by K. Gresham
Then he realized his greatest fear had returned. The same dog materialized at the edge of his camp. Chip gave up trying to keep the sleeping bag at his middle, and scrambled, naked, onto the top of the outhouse.
To his relief, the dog ignored him and his campsite. It ran to the other side of the clearing and disappeared into the brush.
Chip began to crawl down from his perch when a breathless redhead, short but definitely stacked, appeared from the rise of bushes where his clothes were laid out to dry.
Barely sparing him a glance, she disappeared into the brush after the barking dog.
Stunned into paralysis, Chip waited a moment before chancing to come down from the roof again. He dangled a leg over the side when a man, jean-clad and wearing a clerical collar, came bursting forth from the bushes.
Chip froze as the man paused, looking for something. The preacher turned a questioning gaze at Chip. Understanding the query, Chip pointed in the direction the dog and woman had gone.
The pastor had barely cleared the grass when a man dressed in full sheriff’s uniform burst through the bushes. “Which way?” he demanded.
Buck naked and white as a sheet, Chip cupped his hands over his privates and nodded with his head. “They went that way,” he said.
He could have sworn he heard the sheriff mutter “Damned Yankee,” before he disappeared in the brush, but Chip didn’t take the time to let the words register as an insult.
He jumped from the outhouse roof and grabbed his sleeping bag, then his wallet. He didn’t care if he had to hop all the way to Houston; he was getting the hell out of this god-forsaken state.
Suddenly he heard a woman scream high and loud. The sound scared flocks of birds from the bushes and sent ducks squawking across the swamp. The scream came from the direction in which the dog, the redhead, the preacher and the sheriff had disappeared.
This place was full of loonies, Chip Carouthers decided as he hopped toward the road. He was out of here.
Chapter Nine
What We Have Here . . .
“Twenty-four hours. At least.” Sheriff James W. Novak stared down at the bloodied, cold body of Maeve O’Day, his voice quiet now that Angie’s screams had subsided.
Maeve O’Day might have been a beautiful woman, Matt Hayden decided as he studied the corpse. Her hair, though mostly gray, was thick and wavy.
Those things were hard to see when her skin was gray and the look frozen on her sunken face was one of horrific agony.
Mercifully, James W. had at least closed the old woman’s eyes.
Matt turned to Angie. She sat on a nearby stump, Shadow at her knee. Her first reaction of horror had given way to stunned grief. Her arms hung at her sides as if no life was in them. Her eyes stared sightlessly at her mother’s body.
“A lot of blood here.” James W. gestured to the knee-high grass around the body. “Probably survived the gunshot, but not the loss of blood.” He raised his head as his deputy, Richard Dube, broke through the bushes. The deputy carried a black plastic sheet under his arm, and Matt knew then that James W. had been expecting the worst all along.
Wordlessly the deputy handed the sheet to the sheriff, and James W. unfolded the cover and placed it over Maeve O’Day.
Out of sight definitely did not put the bloodied corpse out of mind, Matt decided.
“Call the coroner, Richard,” James W. said quietly. “Gotta autopsy this one.”
Richard, too tall and too thin to be of much help in the policing field in Matt’s estimation, looked relieved to have a reason to leave the bloodied scene. If Matt guessed right, the young deputy would be tossing his cookies before he ever made it back to James W.’s green Dodge.
“The blood type’ll match what we found on Shadow,” James W. continued. “I’ll bet the ranch on that.” He raised his head and gazed at Angie. “I’m sure sorry about this, Angie.”
Angie blinked as if she didn’t recognize her name at first. As she stared at the black sheet covering Maeve O’Day, Matt knew she could still see the decayed condition of her mother’s face. Angie swallowed hard, then focused on the sheriff. “Who would’ve brought her out here?”
James W. walked over to her and knelt down. “Angie, I don’t think anybody brought your mamma out here. This was a horrible thing, honey, but there doesn’t seem to be any foul play here.”
Matt stepped forward, but James W. held him off with a sharp stare. “Eight miles out ain’t too far for a person to wander when they’re lost. Your mamma spent most of the last coupla years lost. In her head.”
