Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  And he was busy. With Dorothy Jo still out, Angie had dictated that the menu would remain pizza, chips, salsa and queso only. Since it was only him and Chelsea working, Bo was in charge of cooking the frozen pizzas.

  “Mind if I get back there and pour the trivia team’s drinks?” Warren Yeck, showered and polished after caring for the widow Seegler’s cows, met Bo coming out of the kitchen.

  “Shoot, Warren,” Bo said. “Chelsea hasn’t taken your orders yet?”

  Warren smiled easily. “The place is packed. This I can help with. But you can throw in two pepperonis and a sausage for the group.”

  Bo turned on his heel and headed back to the kitchen. “They’re goin’ in now.”

  Fifteen minutes later the pizza timers went off. Bo walked in the back, grabbed the first two, sliced them, and headed to the game room where the trivia competition was in full swing. Three more members had joined the group of four from Sunday night. Bo knew two of them. Efficient Eleanor, his name for her, was the accountant he and Dorothy Jo had hired to help with the books in Angie’s absence. Sarah Fullenweider, a tall, blonde divorcee, was James W.’s secretary. The third man was the new manager at Ben Yeck’s hardware store. Bo couldn’t remember his name, but had taken to thinking of the kid as Man-Bun because of the gnarled knot of hair poised above his head.

  “Thomas Jefferson!” Man-Bun called, and fingers went flying over the consoles. There was a moment of baited breath, then a cheer.

  Silence ensued as the next question appeared on the screens. There was a gasp and the round bottle-top glasses flew from Efficient Eleanor’s face. “Gabby Douglas!” she hollered.

  “Who?” This from Aaron Rodriguez, but he punched his pad anyway.

  “Gold medal gymnast,” Eleanor explained, fixing her glasses back on her pug nose.

  Again the group sent up a spontaneous cheer.

  “Here’s the pepperonis,” Bo said, setting the pizzas on the table. “I’ll be right back with the sausage and your plates.”

  Sarah Fullenweider almost jumped from her seat. “Pride and Prejudice!”

  Bo walked back to the kitchen fairly sure none of the players had noticed their food had arrived.

  Chelsea stood behind the bar, fishing some bottles of beer from the ice trough. “Busy night,” she said.

  “Are you watchin’ the trivia game table at all?”

  “Hell, no,” she said. “You hired Warren to help remember?”

  “Right now he’s a customer,” Bo said.

  “He can help. We all pitch in, remember?” She lifted the bottle-laden tray and sashayed away.

  When Bo returned to the trivia players with the sausage pizza and plates, the game was apparently in a break. “How’s it going?”

  Mandy slapped Eleanor on the back and nodded toward Man-Bun. “These rookies are pulling us through.”

  “I’ve been playing trivia for years!” Eleanor glared at Mandy.

  Mandy chuckled. “And Keith over there—what are you? Thirteen?”

  “I’m twenty-two.” Man-Bun’s name was apparently Keith. He cast Bo a nervous look and reached for his wallet. Bo laughed and waved him off.

  “Hey!” Warren walked up with a tray full of drinks. He winked at Man-Bun. “He’s old enough to be a volunteer fireman. That’s old enough for me.”

  Mandy looked at Man-Bun, taking in his wrestler-like build and muscular arms. “I didn’t know you were a fireman.”

  “Volunteer,” Man-Bun replied. “Signed up right before that fertilizer plant explosion a coupla’ years back over in West. Talk about a baptism by fire.”

  The machines began blinking, and the players bowed their heads in unison to wait for the first question. Bo picked up a few stray napkins and headed back to the bar. It looked like this trivia thing was gonna be a regular activity for the Ice House. He needed to make it is his business to get familiar with the new customers.

  ***

  That night James W. Novak opened the front door of his home and breathed a sigh of relief. The only luminosity in the living room was provided by the back porch light streaming through the patio doors. Perhaps Elsbeth had already gone to bed.

  His relief was short lived.

  “So you finally decided to come home.” The voice of his wife came from a high-backed chair that faced away from the front door. She was sitting in the dark.

