so it needs to be handled with care.”

  “I’m aware of the smaller scale. That’s why all the promotional posters are compliments of the show we did last fall in Crockett. The vet and feed bills are sponsored by the show out in West Texas.”

  “Year before last?” This, in surprise. “The information was still good?”

  “Worked like a charm.”

  “Just be careful. If we get too greedy, it can jeopardize our entire operation. I advise holding off on using any more of our special sponsorships.”

  It sounded so much nicer calling it a sponsorship than what it really was: an outright scam.

  “Fine. I advise holding off Rusty.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Rusty.”

  Eyes glazed, the old cowboy wove a crooked path back toward the trailer, his stocky legs more wobbly than normal. He may have had a couple of beers too many, but it wasn’t often John Boy was in such a generous mood. With the sets in place and the animals in prime condition, the show was poised and ready to go. The foreman had packed down his hundred-quart cooler with beer and ice, and offered it to the crew for a job well done. No reason they couldn’t do a little celebrating tonight.

  Rusty didn’t know about the celebrating bit—it went against his grouchy nature, after all—but he was all for drinking beer. Even though alcohol had a tendency to enhance his dour outlook on life, he had a weakness for the bottle. He often suspected that money was the key factor standing between him and alcoholism, but on his income, excessive drinking wasn’t an option. So, when someone offered it for free, he was more than willing to show his appreciation.

  “Guess that’s one advantage of workin’ for pennies,” he grumbled to himself. “Can’t afford to drink all the time. One of these days, though, I’m gonna find me a job that pays better. I’m gettin’ too dadgum old for all this movin’ around.”

  He bumped into the side of his travel trailer, which appeared from out of nowhere. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he skidded along the metal siding until his shin met up with the front steps. He steadied himself before tackling that obstacle; those tiny stiles weren’t meant for a size twelve. Good thing there were only two steps.

  He paused on the top step and tugged the door open, immediately shielding his bleary eyes from the blinding light inside.

  What he should have protected were his ears. The shrill scream that greeted him was like a knife to his eardrums, penetrating even the drunken stupor of his brain. When he jerked to cover his ears with both hands, Rusty lost his balance on the narrow step and toppled backwards. He tumbled off in slow motion, legs and feet tangling over his head, as Daphne Eland came to the door in nothing but a towel, shrieking her displeasure.

  Still dripping wet from a shower, the leggy performer didn’t bother checking on the man sprawled out in the grass. She slammed the door and locked it, her angry rant bleeding through the walls. Once again, the bumbling idiot had mistaken her trailer for his, and she was even less thrilled this time than all the times in the past.

  By the time Rusty caught his wind and righted himself, the lights in the trailer went out, and he was left to find his way in the dark. He grumbled all the louder, complaining about the trailers all looking the same from the outside.

  “It ain’t my fault they put ‘em in different order in every town!” He hiccupped between protests. “They should put ‘em the same way, ever’ time. One, three, four, and so on. Ain’t my fault I walked in and saw her scrawny ole’ chicken legs. Those things should come with a warning sign. ‘Beware. Eyesore ahead.’”

  Rusty reached the far trailer, immediately recognizing it as his own. Now that he thought about it, his had that dent in the door. Guy had kicked it in that night while he was getting lucky with that little buckle bunny in Athens. Apparently, his roommate didn’t understand the significance of a locked door.

  Come to think of it, Rusty admitted with another hiccup, maybe he himself didn’t understand the definition of getting lucky. That gal was a good three hundred pounds of pure spite, and she hadn’t taken kindly to his exaggerated claims of fame. She came back to the trailer with him to see his World Finals belt buckle, but when she discovered he won it in a poker game, she had stirred up quite a fuss. There wasn’t much luck to spending the night alone, especially when the air conditioning seeped out a mangled door and tempers ran as hot as the thermometer. He and Guy straightened it out the best they could the next day—the door and the friendship—but both still leaked from time to time.

  “Shoulda made Guy pay for a new door,” Rusty grumbled, clumsily reaching for the handle. It took two tries before his trembling hand made contact. “It was his fault, not givin’ me a little privacy. It ain’t often I get a woman come back with me. I ain’t full of looks and charm, like Ted and Tom. Their trailer should have a revolvin’ door, it gets fanned so often. All they gotta do is look sideways at a woman, and she falls into their arms.” He shoved the door open, still complaining. “Boss Lady should charge rent for their revolvin’ beds.”

  Stumbling inside, Rusty immediately stubbed his toe in the dark. “Bright as daylight in the other trailer,” he groused. “Black as pitch in my own. Two roommates. You’d think one of them would think to leave a light on for a fella.” He unsuccessfully groped the wall, trying to find the light switch. “And that’s another thing. Why does chicken legs get a trailer all to herself, when I have to share with two people! Ain’t fair. Iffen I ever did get lucky again, I’d have to make a reservation for my own dad-burned room.” He was still grumbling when he finally found the switch. “Just ain’t fair. Slick signs up with the production, and Boss Lady says he has to bunk with us. Ain’t room for three in this tiny trailer.”

