Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

Was she getting ready to go? Without saying goodbye?

  The doctor put his question into words. “You’re not going to wake him up first? To let him know you’re going?”

  “Truth be told, I think I confuse him more than I help him. Right now that’s a little bit too much for me to handle.”

  “I understand.”

  Mike didn’t. He was confused on so many levels. Wasn’t this the woman he’d come to depend on for information? Conversation? Caring?

  “I have to get back to Wilks to cook. We’ve been selling pizzas for the last few days. Can’t stay in business that way.” Again, a rustling sound. Was that a bag being thrown over a shoulder?

  “Feel free to call me at any time. Or at least leave a message.”

  “Thanks,” Angie said. She sounded so tired. Or something else? Defeated, perhaps? “I’ll talk to the nurses on my way out.”

  “Safe trip,” the doctor called as footsteps walked away.

  ***

  James W. didn’t want to face Sarah Fullenweider until he had news about where her son was. The accident last night had interrupted his search for the kid, and he’d spent his waking hours this morning with Elsbeth before she headed out to Pearl’s farmhouse. The list his wife had given him to do before the funeral had given him a headache. Especially when she ordered him to take his one and only suit to the tailor’s to let out the seams in the jacket. She didn’t want to be embarrassed by his appearance at Judith’s funeral.

  He decided to head over to the Ice House to see if Bo had any news on the whereabouts of Tom Gibbons. Bartenders heard a lot of town gossip. Maybe Bo would have an idea where he could find the kid.

  Bo was unloading the bar’s dishwasher when James W. walked in. He slid the glass he was polishing into the rack above, then smiled when he saw the sheriff. “You’re early for lunch, James W.”

  “No kidding. Got any coffee back there?”

  “Sure.” Bo pulled a mug from the shelf and picked up the coffee pot. “What’s on your mind?”

  “The medical examiner’s releasing Zach’s body. Do you know where I might find his son?”

  “Tom?” Bo put the steaming mug in front of the sheriff. “Can’t say I’ve seen him since Zach’s murder.”

  James W. grunted. “No scuttlebutt? I saw a ‘For Sale’ sign on the trailer.”

  Bo shook his head. “Not a word. But I’ll keep an ear out.”

  The bar’s front door burst open and Chelsea ran in. It took Bo a moment to realize it was her, because she wore a baseball cap and was missing her Cleopatra eye make-up.

  She ignored the sheriff sitting at the bar. “Bo, I need to borrow your truck.”

  “What for?” He said more from surprise than suspicion.

  She arched her unpainted eyebrow. “Stalking.”

  He immediately understood. Chelsea was going to do a little fact-finding about her lover. He dug in his pocket for the keys and tossed them her way. “Tank’s full.”

  “You rock,” she said. “That asshole’s goin’ somewhere in my truck, and I wanna know where.” She slammed back out the front door.

  James W.’s eyes rounded in surprise. “What was that all about?”

  “Romantic troubles.” Bo sighed. “I hope this gets settled quick. I’m gettin’ tired of her sulking.”

  James W. nodded. “She’s been jumping on customers with all four feet.” He sipped his coffee. “Back to Tom, though. His trailer’s not far from Dorothy Jo’s. I wonder if she’s seen him around. Is she up to visitors, do you think?”

  Bo grinned. “Better ’n that. She’s coming in to work today.”

  James W. put down his coffee. “Now that’s some good news.”

  “I was sure worried about her,” Bo said.

  “You’re all family here. Angie’s family. And I’m grateful for it.” James W. pulled the notebook from his shirt pocket. “Wonder if you’d do me a favor, Bo.”

  “Sure.”

  “This here’s the phone number on that for sale sign outside Tom Gibbons’ trailer. Could you call it? Pretend you’re interested in buying it, maybe?”

  Bo’s brows furrowed. “That trash heap?”

  “I know you ain’t gonna touch it with a ten-foot pole. But if Tom gets word that I’m lookin’ for him, he’ll run faster than hell can scorch a feather. This way, if he thinks he might make some money, he’d be more likely to stop by. Jes’ set it up so’s I know when he’s coming.”

