Murder on the Third Try

by K. P. Gresham

  He looked torn between the extra duties and the extra pay. Finally he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll show you how to break down the dishwasher.” She patted Dorothy Jo on the back. “You finish up with the food and come join me out on the back porch. Tom can start on the floors over there while you’re flipping the cold line.”

  Dorothy Jo nodded, and Angie couldn’t help but notice the old woman looked relieved.

  Tom dragged the floor mop and pail across the kitchen. He slopped the mop in the soapy water and slapped it onto the floor. “Get the mats up first,” Angie instructed. “We take ’em outside and spray ’em down every night.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” This time his tone had an edge to it. Deciding to leave well enough alone, Angie went back out to the bar. She retrieved a serving tray from the stack, filled five glasses with ice, then grabbed a bottle of pecan whiskey. She took the loaded tray out to the back porch.

  The Texas night was hot and humid, but between a slight wind and the fans, the heat was bearable. She saw the silhouettes of Bo and Chelsea sitting at the table nearest the kitchen fence. The only light came from the cigarettes each held in their hands.

  “So Pastor Hayden used to be a cop in Miami?” Chelsea was asking.

  “Guess so,” said Bo.

  “I wonder who the hell that Rutledge guy is.”

  “Hey, y’all.” Angie moved quickly to the table. “James W. asked you to forget you ever heard that.”

  “I’m not gonna tell anybody,” Chelsea said. “But Bo was right there when you yelled it at us. Heck, I don’t wonder if half the bar didn’t hear you.”

  Great. Angie hadn’t considered that.

  She heard a chair being pushed toward her on the deck. “Have yourself a seat,” Bo said.

  She sat down, and leaned her head back to catch the breeze from the fan. She was worn out. Not from working the bar. No, she was ready to get off the emotional roller coaster she’d been on for the last twenty-four hours, but there was something that needed doing first.

  Bo shoved a cigarette pack across the table toward her. “Have a smoke.”

  She picked up the pack and tapped out a cigarette. A flame from Chelsea’s side of the table came to life. “Need a light?” the girl asked.

  Angie briefly studied Chelsea’s face. Despite the heavy make-up that coated her eye-lids and brows, the girl looked exhausted.

  “Thanks,” Angie said, leaning into the lighter.

  The three of them sat in companionable silence, letting the quiet of the evening settle on them. The cicadas were out in force, Angie noted. The moon was a mere sliver in the sky. Seven nights ago—almost at this very moment?—the moon had been full. So full she’d had no problem seeing the blood from Matt’s head spread a dark stain across the sidewalk.

  One moment we were dancing. The next he was dying.

  The back-porch door squeaked open, and Dorothy Jo came out, stopping for a moment to adjust to the dark. Shadow passed beside her and plopped himself down in front of the nearby fan.

  “Over here,” Chelsea called, while Bo got up to get a chair from another table.

  “What is it about bars that everyone who works at ’em smokes?” Dorothy Jo shook her head.

  “You don’t smoke,” Angie said.

  “I’m the not-so-silent minority,” Dorothy Jo huffed and sat down.

  Angie stubbed out her cigarette in the table’s black ashtray. “I felt I needed to say something after my temper tantrum this afternoon.” She picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured a shot into four of the glasses. “I’m sorry. You got the brunt of my very bad day.”

  “We’re sorry you had a very bad day,” Bo said, passing the shots around.

  Angie chuckled wryly. “I bet you are.” She picked up her glass. “To my staff. You have held the Ice House together for months and I’ve never thanked you for it. I’m thanking you now.”

  The four tapped their glasses on the table and drank down the smooth liquid.

  “Now that’s a mighty fine whiskey,” Dorothy Jo said appreciatively. “I think I’ll have myself another, but I’ll be sipping it this time.”

  “Same here,” said Chelsea.

  “I’m no saint,” said Bo.

  Angie passed the bottle to Dorothy Jo. “I really am sorry about this afternoon. Matt’s...not Matt right now. James W. said I need to have a little faith.”

