by Rae Renzi
A moment later Ruby stepped through the side door to the garage and motioned Donnie over.
Donnie dashed from behind the oak tree to the side of the house and dropped down to his knees to crawl under the windows and over to the garage. I badly wanted to join him to peek in the windows—what did motorcycle guys do on their nights off?—but didn’t dare. My role was to keep a watch out and distract Clydes, if necessary.
“Donnie—he seems like a nice guy, don’t you think? Responsible.”
“Yes, a fine boy. I just hope he can handle a wrench, or hammer. Or whatever you use on those machines.” I slapped at a mosquito and looked at my feet to make sure I wasn’t standing in poison ivy or some other noxious thing.
The strike team—Ruby, Donnie, and Ronnie—had been gone only for a few minutes when the front door banged open and three solid forms sauntered out. Lit from behind, their faces were dark, and their shadows loomed ominously, stretching across the lawn toward us.
My heart drummed in my chest, but I didn’t panic. I reasoned. Three people leaving, none of them Clydes, did not constitute an emergency. Even if Clydes were among the decamping trio, his departure was no cause for alarm—I doubted his friends would cheerfully transport him to a location of his choosing in order to help him commit suicide. I decided to wait to see what happened next.
That, it turned out, was a mistake.
The night air suddenly vibrated with the simulated thunder of motorcycle engines coming to life. I was startled and distracted, and that’s why I failed in my duty.
The bikes wheeled around and zoomed off, one by one, into the humid night. I stared after them until their taillights were a distant glow, giddy with relief. Not that I wouldn’t have rallied to the cause and raced out to confront or confuse them if I needed to, but, honestly, I was happy not to—they were still as foreign to me as a different country.
It was then, while I was reveling in having dodged that particular bullet, that I heard the back door slam. I poked my head around the tree just in time to see Clydes disappear through the side door to the garage.
Squawking in alarm, I raced into the garage as Clydes bellowed, “What the hell are you doing?”
Donnie, kneeling beside the motorcycle, leapt up and spun around, wrench in hand, his face contorted in fear. “I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m doing! What the hell am I doing?”
Not a bad tactic, really. It had the effect of silencing Clydesdale for a moment and replaced the anger on his face with stern confusion. He frowned at the boy. “You don’t know what you’re doing?”
Donnie, whose eyes were still ringed with white, replied, “No, I don’t! They just don’t want you to commit suicide—that’s all.”
Ruby and Ronnie moved protectively beside Donnie, though they both had to know their support was only for show.
“No, we don’t. Or, if you don’t mind, Clydesdale, murder,” I put in.
He cocked his head around to stare at me, looking not particularly surprised to find me in his garage. My words took a moment to sink in, but Clydesdale, who might have been uneducated but was far from dim, said, “So you figured that if you kept me busy with my bike, I’d stick around a while longer.”
“Ruby was afraid you… might do something rash, yes. I don’t think taking your own life would get you where you want to go, Clydes.” I actually had no idea, as the topic of suicide had never come up among the Departed of my acquaintance, but it seemed like a theologically and rationally sound argument, and this wasn’t the moment to split hairs.
“Ruby sent you?” he asked Donnie.
“Yes,” I said quickly. I didn’t want him to know Ruby was with us or to encourage him in any way to remain attached to her spiritual form. “She sensed your need.”
Clydes nodded slowly. “Okay, then. I get it. I’m being a spoiled brat, like Ruby always said.” He looked at his feet a minute, sadness etched in every line of his face. “I reckon there’s no shortcut in life, and only a fool would try for one. I’ll give it a little more time.” He heaved a big sigh and looked back up at Donnie. “You mess it up yet?”
“The bike? No, sir. Nope, only got the cover off. Didn’t mess anything up. Nothing at all. Nada.”
Clydes nodded again and walked over to the bike. “So, you want a ride home, kid? Put on that helmet.”
Donnie hesitated only for a second before he whooped and said, “Yes, sir!”
Clydes tossed Donnie a helmet and looked back at me. “I reckon I’ll need some help with getting over Ruby. Your partner—she seemed to think she could help. Can you see to that?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Relief surged through me—I had been worried about convincing Clydes to forgo suicide. When that concern was lifted, another emotion trickled into its place. Hope.
