Busted in Broken Hearts Junction

by Meg Muldoon

  “Seemed like I was the only one around here that really cared about Jake getting murdered.”

  “How come you never said anything before about this, Law Dog?” Fletcher asked. “How come I’m only finding out now about Clay’s father being murdered at The Cupid?”

  It was a question that I had been asking myself as well: how come I had never heard of somebody else being murdered at The Stupid Cupid Saloon. Fletcher had been here in Broken Hearts for less than a year, so it made sense that he hadn’t heard the story. But even me, who was as big of a fan of that saloon as there was, hadn’t heard about anyone getting shot there. It would seem that a story like that would be hard to keep quiet in a town this size. But then again, 25 years was a long time. And I wouldn’t have been much older than 10 years old when it happened.

  “‘Cuz I only found out myself yesterday who Clay really was,” Lawrence said, leaning forward. “You see, Clay paid me a visit late yesterday morning here at the house. Had this old letter from his father that mentioned my name. Said he wanted to know every detail about what his old man was doing here and what happened to him.”

  “I don’t know why Clay didn’t tell me any of this,” Fletcher said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “We were stuck in that car for six hours getting here from Boise, and the kid didn’t say a word.”

  “I think I might know why,” Lawrence said quietly.

  “Why?”

  Law Dog took in a deep breath.

  “I asked him what he planned to do about all this,” he said. “He didn’t say. But when he stood up to leave, I saw something tucked away in his jeans.”

  Lawrence rubbed his hands together nervously.

  “It was a gun, Fletch,” he said, his voice trembling. “I told him, ‘Don’t go doing anything stupid.’ And it was like he didn’t even hear me. I tell you, Fletch, the kid was on a mission to kill whoever took his Pop away from him.”

  Fletcher placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder again.

  “Who could’ve done this to him, Law Dog?” he said.

  Lawrence swallowed hard.

  “It’ll sound crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “But I think it was her. Jake’s woman. I think she did it. She killed Jake then. And she tried to kill their son now.”

  Lawrence put his hands up to his face.

  “God rest poor Jake Warner’s soul.”

  Chapter 32

  The storm had rolled on past Broken Hearts Junction, leaving behind a clean blue sky, bitterly cold temperatures, and a coat of treacherous ice across the high desert. Fields of frosty crystals sparkled along the shoulder of the highway. And it seemed as though every living thing, and non-living thing for that matter, out here was trapped in glass.

  I reached forward, blasting the truck’s heater while Fletcher drove, keeping his eyes glued to the road ahead of us. We inched along the empty highway. Most folks seemed to have had enough sense to stay indoors in this kind of weather.

  Fletcher rubbed his chin, and he had a faraway look in his eyes as he stared out at the vast white landscape in front of us.

  I knew Law Dog’s story was still ringing in his ears. The way it had been ringing in mine since we’d left him back at Fletcher’s house.

  I dug my hands deeper into my jacket pocket, feeling for the old photograph again. I felt the smooth, worn paper and clutched onto it.

  I couldn’t decide whether I should tell Fletcher or not.

  After all, it didn’t much help anything right now, did it? Me seeing through the eyes of Jake Warner in a vision didn’t exactly classify itself as evidence.

  Still, they didn’t have much to go on right now in terms of who did this. And these visions of mine… they might be able to help.

  “You doing okay?” Fletcher said, glancing over at me as if he knew I was thinking hard on something.

  I took in a deep breath, then pulled the photograph from my pocket.

  Wasn’t any use keeping something like this from Fletcher, I figured. He could always tell when something was bothering me anyway.

  “I have something I need to tell you,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “What is it?”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen this woman,” I said, tapping the picture lightly.

  His pupils grew wide as he looked at me and then at the picture.

  “You know her?” he said. “You’ve seen her in town?”

  I shook my head.

  “No,” I said.

  “Then where?”

  I took in another deep breath.

  “In one of my visions,” I said.

  The words came out hardly above a whisper.

  Fletcher turned his eyes back onto the road abruptly and didn’t respond. A hollow, empty silence flooded the truck.

  I swallowed hard.

  I waited a little longer for a response, but one never came.

  I felt the knot in my stomach tighten.

  It wasn’t that Fletcher didn’t believe in my matchmaking visions. I knew that he did. He had, after all, seen their workings firsthand.

  I just got the feeling he didn’t fully understand them.

  But neither did I.

  I let out a sharp breath, and continued on.

  “It was last night when I was driving over to my mom’s,” I said. “I got one of them.”

  “How come you didn’t tell me about that?” Fletcher said in a low voice.

  I shrugged.

  “There hasn’t been any time.”

  “So you saw it before Clay was shot?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  Fletcher rubbed the stubble on his chin some more, then checked in the rearview mirror.

  “I saw that woman in a bar, through the eyes of her soulmate,” I said. “Her name’s Marie Altier. She was a back-up singer.”

  I closed my eyes, the vividness of the vision strong in my mind’s eye.