  “I’ve been a little busy.” He hung his sheriff’s hat on Elsbeth’s antique brass hall tree.

  “Too busy to return my calls?”

  He removed his gun from his holster and put it on the marble table nearby, then began to unbuckle his belt.

  “I want you to answer me, James W.” Elsbeth stood, and the backyard lights streaming through the patio doors cast her shadow long across the floor.

  “There’s nothin’ I can say that’s gonna make you happy.” He hung his heavy belt next to his sheriff’s hat and turned. “Is there anything to eat?”

  He knew his query would set her off, but she was dyin’ for a fight anyway.

  “You expected me to be sitting here with a cold beer for you and a steak ready to go on the grill?”

  “Woulda been nice,” he muttered.

  “Maybe I’ll just put on a bikini and rub your shoulders, too.”

  A picture of his wife in a bikini flashed in James W.’s mind, and he decided it was about as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party. “I’m getting a beer.” He headed for the kitchen.

  “James W.! You come back here.”

  “And what, Elsbeth? You’re right. I didn’t call you back all day. You know why? ‘Cuz I knew this would happen.” He pulled open the refrigerator door and took out a Lone Star. Without another word, he headed for the bedroom.

  “Where you goin’?” She followed him down the hall.

  “I’m gonna put on my swimsuit and sit outside in the hot tub. I’m gonna drink as many beers as I want, and then I’m gonna eat a peanut butter sandwich.” James walked through the master bedroom into the attached bathroom. He switched on the light and began unbuttoning his uniform shirt.

  “James W. Novak, you owe me an apology for how you’ve treated me today. How you’re treating me now.”

  Elsbeth walked into the light and James W. looked at her reflection in the mirror. She was shorter than him by a good six inches. Rounder than him, and that was sayin’ something. Her brown-dyed hair was styled in a crushed mass of curls and waves that seemed as unyielding as the steely gaze she was shooting at him from her dark, baggy eyes.

  He turned to her. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

  She looked at him. First for sincerity, he thought, and he was indeed sincere. But she was studying him intently now, seeing more. Her eyes softened. “What’s wrong?”

  Lord bless the woman. Her first reaction to anything was always a good mad. But she truly cared about him as well, and that’s why he kept coming home to her.

  “Zach didn’t shoot the preacher.”

  “What?” It took Elsbeth a moment to understand the full meaning of his words. “Then who did?”

  “That, my dear, is the sixty-four-dollar question.” Shirtless, he put his arms around her and nestled his head on hers. “I’m tired, Elsbeth.”

  “I’ll go turn on the jets.” She gave him a squeeze then pulled away. “I’ll get me some wine and make up a plate of crackers and cheese.”

  “Any chance for some steaks later on?” he called after her.

  “Don’t push your luck.”

  ***

  “Angie?” Matt’s voice was soft, but it still woke Angie from the doze she was taking in the chair.

  “I’m here,” she said, leaning forward. She took his hand.

  “What time?”

  “Almost midnight,” she said.

  “It’s so bright in here. It hurts.”

  Angie sighed. “Well, honey, maybe you better keep your eyes closed.” This afternoon the swelling had finally gone down enough that, with what appeared to be great effort, he could slit his eyes
open. At his complaint, the nurse had dimmed the lights another level. If Angie asked for the lights to be turned even lower, the nurses would need flashlights to find their way around. Not a good way to run a critical patient care unit.

  “I’m so dizzy,” he continued. “What happened?”

  “You got shot, Matt,” she said. She had told him this many times over the last week, but his grasp on consciousness had been intermittent at best. “You’re really lucky, though. The bullet only grazed your head. Took off part of your skull, but they think you’re going to be okay.”

  He was silent, and for a moment she thought he’d gone back to sleep. He finally managed to ask, “Who shot me?”

  Angie teared up. “We’re not sure yet.”

  “Rutledge,” he said.

  The man he was supposed to testify against, she thought. “We don’t know that.”

  “I don’t exactly remember who you are.” he whispered. “But I know...I feel...we’re together.”

