At the office, I pretended to work on some correspondence but truthfully I wasn't getting anywhere with it. Nagging little suspicions filled my head. I couldn't believe Stacy would deliberately set me up. On the other hand, she was desperate. The missing watch might have only been a middle link in the relationship with Detweiller. Perhaps he'd taken it then tried to blackmail her.
Jean Detweiller's face kept coming into the picture, too. Perhaps I should mention my suspicions to the police. Unfortunately, they were only suspicions. I really didn't have any evidence, only a fellow employee who thought Jean took a long break that night and Josh's obvious relief when he heard who was arrested.
The front door chimed at nine o'clock. Sally's voice rose in a friendly greeting, then I heard Kent Taylor's muted response. Heavy footsteps clumped up the stairs. Taylor had that same neatly cared-for look, pressed slacks, clean shirt, neat tie. His overcoat hung open in front. The weather outside was marginally cool enough to need one. I still hadn't decided what I would say to him.
"Hi, Charlie." He didn't hold out his hand, so I didn't either.
"Kent." So far we were off to a great start.
He held up the signed sales ticket from the pawn shop encased in a small baggie.
"I suppose you know what this is about," he said.
"Well, I guess it's about Stacy North's Rolex watch, which I retrieved for her."
My tone was a little more huffy than I intended and he picked up on it. He stuck the baggie in his pocket and sat down on my sofa, lounging against the back, one arm draped across the cushions. I lowered myself into my desk chair. When he spoke again, he had become good-cop.
"Did Stacy happen to mention to you how her watch ended up at a pawn shop?" His voice was low, conversational.
I had no idea how to play this. Should I open up and tell the whole story just as it had happened, or should I give yes/no answers only when asked a direct question? I felt myself squirming.
"Not exactly," I told him.
"Charlie, let's not drag this out all day." His voice was still friendly. "You aren't implicated in the Detweiller case personally. Right now, I don't even have reason to believe you're withholding evidence."
He placed subtle emphasis on the words right now. I squirmed some more. He waited silently, obviously knowing that I was uncomfortable about this.
"Stacy's my friend. I've known her since fifth grade. I know she did not kill that man." My voice came out surprisingly firm. I proceeded to relate most of our conversation as it pertained to the watch emphasizing, truthfully, that Stacy was more afraid of her husband than she was angry with Detweiller. I held back my suspicions about Jean.
Kent made some notes in a small spiral. When he looked back up at me, he was smiling.
"That was a nice piece of detective work you did retrieving that watch," he said.
I have to admit I warmed up a little inside. He clarified a couple of points, then left. I turned back to the work on my desk but found it hard to concentrate. As a last resort, filing is a fairly mindless task, easy to do while preoccupied. I picked up the stack of miscellaneous receipts, bills, and customer folders that had been accumulating for a week. There on top lay the receipt for the new tire I'd bought.
Another unresolved question. I still didn't quite believe it was a random case of vandalism. Someone in the bar that night wanted to slow me down. But who? And why? Maybe another visit to Penguin's was in order.
This time I dressed to fit in—faded jeans, sweater, denim jacket. I made Rusty stay home against his wishes and left plenty of lights on so the house wouldn't look deserted when I got back.
Penguin's was hopping when I arrived. I'd forgotten this was Friday night. The small parking lot was completely full so I parked on the side street about three houses down. The five to seven o'clock happy hour was just ending, and two couples passed me on their way out the door. Inside, a jukebox down near the pool tables twanged country tunes with a vivaciousness that rattled ice cubes in the glasses. There were more women here tonight. Most were dressed as I was, casually but ready to party on a Friday night. All the tables were full and people were two deep at the bar. I pressed my way through the crowd and ordered another Bud Light.
"Draft or bottle?" Pete the bartender asked.
"I don't care."
He handed over a brown bottle, which I carried to a slightly more open space between the end of the bar and the pool tables. On the jukebox Garth Brooks quit and Reba McEntire came on with a soft melody full of pain. At least the room quit vibrating.
The pool table in front of me was getting more active by the minute. The game looked like eight-ball. Both players were good. The guy with his back to me was just about to clear the table, but he'd have to make a tricky bank shot to do it. I found myself staring at the cue ball, holding my breath as he drew back his stick. When the ball went in the pocket, the crowd let out a shout. I breathed again. A dramatic-looking redhead threw her arms around the winner. She wore black leather pants that were in danger of splitting, a sequined gold bra-thing, and a black and gold bolero jacket. He put an arm around her waist and swung her around. When he faced me, I realized it was Larry Burke. We were no more than three feet apart.