“You’re sayin’ this was an accident?” Angie’s voice was quiet, but the look in her eye was lethal.
“Angie, we both saw that Yankee. Looked a damned fool if ever I saw one. That don’t make him a murderer.” James W. stood and placed his hand on Angie’s shoulder. “Your mamma was in the wrong place at the wrong time, is all.”
“Somebody poisoned Shadow,” she pointed out.
The sheriff shook his head. “There’s no tellin’ what that dog coulda got into. Do you know how many tool sheds and farm buildings are between here and Wilks?”
“What about the preacher saying Mamma was in a car?” Angie pleaded.
“Shadow’s not a purebred bloodhound. Of course he had trouble following Maeve’s scent. Now, pastors know preachin’,” James W. said and stared hard at Matt. “I know police work.”
Matt held James W.’s gaze for a long moment. The threat in the sheriff’s eye was clear. Matt nodded, quietly agreeing to save his argument for later.
“Angie, you need to get out of here.” The new voice came from behind, and the three turned to find Bo, the ice house bartender, standing behind them. “You’ve seen enough.”
Angie swallowed hard and shook off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather blowing in from the north. “I don’t want to leave her,” she whispered when she could.
“She ain’t here,” Bo said firmly. He looked at the tarp covering Maeve O’Day’s remains. “And Angie, you shouldn’t be here either. Let the cops do their work.”
The matter settled, Bo stepped forward and took Angie’s elbow. She struggled to her feet. “When will Mamma’s body be released?”
James W. took Angie’s other arm to help steady her. “I’ll call you, Angie. You go home. Warm up. As soon as the coroner gives me an idea, I’ll let you know.”
She nodded, took two steps, then turned back and looked at Matt. “James W. might not want to hear what you have to say, but I do, Preacher. I’ll be talking to you later.”
Matt nodded, then watched her disappear with Bo and Shadow into the woods.
Chapter Ten
His Mom’s Pride and Joy
“I guess you’ve got something to say, Preacher.” Sheriff James W. Novak slapped his hat on his head. The gesture did little to protect him from the spikes of rain that had begun to stab from the sky.
Pastor Matt Hayden kicked off the tree he’d been leaning against for shelter while the sheriff had gone about the business of recording death. He’d watched as the sheriff measured distances, took photographs and documented the death of Maeve O’Day. He gave a handkerchief to Richard Dube so the deputy could wipe a drop of swill off his face. Finally, he’d lent a hand to lift Maeve O’Day’s body into the back of the ambulance.
“This ain’t a crime scene, Preacher.” James W. walked side by side with Matt back to his Dodge, which Deputy Dube had driven to the nearby clearing.
“Didn’t say this was the crime scene,” Matt said as he climbed into the cab. He wiped the rain from his face and turned full on the sheriff. “The crime scene is back in Wilks.”
James W. took off his hat and ran a hand over his burr. “Preacher, I like you a lot. But this ain’t your territory.”
“James W.—”
The sheriff held up his hand. “People need your kind. Quiet-like. Peaceful. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”
Matt stared hard at the sheriff. In that moment of silence a stiff w
ind rocked the cab, sending a sheet of loud rain against the windshield. “Ashamed?”
James W. smiled at Matt. “No offense, Preacher. But you’re kind of the passive type. And that’s good,” he added quickly when he saw Matt’s anger flare. “But tryin’ to dig up problems where none exist ain’t the way to get people to respect you.”
Matt held his temper in check. It took a few swallows to do so. “People don’t respect me,” he repeated.
“Sure they do, Preacher,” James W. said quickly. “A lot of folk saw you take that punch from Angie.” He let his gaze wander out to the front of the cab where heavy, black roiled in the sky. “Now you’re tryin’ to impress us with how much you know.”
“You think I’m embarrassed because Angie decked me?”
The sheriff chuckled. “She sure did.”
Matt strove for control. For him, taking that punch from Angie had been the most caring thing he could do for her at the time.
“You let people push you around sometimes,” James W. said. “I know Elsbeth tore you a new one about going over to Angie’s on Friday for lunch.”