  “I think it was the 80s. Maybe the 90s. It was on the eve of some big day. The other guy in the vision was saying something about that. He said, Don’t go soft on me, Jake. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Jake…” Fletcher said. “You heard that name? In the vision?”

  I nodded.

  “You were seeing it from Jake Warner’s perspective?” he asked.

  I nodded again.

  We pulled up into the hospital parking lot. He killed the engine, but made no motion to get out of the car.

  I sat there, waiting for him to say something. Anything. Anything at all.

  But there was nothing but a big gaping hole of silence.

  I swallowed back raw emotion.

  “Is that it?” I finally said. “You’ve got nothing to say?”

  He looked over at me, meeting my eyes. His were cold.

  “Hell, Loretta. What do you want me to say?”

  “That you believe me,” I said. “That you’re glad I told you.”

  He didn’t respond, and each cutting moment of silence hurt me more deeply than the one before.

  “Never mind,” I finally said, pushing the door open with my elbow. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

  “Loretta, don’t—”

  But I didn’t hear the rest of what he said.

  I’d already slammed the car door and was halfway across the parking lot.

  People sometimes thought that if you found the right person to love – your soulmate – that things would be daffodils and peach orchards for the rest of your life.

  What a crock.

  Chapter 33

  Need 2 see you at The Cupid. ASAP

  I stood near the window of Clay’s hospital room, reading the text message on my phone.

  As typical of Raymond, there was no asking about it. No ‘please’ or ‘thank you.’ Just telling you what to do like he was a bossy fifth grade girl.

  I sat there for a spell, wondering just how to respond.

  It wasn’t but a few seconds later that my phone buzzed again as another mess
age came through.

  Urgent

  Damn Raymond.

  But I supposed maybe I was looking for an excuse to take a break from these drab, depressing, sterile hallways for a little while.

  Clay’s condition hadn’t improved, but it hadn’t worsened either. He was sedated and hadn’t been able to speak since being shot. The doctor’s assessment of his chances had remained the same, and he’d said these next 24 hours would be critical in determining whether the kid was going to pull through or not.

  Fletcher and I had been here for several hours. Fletch had been reading some tattered copy of a Zane Grey book to Clay. Clay’s face was blue, his shut eyelids were swollen, and he was hooked up to wires and tubes and machines of all sorts.

  It was hard seeing him like that. Real hard, knowing that he might not get any better.

  Maybe Clay Westwood hadn’t been on his best behavior since showing up in Broken Hearts Junction. But he certainly didn’t deserve to be here like this.

  Seeing Fletcher sitting there, reading to his friend the way he was, almost made the hurt from earlier melt away.

  Almost.

  Maybe it was selfish of me to be thinking in these terms with his friend laid up in the hospital like this. But I didn’t much appreciate being made to feel like I was crazy from anyone, let alone my boyfriend.

  I knew that my visions weren’t exactly an easy thing to get a grasp on. Hell, nobody in my family believed them, despite all the proof I’d had over the years of my supernatural matchmaking abilities. I didn’t expect Fletcher to just buy into it all right away.

  But I did expect him to support me. No matter how crazy and deranged I might have sounded to him.

  I’d been staring out the window of Clay’s hospital room, listening to Fletcher read, thinking about all that, when my phone buzzed.

  And though I didn’t exactly feel much like seeing Raymond Rollins, I was glad to have an excuse to get some fresh air.

  I grabbed my coat from off the table in the corner and started putting it on.

  “I have to go to The Cupid, Fletch,” I said.

  “What for?”

  “The cops want to talk to me there,” I said.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said, getting up.

  “No,” I said. “They want to talk to me alone.”

  Fletcher furrowed his brow, looking hard at me.

  “Then I’ll give you a ride.”

  I shook my head.

  “I want to be alone for a little while,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”

  “Loretta, don’t be like that,” he said, coming over to me. “I didn’t mean anything by what I said or didn’t say earlier. I just… I just don’t like you being involved with this.”

  “And you think I do?” I said.

  “I can’t have you in danger.”

  He looked at me sharply.

  “I just can’t have it.”

  He stared at me for a long, long moment.

  I took in a deep breath.

  “I can’t help getting these, Fletch,” I said. “I wish I could. But I can’t. This is who I am.”

  I brushed past him, grabbing the car keys off of the table. Then I walked quickly out of the room, and even quicker down the hospital’s hallway.

  Chapter 34

  The Cupid was shuttered up, but the saloon’s parking lot was more crowded than I’d ever seen it before. Even more crowded than Fourth of July this past summer, when we booked up-and-coming alt-country band Copper Canyon and had half-priced Watermelon Margaritas.

  I took in a sharp breath, seeing the crowd milling around the outside of The Cupid, like so many zombies clambering at the saloon’s heavy door.

  Oh no.

