by Randy Rawls
Chip led me around the north pasture. There were cattle prints everywhere in the lush grass. We’d had a wet and warm season so the pasture was as green as an Army recruit on a three-day pass. I scrutinized the area, looking for anything the kidnapper might have dropped.
“Matt and the boys went over this area pretty good,” Chip said. “They couldn’t find anything except some fresh tire tracks on the other side of the gate. Wanna see them?”
We went through the nearest gate and Chip directed me to a muddy area. “See, look at that.”
I looked and saw a tire track in the mud. I knelt and examined it. “What makes you think this wasn’t made by one of your trucks?”
“I haven’t had a truck out here since we unloaded the new buys last month, and that one had doubles on the rear. Nope, it’s not mine.”
I looked again. “There’s a faint line across the tread, like a shallow notch cut into the tire.”
SIX
“Yeah, I see the notch in the tread. Hot damn, Ace, that tire’s the clue you need. You can run’m down, can’t you?”
“Sure, Chip, it’ll lead us right to the bad guys. All we have to do is check all the truck tires in Van Zandt County. Then, if we don’t find it, we can start on the surrounding counties.” My sarcasm appeared lost on him. “Call the sheriff and tell him what we found. He might want to cast it.” I looked around the area. “What about that building over there?”
“That’s an old line-shack. My great-granddad built it a long time ago. Wranglers used it before the rangeland was fenced. About the only time it’s used now is if one of the hands gets caught in a thunderstorm.”
“Think I’ll check it out.”
“Okay. I’ll call the sheriff, and bring the Jeep up.” Chip walked off.
I circled the line-shack studying the ground, but saw nothing of interest. There were a few scuffs here and there, but nothing I could call a clue. I opened the front door on squeaky hinges, went inside, then dashed out. There were spider webs dangling over the doorway, and I saw a couple of critters big enough to cook on the grill. I decided no one had been in there recently.
I walked into the pasture. Starting from the gate, I used a back and forth search pattern, working my way in. A prickly pear cactus attracted my attention and it took me a moment to figure out why. One pad had few quills. I knelt to examine it, and saw something had brushed it. I suspected cattle were too smart to do battle with a cactus and, from what I’d heard, Joseph wouldn’t bother it either.
I knelt and examined the ground. There were a few quills and a faint impression of a boot heel. I looked at it from every angle and couldn’t see anything special except the size. It was small and had a heel plate attached. At first, the plate didn’t seem important. I use heel plates on my boots, too—saves wear and tear. This one was junior sized though. It looked like something a woman would use. I’d seen them in stores, and they were cheaper. Maybe the guy was cheap, or maybe the guy was a gal. Whatever, I suspected whoever ran into the cactus had some nasty pricks on his leg.
I exhausted my scrutiny of the print and marked the spot with a large stick. I wanted the sheriff to make an impression of it. At this point, nothing was too trivial.
Chip wandered up. “Bob said he’d send somebody out. Find something else?”
“Yeah, a boot print worth casting.”
With Chip dogging my steps, I continued my search of the pasture, but came up with nothing else except cattle marks, a few burro prints, and cow dung on my right boot. Damn patties. However, something nagged at me. That heel print. I looked toward the line-shack. Had I seen a scuff that could have been caused by a small boot?
“Come on, Chip. I want to take another look at the out building.”
I heard a horn and looked in that direction. A county patrol car crept along the trail and pulled to a stop about fifty yards from the north pasture fence. Chip waved it closer until it was about fifteen yards out. The door opened and a deputy stepped out.
“Howdy, Mr. Jamison. The sheriff said you found something.”
“Not me, Ace did. Ace, this is Dub Jones.” He nodded toward the deputy. “Remember, he’s the one that found Joseph.” He looked toward me. “Dub, this is Ace Edwards from Dallas. He’s here to help us prove Joseph innocent. He found some tire tracks and a print.”
I could have reminded him he’d shown me the tire track, but I stayed quiet. I figured he wanted to show me off.
“Yep, look over here. Ace says that’s an unusual track, and you ought to cast it. Can you boys do that?”
I cringed, expecting the worst. Chip laid it on thick, too thick.
