Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) (14 page)

The restaurant was a long low building with a covered front porch stretching along the entire length of the building. The railing along the porch was wide enough to hold plates and was lined with wooden stools. At the far end, two plastic white tables and a stack of white plastic chairs were pushed into a corner where they would wait until the weather warmed enough for outside dining. Although no one manned the enormous black smoker, the cold air was filled with a faint lingering scent of mesquite smoke and brisket, rich and warm and tangy. In a halfhearted display of Christmas spirit, someone had tacked an uneven string of green twinkle lights along the gutter and wrapped the rough cedar support posts with fuzzy gold garlands.

Inside seemed overly warm after the outside chill. And smoky. Austin’s strict smoking ordinances had not yet reached Sand Creek. The air inside was as murky as the bottom of a stagnant pond, and the haze produced a respectable halo around the neon glow of the Lone Star Beer sign above the bar. The television blared in the far corner, where a group of men and women sat in a circle of chairs pulled from the dining tables. A foursome circled the pool table while keeping one eye on the game, while another group did the same at the dartboard. It was loud enough and smoky enough that no one noticed our entrance except a harassed-looking waitress who hurried by with a pitcher of beer and a tray of bar snacks.

“Happy Thanksgiving. Sit anywhere,” she called over her shoulder as she zoomed by.

Kyla immediately led the way to the bar. The bartender, a man in his late thirties with a gut that suggested he wasn’t averse to sampling his own wares, was in the process of filling another pitcher. He briefly lifted his eyes from his task to glance our way and forgot to lower them. Kyla had that effect.

Now she held his gaze and gave him a dazzling smile. And waited.

Beer ran over the top of the pitcher, making him jump and scramble for a bar rag. Red-faced, he spilled the excess into the drain and wiped the sides of the pitcher before setting it on a waiting tray.

“You’re evil,” I told her in a low tone.

“I love to do that,” she whispered back, totally unrepentant.

The bartender joined us. Or rather, he joined Kyla. “Happy Thanksgiving. What can I get you?”

“Vodka martini,” she said. “Extra olives, please.”

He looked completely devastated. “Um, sorry. We’re out. Of olives, I mean. Not vodka. We have that.” His eyes darted back and forth as though he were watching a tennis game. Then a light dawned. “I could probably run next door, see if Alice has any in her fridge,” he offered eagerly.

“Why, that is so nice of you,” Kyla began. I kicked her foot. “But, no. I couldn’t ask you to do that. How about a twist?”

“Absolutely!” he said eagerly and turned.

“I’ll have a Shiner Bock,” I called to the back of his head.

He waved a hand, probably to indicate he’d heard although possibly just to bat away an annoying distraction, and began pouring enough vodka into a silver shaker to make a Russian sailor say, “Whoa.”

“How do you do that?” I asked Kyla.

She turned ingenuous blue eyes on me. “What? Order a drink?”

I turned away from her to survey the room. Now that my own eyes were accustomed to the dim light and had mostly stopped watering from the smoke, I could see the others in the room. One of the men playing darts was Manuel, Carl Cress’s ranch hand. He was carefully not looking our way. I thought I could make out the massive shoulders and thick neck of Carl himself silhouetted in front of the glowing TV screen. Poor Manuel. If Carl didn’t even cut him loose on Thanksgiving Day, he didn’t stand much of a chance the rest of the year. I turned back to the bar in time to see the bartender handing Kyla both an overflowing cocktail glass and the shaker that contained the excess. He stood staring at her, and if his mouth wasn’t hanging open, it might as well have been.

“Could I get a Shiner?” I asked for the second time.

“Make that two,” said a voice behind me. A long arm reached around me with a debit card. “And these are on me.”

I turned and saw T. J. Knoller, and felt my heart give a disappointed little drop. For one split second, I’d thought the deep voice might be Colin’s, which was more an indication of my own thoughts than any similarity between the two men. It was the first time I’d seen T.J. indoors, and I thought that without his cowboy hat he looked both younger and less authoritative. On the other hand, I had to agree with Kyla’s assessment that he was one fine-looking man.

Kyla greeted him with a brief flashing smile, then demurely lowered her eyes. He was at her side in an instant, bending over her, head cocked attentively to catch any word she might care to utter. I’m not sure his feet even moved—I think he might have been sucked directly into her orbit like a wayward satellite.

