Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel (10 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Arroyo

Day Ten, Early Afternoon

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

I knew Hughes needed to take my statement, but sitting in a cop-car after seeing Trudy's traumatized body, brought on waves of claustrophobia and ragged breathing.

Deputy Thunder had the cruiser's a/c running. Still, sweat rolled down my back. Had to be nerves. My palms were clammy too. I leaned over and set the controls so the cold air blasted.

The smell of drying blood would not vacate my nostrils. Instead it seemed to take over my being. After licking my lips, they still felt parched. What I wouldn't give for a bottle of water.

I wracked my brain to figure out what Trudy could've known that got her killed? She'd worked the front desk, an entry-level position, and wouldn't have been privy to decisions made in the director's office. Perhaps she'd seen or overheard something she shouldn't have?

My parched throat began to close and I sucked in a ragged breath. My eyes burned. I quickly turned my head away from Thunder and stared out my side window to hide my raw emotions. I hated when innocent people got caught in the crossfire. I took a long breath and let it out. I was also a bystander trapped in this mess Mark had made. That I still had feelings for the guy further infuriated me.

Dawson Hughes emerged from the apartment and beckoned with his hand.

"Excuse me, ma'am." Thunder got out of the cruiser and trotted over to his boss. The two talked for a few minutes. Then, the young deputy returned to the car and opened the passenger door.

My mind raced. Were they going to arrest me? What could they have possibly found that would point to me? "Is there a problem?"

A flush rose from his collar and encroached upon his tawny face. "Sorry, no. Deputy Hughes said I should drive you back to the Chuck Wagon in your car and wait for him. He'll take your statement there."

I pulled the car keys out of my jeans pocket, handed them over, and followed him to the Smart Car.

He opened the passenger door and held it while I got in. After trotting around the front of the vehicle, he stooped, and whipped off his Stetson. He tucked the hat into the tiny space behind the driver's headrest, pushed his bucket seat all the way back, and folded himself in with difficulty. His legs bent so his knees nearly touched the steering wheel. His head grazed the roof and he smoothed his dark, neatly trimmed hair, glanced at me, and grinned. "Whatever possessed you to rent this thing?"

I shrugged. "Wasn't paying too much attention at the rental desk when I arrived."

"And they stuck you with this beauty." He threw his head back and laughed.

I tried to stare him down but wound up grinning. "So far, it's gotten me where I needed to go."

He fired up the engine and we pulled out of the apartment complex parking lot. I took this time to observe the ruggedly handsome young man. He drove at the speed limit, signaled at every turn, and stopped for lights while they were still on yellow. "Setting a good example for the community with your careful driving?"

"Naw, just afraid this pile of junk will fall apart if I go any faster." He shot me a shy grin, as if checking to see if his wisecrack had gone too far.

"Everybody seems to know everyone around here. Did you know that girl? Trudy?" My gaze met his and my mouth went dry thinking how appalling and inexcusable this murder was.

"Taylor County ain't as small as you might think. I didn't know her. Don't run with her type." He made the turn onto Main Street in Arroyo and pulled to a stop in front of the Chuck Wagon.

"You mean the holistic gang. The tree huggers?"

"Nobody loves the earth more than my people. We just don't try to turn it into a designer label." He grabbed his hat and got out. Once he was standing beside the car, he stretched to get the kinks out.

The Chuck Wagon's heavy wooden front door with its window of light amber glass swung open. Doug hurried out carrying his early afternoon fix of caffeine in a container. He waved and headed in the direction of the bank.

I entered the eatery, frustration dogging my every step. This investigation was now more complicated than ever, and much sadder.

Bertha rushed toward a table, with a hamburger order in one hand and a basket of fried chicken in the other. She tossed me a huge smile but it faded when she saw Deputy Thunder on my heels. After making sure the men at her table had what they needed, she rushed over to me. "Hon, is everythin' all right?"

Thunder stepped between us. "Mrs. Ingels, you shouldn't be talkin' to anyone until you've given your statement to Deputy Hughes."

"Oh, no, somethin's happened. Oh, lordy."

I squeezed Bertha's hand and walked past her, leading Thunder to the back table the staff used for their meals. It was situated right in front of the ice machine and the rest rooms.