  Bo took the paper. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “I’ll come in later to talk with Dorothy Jo. Any chance you could give that number a try this morning?”

  “No problem.”

  “Thanks.” James W. shoved his coffee mug across the bar and headed for the door. “See ya’ later.”

  Bo studied the number the sheriff had given him. What was going to happen with Tom Gibbons now that his father was dead? The kid was nothing but trouble.

  Bo poured the coffee cup’s contents in the sink, caught a reflection of himself in the mirror, then stopped. That’s what people said about me. Coming out of Huntsville prison, he’d had no plans for making an honest living. In fact, he’d hoped to spend the rest of his days looking at the free world through the bottom of a bottle.

  Slowly he placed the mug in the dish bin, then looked back up to his reflection. But Dorothy Jo gave me a chance. And Angie. Without them taking him under their wing, Bo would never have found Pearl Masterson. He’d never have found love.

  “Oh, hell,” he said, reaching for the telephone. “Angie said I could hire a busboy.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  He Isn’t Matt Anymore

  “Good afternoon, Pastor Hayden.”

  Mike woke with a start from his doze. This woman was a stout brunette with a nasal voice. Where was the redhead? He’d liked her low, sexy voice so much better.

  “I’m Meg Morgan, your charge nurse, remember? I’m going to check your vitals.”

  That’s right. The redhead was gone. He had scared her away.

  He felt the cool head of the thermometer pass across his forehead.

  “Any word yet on when I get out of here?” he asked. He needed to get out. Go someplace. Make sense of this mess.

  Find the redhead.

  “That’s up to Dr. Ryan, of course. Do you feel like sitting up for me?”

  She didn’t wait for a response, but placed a supporting arm behind his shoulders. He did his best to accommodate her request, but found the simple effort of going vertical sent his head into a tailspin, leaving him too weak to be of much help. “Whoa,” he groaned. This hadn’t been as hard yesterday, had it?

  “We want to listen to your chest.” This time something cold was pressed against his back. “Breathe deeply, please.”

  He tried to do as she asked, but coughed instead. He was surprised at how difficult the simple act of breathing was. Between the gimbal lock on his head and the nausea from the dizziness, he found little strength to suck in the air.

  “Hmm,” the nurse said.

  What the hell did that mean?

  She touched the stethoscope several more times to his back, then loosened his gown to repeat the same antics on his chest.

  “Something wrong?” he managed.

  She scrutinized his food tray. “You didn’t finish your soup.”

  “Tired,” he said, but that was only the half of it. Nothing felt right.

  “I see.” She pulled the gown back around him, then eased him onto his back. “Are you having trouble breathing?”

  Exhausted, he waited to answer while his head regained its equilibrium.

  “Can you hear me, Pastor?” Her voice was more urgent now.

  “I’m just tired,” he said.

  “All right then,” the nurse replied. “Let me go make a phone call and I’ll be right back.”

  ***

  Frank Ballard hung up the phone, then powered down his government issued laptop. The business he had to conduct could not be done in a federal marshal’s o
ffice. He grabbed up his brown plaid sport coat and slipped the ill-fitting excuse for wrinkles over his shoulders. No matter it looked a little ragged. Five minutes out in the hot Texas sun would wilt it anyway.

  “Going somewhere?”

  Frank looked up to see his perfectly groomed boss standing outside his cubicle. Today Federal Marshall Clive Engels was smartly decked out in a tailored navy pin-stripe suit complete with white starched shirt, red tie, and those infuriatingly shiny Italian leather shoes.

  “That was my check in at the hospital. Looks like Pastor Hayden has taken a turn for the worse.”

  Engels immediately came alert. “Is he in danger?”

  “Not from someone trying to kill him, if that’s what you mean. Security is tight and holding. But it looks like the good preacher is not being a very cooperative patient. His intracranial pressure is up. They’re having to give him some pretty strong blood thinners.”

  “Are you going to the hospital?”

  “Where else would I be going in this heat?” Frank sniffed. “I need to get eyes on the situation.”

  “Glad to hear you’re finally paying attention to the man,” Engels said. “Let me know his status when you get back.”