The bartender handed me my Shiner, set T.J.’s on the bar, and then turned with a disgruntled air to run the card. I suppressed a grin.

A thought occurred to me. “Hey T.J., are you missing any animals on your place?”

He turned, puzzled. “I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“We saw a strange antelope, a kudu, on our place yesterday,” I said.

Kyla added, “Yeah, right before they found the body.”

T.J. frowned. “I heard about that. Terrible thing. Poor old Eddy. I’d known him since we were kids.”

“I’m very sorry,” I said, wishing I could kick Kyla again. I wanted to talk about kudu, not Eddy Cranny.

“Yeah, well. It’s not like we were close. But still, when it’s someone you know…” His voice trailed off, and Kyla put a comforting hand on his arm. He took the opportunity to draw her arm through his and cover her hand with his own. I suppressed an eye roll at such a touching display of grief.

“So no kudus missing?” I tried again.

“Nope, it’s not one of mine. I’ve had them on my place before—hunters love ’em. But I’ve had a hard time getting them recently. They’ve gotten really expensive.”

“Where the heck could it have come from then?” I wondered aloud.

T.J., who’d already turned back to Kyla, gave me a little smile. “There’s another exotic ranch about thirty miles north, and there’s not a fence between here and there that would even slow a kudu down. I’ll give the owner a heads-up in the morning. Chances are it’s one of his.”

From the corner, a huge shout went up as concerned viewers expressed their displeasure at the outcome of a particular play and their opinions regarding the referee’s eyesight, species, and head location. They also had many helpful suggestions about the types of personal actions that he could perform upon himself. In the general mayhem, Carl Cress stomped over, looking disgusted. And disgusting. He was somewhat worse for drink, his John Wayne walk unsteady and weaving. Above his gleaming belt buckle, his shirt was wet with what I hoped was just spilled beer. He caught sight of the three of us too late, and with only a slight hesitation joined us at the bar.

“Can you believe that bullshit?” he asked of no one in particular.

“Definitely not,” answered Kyla, looking him up and down.

He reddened slightly. “’Nother pitcher, Joey!” he called to our bartender, who was already filling two at once at the taps.

T.J. gave him a cold glance. “Big Bender all set for the race tomorrow, Carl?”

Puzzled, I looked from T.J. to Carl and back. What in the world did Carl have to do with the race?

“What is a Big Bender?” asked Kyla, taking a sip of her martini.

For once, T.J. did not give her his full attention as he answered. “Carl’s racehorse. My main competition tomorrow, not that I’m worried. Just looking for a good run.” He kept his eyes on Carl.

Carl swayed again, looking slightly sick. Maybe he was even drunker than I’d thought at first.

“Yeah. Yeah, he’s ready,” he answered. Then he added, “I guess.”

T.J. released Kyla’s hand and straightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Carl shrugged. “Nothin’,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

T.J. took a step toward him. I stepped back. Whatever was going on had suddenly upped the tension to critical mass. We were one snotty remark away from a fistfight, and I wasn’t sure how that had happened.

“What the hell do you mean?” T.J. repeated.

Carl held up both hands. “Hey, now. No need to get upset. I wasn’t s’posed to say, but you’ll know by tomorrow anyway. I don’t own Big Bender anymore. Sold him.”

A muscle worked in T.J.’s jaw. “Sold him to who?” he demanded.

Carl just shook his head. “That’s private. But I’m out of it. Clean out of it. Washed my hands, you know what I mean?”

He held his hands up again, apparently to demonstrate how clean they were, then backed up a few steps before turning and rejoining his cronies around the football game.

T.J. stared after him blankly, fists clenched at his sides, fury almost palpable. I met Kyla’s eyes and saw she was as puzzled as I was.

“What difference does it make who owns a damn horse?” Kyla asked.

T.J. slowly released a breath, drew another, and then turned back to us. He was in control again although it had taken some effort. “Honestly? It doesn’t. Now, a different trainer, different rider—that might affect the race, but it doesn’t matter who owns him.” He sighed and took a long drag at his beer, then gave Kyla a rueful glance. “I was just really looking forward to beating that bastard,” he confessed.

We both laughed at that, and after a second, T.J. joined in. Kyla rehooked her arm through his, and he looked down at her with an expression that sent a pang through my heart. They made a very pretty pair.