  “I got knocked out one time,” Chelsea said. “Fell off my bike when the chain broke. Went right over the handlebars. Didn’t wake up ’til the next morning, and felt dizzy for a week. Nothing close to the preacher getting part of his skull shot off. That’s gonna take some time.”

  Angie was heartened that the rebellious Chelsea was trying to comfort her. “What about you?” she asked. “Bo said you were having some trouble with a friend? I’m sorry I’ve been so wrapped up in my own problems that I didn’t know you were hurting. Do you need some time off?”

  “No.” Chelsea puffed her cigarette. “This place is keeping me sane.”

  “Let me know.” Angie fished an ice cube out of the fifth glass and tossed it Shadow’s way. She heard the sound of his pounce, and then the appreciative crunching of ice.

  “Did you have any luck this afternoon?” Bo sipped his whiskey.

  Chelsea huffed out an impatient breath. “No luck at all. My friend decided to sit in a deserted building all day.” She poured herself another whiskey. “And get this. My friend sent me a text tonight asking me to stop by after work. I get ignored for an entire week, and now we’re supposed to pick up like nothing bad ever happened? Give me a break.”

  “You could always not show up,” Bo said.

  “You’re a stronger man than me,” Chelsea chuckled. “Besides, maybe I’m simply imagining there’s a problem. People do get busy, after all.”

  Angie heard the equivocation in Chelsea’s tone, but decided to keep quiet. She was certainly not a person to give advice on relationships right now. She tossed another ice cube Shadow’s way.

  Dorothy Jo finished her whiskey and set her glass on the table. “Time for this old lady to go home. I’m tuckered.” She pushed herself out of the chair.

  That brought Angie to the other thing she knew she needed to make clear to the group. “Before you go—”

  Dorothy Jo sat down with a sigh.

  “Sorry, “Angie said. “I need to emphasize what James W. said earlier. Forget everything I said this afternoon. Don’t talk about it. Not even to each other.”

  “Not a word, boss,” Bo said.

  “Same here.” Chelsea nodded. “Sorry about earlier.”

  Dorothy Jo stood. “Lord knows I can keep a secret.” She placed a kiss on the top of Angie’s head. “You be careful, honey, and keep your gun close by. If somebody wants to kill Matt, he might want to kill those who Matt loves.”

  Angie watched Dorothy Jo as she walked away. Matt had said the same thing to her.

  Thank God James W. had taken her to that gun store in Austin.

  ***

  For the most part, today has been a good day. My conversation with the Chief went great this morning. My recon at the fertilizer plant was successful. The only hiccup, and it’s a big one, is that Kodak is being sent with all the makings of the bomb. And he’s showing up tonight.

  My watch reads half past midnight when I finally hear the buzz of a prop plane in the distance. Thank God. I can hardly keep my eyes open. Kodak’s on that plane, and my plan is to make his visit to Texas as short as possible.

  Within a few minutes the plane is taxiing down the four-thousand-foot runway. Smithville Crawford Municipal airport is barely more than a slab of tarmac and a few outbuildings. It doesn’t have a control tower—all flights in and out use radio navigation aids to get their bearings. A plane can fuel up in Smithville, but that’s about all the services a pilot can expect.

  It’s perfect for the Chief’s operations.

  The plane slows to a crawl and I driv
e close to its final parking spot. The weasel Kodak slinks out of the single-engine airplane, grabs a suitcase and some sort of cooler, then runs toward me. His small frame barely casts a shadow in the waning moonlight.

  Suitcase?

  I don’t get out to greet him, but roll down my window as he approaches. He ignores me and runs to the passenger side of the car. He knocks sharply on the window, and I realize the door is locked. I wish I could keep it that way, but I hit the unlock button.

  He puts his stuff in the back seat, then climbs into the front passenger side. “Drive.”

  Kodak’s one word greeting sets my teeth on edge. “Where are we going?” I ask, then notice the airplane is turning around on the tarmac. “Hey. He’s leaving without you.”

  Kodak settles back in the seat and hooks his seatbelt into place. “I’m not leaving.”

  I gawk at him in disbelief. “What?”