Bertha followed with two heavy ceramic cups and a pot of coffee. She filled both and turned to Thunder. "Can I get you a burger or bowl of chili? On the house."

"Chili sounds good." He removed his hat and placed it on the empty chair beside him.

She nodded and turned her gaze toward me. "Ronnie?"

"Nothing for me. Just coffee."

"Oh, hon, you can always eat. This ain't good, is it?"

"No, it's not."

Thunder cleared his throat.

Bertha blushed. "Sorry, Deputy. Would you like your chili topped with shredded cheddar?"

"Thank you, that would be real nice and I'll be payin' for it ma'am."

"Well, nobody can stop me from pilin' it high with a mountain of cheddar." She turned on her heel and raced to where we put in orders.

He grinned at me across the table. "Think she's tryin' to butter me up so I'll go easy on you?"

"Yeah, like if she feeds you enough you won't resort to a rubber hose." I chuckled.

The front door opened. Hughes strode in and walked straight back to our table.

*****

Arroyo

Day Ten, Noon

Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

I pulled out the chair next to Thunder only to find his hat there. He reached to remove it, but I put up a staying hand. After placing my Stetson half on top of his, I sat next to Ronnie.

Bertha approached with a bowl of chili smothered in shredded cheddar, a pile of saltine crackers on the side, and a large cruet with a heap of sour cream. She placed them all in front of Thunder then set her focus on me.

"Would you like a menu, Deputy Hughes?"

"I'll have your basket of fried chicken with fries."

"Coffee? We don't have the fancy kind."

"Coffee's fine."

"Very good." She turned on her heel.

The kid dug in. "Thi--sh is good." His cheek bulged like a chipmunk's with a nut tucked into it.

"Think you've got enough food there?" I grinned at him.

"This'll hold me a while." He took another bite.

I removed a miniature voice recorder about the size of a flip-top cigarette lighter from my pants pocket and placed it on the table. "Ronnie, do you mind if I record your statement?"

She nodded her assent. "Dandy little piece of equipment."

"This little baby is high powered and has a voice activation mode. My deputies got together and gave it to me for Christmas."

Thunder pointed his fork at the device and grinned. "That right there is proof of the presence of mind and good intentions of your deputies."

Ronnie burst out laughing. "Nothing like buttering up the boss."

I rapped my knuckles on the tabletop a couple of times and glanced down while I contained my amusement, then clicked on the device. "Let me get your statement while I'm waitin' on my order. How about you start by statin' your name for the record?"

She told me everything she knew, from receiving Trudy Bobkirk's phone call while working the Chuck Wagon's counter to calling 911 after finding the body. "Deputy Hicks thinks I'm a suspect in Trudy's murder, doesn't he?"

Bertha came with my chicken and coffee. I waited for her to leave. "Hicks goes straight by the book. Well, we all do, but he doesn't know you and isn't familiar with the case."

Thunder gulped down a huge mouthful of chili. "Hicks is a good man."

"Mark's body was released this morning." She changed the subject.

I gave her hand a squeeze. "Are you flyin' east for the funeral?"

"My in-laws insisted on making the arrangements, which is just as well under the circumstances. They informed me Cassidy is on her way there and will be staying in their home."

"Guess you'll sit tight here." Thunder took a slurp of coffee.

"Yeah, but Jack Cooney's going to attend the funeral and while he's there try to shadow Cassidy."

My wrist locked and my cup stopped in midair. "This is somthin' I'll have to inform the sheriff about, and the Abilene detective. I'm sure this info won't make their day."

She gave a shrug I'd always thought was the stuff of New York City tough-guy movies, as if to convey that meant nothing.

I bit my lower lip to hide my annoyance with her attitude. "Wonder if Ms. Renault will take a trip out to the spa in Westhampton Beach?"

She nodded. "I wonder that too, and I'm sure Jack's wondering. Great minds think alike."

Since we were all wondering, I wondered if the a/c had been turned up. It was as if a blast of cold air slipped past my collar and down my back. I had progressed to chewing my lip. I didn't need her aging PI boss blowing my case. "Is this Cooney fella up to surveillance?"