"Hi, Larry," I said.
He stared intently, trying to place me. The redhead narrowed her eyes and drew herself up to her full height. In heels she was at least three inches taller than either Larry or me. Larry was decked out, three gold chains around his neck and a pinky ring that would have made Elizabeth Taylor envious. His polystyrene hair was perfect, like he'd just pulled it out of the mold and stuck it on his head. He wore denim jeans so tight they made him stand funny and a western shirt of brilliantly colored diagonals.
"You come here often?" I asked.
"Oh. . . yeah," he said, recognition dawning, "you're the chick asking around about Gary."
I took a slug of the beer, struggling not to grimace.
"Hey, I heard they caught the broad that did it," he said.
"A woman was arrested, yes. But they don't have much evidence against her. She's out already."
"Hm." He seemed disappointed at the news.
The redhead tightened her death grip on Larry's shoulder. He seemed to take the hint.
"Well, see ya," he said. They walked toward the jukebox.
I turned toward the bar where a spot had opened up. I grabbed it. When I next glanced over at Larry and Wonder Woman he was earnestly explaining something to her. He glanced back at me once or twice, then explained some more with even greater vigor. I smiled back at him, making the task all that much more difficult.
"'Nother beer for ya?" I glanced up to see Pete, the bartender, close by.
"No, thanks, I'm still doing great with this." I would never in a million years finish the whole thing, but I planned to get good mileage out of it.
The crowd seemed to change slightly, coming and going after a drink or two. I watched the new faces as they came in. Larry Burke had finished another game, clearing the table without giving the other guy a chance. He managed to separate himself from his gold plated bodyguard for a minute and was standing in the corner deep in conversation with another man. Their heads were close together, the conversation obviously private. Larry looked up just then, saying something to the other guy and pointing toward me. When the other man faced me, I realized he was the same one who'd sat next to me at the bar the last time I'd been here. Interesting.
I quickly turned my back to them, concentrating on a bowl of popcorn in front of me. I hoped he hadn't got a good clear look at me. My thoughts were spinning. Did this have anything to do with my slashed tire? If Larry Burke perceived me as a threat, what did he have to hide?
Pete came back to check on my drink.
"Who is that guy in the red shirt?" I asked. "The one talking to Larry Burke?"
Pete looked over my shoulder. "I don't see anyone," he said. "Which guy?"
I whipped around to look again. Burke, the redhead, and the other man we
re gone. I scanned the entire room. No sign of any of them.
"That's weird," I said. "They were standing right there, back by the pay phones."
"Maybe they were ready to leave." Pete shrugged it off. "There's an exit back there. You know, one of those doors that won't open from the outside, but you push on the bar inside and you can get out. Fire exit. Required by city code." He went back to wiping the bar. I sat there wondering what they had been talking about.
I thought back to the last time I'd been here. Pete had mentioned the man's name to me, the one who sat next to me. It had been . . . something easy . . . something like Bill. No, Willie. That was it. And when Willie had got up to leave he'd made a phone call first. Suppose he knew that Larry Burke was somehow involved in Gary's death. If he didn't like my asking questions, might he have called Larry to report this? Since I'd already questioned Larry maybe it worried him. Maybe he'd told Willie to scare me. Maybe by slashing my tire. An uneasy flutter went through my stomach.
I didn't like the way they'd disappeared so quickly just now, right after they'd talked about me. Paranoia rose within me. I thought about my vehicle parked up the street away from the lights and the people coming and going around the bar. I didn't like the idea of walking out there alone, but I didn't want to hang around all evening and give anyone time to cook up something really bad. My eyes darted around the smoky room for answers.
A couple near the door stood up and began putting their coats on. This might be my chance to have an escort out. I hesitated—I'd really wanted to ask Pete a few more questions about Gary Detweiller. The couple were saying goodbye to their table-mates. I grabbed my jacket and pushed through the crowd. They were at the door, and the man graciously held it open for me along with his date.
Outside, the wind bit into my legs ferociously. The storm front predicted for tomorrow was here early. It was one of those March storms that could bring anything—snow, rain—in this case, sand. The grainy stuff whipped through the air blasting everything in its path. I turned my back to the gusts but not quickly enough. My eyes involuntarily slammed shut, filled with painful granules.
I stepped back into the small alcove by the door, rubbing carefully at the corner of each eye. The other couple had dashed for their car. Its tail lights were already at the driveway. I glanced up the street at my car. Light from a streetlamp across the street illuminated it fairly well. It appeared undisturbed, alone. My fears began to seem unfounded.