Dub stepped to where Chip pointed, but not before cutting me a mean glance. “Yeah, us county boys knows how to do thangs like that, don’t we, Bull?”
He referred to a second deputy who unfolded himself from the car—no simple task because the squad car was not built to his specifications. Now, Chip’s a big man. You have to be to be an offensive lineman, but Bull was bigger. I had no doubt how he got his name. But I suspected some called him Tiny.
Bull joined us and gave Dub a funny look. “Uh, yeah, if you say so.”
“Summa our boys even been outta Van Zandt County,” Dub continued. “Yassir, we’s gitting mo’ sophisticated all the time. Whut we need for that-air cast? Gather up some mud, Bull. Ain’t that how they larnt us?”
Chip laughed. “Easy, Dub. I didn’t mean to insult you. Bull, tell him I’m still his friend.” He nodded toward me again. “This here’s Ace Edwards from Dallas. I think he’s the reason Dub’s giving us his country-bumpkin routine.”
“Gentlemen, if you’ll allow me,” I said, cutting in. “I’m a private investigator. This is your county, and I need all the help I can get.” I turned on my most ingratiating grin. “Dub, Sheriff Galoway said you found Joseph and the body. I’d sure like to talk to you about it, get your help to prove Joseph didn’t kill that guy.”
I stuck out my hand and watched Dub look it over like he might a two-headed rattlesnake. I was determined though. My hand held its position.
A grin inched itself over Dub’s face, and he reached for my hand. “Guess I sounded pretty goofy, didn’t I?”
“Yup,” I agreed. “Yo sho-nuff sound’d cun’try.”
Dub laughed. “Damn, I hope I didn’t sound that bad.” He turned toward Bull. “Get the stuff out of the car. We need to throw a cast on this track before some city slicker steps on it.” He addressed me. “You’d best clean that stuff off them expensive boots before it destroys the finish.”
“Yeah.” I picked up a stick and started scraping at my boot. The smell made me wonder how pioneers had used the stuff for fires—especially cooking fires.
Bull headed for the car as Dub asked, “Did you find anything else?”
“I can’t say for sure, but maybe a boot print I’d like you to cast. It could be one of Chip’s hands, or it could be the kidnapper. I was about to check out the line-shack again. Something’s nagging at me. Other than that, there’s nothing out there I could find. Maybe you and Bull can look around while the plaster’s setting.”
“Sure, after all, that’s why we’re here—to help you out.” He said it with a grin so I hoped he meant it as a joke.
“One more thing,” I said. “The dead guy. Was he short?”
“Couldn’t have been over five-two, five-three. Little guy, why?”
“That boot print is either from a woman or a small man. My gut says it belongs to the body you found. Could be, he was here for Joseph. What do you think?”
“Makes sense,” Dub responded. “But how did he get from here to where I found the body?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
Chip asked, “Am I watching what they call bonding? You two act like brothers under the skin.” He chuckled. “Hell, a minute ago, I thought I was gonna have to referee a free-for-all.”
“Oh, shut up, Chip,” Dub said.
“Oh, shut up, Chip,” Bull chimed in.
>
“Oh, shut up, Chip,” I added. Hey, when in Rome… You know the rest.
Everyone laughed.
“It’s obvious you guys don’t need me,” Chip said when the chuckles died away. “I’ve got business at the house. Dub, can you drop Ace on your way out?”
“Sure thing.” Dub grinned. “He’d get lost if I didn’t. There ain’t no paved boulevards and road signs between here and there.”
Chip walked toward his Jeep while Dub and Bull had a good laugh at my expense. It sure beat fighting them.
While Bull cast the prints, Dub and I checked the line-shack. There was a scuff that could have been made by a small boot, so we made a copy of it, too.
“Have you ID’d the body yet?” I asked Dub. “The one tied to Joseph.”
“Sorta,” he replied. “We think it’s Peanut Boynton, a local ne’er-do-well. He’s been in and out of jail for years. Doc Horvath ain’t released the final word, but I’m pretty sure it’s Peanut. I’ve known him since I was a kid.”
“Any idea why he’d be tied to Joseph?”