  “I’m in charge of the explosion.”

  I still haven’t put the car into drive, but I’m entertaining the thought of chasing the plane down the tarmac with the intent of stuffing Kodak into its tail. “The Chief didn’t say a word about you sticking around.”

  “This is going to be a complicated job, and I’ve got the line on all of the manpower and supplies. My job is to plan the logistics of the explosion. Your job is to take out Hogan.”

  I can barely make out his thin, rat-like face in the dark, but his tone certainly gives the impression he’s quite pleased with himself. “I can do both.”

  “Apparently the Chief doesn’t think so. Plus he wants this done fast. Hogan’s got some head issues and he’s getting mouthy about the Chief. You need to shut him up.”

  That gets my attention. “Mouthy?”

  “Ballard saw him this afternoon. Hogan’s turned into a real SOB. He accused Ballard of working for the Chief—no proof—but Security asked Ballard to leave.”

  Hogan has always been a hot head. I’m still not sure if he saw me pointing that gun at him last week. Is it only a matter of time before it comes back to him? “When does the Chief want all this to happen?”

  “He wants Hogan out of Neuro PCU by Monday.”

  “It’s one o’clock in the morning on Thursday!”

  “We’ll get some shut eye, then start to work. I have an appointment in the morning with the gas hauling company. They’re good with a quick turnover—I use them for border crossings all the time. Email me your surveillance on the site. I need to download the photos, distances, the whole ball of wax to my laptop.”

  Frustrated, I shove the gearshift into drive and hit the accelerator. The wheels on my car spin in the grass for a moment, then send us streaking across the field. “Where am I taking you?”

  “Your place, of course.”

  I hold back the litany of four letter words that cross my mind as I steer my car onto Highway 71. “I’ll drop you off. There’s beer in the fridge.”

  “And you?”

  I look at him and grin slyly. “I’ve got other plans.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Scouting Benedict County

  Thursday morning Bo was awakened by the smell of coffee and a sniff of something even more tantalizing. Realizing the pillow next to him was empty, he checked the bedside table clock. It was after eleven in the morning.

  He hurried into his jeans and headed for the kitchen. Pearl sat at the breakfast table, the county newspaper spread before her.

  “You let me sleep in.” He kissed her cheek.

  “Your note said Warren was working your shift this morning. I figured you could use the sleep. Coffee?” She got up from the table and went to the cupboard to get a cup. “I don’t have to pick up Elsbeth until one.”

  Thank heavens. Now they could spend some time together. He sat down, shoving his two-foot-long hair over his shoulder. “What smells so good?”

  “Sherylene brought over a coffee cake this morning. Blueberry strudel.” She poured his coffee, then set it in front of him. “I’m warming it in the oven.”

  “Mighty nice of her,” Bo said. He turned to look at the newspaper. It was open to the obituaries. “Did they get Judith’s information in?”

  Pearl nodded as she set the coffee cake on the table. “The wake is tonight at seven, and the funeral’s tomorrow. Visitation at ten, service at eleven.” She went back to the sideboard for plates and silverware. “I sure wish Pastor Hayden could do the service, but Pastor Osterburg knew Judith pretty well.”

  Bo sipped his coffee. Best not to let on yet that the preacher had no memory of even being a pastor, much less remembering his congregation. A lot of people depended on Hayden’s advice—Pearl more so than most. “Got any butter?” he asked instead.

  Pearl let out a laugh. “How do you know you need butter? You haven’t tasted it yet.”

  He grinned. “I always need butter.”

  Shaking her head, she went to the refrigerator, retrieved the butter, then set it in front of him. “How come you don’t get fat?” She smiled.

  “Lucky.” He slathered a slice of steaming cake with butter. “I’m not sure I can make it to the visitation. That’s our busiest time. But I want to come to the funeral.” Seeing her brow furrow he quickly added, “I’ll sit in the back. She won’t see me.”

  Pearl’s smile faded as she served herself a slice of coffee cake.

  Bo put down his fork. “You don’t want me there.”