“A client, Marybob. A real live, human, adult client!”
“Oooh. Perfect, perfect, perfect. I can see it now: dark and dreamy, candles and gauzy stuff. He won’t have a chance.”
Marybob was thrilled. Of course she was—it meant she could act the part of Madam Mystique. I wasn’t sure about using a séance to introduce Clydesdale to new romance. It seemed a little dreary. On the other hand, with Marybob running the show, perhaps dreary wasn’t the biggest challenge.
“We do have one tiny hurdle to overcome first,” I reminded her.
“Yeah, I know. But I can help you with your clothes—”
“I was thinking more along the lines that we don’t have a woman for Clydes yet.”
“Oh, that. No sweat. We’ll find someone pronto.”
“I hope so, because without a woman, the séance is kaput.”
“Oh, we’ll have that séance, don’t you worry. You’ll see. It’ll be slicker than snot.”
Not the words I would have used, but I responded to her intended meaning. “I guess once we find a good match, everything else should fall into place.”
In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined the place in question and exactly how we would fall into it.
Chapter 35
Clydes had been talked down from the ledge, so to speak, but we needed to firm up his flagging spirits and fast. I had the solution: Cherry Belle Swanson. From Mr. Heckenkamp’s description, she’d be perfect for the job and was, in fact, Bereaved herself.
Marybob concurred. “Hot damn, girl. Double-dipping. Now, that’s what we could use a little more of!” I couldn’t disagree. With less than a month to go, I needed all the money we could get. Legally.
Cherry Belle was the widow of a champion rodeo bull rider who had ridden one too many. A barrel racer herself, Cherry Belle had been Arkansas Rodeo Queen in her younger days before she moved to Texas. It had been some time since the fatal bull ride, and apparently she was waffling about going back on the market when Mr. Heckenkamp, our grandfatherly Departed, told me about her. How Mr. Heckenkamp came to know of her was a topic of lively speculation between Marybob and me. He was intent on it remaining a mystery, in spite of my hints. He also suggested I approach her on familiar ground, at a local rodeo.
Accordingly, a few days later, on a lovely Saturday morning, I pulled on my jeans and boots, which, needless to say, had never encountered livestock (aside from hamburgers and such, which, being dead, did not qualify as livestock). I shrugged into my jean jacket and tied a bandana around Alice’s neck. I wished I had a cowboy hat, but I didn’t. I picked up the professional-looking folder for DDDS that Marybob and I had put together and hooked Alice up to her sparkly leash (although reluctantly, as I halfway suspected no self-respecting cowdog would wear rhinestones). The two of us—or, rather, the three of us, with Ruby—picked up Marybob, who was dressed in blue jeans and a hot-pink Western-style shirt fastened with pearly snaps that threatened to pop open if she took a deep breath. Needless to say, she had a matching hat and boots. There was a moment of confusion when she opened the door and sat on—or, rather, in—Ruby, but once our seating arrangements had been straightened out (mortals in front, spirits and dogs in bac
k) we headed down Interstate Highway 10 toward Columbus, Texas, and the Colorado County Rodeo.
Driving onto the rodeo fairgrounds was like driving into a scene from a movie. Clouds of dust billowed up from the unpaved road, generated by the scores of trucks trundling across the landscape. Long trailers full of bawling cows cluttered the wide grassy verge, parked next to sleek and luxurious conveyances for horses. It was very Texas, but it felt like a different era.
The parking lot was full to overflowing with pickup trucks loaded with bales of hay, saddles, bridles, and other leathery things, including some ancient cowboys. I carefully navigated my sedan to one edge of the gravelly lot and eased into a gap between a shiny, black, two-door pick-up with a decal of a cowboy on a bucking horse and a smallish RV with the name Circle Bar S stenciled on its side. I emerged from the car, restraining an overly exuberant Alice, to the pleasant scent of warm horse, new hay, and fresh air, seasoned with an occasional whiff of cow manure.