“Rustling is the simple answer. Peanut would steal anything not nailed down, and doubly so if he could sell it for a profit. Hell, he stole the stained glass windows out of a church one time. He tried to sell them to every other church in the county before we caught him.” He stopped and shook his head. “He said he took them because the stormy season was coming, and he was afraid a hailstorm might break them.”
“You’re kidding, right? This is a shaggy-dog story for tourists. You mistook me for a guy that floated in on an oil platform?”
“Not this time. Check the records.” Dub grimaced. “We nailed him, but some damn liberal judge fell for his story. He gave him probation because he promised not to steal any more. Damn judges.”
“What about Joseph?” I wanted Dub back on track before he took off on another story.
“Stealing Joseph would have been like the church windows. Everybody knows Joseph, so it’d be tough getting rid of him. And Chip’s a lot meaner than that pastor.”
“Okay, suppose I buy what you’re saying. Peanut kidnapped Joseph. That doesn’t explain what happened to him, what killed him.”
Bull walked up. “’Splains it to me. Joseph just plain kicked the shit out of him. Far as I’m concerned, Joseph gets a medal.”
“Me too,” Dub added.
“Listen, guys,” I said. “That’s not a good answer. Chip says Joseph wouldn’t do it, and I believe him. So you better re-think who killed Peanut.”
“Well, that’d take some thought,” Dub replied. “First, we’d have to track down all his ex-partners. The bunch he hung with were double and triple crossers. Could have been something happened long time ago what got him killed. Hell, we might have to line up the whole county. It’d be easier if you ask who might not have killed him. Let’s see. There’s me and Bull, and the sheriff, and that damn liberal judge. I suppose I could add Chip and you to the list. Other than that and a few of his drinking buddies at the Robin Hood, I can’t guess who might be clean.”
This approach wasn’t getting me anywhere, so I took the logical step—gave up.
SEVEN
“I thought about it and decided to accept.”
We were in the Texas Room having dinner, and Wanda had addressed her last remark at me. “Ah…what…accept what?” I had no clue.
“Oh, Ace. Don’t tell me I’ve got another dunderhead on my hands. Dancing.” She gave me a look of resignation, then sighed. “This morning, you asked if I’d go dancing with you tonight. Remember, you said we could go to the Robin Hood and dance the night away. I told you I’d think about it. How could you forget?”
I looked at Chip, and he held up his hands in supplication. “You’re on your own. I think she’s got the cross hairs locked on you.”
“I decided to go,” she added.
Wanda wore a medium-blue peasant blouse off the shoulder. And such lovely shoulders she had. I’m sure she had on a skirt, but I can’t remember a thing about it. The blouse accented her deep blue eyes, tan shoulders, and desirable other parts. I gave silent thanks to all the peasant women of the world who couldn’t afford full-coverage blouses.
“Ah, did I happen to mention where this Robin…uh, Robin whatever is? If it’s not too formal, I might have time—if Chip has no heavy investigating for me.” I looked at Chip.
“She’s come back here after three husbands,” he said, “and knows every dirty trick in the book to make my life miserable. I don’t dare say anything except have fun.” He grinned, reached over, and patted Wanda on the arm.
He made me feel like a Christian before they open the lions’ cages. But when I looked at Wanda, I felt more like Caesar. “With your brother’s permission, I’d be proud to be your escort for the evening, Ms. Jamison. Shall we be off?”
“Oh, you do know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” she said, giving me a wink that reached deep inside me and flipped a switch.
* * * *
We parked in front of the dance hall, and I saw a sign proclaiming it The Robin Hood BYOB Night Club. For any Southern Baptists in the audience, perhaps I should define BYOB. Bring Your Own Bottle. You see, Van Zandt County is dry, no booze can be sold. However, private clubs sell setups like glasses of water or soda for five bucks or more. If you show up with your own bottle, purchased from outside the county of course, you can join the club and buy a glass of water. Interesting and effective solution.
The place had the ambiance of the best clubs in Dallas—if you overlooked the sawdust on the floor, thick cigarette smoke, a country-western band that reached its zenith before we arrived, a few attractive women, a lot of unattractive women, and coughing cowboys. However, Wanda more than made up for any shortcomings. She was the loveliest person in the room, making me the envy of all the coughing cowboys.