  Rusty squinted against the harsh glare of a single bulb. Neither roommate was home yet, despite the late hour. As long as they didn’t wake him when they came in, he didn’t care if they catted around half the night.

  “Hope they didn’t eat all the bologna,” he said aloud, heading straight for the tiny refrigerator. “Knowing Guy, he made a pig of himself and ate it all. Then I’ll have to go to bed hungry and wake up to his stinking farts.”

  His mood as sour as his stomach, Rusty belched as he peered into the tiny cavern. Just as he suspected, the bologna package was empty. Before he started on a new rant, his eyes fell on a bottle of his favorite beer. That hadn’t been there earlier.

  “Well, lookie here,” he said. A seldom-seen smile cracked the corners of his mouth. “Ole’ Guy left me an apology note.”

  Before the bottle was empty, the room went dark again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An insistent knock at the front door drew Hannah’s attention. Glancing at the clock to confirm the time, she frowned. Why would someone knock? This was a public inn, for crying out loud. The doors had been unlocked since seven this morning.

  Once again, she was perched on a stool, this time hanging curtains
. The burlap window coverings were the perfect blend of rustic chic and stylish simplicity, as were the metal elements in the room. Depending on the eyes of the beholder, the tin and exposed metals were either industrial modern or early necessity. Steel rods held the tab-top curtains in place, bare pipes created artwork and door handles, and tin buckets and watering cans were re-purposed as light fixtures. With a few final accessories and fresh wildflower bouquets—tied, of course, with raffia and twine—the look would be complete.

  Hannah slipped the last curtain tab in place and fastened the rod into its holder, calling over her shoulder to whomever was at the door, “Come in! It’s open!” She spread out the folds so that the material fell in a smooth line.

  “I know it’s early,” Jazz apologized the moment she stepped over the threshold. The hesitant tone in her voice told Hannah she came bearing bad news.

  With a sigh, Hannah abandoned her task. The other windows would simply have to wait.

  She made certain her feet were on solid ground before turning to face the other woman.

  Sure enough, Jazz’s face was pale and pulled tight with worry.

  “It’s not all that early,” Hannah contradicted. “But judging from your expression, I think this calls for coffee. Come on into the kitchen.”

  Jazz shook her head, setting her short curls into motion. “This isn’t a social call. We have a problem. A tragedy.” She tucked her hands into her back pockets and blurted out the news, “Rusty’s dead.”

  Hannah blinked in surprise. She didn’t remember meeting a Rusty the day before, but she was shocked, nonetheless. Just as Jazz obviously was.

  “Here. Let’s have a seat. And let me get Sadie and Fred in here, so we can all hear this together.” She motioned toward the lounge area, where an assortment of chairs and benches clustered in casual groupings. Their newly upholstered fabrics were an eclectic mix of colors, textures, and styles.

  Reluctant to leave the other woman alone in her time of distress, Hannah ventured only as far as the edge of the room to call for her friends. She hurried back to Jazz, who had taken refuge in a leather armchair and sat staring at the empty hearth. Murmuring her condolences, Hannah settled into its spotted cowhide counterpart and waited for Jazz to speak.

  Sadie came from the kitchen, wiping her wet hands on a dishtowel. Fred tagged behind, carrying a silver teapot and polishing rag. The questions died on their lips when they saw the ashen woman sitting in the chair.

  “Whatever is wrong?” Sadie asked, her face already scrunched in concern.

  “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it,” Fred promised.

  “You can’t fix this.” Jazz pulled her eyes from the fireplace, her expression stricken. “Rusty is dead.”

  “Rusty?”

  “Our wrangler. He’s indispensable. He cares for all the horses. He’s part trainer, part vet.” She rubbed her fingers across her brow. When she spoke again, her voice sagged. “He’s more than that, of course. He’s part of our family. He’s been with us since the beginning.”

  “What happened?” Hannah asked. She hated to think of it at a time like this, but what if he had fallen victim to an accident? Would her insurance cover it?

  Jazz lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Heart attack, I suppose?” It came out as a question.

  “Did he have a history of heart trouble?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. With Rusty, it was hard to tell. He keeps to himself, mostly. Grumbles about everything, then goes off and sulks with a bottle.” She scrubbed her forehead again. “Oh, listen to me, talking about him in the present tense. It’s just so hard to believe he’s gone.”

  “Of course it is, dear,” Sadie said, patting Jazz’s arm to comfort her. “No one ever expects these sorts of things.”

  A sad smile broke across the younger woman’s face. “To be honest, I thought he was too mean and ornery to ever die. I never imagined he would be gone, just like that.”

  “When did it happen? And how?” Hannah asked.

  “Sometime during the night, apparently. He shares a trailer with two other men. One of his roommates came in late, saw him there on the sofa, and assumed he was passed out drunk again. It wasn’t until this morning that he realized Rusty was…” She seemed to struggle with saying the word dead again, so she comprised with, “…wasn’t drunk.”

  “You’ve called the sheriff’s office?” ever-practical Fred wanted to know.

