Baited (2 page)

That stopped me for a second, but his line of logic lacked a hook. I hate turning down business, but I felt compelled to point out, “Still don’t see the motive. She couldn’t have killed him for a life insurance policy, because you have to produce a body to make the claim.”
 

Rich picked at a hole in his ratty jeans, avoiding my gaze. Finally he glanced up at me with haunted, watery eyes. “Maybe I’m off base, but will you at least talk to Cindy Jo, even if it proves I’m the one that’s crazy?”

Poor man. I didn’t want to get his hopes up, but this whole situation smacked of a bad episode of
Maury Povich
. Luckily for him, I’d been born a sucker for a sad story with a rotten ending. “Sure. I’ll talk to her, see what else I can find out,” I said, withdrawing a blank contract from my desk, “but it’ll cost you.”

Red splotches appeared on his forehead, nearly matching the color of his hair. “How much?”
 

I immediately knocked off two hundred dollars from the standard retainer. “Three hundred to start. That’ll buy you a day or so of seeing what I can dig up. Beyond that, I’ll call you before you rack up any more charges. Will that work?”

He nodded.

I filled in the contract and handed him a pen. He nearly knocked off one of the glass statues on my desk as he maneuvered his arm around to sign the paperwork with his left hand.

After he’d signed on the dotted line, he stood, dug in the left front pocket of his skin-tight Wranglers, and tossed three crumpled sweaty Benjamins on top of the paperwork.
 

“One last question. Did JC take his boat with him to Kansas?”

“No. That’s why I think he’s dead. JC wouldn’t take off and leave his boat behind. It meant more to him than anything and Cindy Jo knows that.”

“So where is the boat again?”

“Still docked down at Angostura, far as I know. Slip twenty-seven, cherry red boat with a matching tarp. Thinking about checking it out?”

I shrugged. “Can’t hurt.”

“Do you know how to drive a boat?” His skepticism wasn’t winning him any points.

I did have some boating experience, thanks to an ex-boyfriend who’d introduced me to the joys of water-skiing among other, less wholesome, but far more appealing water sports. “Why?”

“Cause my boat is docked down there. Not as fancy as JC’s, but it runs.” From a large key ring attached to his belt-loop, he extracted a black lanyard with two small keys and handed it over. “Take this in case you need an excuse about why you’re poking around. The old guy that runs the bait shop is awful nosy.”

“Thanks. How will I know which boat is yours?”

“Mine’s the only one with a lighted bow fishing platform.”
 

At my dubious look, Rich’s crooked grin split from one big ear to the other.
 

“I’m an eighth Lakota. Bow hunting and bow fishing are the only parts of my heritage I actively pursue.”
 

I considered his flaming red hair, blue eyes, toothpick body and lily-white skin. “An eighth Sioux, huh?”

“Got that same look when my
unci
dragged me to Pine Ridge and enrolled me in the tribe.”

My Lakota language skills were pathetic but I recognized the word
oon-chi
. “Your grandmother?”

“Yep. Truth is, blood doesn’t lie.”

As I well knew. “My brother was from White Plain.”
 

“Were you born there, too?” he asked, taking the high road, choosing not to judge me by my blond hair, blue eyes, high cheekbones and fair complexion.

I shook my head. “But I do some bow-hunting.”

Pleasure warred with shock on his face. Pleasure won out. “What’s your draw weight?”

“Fifty pounds. I just got a new composite bow.” I left out the tiny detail that my previous bow had been forcibly retired after being used to kill a man. I’d found out the hard way that factoid did not always instill confidence in new clients.

We spent the next few minutes discussing the minutiae about bows that only enthusiasts would understand. After giving me a brief rundown on the basics of bow fishing, and how his particular equipment worked, he encouraged me to try it out. And I admit he’d hooked my interest. Maybe more so in trying my hand at bow fishing than in investigating this case.