A fresh gust slammed into my back, whipping my hair across my face, chilling me through the thin denim jacket. I stepped back into the shadows again, scanning the parking lot. No sign of my three mysterious friends. The hell with it, I decided. If someone wanted to lurk in this weather to get me, they could just lurk a while longer. I stepped back inside.
Penguin's crowded, twangy atmosphere felt warm and friendly this time. I pushed back toward the bar.
"Oh, I didn't know you were coming back," Pete said regretfully. "I tossed your beer."
"That's okay," I assured him. "This time I think I'd just like a glass of water." My teeth felt full of grit.
"Sure thing. Spruce that up with a lemon wedge for you?"
The cold water tasted so much better than the beer that I drank heavily from it and asked for a refill.
"Looks like we've hit on your favorite," Pete grinned.
"I'm not much of a beer drinker," I admitted.
"I knew that the other night," he said. "Was kinda surprised when you ordered it again tonight."
"You're pretty observant." I raised my glass to him. "Tell me more about Gary Detweiller."
"Never saw the man anyplace but here," he said. "A guy can be a whole different person from one place to the other." He dried glasses, stacking them somewhere below the bar out of my sight.
"In here, he was everyone's buddy, I gathered."
"Pretty much. I saw him lose his cool once."
A new voice chimed in. "Hmmph. I sure saw him lose his cool more than once," the man said. He was sitting on the stool next to me hugging a whiskey between his palms. Long legged and slim, wearing Levis, western shirt, and hat, he was about my age. I must have been slipping not to notice him earlier.
"That's right," Pete said, "you knew Gary didn't you, Toby?"
Toby turned to me and touched the brim of his hat. "Sorry, I didn't mean to break in on your conversation, ma'am."
"Oh, please, my name's Charlie." We shook hands. Not even little kids have started to call me ma'am yet.
Toby had an incredibly sexy smile, and I wondered for a flash of a second if he was here alone.
"Tell me more about Gary," I said. "He had a temper, huh?"
"Oh, yeah. Look, I don't mean to speak ill of the dead, you see." The accent was surely west Texas.
I explained how a friend of mine, a real lady, was about to take the rap for Gary's death, and how I needed to find out who really did it.
"If I was you, Charlie, I'd look close to home," he said. "Gary mighta been a real good ol' boy around here, but he didn't extend that courtesy to his family. I was only over there once, now, but I could see he didn't treat that lady of his with any respect."
"That's too bad," I said.
"Why, where I grew up," he continued, "a man didn't never hit his woman. My daddy woulda washed my mouth out if I'd ever talked the way Gary did to that wife and kid of his."
We mused on, discussing the state of the world today with violence gone crazy, both in the family and in the streets. Pete tended his other customers, checking back and adding his opinion every few minutes.
"You know where I think it comes from," Toby said. "I think it comes from a lack of respect. People don't respect anything anymore. They don't respect the law, they don't respect each other or each other's property." He drained the last drop of his whiskey. "I don't know where that attitude comes from, but that's what it is."
He set his glass firmly on the bar. "Well, folks, it's been fun, but I gotta go."
"Toby, could I ask you one last favor?" I didn't want to seem like a wimp, but I had the feeling this was one man who wouldn't hold it against me. I explained about my earlier uneasiness over Larry Burke and his companions waiting out in the parking lot. "Could you walk me to my car?"
"I'd be more than pleased," he answered in pure Texan.
When we stood up, I realized for the first time how big he really was. He stood at least six-three, and his shoulders were far broader than I'd guessed. A guy this size should be sufficiently intimidating.
Outside, the wind had not abated. Toby had slipped on a sheepskin jacket, and I pulled my denim one closer around me. We walked quickly. My eyes darted around, looking for any sign of trouble, but I saw none.
"Can I ask you one question?" Toby asked as we approached the Jeep.
I nodded.
"How come a pretty little girl like you be named Charlie?"
I had to laugh. I explained to him how I'd been named after two elderly aunts. Charlotte Louise Parker was a rather unwieldy name for a kid, and since I was constantly defending myself against two older brothers, I was sort of a tomboy. I became Charlie and have been ever since.
He smiled bemusedly. "I'm gonna have to tell that one to my wife," he said. "Her name's Samantha Jo."
"And everyone calls her Sam?"
"Well, no. We all call her Samantha Jo."
I laughed at the puzzled look on his face as I got into my car. I thanked him for the conversation and the bodyguard service, which he shrugged off. Locking my doors, I started the Jeep. As I pulled away, I saw him in my rearview mirror walking back toward the parking lot.
It wasn't until I was nearly home that I realized someone was following me.
Chapter 15