  The petite blonde looked stunned at the suggestion. “Why—Why would I call the sheriff?”

  “An unattended death, of course.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes, of course. I—I wasn’t thinking.”

  Sadie popped up from the red-checkered side chair where she sat. “You’re clearly distraught. Would you like for us to report it for you, dear?”

  “Uhm, yes, please. That would be very kind of you.”

  “I’ll go call right now. How about I bring back a nice, strong cup of coffee? Or would you prefer sweet tea?”

  “It’s warm out already. I think I’d like iced tea,” Jazz murmured.

  “I’ll bring some for everyone.” Sadie slipped from the room, practically unnoticed despite her colorful Hawaiian shirt.

  “Is there anyone else we should call?” Hannah asked gently. “His family, perhaps?”

  “We were his family,” Jazz said sadly. “He never married nor had any children.” Her hands worked in a nervous gesture. “What are we going to do?” she fretted. “The show starts tomorrow, and now we’re down a man. Not just any man, but our main handler!”

  “Don’t you have a backup? Someone who helped him?”

  “We run a very lean operation. Everyone has a specific job, and they do it well. And yes, he has help when needed, but no one else knows the animals the way Rusty does. And reassigning someone as handler would mean leaving their position empty.”

  “Is there any way we can help?” Fred offered.

  Interest flickered in Jazz’s eyes as she seemed to consider the offer. Before Hannah could remind Fred of their own lean operation—just the three of them to manage opening weekend here at the inn—another knock sounded at the door.

  Holy boomtown! What is it with everyone knocking this morning? Hannah thought irritably. She started to call out a greeting, but the door opened and a blond head poked through.

  “Knock, knock,” Shelton Long said, his face split with his customary grin. “Can a weary traveler get a room around here?”

  Now wasn’t the time for teasing, but he didn’t know that. Hannah couldn’t help the responding smile that curved her lips. “Sorry, all booked up.”

  “How about a big ole’ glass of sweet tea, then?” His tone was hopeful as he doffed his hat and stepped fully into the room. “I was in the area and thought I’d drop by and check on— Oh. Pardon me,” he said, interrupting himself when he saw the unfamiliar woman in the room. “I didn’t realize you had a guest already. Is this a bad time?”

  “Well—” Hannah said uncertainly, glancing at Jazz. The blond woman looked so forlorn.

  An idea occurred to her, and suddenly, Hannah’s face brightened. “Maybe not!”

  Fred frowned in confusion, until Hannah continued, “You’re good with horses, right? And know a lot about them?” She recalled the gentle way he had handled Willie Nelson.

  “I’d like to think so, being as I make my living with them.”

  “How busy are you this weekend?”

  It dawned on Fred where the conversation headed. She looked a bit skeptical at first, but eventually nodded her approval as Hannah picked up steam. “Because I think you may be just the man we’re looking for!” Hannah shot off.

  The farrier tried to look modest, but his smile was a bit too cocky to be convincing. “Well, that’s always nice to hear from a room full of pretty ladies.”

  “Please, come on in.” Hannah motioned him forward. “Let me introduce you to Jazz Dawson, owner of Hats Off Productions. They’re the outfit presenting the show this weekend. Jazz, this is our local far
rier, Shelton Long.”

  As the two shook hands and murmured polite greetings, Hannah went on, “Shelton, as it happens, is excellent with horses. I was very impressed with the way he handled our horses earlier this week, when he came out to re-shoe them. I think he may be able to help you with your predicament.”

  Jazz made the sounds of denial, but never quite finished her protest. “Oh, but—”

  Hannah turned to the man who was now perched on a burlap ottoman, his long legs arranged like sticks in the cramped position. “Jazz,” she explained to the farrier, “is in immediate need of a wrangler for the show. I know it’s asking a lot, but do you think you could help her out?”

  He was already shaking his head. “I’d like to, I really would, but there’s just no way I—”

  Hannah interrupted without apology. “There’s been a sudden death. The show’s wrangler passed away unexpectedly in the middle of the night. I wouldn’t dream of asking you otherwise, but this is an emergency.”

  “Oh.” He looked taken aback by the news. Reports of any death were always hard to hear, even when the deceased was a stranger. “Oh, I see.” But the creases between his brows belied his words. The grooves deepened, as he asked, “No, I guess I don’t. How could I help?”

  Jazz was the one to answer, having apparently warmed to the idea. “I’m in desperate need of someone to feed and care for the animals, Mr. Long. Horses, mostly. We have a few skits with dogs, which Duke and Madge train and handle, and we have one llama. Like Hannah said, I know it’s a lot to ask, but we’re between a rock and a hard place. It’s not just that we’re down a man with no one available to care for the horses. We’ll be taking an emotional hit, too, just as soon as the shock wears off.” She blew out a deep breath, disrupting the curls resting on her forehead. “Right now, it still seems like a bad mistake. I keep thinking he’ll walk in any minute, complaining about something.” Her chuckle held more sorrow than amusement. “Rusty was a grumpy old cuss, but he was our old cuss. We’ll miss him something fierce.”