  Engels walked on to the next cubicle, and Frank hurried out of the office. Yes, he was indeed heading to the hospital to check on Hogan. He wasn’t going to report his findings to Engels, however.

  No, this report was going straight to Chief Rutledge.

  ***

  Angie concentrated on every move Dorothy Jo made as the cook removed the pan of meatloaf from the Ice House oven. Angie wasn’t sure she was happy about her beloved friend coming back to work so soon. The woman was heading on to seventy-five, and was already flush with perspiration. “I don’t want you overdoing it,” Angie said. “The doctor said to push the fluids. You’re sweatin’ and it’s not even four in the afternoon.”

  “Honey, I’m an old fat Cajun lady. We sweat.” Dorothy Jo put down her ladle and settled her gray eyes on her boss. “I’ve been off since Sunday, drinking iced tea ’til my eyeballs floated. Don’t talk to me about bein’ dehydrated. Now do something useful and go out there and help Bo with happy hour.”

  “Yes, boss,” Angie huffed, but did as ordered. She walked through the swinging half doors to the bar. “Chelsea here yet?”

  Bo looked up from the beer he was pouring. “It’s not four o’clock yet.”

  “She’s got ten minutes.” Angie went to the small dishwasher beneath the bar and began pulling out glasses.

  “She’ll be here.” Bo handed the beer over to a geeky-looking customer. The man took his drink and joined a group at a far table watching a soccer game.

  “What makes you so sure?” Angie held a glass up to the light, grimaced, then wiped at a water spot.

  “She borrowed my truck this morning, and she knows she’ll have more trouble than a farmer’s got oats if she doesn’t bring it back.” Bo nodded at two customers as they walked in the front door. “The usual?” he called. They gave him the thumbs up and headed to the game area. “That reminds me,” he said, turning to Angie. “Can you pull together a table for eight in the back room and mark it reserved?”

  “What for?” Angie asked.

  “Your trivia team keeps winning,” he said, reaching for a bottle of Don Julio.

  “They’re not my trivia team,” she said under her breath.

  “Tell that to the three hundred dollars they’ve already brought in this week.”

  Angie grunted and went to the back room to do as she’d been told. All the tables were clean and surrounded by neatly positioned chairs. Salt and pepper shakers were filled and centered on each table ready for duty. The wait staff station was stocked with silverware, napkins and glasses, and the three bus bins were clean. Her Ice House was running like a top. Why the hell did I bother coming back?

  She shoved two four-tops together, and slammed the chairs into place. She knew darn well why she’d come home. Because she couldn’t handle the new Matt—or should she say the old Matt?—up in Austin.

  She flagged the table with a reserved sign, then went back to the bar. Bo had delivered the margaritas and was now busy with three new customers who had taken up residence in one of the booths. Restless, Angie checked the iced tea level in the large silver urn only to find it full, then made sure the tortilla chips in the bin were fresh. They were.

  Bo came around the bar and started pulling the table’s beers. “I can still make a drink,” Angie said, knowing full well she sounded churlish.

  “I’m good. Thanks.” Bo finished the pour and took the beers out to the table.

  Disgusted, Angie pushed through the swinging doors and stormed back to the kitchen. Though she hated the task, she might as well make herself useful and catch up on the books. She went to the hanging files beside the pot storage and pulled out the orders folder. She opened the file. It was empty.

  What the hell? She almost snapped the question to Dorothy Jo, then remembered the cook hadn’t been at work all week. Clutching the file to her chest, she marched back out to the bar.

  “Where are this week’s orders?” she demanded.

  Bo turned from the drink he was making. “Orders?”

  She waved the empty folder in his face. “Orders for beer? Liquor? Food? Toilet Paper? Where’s all the paperwork?”

  He topped the drink with a cherry. “Eleanor, the accountant, picked all that up this morning. Said she’d get everything back by tomorrow.” He put the concoction on a tray that already held two martinis. “No need to worry. Eleanor’s got the business thing down to a tee.” He picked up the tray and headed for the soccer watchers.

  Angie was furious. She’d come back from Austin to bail the place out. She was the owner, dadgum it, and her staff didn’t need her? What happened to Bo’s line a few days ago when he said they couldn’t run the place without more staff!