“I gotta get to work; hate to blow my shot at ‘Employee of the Month’.” Rich winked. It wasn’t an accomplished wink, or a lewd wink, but a shy wink from a man I imagined hadn’t had much practice in the art of flirting.
 

Something unexpectedly sweet moved through me.

He turned to go, but stopped just inside the doorframe. “Say, if you happen to come across a knife on JC’s boat, would you let me know? He borrowed it a couple of months back...” His ears turned pink. “It was a gift from my
unci
. She spent a lot of money on it after the sales guy convinced her it’d been specially made for lefties.”

“But it wasn’t?”

Rich shook his head. “No. It’s not a switchblade. Most of them have a thumb release button on both sides, so they work for right and lefthanders. Mine is a fixed blade.”

I blinked. I was learning all sorts of new stuff today. But all knives looked alike to me. “How will I know it’s yours?”
 

“It’s got a six inch blade with the brand name Boker etched in the steel. My initials RAB are carved on the bottom of the handle. If you find it, make sure it stays in the leather sheath. It’s sharp.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be in touch after I do some poking around.”

His keys jangled against his bony hip as he left. I leaned back and lit another cigarette, deciding on my next move. Filing could wait; I had my first solo bona-fide case this week.
 

As I sat smoking, reflecting on everything I’d just heard I looked down at my ragged cuticles and bitten-to-the-quick nails. Since business was slow, this seemed like an ideal day to get a manicure.

****

Hot Tips was located in one of those 1980s low-slung shopping plazas. It was nestled between a travel agency and a chiropractor’s office. The sign, once painted a trendy mauve, had faded into the grayish pink of a dead jellyfish. A brass bell tinkled as I pushed open the glass door.

The heavy scent of acetone greeted me, as well as the sounds of classic rock. High and low murmured tones of unrecognizable female conversation added to the background noise. I leaned on a kidney-shaped reception desk and expected to wait. I’d barely begun drumming my fingers on the desk when a peroxide blonde bounded from behind the burgundy privacy screen separating the waiting area from the main shop.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Cindy Jo.”

She snatched up my right hand and scrutinized it. “I’ll say. Sweet Lord in heaven look at this mess! And here I thought they’d outlawed pickin’ cotton the same time as slavery. Girl,” she drawled in her thick southern accent, “what have you been
doin’
to these poor things?”

Embarrassed, I tried to pull my unsightly hands away but it was impossible to fight against Miss Texarkana’s firm grip. “I’ve never much been into the whole nail routine, so I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place, sugar, and from the looks of it not a minute too soon.” Over her shoulder she yelled, “Cindy Jo? Your three o’clock is here.”

I didn’t bother to correct her.

Just then, the tiny woman I assumed was Cindy Jo strolled into view.
 

She had wide brown eyes framed by false eyelashes; deep-set wrinkles reached into her hairline. Against her tanned face, her black hair shone as bright as her capped teeth.
 

“One of these days, Mandy, you’ll actually use that intercom instead of your lungs.”
 

Mandy snorted indelicately.
 

Cindy Jo’s gaze flicked over me before she zeroed in on my hands. Mandy checked out the backs, sweeping her thumb across my knuckles and the callused tips of my fingers.

“Good Lord,” Mandy gasped when she flipped my hands over. “How did you get all those scars?” Gently, she traced a lavender nail over the puckered skin crisscrossing my palms. Her eyes locked with Cindy Jo’s. “Maybe you oughta show her how the hot wax treatment is helping you, since your hands look just like this.”

“Hush,” Cindy Jo snapped, hiding her hands from view. “Get back to your station.”

Once Mandy sauntered away, Cindy Jo smiled tightly. “Sorry. She’s got more heart than brains. Hope she didn’t offend you.”
 

“Takes more than that to offend me.”

