Sprayed Stiff (19 page)

Sliding in behind the wheel of my truck, I peeled out, relieved I had my dog and my tape. I turned on the radio in the car and heard my voice.

Uh-oh.

I called Trudy. “I’ll forgive you for abandoning me last night if you let me hide at your house. Just for a little while.”

“Uh, I’m sorry, Reyn, you can’t. Not tonight, anyway. But we heard you, all over the radio and TV just now—”

No wonder the damned reporters had let me leave the house. Roy Gene had made a deal to feed them the interview live.

“—sounded like an orangutan having an orgasm in the background—but, overlooking that, you were so brave and principled to stand by Lexa. She’s so grateful. Of course, Scythe is going to kill you, but—”

“What did you say about Lexa?”

“I said she was
going to be
so grateful.”

“No you didn’t, you said she
was
grateful. How would you know that?”

“Barnacles’ balls and jellyfish jowls, Reyn. I’ve got to go. Talk later. Bye.” Trudy was rattled. Little liar.

My cell phone rang before I could get my finger off the end button. It was Scythe’s number.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“D
ID YOU THINK
you were helping the investigation? Tell me your thought process on this, given you had one to begin with.”

Scythe’s voice was eerily calm. He was angrier than I’d ever known him to be.

“He kidnapped Cab. That was the deal to get her back.”

“You do come up with some doozies, Reyn. Points for creativity. Deductions for not using it properly.”

“Really, Scythe. He had her, ask any of the reporters staking out my house. I know they must have seen him do it, probably helped him; then he made the deal to transmit the interview back live.”

“Only to you would something like this happen. Who the hell would think of kidnapping a damned dog?”

“Not just any dog. This was Cabernet, Scythe.”

He blew out a sigh into my ear. I fidgeted on my seat. His breath did that to me, even over the phone. “Okay, so why didn’t you call me when you found out ‘not just any dog’ was…gone?”

“Held for ransom,” I corrected. “And, anyway, I did call and had to leave a message because you were obviously ‘otherwise engaged.’ ”

“All you said was ‘Please call me back when you get a chance,’ ” he mimicked. “You didn’t say, ‘This is an emergency.’ ”

“I didn’t think you’d think it was an emergency.”

“Stop thinking for me,” he snapped. “You need all the help you can get to just think for yourself.”

Showing great restraint, I kept quiet until he finally added, “So why didn’t you call someone else in the PD?”

“Because he gave me a deadline and he said he’d kill her if I didn’t come alone.”

“And you didn’t think we badge-wearing types have plans for things like that?”

“I had my own plan.” Well, came up with one on the fly, anyway.

“Worked well, I see.”

“I stole his tape. How was I supposed to know the interview had already gone live?”

“How did you steal his tape? It sounded like someone was having sex during the interview. Was that how you did it?”

“No, that was Cab chewing! I bashed Roy Gene on the head with a dinosaur-size dog bone!” I really hadn’t intended to admit it, but he’d caught me off guard.

“Oh, super.” Giant sigh. Louder finger drumming. Pause in which he likely ran hand through trailer-park-trash hair. More drumming. “So now I can expect this Roy Gene character to come in and charge you with assault.”

“Then I’ll charge him with kidnapping.”

“Good, then we can all spend our time investigating assault with a deadly bone and kidnapping of a Labrador named after a kind of wine, instead of finding the real killer.”

“Quit making fun of me.”

“Is there a better way to get you to stay out of this? I’ve tried everything else, asking politely, intimidating, demanding, even arresting you. I’m game for trying ridicule…” His voice drifted off, and I heard what sounded like a broadcast turned up and a deep baritone speaking, although I couldn’t hear exactly what was said.

“Hello?” I called to Scythe.

I heard voices raised in the background. Then Scythe swore under his breath. I thought he said, “Damn Rangers,” but I didn’t know why he’d care about the Dallas baseball team in the middle of all this and so early in the season, too. Men, go figure. “We’ve got a big problem. Reyn, go home. Lock your doors. If you’re not home in fifteen minutes, I will send an APB out on your truck.” He disconnected, probably to watch the rest of his precious baseball game. I didn’t know he was even a fan.