“I see.”
James W. cleared his throat uncomfortably. He turned the ignition of his truck. “Might as well head home.”
“You can drop me at the parsonage.” Matt kept his tone flat.
“Now, Preacher, don’t get your feathers up. I’m only tryin’ to sort out what I’ve got before me. What happened to Maeve was an accident.”
Matt held up his hands in surrender, then folded them in his lap for prayer. Prayer, he knew, was the only thing that would keep him in check at that moment. He’d learned that pretty fast after his own father had been killed.
“Lackin’ further evidence—” James W. drew a steadying breath—“I have to toe the line on this one.” James W. peered at Matt before turning onto the dirt road that led from the deer lease. “No hard feelin’s?”
“You’re making a mistake, James W. About Maeve O’Day’s cause of death, anyway. As for me—” Matt had gained enough control to offer a smile. “I guess maybe I’m just a good listener. If that makes me a wimp—” He shrugged, but this time his smile was genuine. “My mom would be pleasantly surprised.”
Chapter Eleven
Ernie Masterson
The Sinclair station owner considered himself a good-looking man. At fifty-five, Ernie Masterson maintained his light brown hair without the aid of a tube, and he kept his five-foot-ten frame fairly free of a beer belly. His best attribute was his eyes, however. Not only were they green . . . which the women loved . . . but they didn’t miss a thing. He knew pretty much everything that went on in Wilks. He liked making people nervous. Nobody in town dared consider him a simple grease monkey. Not if they wanted their secrets to remain secrets, anyway.
His station was ideally located just off the town square, allowing him a perfect view of all of the comings and goings of the citizens of Wilks. He’d been every intentional in choosing this spot.
On his right, Ernie could see all four sides of the town square. On the far side of the square, just beyond the Muster Tree, sat Miss Olivia’s mansion. He chuckled. Every time the old woman looked out her front window, she saw his Sinclair Station and fretted over her property values.
To his left, he had a full view of Angie’s place, the Colorado River and Grace Lutheran Church. The parishioners still hadn’t figured out he had a birds eye view of every person that came and went from that place, and not just the ones who came for Bible Studies. Ernie had picked up on more than one marriage that was in trouble when the couple came in for counselling.
It was just about twenty-four hours since Maeve O’Day had been found dead on his property, and the questions he’d had to answer about that damn Yankee renting his deer lease had taken up most of the morning. Now the sun was setting, and it was time for him to get a drink. He passed Warren Yeck’s broken-down ’75 pea-green Chevy as he headed out. The car had been an eyesore, rotting in the garage side yard for ten years now. He smiled. He loved the idea that he was personally bringing down the property values on the home of that old witch.
He crossed Mason Street to put in his nightly appearance at the Fire and Ice House. He liked the fact his Sinclair was right across from the local bar. He reveled in the fact that the Ice House was in such close proximity to Miss Olivia’s mansion across the square.
Ernie chuckled. Miss Olivia must do a slow burn every time she walked out her front door.
Ernie stood in front of the Ice House when he saw a familiar figure walking across the Colorado River Bridge. “Hey there, Pastor,” he said, his grin wide at being caught going in for his nightly happy hour.
“Ernie.” Pastor Matt Hayden greeted him, deciding not to offer a handshake when he saw the grease layered thick across the man’s palm.
As they stood there, a neon Budweiser light popped on in the Fire and Ice House front window. “They’re open today?” Matt asked in surprise.
Ernie shrugged. “Town still gets thirsty.”
Matt considered that. The day after Maeve O’Day had been found dead, Angie had decided to keep the Fire and Ice House open.
He forgot the letter that he was going to post and followed Ernie into the Ice House.
The bar looked as it always had—neon lights reflecting in the mirror behind the bar, low-hung fluorescent tubes casting white glows on the tattered pool tables. The corner juke bubbled bright yellow and orange water, while the ceiling over the bar and dance floor glittered with small Christmas lights.