“Good. Let’s get started.” She motioned for me to follow her. We didn’t settle into one of the mirrored nail stations, but passed through a doorway in the back and entered a small paneled office with a tanning bed shoved in the corner. Cindy Jo shut the door and seated herself behind the desk, pointing to an orange easy chair across from her.
 

I discreetly suppressed a shudder at the chair covered in dog hair, perching on a barstool against the wall instead.

She crossed her arms over her flat chest and studied me coolly.
 

My nervous smile wasn’t entirely fake. “Is this is some kind of consultation because I didn’t have an appointment—”

“Cut the crap. You’re not here for a manicure. What do you want?” From the pack on her desk, she extracted a Pall Mall and placed it between her frosted lips. “The insurance company sent you, didn’t they?”

I shrugged. Good a cover as any. I pulled out my own smokes and miniature notebook. She clicked open her silver butane lighter and held the flame across the desk. When that blessed nicotine filled my lungs, I decided it was a pity that so few people bonded over tobacco anymore. “Since you were expecting me, I hope you won’t mind answering a few questions?”

“Got one for you first. What’s your name?”

“Julie Collins.” I waited for her to ask me for a business card, or anything proving my identity. She didn’t. Sometimes we’re far too trusting in the “fly-over” states.

Cindy Jo exhaled, staring at me through the haze. “Well, Julie Collins, what is it you want to know?”

“According to our information, your husband, JC Bettleyoun disappeared four weeks ago.” She nodded. “The police report said he called you on his cell phone on his way to Kansas City.”

“Yep. Of course, we had a fight, which was nothin’ new.”

“I assume you remember what the fight was about?”

She rolled her eyes. “Him and his damn fool idea of becoming a professional fisherman.” Leaning back, she blew smoke rings toward the dingy ceiling before facing me again. “You married?”

“Once. A few years back. Didn’t work out.”
 

“I hear ya.” Her jaw flexed grotesquely as she filled the space with lopsided smoke rings. “Did you ever look across the breakfast table at the man you’d married, wondering what the hell you’d done? Think I would’ve learned my lesson when I had that exact same thought with my first husband.” Cindy Jo chuckled at my surprised expression. “Guess your little report regarding JC’s life insurance policy didn’t tell you I’d been married before.”

“How long ago?”

“Been twenty years since Eddie, that drunken fool, wrapped his Harley around a pine tree. Died instantly. Left me in a helluva bind. I walked away from that life and never looked back.” She gestured around the cramped space with something akin to pride. “Built this place on my own and swore I’d never be dependent on any man to take care of me again. That’s what attracted me to JC. He wasn’t one of those men who wanted a woman as his cook, maid and whore.” She snickered. “Hell, most of the time he was doing those things for me.”
 

A spot beyond the door held her attention and I waited.
 

“When it was good between us, it was perfect. But when it was bad, it was hell on earth. Know what I mean?”

I knew exactly what she meant; I was well versed in hellish relationships, both familial and intimate.
 

“As long as I kept money in his account he was willing to let me call the shots. Then he got real cocky and secretive last fall. I knew he was up to no good, with his sudden influx of money.” She punctuated her displeasure with the end of her cigarette. “I recognized the pattern. I’d lived through drug raids with Eddie and I’m too damn old to do it again.”

Confused, I ground out my half-smoked Marlboro. This conversation wasn’t helping. In fact, I found myself sympathizing with Cindy Jo. JC was a total loser. She would be better off if he
had
skipped town. However, I doubted my client would be pleased with my analysis. “Do you have any idea where JC is?”
 

“Dead, probably.”

I lifted a brow and leaned back on the stool. Both Rich and Cindy Jo assumed JC was dead.
 

“I don’t play the part of the grieving widow very convincingly, do I?” A frustrated hand raked her glossy hair. “I’ll be honest. JC was stupid to get mixed up in the drug trade. If he hadn’t disappeared, we’d be in divorce court anyway. I talked to our attorney last week and found out another interesting tidbit. Seems before he took off, he changed his will.”