  There were news vans and television crews and reporters with microphones and notepads decked out in fur-hooded parkas and impractical winter fashions. A sure sign that it was a lot more than just the hapless TV reporters over at News Channel 21 wanting a scoop on what happened the night before at The Cupid.

  In the midst of all of it, I saw Raymond’s police car parked near the back of the lot.

  I half wondered if I shouldn’t give up on the notion of meeting Raymond here and just head back to the hospital instead. Stepping out of my car in this kind of mob was a sure invitation to days, maybe even weeks, of harassment.

  The dangerous road conditions up on the passes hadn’t kept the national media from descending upon Broken Hearts in full force.

  Clay’s words suddenly echoed in my head. About the good business we’d do if it came to be known that he got in a fight at The Cupid.

  I closed my eyes.

  I would’ve given anything right now if none of this had happened. If Clay was instead on a flight back to Tennessee or LA instead of laid up, half-dead, in the Broken Hearts Memorial Center.

  I circled the lot and then rolled out of it, hooking a right down Main Street. A few blocks down, I turned left into one of the downtown parking spaces. I killed the engine and sat for a few moments, thinking about what to do.

  I pulled out my phone, glancing at Raymond’s blunt, to-the-point text message.

  Urgent.

  There really wasn’t much of a choice.

  I let out a sigh, then stepped out of the truck. My breath froze in front of me like cartoon word clouds.

  I headed toward The Cupid, watching as yet another TV news van rolled down Main Street, going in the same direction.

  Chapter 35

  “Were you here when Clay got shot, miss? What did he say? What were his final—”

  I slammed the heavy back door of the saloon behind me, putting an end to the reporter’s questions. I locked it and leaned back against the cold metal, trying to catch my breath.

  Though I had tried my best to get in quietly, sneaking up back around Mule Street to the saloon’s back delivery door, my arrival at The Cupid hadn’t gone unnoticed. A persistent few had caught sight of me, running after me like dogs after a T-bone steak. Shouting questions as fast as they could, as if that would entice me to talk to them about what it was like to see a famous country star bleed all over my saloon.

  “There ought to be a law against those vermin loitering out there,” a deep, heavyset voice said from somewhere in the shadows, making me jump. “Just a bunch of leeches, you ask me.”

  Raymond came from out of the darkness, his black shoes clicking loudly against the linoleum floor.

  He was dressed in his khaki uniform and had his hair combed off to one side. His face was red, most likely on account of the cold. He had his arms crossed over his rather large mid-section in a tough-guy stance.

  “They’re just doing their job,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure they are. If the world needed more rodents.”

  I let out a sigh.

  I didn’t much care for Raymond’s way of conversing. He tended to have a negative outlook on the world most of the time. I didn’t much care for the reporters outside my door just now, but I wouldn’t go so far as to compare them to small furry animals.

  “How’d you get in here?” I said.

  “I have my ways,” he said, not elaborating.

  I shook my head.

  “Great,” I said, unzipping my jacket. “That makes me feel real warm and cozy inside.”

  As I took my coat off, I caught Raymond staring at me. His stare lasted a little too long to feel comfortable.

  “Raymond?” I said.

  He cleared his throat, digging his hands into his khakis.

  “Well, in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m not on the Westwood case, Loretta,” he said. “The chief knows this is going to make national headlines, and he doesn’t want any cops with, uh, with other-than sterling records to help with the investigation.”

  “Well, that’s a real shame,” I said, letting my sarcasm get the better of me. “But if you’re not on the case, then why are you—”

  “Frankly, I’ve been trying to get myself out of this hole that you put me in last year for a long, long whi
le, Loretta,” he said, scratching his forehead.

  I furrowed my brow.

  The hole I had put him in?

  How he saw his poor police work as my doing was beyond me.

  “The way I remember it, you didn’t need much help digging that hole, Raymond,” I said. “Maybe if you wouldn’t have let jealousy get in your way, you would have done a decent job on Dale’s murder investigation.”

  Raymond smiled bitterly.

  “Let’s not mince words, sweetheart,” he said. “Besides, jealousy isn’t always such a bad thing. Smart people get jealous. I mean, if I were you, I’d be pretty damn jealous myself right now.”

  I shook my head, not understanding one word of the gibberish he’d just rattled off.

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” I said.

  Raymond looked down, that bitter smile turning into a cruel one.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose you do.”

  I placed my hands on my hips, suddenly feeling hot under the collar.

  Though Raymond wasn’t making much sense, I could read between the lines well enough to see that he was implying something about Fletcher and me.

  Raymond hadn’t changed one bit.

  “Is this what you brought me here for? Because frankly, I’ve got better things to do than to stand here listening to—”

  “Fine. It’s none of my business,” he said, holding up his hands.

  I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth and crossed my arms.

  Raymond was messing with me. For what reasons, I didn’t exactly know.

  But maybe his sort didn’t need any reason to be unpleasant. It just came naturally.

  “And to think, we were getting along so well just the other day,” I said, leaning my head back against the wall, recapturing my cool.