  Bo returned to the bar and headed for the cash register.

  “What are you doing?” Angie demanded.

  He held up a credit card. “Running a tab. The soccer game started.”

  “Soccer? Since when does my Ice House show soccer games?” Angie felt her face getting red.

  Bo turned, his gaze fixed hard upon her. “Since the nerdy video game start-up business opened up twenty minutes from Wilks, and its employees think this bar’s a hidden gem. They might not be wearing cowboy boots, but their cash is just as green.”

  He was challenging her. Bo was challenging her? Hadn’t she given him a job? Gotten him special permission from the county judge to work in a bar? “You in charge of who comes in the door now?” she snapped.

  Before he could answer, the front door slammed open, and in stormed a ferocious-looking Chelsea. Wordlessly she threw a set of car keys across the bar towards Bo, then slapped through the swinging half-doors to the kitchen.

  The girl’s disrespect snapped Angie’s control. “Enough!” She bellowed. She fixed an angry glare on Bo then stabbed a finger toward the pass-through. “In the kitchen. Now!” She followed him through the still swinging doors. “We’re gonna have us a little staff meeting!”

  Perplexed, Dorothy Jo’s lip trembled, while Chelsea’s Cleopatra eyes burned with anger. Bo rolled his tongue beneath his lip as if bracing for a fight. The three lined up in front of the prep counter.

  “Who owns this bar?” Angie demanded.

  “You do,” Chelsea mumbled as she slouched against the counter.

  “Honey, what’s—”

  Angie cut Dorothy Jo off. “So what’s it gonna take for me to get a little respect around here?” Not waiting for an answer, she lined up toe-to-toe with Chelsea. “You! When you come in to work, I expect a pleasant hello and a smile. You got that?”

  Chelsea’s heavily pencil-lined brow arched. “Your customers got no complaint about me.”

  “Maybe.” Angie slapped her hand on the counter. “But I do! Your moods, along with your employment status, answer to me, got it?” She didn’
t wait for an answer but turned on Dorothy Jo. “As for you! Go home. I ain’t heard nothin’ from a doctor that says you’re clear to come to work. And I don’t cotton to you chasing me out of my own kitchen when all I’m tryin’ to do is take care of you!”

  Dorothy Jo’s jaw went slack with astonishment. “But I’m fine—”

  “And you!” Angie stomped over to Bo. He crossed his arms against his chest. “You begged for more staff this week, and now you can’t even use an extra set of hands!”

  Unruffled, he studied her quietly.

  “Were you lying to me?” She demanded. As soon as the words left her mouth she knew she’d insulted him. Bo had never lied to her. Her mistake only made her more furious.

  He didn’t rise to the bait. “All right, Angie. What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “What do you mean?” She thrust her chin his direction, daring him to sass her.

  He dropped his hands calmly to his sides. “What’s buggin’ you has nothing to do with us. Why are you here, when you should be up in Austin with Matt?”

  She wanted to slap him. How dare he know her well enough to see that her real problem was with Matt? “You have no right to question what I do!” Her voice cracked.

  “Is something wrong with the preacher, honey?” Dorothy Jo’s face wrinkled with concern.

  “It’s none of your business!” Angie backed toward the swinging doors, putting much-needed space between them. “Leave me alone!”

  “You made it our business when you started yelling at us,” Bo said, his eyes were kind. She didn’t want kindness. She didn’t want caring. She wanted her Matt!

  “Is the preacher getting worse?” Dorothy Jo asked gently.

  “No,” she said, and a sob escaped. “He’s getting better every day.”

  Bo nodded. “Then there’s something wrong between you and Matt.”

  Close enough. And Angie couldn’t keep the lid on her fear any longer. It exploded out of her. “He’s not Matt anymore! He’s back to being the cop he was in Miami! He doesn’t remember me, remember Wilks. Hell! He doesn’t even remember being a preacher!”

  Bo’s brows furrowed with concern. Even Chelsea straightened her posture, dropping her sulk. The dam of emotions broken, Angie gave in to sobs.