  “I love you, Matt,” she said.

  “Why do you keep calling me Matt?”

  The question sent a streak of fear through Angie. How much had he forgotten?

  “You’re in the Witness Protection Program. That’s your new name. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Everything’s so confusing.”

  “Of course it is,” she soothed. “Don’t worry about that right now. I’m here, and I won’t leave your side.”

  He was still for a moment. “Rutledge will try to kill you, too.”

  Angie felt the breath leave her. She looked past the curtain where Sergeant Bauer, the retired Texas Ranger James W. had hired, sat in a chair. She felt better every time she saw him. “Don’t worry, honey. James W. has hired guards. We’re safe.”

  He turned his head toward her, winced at the movement, then tried to focus on her. “We’ll never be safe. Never.” With that, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

  ***

  Bo poured the dirty contents of the night’s closing cleanup into the kitchen sink. Despite the afternoon nap, he was bone tired. He rinsed out the bucket, put the cleaning tools away and made sure the Ice House’s front door was locked. Time to take Shadow, Angie’s beloved dog, upstairs to the apartment where Angie lived.

  He walked into the bar and slapped his leg for Shadow to follow. “C’mon boy.” The dog with the face of a bloodhound and the body of a German Shepherd padded over from his corner by the jukebox.

  When they reached the French doors leading out to the patio, Shadow growled. Bo looked through the door’s glass panes and patted the dog on the head. “It’s only Chelsea,” he said. “Havin’ a smoke, looks like.”

  He opened the door and Shadow lumbered over to give Chelsea a quick sniff-over.

  “Okay for me to lock up?” Bo asked.

  She held up her purse and nodded by way of an answer, then spoke back into her phone. “I don’t take kindly to gettin’ stood up. This makes twice in one week.”

  Bo shook his head as he locked the back door. Yep, Chelsea was having romantic troubles all right. Something sounded off about all that. If you’re dating someone what’s the big hush for? Then again, maybe she was fooling around with a married man. Someone prominent maybe? Well, he didn’t have any reason to think that, and it sure as heck wasn’t his business. Best to keep his nose out of it. He had plenty of secrets himself.

  He climbed up the steps to Angie’s apartment, Shadow following close behind. Besides, Chelsea spawned enough attention just being Chelsea. Her appearance kept tongues wagging all over town. Granted, it had taken him aback when she’d shaved one side of her head, keeping the other side shoulder length so her rainbow color of the day could make its statement. Yes, she wore more eye makeup than Cleopatra, and her Goth wardrobe belonged more in a city the size of Houston. Truth be told, however, she knew the business side of running a bar almost better than Angie and worked like a fiend.

  Until about a week and a half ago.

  He opened the door into Angie’s apartment, flipped on the light, and headed for Shadow’s food bowl. While he filled it with dog food, he looked down through the kitchen window at Chelsea’s dark form curled in a plastic chair. He figured it must be hard for a girl in her situation to have relationship troubles. She didn’t have any friends in town—none that he knew of anyway.

  Bo put the food dish down on the floor and smiled wearily as the dog consumed it in two gulps. He glanced at his watch. Dorothy Jo, who was keeping Shadow at her place, was expecting him any time. Bo slapped his leg when Shadow had finished, and took him out the back door.

  One a.m. Most people were snug in their beds by now, but bar employees, and their dogs, were finishing up their shift.

  As he locked the apartment door, he heard a sob from below. “But I need you,” Chelsea said.

  He walked down the stairs and came to a stop a few feet away from where she sat. Maybe instead of getting angry with her recent behavior, he should give her someone to talk to instead.

  Seeing him, Chelsea put her phone face down on her knee. “You need something?”

  “Just wanted you to know, if you ever need to talk I can keep a good secret,” he said. “I’ve got plenty of ’em myself.”

  She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind, Bo.” She puffed on her cigarette, still studying him. “Thanks,” she added and brought the phone back to her ear.

  Bo and Shadow headed for his truck. At least I tried. Chelsea had been a pill all week at work, but he sure felt sorry for that girl.