Despite the look of the place, however, the mood in the Fire and Ice House was subdued. Bo was behind the bar in his usual black T-shirt, but now the bandanna and jeans that he wore were black as well. The song coming from the jukebox was a mournful Willie Nelson singing about Georgia. The patrons talked in hushed voices such that the total of the noise in the place was surprisingly quiet.
“Mind if I join you?” Matt asked of Ernie.
A flash of surprise showed on the garage owner’s face, but he let it slide into a knowing sneer. Dirt on a pastor was the best kind of dirt. And a single man who drank was an interesting view of the man who had come so piously to Wilks. “Sure, Pastor. If you want.”
The two men sat at the booth nearest the bar. “Let me buy the first round, Pastor,” Ernie said jovially, then raised a hand in Bo’s direction.
Bo didn’t answer Ernie’s call. Angie O’Day, dressed in a black T-shirt and blue jeans, her hair swept back in a black bandanna, came through the kitchen swinging doors and caught sight of Ernie’s signal.
She sent a glare in Ernie’s direction, then noted with surprise the fact that Matt sat across from him. Curious, she walked up to the booth. “What’re you doin’ here?”
Matt noted happily that her tone toward him was no longer filled with contempt. Rather, she almost seemed relieved to see him. “Thought I’d check on how you were doing. I didn’t realize you’d be open today.”
Angie shrugged. “People still have to eat.”
Matt looked at Bo behind the bar, and noted that Dorothy Jo was working in the kitchen as well. He nodded. “Crowded for a Monday, isn’t it?”
Angie grimaced. “Murder brings out curiosity seekers, I guess.”
“Murder?” Ernie repeated.
Angie scowled. “That’s what I call it.”
Matt saw Angie’s anger flare and quickly moved to diffuse it. “Two drafts, huh, Ernie?”
Ernie and Angie both turned surprised gazes his way.
“Sure, Preacher.” Ernie let a grin settle on his face as Angie walked away. “You a drinkin’, man, Preacher?”
“Like Martin Luther, I appreciate an occasional beer,” Matt said, immediately realizing his retort sounded more defensive than he’d intended.
“Sure,” Ernie agreed, warmly. His gaze quickly turned curious. “So do you think Maeve O’Day was murdered?”
Matt did indeed believe it was murder, but he didn’t want to state it so blatantly. “In any case, it w
as a tragedy.”
Ernie nodded his head. “I’ve never rented to a Yankee before. That Carouthers fellow was about as sharp as mashed potatoes, but he had more money than God. I thought it was a joke leasin’ him the land, but a joke I’d make money on.”
Matt studied Ernie, weighing whether the mechanic felt any remorse about renting to the inexperienced hunter.
“If I had thought someone would get hurt . . .” Ernie shook his head. “Hell, I’ve been rentin’ out that property since I got it from Miss Olivia in 1980. Ain’t never had anything like this happen before.” Ernie slipped a pack of Camels out of his pocket and tapped one out. “Guess I missed all of the excitement yesterday.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. “I got there after all the shootin’ was over.”
“Here you go, Preacher.”
Matt looked up to see Bo standing beside the table with two frosted mugs on a corked tray. Matt’s gaze passed beyond to watch Angie dab at her eyes before disappearing into the kitchen.
“Thanks.” Matt waited for Bo to place the drinks on the table. “Is Angie okay?”
Bo looked in the direction of the kitchen. “No,” he answered.
“Maybe I’ll talk to her in a little bit.”
Bo gave a slight nod to the pastor, glared hard at the gas station owner and walked back to the bar.
Matt turned his attention back to Ernie. “So how did Carouthers come to find out you had land to lease?”
“Got a website.” Ernie took a long chug at his beer, draining a third of the glass. “Call came in on Christmas Eve, of all things. Had the whole family over for doin’s. I charged Carouthers three times the lease just for callin’ on a holiday. He paid up without a grunt. We toasted the stupid jerk.” He offered a small smile in Matt’s direction. “You should try Elsbeth’s wassail sometimes. Has a great kick.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Ernie stuck his cigarette in his lips and lit it. “Even Miss Olivia got a chuckle over the deal.”