My phone rang, the faint sound so unexpected that it took me a moment to register what I was hearing above the sound of the noisy bar. I dug through my purse and pulled it out, flipping it open as fast as I could, expecting to hear Colin’s deep voice full of apologies and explanations for where he’d been all day.

As I’d hoped, the voice on the other end was a man’s. But it wasn’t Colin.

“Hi, Jocelyn.”

“Alan!” I tried to mask my surprise. “Hi. Oh, and happy Thanksgiving.”

“Yeah, you, too.” He sounded distracted. “Where are you?”

He must be wondering about the noise in the bar.

“Hang on,” I told them, then slipped between two couples who had just come in the door and stepped out onto the quiet, if somewhat chilly, front porch. The twinkle lights cast a greenish glow across the picnic tables. I leaned against the wooden railing.

“That’s better. I can hear you now. Kyla and I decided we needed to escape the football madness, so we drove into town and found a really happening place.”

“I bet,” he laughed, then became serious. “With Kyla, huh? What about what’s-his-face?”

“He’s not here at the moment, but…” I trailed off, my throat feeling like it was being squeezed. This was so awkward. Hearing a burst of laughter in the background over the phone, I quickly asked, “So where are you? Watching the game with your friends?”

“Sort of. Well, no. Actually, I’m here. At your aunt’s house.”

Chapter 5

RACEHORSES AND RIVALRIES

Kyla could not stop laughing on the drive back to the ranch. I was not nearly as amused.

“What am I going to do?” I asked her.

“Did you notice that T.J. did not offer to give me a lift back?”

“Who cares? Maybe he had plans,” I snapped. “Can’t you think about someone besides yourself for five minutes? Seriously, what am I going to do? And what am I going to say to Aunt Elaine? What’s she going to think about a second guy showing up to visit me?”

“Oh, she probably won’t be that surprised.”

“What do you mean? Of course, she’ll…” I stopped, suspicion flooding into my thoughts.

I looked at Kyla sharply. She suddenly seemed extremely interested in the short strip of road illuminated by the Honda’s headlights.

“You didn’t,” I said to her profile. “Tell me you didn’t arrange this.”

“Well, make up your mind. Do you want me to tell you I didn’t arrange it, or do you want me to tell you the truth? I simply suggested to Alan that it might be smart for him to pop down to spend the holiday with his sweetie. It didn’t seem fair that Colin was getting all this special attention.”

“Colin’s only here because you invited him.”

“Well, one of us had to. Besides, you’re having trouble making up your mind, and holidays can be an important differentiator. After all, you need to know how they’re going to handle your relatives.”

“I can’t believe you,” I said. “This is a nightmare.”

“I don’t see why. I think I’ve already accomplished my objective.”

“What do you mean? If your objective was to drive me completely insane, then yeah, I guess mission accomplished.”

“No, not that mission.”

“I should make you walk home,” I said, taking my foot off the accelerator.

She ignored this. “Look, what was your first reaction when you heard Alan was here?”

“It was a toss-up between ‘oh, hell’ and ‘I’m going to kill Kyla,’” I snapped.

“No, that second one came later. The point is you’re not happy Alan is here.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Say it slowly. You … don’t … want … Alan … here,” she said.

I ground my teeth together. “I don’t want you here, either. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you. Oh, wait. It does!”

She just laughed.

To my relief, the scene at the ranch house was less horrific than it might have been. I burst through the front door half-expecting poor Alan to be tied to a chair under a naked lightbulb while my relatives grilled him. Instead, he was holding a beer and sitting on the sofa between Uncle Scotty and my brother Sam watching the football game. The rest of the men were clustered around on various chairs and stools. All three of them were leaning forward in excitement, Uncle Scotty shouting something exceptionally uncomplimentary about the eyesight of one of the refs. At the sound of the door, Alan jumped up to greet me. The others didn’t even turn their heads.

At the opposite end of the spectrum, the Monopoly players in the corner could not have been more riveted. Aunt Elaine gave me an encouraging, if worried, smile, Aunt Gladys and my sister-in-law Christy greeted me with patently fake cheeriness, and Kris just stared with open-mouthed curiosity. I let Alan give me a quick hug, then dragged him into the kitchen, which was blessedly empty. I closed the door and leaned against it.