She snorted. "Better than the Abilene rookie detective. That's for sure."

I sipped my coffee. She had a point. And neither department was about to send personnel to the Big Apple to tail this woman. It could be a blessing in disguise.

"He goes invisible. She won't even know he's there." Ronnie's eyes blazed as if she greatly desired for Cassidy to be bested.

"Not like some people I know who keep gettin' in the way of Texas law enforcement." I chuckled hoping to defuse the atmosphere.

She ran her finger around the rim of her cup and a major pout overtook her facial muscles. "Yeah, well, a stone cold killer's out there who's racked up two notches on his belt and may kill again."

Thunder's elbows landed on the table. "Ma'am, if you don't mind a well-intentioned warnin'. You might be the next person in the killer's sights."

Chapter Seventeen

Abilene

Day Ten, Evening

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

Nights were the worst with nothing to do. Sometimes, I'd sit at the staff table during Bertha's dinner shift and she'd talk to me in snatches when she had a free minute. But, as time went on, I felt awkward with her babysitting me during her work hours. A few evenings, I borrowed Rascal and wrestled with him on my bed, and wound up cuddling him, sometimes with tears streaming down my face. For sure, it would've been worse alone in the apartment I'd shared with Mark in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. But, that was cold comfort.

If not a total loss, my life seemed to be close to that. I'd married a man who appeared to have ripped a page from my father's playbook.

My adult self knew my father left Mom because he was a selfish, irresponsible fool, and a womanizer. As a child, I'd thought if I could just be a better daughter maybe he'd stay for my sake. That's what I heard whispered about back then.
They stayed together for the sake of the children
. So when he left, I figured he didn't consider me worthy enough to make the effort to stay married to Mom. Now, of course, I knew he was the one who wasn't worthy of us.

Almost two weeks had passed, and there'd been no significant movement on Mark's case. I'd put together a timeline, arranged and rearranged my notes to no avail. Trudy's horrific murder added further complications as far as who would have had motive and opportunity to commit both acts.

Frustration began to overwhelm me. I stared into the mirror above my dresser, then tore out the band holding my ponytail and gave my hair a good brushing for lack of anything better to do.

Then I spotted yesterday's edition of the
Arroyo Free Press
. Bertha had been working on the crossword puzzle and must've left it in my room when she visited for a few minutes last night. I picked it up, thumbed through it, and noticed an ad for the Town and Country Drive-In theatre. My mom had talked about going to drive-in movies as a girl and how her parents would only let her go with girls, fearing a drive-in date would turn into a major make-out session. She raised me fairly conservatively. Mark's parents were a lot more permissive.

The theatre wasn't too far off Route 20, so I figured I could get there, no sweat. I'd never gone to a drive-in and thought it would be fun. It would be more fun if I had company. I asked Hoot if I could take Rascal with me and he agreed, but only if I took his Jeep. He wanted the dog to be comfortable.

I had Rascal lay down on the seat in the back as we drove in, not knowing if having a canine companion would be an issue or not. I paid eight dollars admission, five dollars less than an adult ticket at the freezing-cold, air-conditioned, ultra-modern, wide-screen, in-door theatre in Brooklyn. I drove along the gravel-covered rows and pulled up to a speaker in the middle of the lot, not far from the concession stand and bathrooms.

After giving Rascal a stay command, my running shoes crunched gravel as I walked to get myself a snack. Dusk was rapidly turning to darkness as row after row of parked cars lowered then raised their windows to hook, affix, and set the volume of their speakers.

The familiar scent of melted buttered popcorn drew me to the squat, poured concrete snack bar. The prices for popcorn and soda reflected the same price differential as the entrance ticket had. I got myself a small-popcorn, a small Coke, and a large box of Good 'n Plenty. There'd be no way I could sit through a movie without an ample supply of those heavenly licorice morsels covered with white and pink sugar candy.

I wheeled around, with my loot in my hands, and nearly ran into Marjean and Nellie as they entered the refreshment stand.

When Nellie saw me, she teared up. "You found Trudy's bod... um Trudy."

"Yes, I did." A lump formed in my throat seeing her distress. "I'm sorry for your loss."