“I think I’m in heaven,” Marybob said. True to her own internal compass, she’d oriented north, where a dozen long-legged cowboys, sun-kissed and lean, were gathered around a railed enclosure outside the main arena. They cast appraising eyes over whatever was inside as they joked and laughed with one another. Each and every one of them wore boots, hats, and snug-fitting jeans. I don’t think they carried an extra ounce among them.
Marybob sighed.
I had to agree. My eyes flitted from one to another, admiring their athletic forms, their easy camaraderie, and other things, until my roving gaze locked up. One of the cowboys sat atop the fence with his back toward us, balancing easily on the top rail. His brawny shoulders swelled against his close-fitting denim shirt, and a dark-brown hat pulled low on his brow revealed short wayward hair curling on his neck. My eyes dropped to his hands, which loosely gripped the rail on each side. He wore leather gloves. Protective leather gloves. He turned his head to speak to one of his cohort, a wiry cowboy leaning on the fence beside him. Beneath the shadow of his hat, a dimple appeared in his cheek, and I was lost.
My ears buzzed. All I could think of was the feel of strong arms around me, the scent of clean sweat, firm lips against mine. My heart flew into my throat.
I don’t have a reasonable explanation for what happened next. Maybe it was the overabundance of pheromones, or the fresh air, or maybe I was having symptoms of traumatic stress. I don’t know. Dragging Alice on her sparkly leash, I surged forward until I reached the pen.
I grabbed his forearm. “Sam, I—”
The cowboy turned his head and fixed me with a pair of beautiful brown eyes. A slow smile warmed his face. “Well now, Sam ain’t the name I usually go by, but I’ll surely come to it if you’re the one’s who’s doin’ the callin’.”
My hand flew to my mouth. I was mortified, and my words got stuck my throat. Fortunately, Marybob had no such difficulty. With her hands in her back pockets, she swaggered up beside me to lean on the rail and flutter her eyelashes up at the young man. “Hi there, handsome. What are y’all doin’ up there?”
The cowboy’s attention slid away from me and landed on her, thank God. I busied myself untangling poor Alice’s leash, grateful to have a few moments to recover my senses. After he had given Marybob the once-over—and for some regions of her anatomy, twice—he pushed up the brim of his hat, a grin on his face. “Well, darlin’, I’m fixin’ to ride this here bull. Why don’t y’all stick around and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
Marybob, giving tit for tat, let her eyes travel up him from his boots to his hat. “You sure look like you know how to ride, cowboy. I wouldn’t mind seeing what you got in those tall boots, so I believe we’ll do just that.” With a wink at him, she hooked her arm through mine and dragged me toward the arena grandstands.
“I’m so embarrassed! Thank you! I don’t know what on earth came over me.”
She gave me a sideways look. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea. What do you say we watch this bull-riding. Then we need to find Cherry Belle.”
The cowboy—Tom, as it turned out—had quite a lot on the ball, or bull, rather. He placed second, only because (as some of the friendly cowboys explained to us) the bull he was riding got a slightly lower score than the winning bull, each total score being divided between the bull (presumably how hard it bucked) and the rider. The whole event was thrilling—and terrifying. Why anyone would willingly choose to sit bareback on top of two thousand pounds of twisting, turning, kicking, pounding animal while waving one hand in the air for the required eight seconds was beyond me. Those bulls obviously enjoyed their work. They applied every ounce of muscle, horns, and hooves to unseating the rider and trampling him into the dirt. More than one cowboy was carried out of the ring, but, I was happy to see, with body and spirit still together.
Still, I had to admit that the bravery and athleticism displayed by the cowboys and the bulls and the pure physicality of the sport was captivating.
Sad to say, it was not quite captivating enough to keep my mind away from unsettling topics, like Sam Kendall and the way he bewildered my brain and galvanized my heart. What misalignment of vision and imagination had made me see Sam in the person of Tom the cowboy? A single dimple did not a man make, and yet my poor befuddled brain had seized on that detail and elaborated on it by adding in the wayward curls of Sam’s hair, his firm jaw and chiseled nose, his powerful shoulders and long muscular legs, his perfectly formed lips. I finally concluded it was a hallucination caused by stress.