Wanda had picked up a fifth of The Famous Grouse scotch during her day in Terrell. As I’ve said before, beer’s my drink, but an evening supply comes in a cooler, not a bottle. So when Wanda produced The Famous Grouse, I was thankful.
I mixed my first scotch and water, using more of the Grouse than water. At the cost of water in the Robin Hood, I decided there must be a drought in Van Zandt County, and I believe in water conservation. It only took one sip to place The Famous Grouse even with Killian’s.
We danced the slow numbers and watched the fast ones. Dance was not my major in college and my skills had deteriorated since. The reason I kept returning to the floor and further embarrassment was her nibbling on my earlobe and neck, and her breathy wooing of my ear. The unspoken promises were worth more than the minor inconvenience of being the worst dancer in the room.
Sometime during the evening, when we were dancing as close as two people can get, Wanda whispered, “Who are you, Ace Edwards?”
“Huh.” My thoughts had been wandering, mostly wandering Wanda’s body, and I wasn’t ready for the question. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, who are you? Not the part about being a hotshot PI from Dallas, the hero of Eastland County, but what drives you, what’s your shtick?”
“Hero of Eastland County?” I liked it, but tried to say it with a shrug—difficult with her clinging to me.
“I read all about it today. While I was in Terrell, I went to the library and checked the newspapers. One of them called you the Hero of Eastland County. I admit your quotes were humble.” She laughed her wonderful laugh. “But I want to know what lies behind the hero image. If I’m going to have an affair with a man, I want to know him.”
I grinned, liking the part about an affair, then spun her around the floor, tangling my feet with hers, and almost tripping us. “One thing you know, I’m no Fred Astaire.”
“Right, and you’re no John Wayne either—somewhere in between. And that’s the part I want to know.” She wasn’t turning it loose.
We walked to the table, and I held her chair. My mind flew through my background, separating my life into three neat piles. One, no way I’d sh
are. Two, maybe I’d share, and three, what the heck, nothing to hide. The third pile was small. I remembered women never forget anything you tell them and choose to bring it up whenever they need an advantage.
“Ace, you’re ducking my question.”
“Excuse me, but I’m an ex-cop. I learned not to volunteer anything when interrogated. You ask, I’ll give short, concise answers.”
She sounded that laugh again. “I could learn to enjoy you. You’re like a wild horse, begging to be broken, to be ridden hard.”
I sorted through that visual image while I said, “You wouldn’t put me away wet, would you?”
“Never.” She looked at me through hooded eyes. “You, I’d curry dry.”
Before I could generate an appropriate response, the band began an up-tempo number whose main feature was fiddle mutilation.
Wanda looked at me. “Okay, twenty questions. Have you been married? If so, details. Girlfriends? Give me details. Why are you grimacing? Is sharing so difficult?”
“Whoa,” I said through a chuckle. “My dad played the violin, but not like I’m hearing. He taught me it’s a fine instrument that produces good music. That description doesn’t fit what they’re doing.” I grinned, then recognizing the determined look on her face, took a deep breath. Answering the questions of a woman is like taking medicine. The taste gets worse if you stall. May as well get it over with. “Turn on your tape recorder. I give up.”
I took a healthy sip of my drink and plunged in. “Born and reared in Cisco, Texas. Went to college and came out with a bachelor’s in criminology. Moved to Dallas, joined the police force and married Janice. We met in college.” I stopped for a sip and finished with, “How’m I doing?”
“Not bad. What happened to Janice?”
“Great American tragedy. Short marriage, divorce, no kids. Bachelor since. No attachments. Can I stop?”
“Okay, you can fill in the blanks later. Hang tight while I hit the ladies’ room.”
I watched her walk across the room, a titillating sight. I wasn’t alone. The coughing in the bar quieted as others watched her cleave her way through the cigarette smoke. The band finished strangling the last fiddle, then proved me a terrible prognosticator. I thought they’d done their worst—they hadn’t. Somehow, the next number was faster, louder, and more screeching.