I despise being told what to do. But I believed he meant what he said, which meant I shouldn’t give in to temptation and go by Trudy’s house, which would’ve been my next exit off 281. Instead, reluctantly, I headed for home.

No one was waiting for me when I got there. Well, why would they be? The vultures had gotten their pound of flesh out of my Roy Gene interview, headed back to their respective stations to package up their stories for their late-night newscasts, and gone out to celebrate. They’d probably be camped out again first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, I was under house arrest.

Only if I listened to one bossy cop.

Cab and I let ourselves in through the kitchen door. The two outside were whining like I’d abandoned them for years instead of hours. I let them all in for the reunion and a kibble fix, then unlocked the door to my poor, neglected salon to find a note from Bettina about the day’s exciting activities. Yes, clients had canceled for today, but all had rescheduled. She’d taken a hundred calls from people who wanted to come to me for their hair because they’d heard my name on the news. What did getting mixed up in murders have to do with doing good hair, anyway? These potential new clients scared me. I read on. Bettina had juggled reporters’ inquiries all day, and one talent scout who’d seen her on the noon news told her he could make her more famous than Lucy Liu if she moved to Hollywood. I wondered if it was the same one who’d talked to Trudy. Was someone stalking my friends with offers of fame and fortune? Low blow, since all I had to offer was toil and trouble.

I returned to the part of my house I lived in and debated dinner. Food and I have a lifelong love affair that won’t be denied by brushes with death, destruction, or having to fit into Levi’s tomorrow. I opened the refrigerator and jumped back, startled again by its semiclean state. I was used to having to catch something falling out every time I opened it. Nothing even teetered this time. I’d forgotten my mission before Lexa’s fateful call. I managed a moment of panic when I considered I might not have enough choices to satisfy me for din-din, but then I saw the instant egg foo young and I relaxed.

Popping it into the microwave, I reviewed what my second course might be. Some three-day-old jambalaya might not be bad. I set that out. Then I grabbed some frozen tiramisu to defrost for dessert. Vegetables? Hmm, I hadn’t been to the store for four days and had thrown out some half-rotten possibilities the night Wilma was murdered. Veggies might be a problem. Then I brought myself up short. Who said I had to have vegetables at every meal? It was another one of those parental brainwashing things. I was thirty-one years old and wouldn’t have a vegetable course. So there.

Feeling very rebellious, I sat down with some chop-sticks and dug in. The doorbell rang.

A reporter? Scythe? The newspaper wanting me to subscribe? Roy Gene wanting revenge? DD wanting a quickie?

The last one made me check my peephole before I opened the door. The Marlboro Man stood on my doorstep, minus the horse and the cigarette. Maybe he’d left them at the curb. A Stetson with the perfect crease shadowed his face, but the contours of his chest through his button-down shirt and the bulge of his…thighs through his western slacks spoke to me. I decided I ought to let him in.

I opened the door. “Can I help you?”

“Ma’am,” he said in a rich, deep baritone that sounded vaguely familiar and extremely toe-curling. He slid his Stetson off and held it. “I’m looking for Reyn Marten Sawyer.”

“You found her,” I breathed.
And boy, is she lucky, or what?
The Stetson had been hiding thick, jet-black hair just a shade too long to be considered regulation, and just right to be considered sexy. His hairline showed a cowlick fifteen degrees off-center to the right above green-gold eyes that crinkled at the corners, a chiseled face that bespoke some Native American blood, a seven-o’clock shadow, and a mobile mouth with a thin upper lip and plump lower lip that made a girl think about a kiss. And other things.

He reached into his back pocket. I tried not to stare at the way that made his Wranglers pull across his hips. He could’ve been reaching for a revolver and I wouldn’t have cared. He flashed a badge instead. “My name is Clint Calhoun, ma’am, with the Texas Rangers.”

Oh, were
those
the Rangers Scythe was so worked up about?

No wonder. This Ranger had me pretty worked up, too.

I hoped I wasn’t panting.

I stared at him a beat. Two beats. Finally, he cleared his throat. “May I come in for a few moments?”

I stepped back too fast and nearly tripped over my own feet as I pulled the door back. Real cool. “Of course. Come in. Please.”
Pretty please.

“Thank you.” He stepped over the threshold.