  Pearl shoved what little chin she possessed indignantly his way. “Of course I want you to come. Even if we can’t sit together, I’ll know you’re there.” She pushed the coffee cake away. “This can’t go on anymore, that’s all.”

  Bo looked down. “I’m not trying to make things difficult—”

  “You’re not making things difficult. I am.”

  His head came up. “How do you figure that?”

  “I’m the one who’s let her run my life for forty-plus years.” Pearl stood and went to the counter. “So I’m the only one who can put an end to it.” She grabbed the coffee pot and returned to the table. “And I’ve figured out how to do it.”

  “How?”

  “She and I are going on a vacation.” She winked. “Elsbeth doesn’t know it yet, but that’s what’s going to happen.”

  Bo was taken aback. “Where?”

  “Someplace where we have to fly to get there,” Pearl said. “She’s gonna be mad as a hornet when I tell her about you and me, but I think I can talk her down if I can keep her in my sights long enough.”

  Bo closed his mouth sharply. He couldn’t picture anyone being able to talk Elsbeth Novak down.

  “If she tries to cut our trip short, she’ll have to make a new airplane reservation, get her stuff out of the hotel, grab a taxi. That’ll give me some time.”

  Not wanting her to see his doubt, Bo focused on spearing another forkful of cake. “If you say so.”

  “Elsbeth’s first reaction is always anger that she’s not in control of a situation she doesn’t like.” Pearl reached for her plate. “But once she calms down, she sees reason. She’s a good person at heart. Look at everything she does for the church.”

  He decided not to comment that Elsbeth was in charge of everything she did at the church. Learning that Pearl was making her own decisions—ones that Elsbeth wouldn’t like—was going to take way more than a week to win over the self-righteous matron.

  “You might want to get some food in you before you pick her up,” he said.

  “True.” She took a large bite from the fragrant cake. Her smile faded and she swallowed hard.

  Concerned, he put down his fork. “You okay, honey?”

  Pearl didn’t answer, but stared stone-faced at the coffee cake. As he watched, her chin began to tremble.

  “Pearl?”

  Her fork clattered to the table and, with a sob, she dropped her head in her hands.

  “Whatsamatter, baby?” Bo shot out of his chair and put his arms around her shaking shoulders.

  “The coffee cake,” she fina
lly got out.

  “What about it?” Bo had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Judith’s was better. She put lemon in it.” Pearl buried her head in Bo’s chest.

  “Aw, honey.” Bo hugged her close as the sobs rocked her body.

  Finally she looked up at him through red, wet eyes. “Don’t ever leave me, Bo.”

  “I won’t,” he promised. “I’ll love you forever.”

  ***

  Peter Pendergast nervously slicked his thinning ginger hair back over his egg-shaped head as the sounds of the busy newsroom buzzed around him. He’d been trying to get hold of that worthless Gibbons kid since last night. That was the deal. Peter had given Tom that phone with the understanding the teenager would pick up every time Peter called.

  Peter slammed back the last of his coffee, then looked at his watch. “Where the hell is he?” He hunkered down in his cubicle so as not to be overheard and punched in the phone number for the fourth time that morning.

  He was startled when someone actually answered.

  “What?” It was the kid.

  “Where the heck have you been?” Peter demanded. “It’s almost noon.”

  “Sleeping, mostly.” Tom sounded bored.

  Peter clenched his teeth to keep from yelling into the phone. He had to be nice. Lombardi was breathing down his neck for a follow-up piece that would either clear or damn the Novak family in the Platt girl’s murder. Tom Gibbons was the only iron he had in that fire. “You got anything for me?”

  “Write down this phone number.”

  Peter’s brows raised in interest and he scribbled the number on a scrap of paper.

  “And there’s an address, too.”

  As he wrote, the reporter felt anticipation growing. What did the kid have? A lovers’ retreat? Love letters between the girl and Jimmy Jr.? “Okay. I’ve got it down. Now what do I do with it?”

  “You call the number. The manager’s name is Sadie.”

  “Sadie?” Peter repeated, jotting down the name. “Got it. Then what?”

  “You give her your credit card number to pay for six month’s rent at her motel.”