After the entertaining diversion of the bull-riding event, we turned our attention to locating Cherry Belle Swanson. She wasn’t hard to find. Dressed in red and black with silver trim, her outfit rivaled Marybob’s in pure glitz. She stood with one foot hooked on the bottom fence rail, hands hanging over the top, watching a bunch of kids set up one end of the large arena for the barrel-racing event. A long switch of straight black hair hung down her back, a striking contrast with her red hat. She appeared engrossed in watching the activity in the ring, but something in her posture looked wistful to me.
Ruby scrutinized her from the back as we walked over. “Dang, her backside’s so small, I can’t see how she’d stay in a saddle. Nothing to weigh her down. Not sure such a flyweight would work for Clydes.”
“Maybe she’s stronger than she looks. In any case, she must be good at riding horses.”
Marybob called out to her as we approached. “Ms. Swanson? You got a minute?”
Exactly how good a rider she must be was revealed when she turned around. Her center of gravity was obviously somewhere near her fifth thoracic vertebrae, or higher. What weight she lacked below the waist was more than compensated above. Honestly, I don’t know how she kept from falling over. It made her accomplishments on horseback pretty darn impressive.
“Now we’re talkin’,” Ruby said.
In addition to her striking figure, Cherry Belle was classically pretty in a tough way, with dark-blue eyes that looked like they wanted to smile in spite of the sadness around her and a mouth that seemed ready to turn up or down, depending on the situation.
She was easy to like and refreshingly direct. We explained our mission and told her that one of our members had recommended her. She didn’t know Mr. Heckenkamp’s name, but it didn’t seem to bother her.
Marybob asked her if she wanted to subscribe to DDDS. Cherry Belle replied, “To tell you the truth, I’ve known for a while that it was time to be getting along, but I hadn’t set my mind to it yet. Y’all are doin’ me a favor. Sure, I’ll sign up.”
Emotion almost overwhelmed me, I was so relieved, but a swift elbow in the ribs straightened me up. “That’s good, then. If you’ll just sign this form, we’ll be on our way,” Marybob said, flipping open the Dearly Departed Dating Service notebook.
We presented a description of Clydesdale as our first candidate for her while she filled out the forms. We had decided against a photograph—might look too much like a mug shot—but Ruby supplied plenty of fun details for us to relay, a
nd before long, a crooked grin eased across Cherry Belle’s face. “Sounds like fun. Hell, riding a motorcycle can’t be that much different from riding a pony.” And that was that.
On the trip home, my high spirits ebbed somewhat, and I felt an unaccountable twinge of sadness, but I was alone in that. Ruby smiled and chattered about Cherry Belle. “Big-hearted, you know? That’s the kind of gal I’d like to see my Clydes with. She’d make him happy.”
Unaware of Ruby’s assessment, Marybob gloated along the same lines as she added notes to Cherry Belle’s page in the Dating Book. “She was the real deal, wasn’t she? And those headlights, oh my God! We’ll be wanting to warn guys about those, best we can.”
She had a point. My guess was that Cherry Belle had certain expectations of male behavior, which, based on what little I’d seen of the cowboys we’d encountered, ran along the lines of old-fashioned gentlemanly, in a rough-shod way. I grunted my agreement.
Marybob blithely continued, “You know the great thing? If Clydes doesn’t want her, I’m pretty sure I can find a client who will. And speaking of which, I think that cute doctor might be interested in joining DDDS.”
I nearly ran off the road. “What?”
“Sam Kendall. He’d be a good candidate for the dating service.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t need our help. It’s not like he’s shy.”
“But he is busy. He might appreciate the convenience.”
“The convenience.”
“Hey, it’s not like you’re interested, right? I mean, you have a boyfriend and all. Even if he’s dead, which doesn’t matter, right? Anyway, you should be happy if we can get another client—makes it easier to make matches.”
She was right—the idea of a backup client for Cherry Belle should have made me happy. Still, I was sure a backup client wouldn’t be needed. It was important that Clydes like Cherry Belle. For Clydes’s sake, of course. I was confident he would.
Even if I had to shove her virtues down his throat.