“Let’s go into the kitchen.” It was easier to hide the spread of my thighs under the kitchen table, rather than on the couch in the living room. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror. I was still in my camo-wear and Wolverines. The only thing more sexy would’ve been my “Creeps Like Me” T-shirt, which he picked up from where I’d left it slung over the kitchen chair and perused.

I braced for a lewd comment. He smiled instead. “Lyle Lovett fan?” I nodded. He nodded back. “Me, too.”

My dream man.

He reviewed the array of food. I fiddled nervously with the tiramisu. “I was just sitting down to a late dinner. Would you like something?”

“Egg foo young. Jambalaya. Tiramisu. It sounds perfect. If you can spare some, that would be much appreciated.” No snide comments, no cocked eyebrows, like someone else I knew. What a gentleman. I grabbed a plate and a couple of spoons so he could serve himself. “Something to drink?”

“Whatever you have handy, but don’t bother yourself. I’ll get it, ma’am.”

“My mom’s a ma’am. Please call me Reyn.”

“All women are ma’ams,” he said with a wry smile that bespoke some parental brainwashing of his own as he took the glass from me and poured himself some iced tea he found in the fridge. “But I’d be honored to call you Reyn.”

Sigh.

“And what can I get for you to drink, Reyn?”

A dose of reality would be nice, because Ranger Clint was definitely too good to be true. “I’ll have some tea, too, thanks.”

He poured my tea, then sat down in the seat next to mine. I’d been planning on sitting across from him. After all, we’d just met. But I couldn’t exactly move now, could I, without hurting his feelings. I tried to ease gracefully into the chair, but caught the back of my knee, which sent me off balance, and my backside thumped into the seat. I offered an apologetic grin. He answered it with an admiring smile that said I was swan-like.

We ate for a moment in silence. Then he cleared his throat. “Reyn, the reason I’m here is…”

To ask you to ride off with me on my white horse into the sunset….

“…to ask you some questions about the Barrister and Roadkill cases.”

Darn.
“Yes?”

“The Rangers decided to get involved in the case after we heard you on the radio tonight. You see, we usually wait to be asked to help localities investigate cases they can’t handle because of a small workforce or lack of investigative experience, or because perhaps internal affairs are involved and they need some impartiality.

“However, in rare cases, we invite ourselves into the investigation when we think it’s warranted. Like in this case. Because there are so many departments involved and the case seems so complicated….”

Oh, boy, was I in trouble with Scythe. He had to be catching heat over this.

“Are you all right, Reyn?”

Was Ranger Clint incredibly perceptive, or did I look like I was going to hurl? “Yes—I mean, no. I’m a little worried the local cops are going to be mad at me.”

He nodded, his green eyes softening in understanding. “I hear you are involved with Lieutenant Scythe.”

“Involved? We aren’t involved. We’re just, ah…” What were we, anyway? “Friends.” Contentious ones, but I supposed that was as close as we could get in the English language.

“Friends?” He looked a little dubious for a moment, then brightened. “Good. That will make things less complicated.”

Things? What things?
Oh, I get it, Clint, no more worry that our wedding vows will be interrupted.

“Less complicated.” I was beginning to sound like a parrot.

“Yes, we were going to have to remove him from the investigation if there was anything romantic between the two of you.”

I barked out a laugh. “Romantic. Scythe? As close as he gets is teaching me how to shoot.”

Clint dropped his head and shook it. After another second of mourning, he lifted his head. “If you don’t mind, can we go through your involvement with the case from beginning to end and why you think neither the husband nor the daughter is the killer? I apologize if that makes it a late evening for you, but I’d like to get a running start on this in the morning.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble,” I rushed to say.

That Clint Calhoun was a thorough man. Oh, it’s not what you’re thinking.

I covered most of what had happened over the last couple of days, leaving out the part about clocking the DJ with the dog bone. That was a little embarrassing. I referred to Annette as my confidential source, and all Clint did was encourage me with those clear green eyes into considering revealing her identity. I almost did, but bit my tongue at the last minute. All in all, he asked some perceptive questions and seemed to appreciate my insight, unlike some other cops who will remain nameless.

My home phone kept ringing off and on during his visit, but since my voice mailbox was full, no one could leave a message. At one point, Clint looked at me sorrowfully and said, “I’m so sorry you are being harassed over this.”