Marjean wrapped an arm around Nellie's shoulders. "What happened to Trudy was senseless. Awful." She blanched. "I didn't mean to imply what happened to your husband wasn't."

I nodded. "No need to explain. This entire situation is horrid."

"She could be unsure of herself and was a little goofy with her butterflies, hearts, and peace signs, and she got overlooked a lot, but Trudy was a really good person. It's all so terribly wrong." Nellie sniffled twice in a row.

At first, I couldn't meet her eyes, out of guilt for having been one of those who'd looked straight through Trudy. Other than a smiling face, she'd been invisible to me. Before I could beat myself up even more, I got a grip. The girl had been a receptionist, after all. The usual was a quick meet and greet and then you moved on. I shook my head to stop my brooding. "Do you have any idea why this happened to Trudy?"

"She musta learned somethin' maybe she shouldn'ta known about."

Marjean cleared her throat, loudly. "We'd better get our snacks before the movie starts."

Nellie's gaze sought the floor as they walked past me.

"Enjoy the film." I pivoted to go, and then turned back. "Nellie, if you think of anything, call me at the Chuck Wagon."

Marjean grabbed Nellie's elbow, not allowing her to turn toward me, and hustled her into the short line for snacks.

"Nellie, I'm going to try to find some justice for Trudy," I called after her. "Promise."

She turned back toward me, but Marjean had a firm hold on her and pushed her forward.

Suddenly, the snacks in my hands felt heavy. I trudged through the doorway and out to Hoot's Jeep, hoping I wouldn't miss the beginning of the movie. Rascal greeted me with enthusiastic, slurping doggie kisses. At least someone was glad to see me.

*****

Abilene

Day Ten, Evening

Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

Deputy Ornis Hicks pestered me mercilessly until I agreed to step out with him and hear his little sister Mabel sing. She was the headliner, if you could call it that, in what might be Taylor County's most run-down hole-in-the-wall honky tonk, the Broken Spur Saloon off Route 83 in Tuscola. It had a reputation for good grub and genuine country western music. Unfortunately, more than one of its regular patrons had done some time in the Taylor County Jail.

Finding a spot for my Ram in front of what looked like a large galvanized chicken coop, I wondered if Trudy Bobkirk had frequented the place. The Silverado Apartments wouldn't be more than a five-minute drive. Hicks and I had searched her apartment every which way and found nothing. Tonight the odds were slim to none, but since we came up empty there, I was hoping a lead would turn up here.

I met Hicks at the bar. A sign above the register warned:
No bare feet. No indecent or extreme dancing
.

"Glad you could make it, Hughes. You won't be disappointed. My sister sings like an angel, even though she don't live like one." He emitted a low, mirthless laugh.

The bartender brought an order of wings and placed it next to Hick's draft. He wiped his hands on his worn Levis and leaned on the bar. "What'll it be?"

"I'll have a Coke." I hadn't had an alcoholic drink since that one night three weeks after my divorce when I tied a vicious one on. Woke up in a woman's motel room and she had her long black wig tossed over the TV. Her real hair was cut so short she resembled a cancer patient. Never found out if she was or not. Just tried to get out of there as gracefully as possible after having acted like a fool.

"Help yourself to the wings," Hicks said.

I took one and bit. "Whoa, call the fire department."

Hicks grinned. "You know I like 'em hot."

The barkeep placed my drink on the bar and I took a gulp of soda.

A young man walked in with a guitar hanging from his back, stepped up to the bar, and ordered a draft.

The manager took to the microphone. "This here's open mic night. That don't mean our own Mabel Hicks won't be singin'. She'll just be obliged to share the stage. However, there ain't no hippie music allowed. Don't get carried away with yourself and go off on no endless guitar solo. Only one could pull that off was Jimmy Hendrix and he's pushin' up daisies."

The kid at the bar laughed and took a sip of beer.

Mabel Hicks took to the small bandstand. A grizzled man sat at the upright piano behind her. Next to him, a tall fellow with long gray hair set up a bass fiddle. She was more Christina Aguilera than Dolly Parton. For an angel, she had a deep voice as she belted out the old Johnny Cash hit "Ring of Fire."