  ***

  After that phone call, I think I’ll pour another couple of fingers of Jameson’s and toss it back. Hell’s bells, the last thing I need is a woman playing pity party on me. Of course I enjoy Chelsea for a good lay, but I’ve got enough going on without that bitch giving me a hard time about the last week and a half.

  The hell of it is, I could use a good toss in the sheets to relieve some of this stress. Kodak’s all over me about what I have in mind for getting Hogan out of that Neurology unit. Who the hell does that guy think he is, hassling me like this? I’ve got a pedigree that puts me way above his pay grade, and he’d better remember that if he expects to be a part of the operation when I take over from the Chief.

  Which brings me back full circle. I’ve got to get rid of Hogan. Luckily tonight I caught a break on how to get the sonuvabitch on a general floor—that West fertilizer plant explosion back in 2013 has got me thinking. I’ll have to research that. But not tonight. This living two lives thing is exhausting. Nope. I pour another Jameson’s. One more drink. Okay, maybe two. Then I have to hit the sack.

  Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.

  Chapter Nine

  Where’s the Kid?

  As was his habit when he came to work, James W. grabbed up the summary sheet from last night’s duty roster and scanned it briefly. Not too bad, he thought, pouring himself a cup of coffee at the office kitchenette. A fender bender out on Highway 71. Another drug bust at the Rand farm—the father had already bailed his seventeen-year-old out. James W. shook his head. When was that father gonna figure out he wasn’t doin’ his kid any favors? The last report documented Deputy Mattingly responding to an alarm going off at Callie Mae’s Café. Upon arrival Callie Mae informed him that she’d put the wrong code into the system when she was locking up.

  He headed for his office.

  “James W.?” Sarah called when he passed by her desk.

  “Hmm?” he said, still looking at the summary sheet.

  “James W., I’m getting concerned about Tom.”

  He looked up. Sarah’s usually calm face was drained of color and her eyes were dark with worry. A punch of guilt hit him in the gut. Tom was her son, after all. Simply because the sixteen-year-old son had forsaken his own mother didn’t mean she’d forgotten him. And just because James W. couldn’t stand the kid shouldn’t have kept him from looking for the teenager. “You’ve heard from him?”


  “That’s my point. No one has seen hide nor hair of him since Zach was killed. I talked with Aaron. Tom hasn’t been hanging around the Sinclair Station. Aaron’s an angel, though. He called over to Dannerton for me to see if Tom was hanging around that bar where that girl—the one who slips him liquor, but you’ve never caught?—works. He even went over to the trailer park, but Aaron said the place was unlivable, and Tom hadn’t been seen there since the shooting.”

  “Sometimes Hyram Leckie hires him to do odd jobs,” James W. offered.

  “I called him too. Hy hasn’t seen him for over a week.”

  James W. shook his head. “Well, I haven’t been lookin’ for him, and that’s on me. But I figured I’d have to talk with him after the medical examiner releases Zach’s body. Find out what he wants me to do with the remains.”

  She held up a fax for him to take. “That’s just changed.”

  James W. read it over. The medical examiner had finished his autopsy. It was time for Zach Gibbons to be laid to rest. “Well,” he said slowly. “I guess I’d better go find your son.”

  ***

  Peter Pendergast turned on his computer and took another slug of his coffee. He rarely came in to work this early, but he was under the gun. Lombardi, the Dallas Daily News owner, had made one thing perfectly clear yesterday in his hour-long tirade.

  Peter was one news story away from being fired, and everything hinged on the information he could get from that sixteen-year-old degenerate, Tom Gibbons.

  He glared at his cell phone in disgust, then hit redial on the number he’d been trying to call for two days. “Come on, damn it,” he said, listening to it ring. “I gave you the friggin’ thing.” He had to find the Gibbons kid and pronto. He needed to get more dirt on the Wilks County Sheriff, and now that Zach Gibbons was dead, his son was Peter’s only source for the info.

  He’d given the teenager the new cell phone in trade for Tom’s father’s phone. The trade had paid off; that phone was a fount of information on the entire town of Wilks.