After two more songs, those popularized by women vocalists, she ended with Gretchen Wilson's "Redneck Woman," stepped off the stage, and walked over to us.

The kid with the guitar carried his beer to the stage, wet his whistle again and set it down. He pulled a Fender acoustic guitar wired for audio out of his case and plugged it into the restaurant's sound system. Looking cocky as all get out, he started playing a few outlaw western songs. His rendition of Billy Joe Shaver's "Freedom's Child" got a rousing ovation.

I pulled over an empty barstool. Mabel Hicks hopped on, and crossed her legs, the slit in her fringed skirt exposing most of her thigh. "Ornis, you want to introduce me to your friend here?"

Hicks straightened up. "Now, Mabel, this here's Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes, my boss in the department."

She brushed voluminous blond curls off her shoulder and winked at me. Tamping down the heat somewhat, she shifted gears to more conspiratorial than flirtatious. "A lawman. I like that."

The barman approached. "Mabel, you want your usual?"

"That'd be fine, Floyd."

A few minutes later, he brought her a Margarita.

I raised my glass. "To good music."

We all clinked.

I took a sip and leaned closer to Mabel. "Did you ever know a young girl to come in here named Trudy Bobkirk?"

With a provocative flick of her tongue, Mabel licked the salt off the rim of her stemmed glass. "What did she look like?"

"She had wheat blond hair, an easy smile, but could become easily confounded. She wore bright colors and favored butterfly type earring' and the like."

"I know who you mean. Not too long ago she started up with a guy who hangs here a lot." Mabel twisted and leaned over the bar. "Floyd, you got a minute?"

The barman approached. "Yeah."

"You know the guy sits way in the corner." She pointed. "Started to fancy that blond gal wearin' all them hearts and flowers who come in from time to time? What's his name?"

"Jimmy Logan. He's a car mechanic at the Mobil station a ways down on Route 83."

I nodded to both of them. "Thank you. That's very helpful."

Floyd left to serve another customer.

Mabel walked her fingers along the bar, up my hand, and along the sleeve of my shirt. "Anythin' to help the law." Then she quickly took back her hand and tossed out a mocking laugh.

I stifled the urge to rub the back of my hand on my pant leg and simply slipped my digits into my jeans pocket.

Hicks raised his glass in a quasi-salute toward the bandstand and said, "That kid is good."

I used that as an excuse to step away from Mabel and scrutinize the musicians. "He is, and the fellas who play here regular are good too."

I wondered if Ronnie would like to have a bona fide Texas honky tonk experience one evening. My mind strayed to Mabel and all the spiteful manipulation she might indulge in at Ronnie's expense, and thought better of it.

Mabel finished her Margarita and then sauntered to the stage, her hips swaying rhythmically. She took the microphone, and the kid stayed up there adding to her backup.

Hicks put his glass on the bar. "You gonna question the mechanic? You think maybe he killed her?"

"I'm goin' to question him, but my hunch is that girl was murdered because of whatever is goin' on at the spa."

"Maybe Mark Ingels played with fire and got burned, but that girl sure didn't deserve to die that way," Hicks spat out, and took a swig of beer.

I nodded. "I'm hopin' her boyfriend knows somethin'. Maybe somethin' he doesn't even know he knows."

Things started winding down around two in the morning and I was amazed I'd hung around till closing. I slapped Hicks on the back, walked across the room and made a pit stop in the men's room before leaving.

High quality speakers transported Mabel belting out Martina McBride's "Independence Day." I flushed the urinal and laughed at her gusto.

She finished to a round of applause and the manager took the microphone. "We been closin' the joint with 'A Closer Walk With Thee' since the day we opened and we ain't never had a drivin' fatality yet. Only a couple fender benders here 'n there."

A baritone voice called out. "That's 'cause you always make me drive Rory home."

"That's a fact." The manager affirmed and the crowd gave up raucous laughter.

I washed my hands, left the lavatory, and exited the bar as a heart-felt, off-key rendition of the hymn washed over me. I found myself humming along as I clicked my key fob and unlocked the Ram's doors. No way would I doubt there were believers among that drunken bunch of skunks. But I wasn't sure I was one anymore, although I sometimes wanted to be more than anything. These days, just couldn't quite find the faith.