Death Rides Again (A Jocelyn Shore Mystery) (18 page)

“But—”

She held up a hand. “I’m not saying he did. I’m just saying he could have.”

Since this was exactly what T.J., the police, and probably half the town were thinking, I could hardly argue. I took a swig of beer, crammed a few chips into my mouth, and looked around.

Although I’d visited the ranch a couple of times a year since my high school days, I hadn’t been inside this barn in a long time. Not, in fact, since the year Kel and Elaine had decided to try their hand at raising sheep. I’d been delighted with the woolly newcomers, all curls and bleating, and I’d eagerly volunteered to help hold the lambs for their vaccinations. What I hadn’t realized until after we’d started was that lambs have long plump tails, Texas ranchers believe that those tails need to be docked, and that the docking operation was going to occur simultaneously with the vaccinating. My brand-new pair of Red Wing work boots were splattered with blood by the time we were through, and I still had a vivid recollection of Carl Cress counting the pile of tails to tally the number of new lambs. Even as a teenager, I’d instinctively disliked him for no particular reason, but my feelings gelled into loathing on that day when he’d tossed a tail at me and laughed.

“Carl Cress,” I said suddenly, sitting up straight.

“What about him?”

“Maybe he didn’t want Double Trouble to win.”

“Why would he care?”

I was excited by this idea. “Look, Carl owned Big Bender, right? I know he sold him, so he wouldn’t be eligible for the prize money, but remember what T.J. said about the real money being in the side bets? What if Carl had made a huge bet on Big Bender? One that he couldn’t afford to lose.”

Kyla considered. “Why sell then? Why give up the prize money?”

“We need to ask Uncle Herman that. I don’t know how he got Carl to sell, but I bet you anything Carl wasn’t too happy about it. Remember what he said to T.J. in the bar about how he wasn’t supposed to tell? Maybe Herman forced his hand somehow.”

“Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “But then what? Carl decides he can’t take the chance that Big Bender will win fairly and decides to shoot T.J.’s jockey?”

When she put it that way, it seemed pretty thin. On the other hand, desperation could make even smart people do stupid things, and Carl, although endowed with a certain amount of feral cunning, was not exactly bright. I also knew he could handle a rifle. And more importantly, it was a theory that did not point directly to one of my family.

“I just don’t think it would hurt to see what Carl was doing during the race.” I pulled out my cell phone and checked for messages. Colin still had not returned my call, a fact I found unsettling. I could think of a dozen logical reasons for this, but “he’s dumping me” ranked well in the upper third. Besides, it was annoying since I definitely could have used his help.

The crunch of tires sounded on the drive outside, and I leaped to my feet and rushed to the door, hoping to see Colin’s Jeep. Instead, I saw the white Ford F-150 with gold sheriff’s logo bumping its way down the uneven drive.

I turned to Kyla. “Looks like Sheriff Bob is here to talk to Kel.”

“Well, great. I guess we better go down.”

We’d made it halfway down the hill when Kel and Herman came out of the house, followed closely by Sheriff Bob. The three of them got into the truck and started up the hill toward us. I broke into a trot, then stopped in the middle of the road to block the way.

Sheriff Bob slowed and rolled down his window. “We’re just going down to the station for a statement. Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Are you arresting them?” I asked, voice squeaking a little.

“Nope. Just a little chat.”

“Then why can’t you do it here?”

He didn’t answer, instead giving me an impatient look and growling, “Move.”

From the backseat, Kel leaned forward, white-faced, and said, “I’ve called your aunt, and she’s on her way. You stay here and look after the kids ’til the rest of ’em get back.”

Reluctantly I stepped aside, and they drove on, leaving Kyla and me in a cloud of caliche dust and confusion. We stood for a moment, looking across the open fields of yellow grass that swept down toward the pond where a group of children had paused in their play. Kris came out of the house holding arms in front of her chest, her spiky raven hair whipped by the breeze.

“Come on,” I said, making up my mind.

“Where are we going?”

“To talk to Carl Cress.”

“On purpose?” she protested, but she followed me down the hill and into the house nonetheless.

It took me a few minutes of digging through kitchen drawers to find Aunt Elaine’s battered Rolodex, but at last I unearthed it from beneath a pile of junk mail and thumbed through for Carl Cress’s number.

“I can’t believe anyone still uses those things,” Kyla said, staring at the Rolodex in the same way she might have looked at an abacus. Kris nodded in agreement.

I took the house phone from its cradle on the wall.

“It’s the same reason people still have landlines. They work when the power goes out, and you don’t have to worry about reception,” I said as I dialed.

Carl had three numbers listed on the card, and every one of them went to voicemail. I ground my teeth a little.

“We’ll just have to go hunt him down. I think I remember where his ranch is.”

“Really?” asked Kyla.

“Yeah, I think the turn’s off the highway past the airport.”

“No, not ‘really, do you remember where his ranch is?’ I mean ‘really do we have to go talk to Carl?’ He’s such an ass, and what would be the point?”

“I want to know where he was during the race. None of us saw him—don’t you think that’s suspicious?”

“Not especially. It’s not like he had a horse in a race after all, and it’s certainly not like we were looking for him.”

“Nothing goes on in the town that Carl doesn’t try to control, and I want to know why he wasn’t there.”

“Oh, and you think he’s going to tell you that if you ask?”

I hated when she used logic against me. I thought for a second, then said, “We’ll ask Manuel. We don’t even need to talk to Carl. And then when Manuel says that Carl took his rifle and drove to the racetrack, we’ll go to the sheriff and get Kel and Herman out of there.”

For one moment, I thought Kyla was going to refuse. But just then, we heard the pounding of feet on the front porch and the door burst open, revealing a rabid pack of kids. I don’t think there were actually six hundred of them, but it seemed like it.

“We’re hungry,” shouted one shrill voice.

Kyla met my eyes, then turned to Kris. “Sorry, Arugula,” she said. “Duty calls. It’s your turn to take one for the team.”

We fled, leaving Kris staring after us with an expression of horror-stricken betrayal. Kyla laughed all the way to the first set of gates.

*   *   *

I had not been to Carl’s ranch in years, and if it had not been for the double Cs on the gate, I would have thought I was in the wrong place. The house was probably the same modest 1940s long low rectangle, but someone had painted it pale green and tacked white gingerbread trim along the wide front porch. Curving beds of mostly leafless shrubs were dotted with concrete fawns, rabbits, and ornate birdbaths. A fat plaster gnome peered out from beside a fake weathered wishing well full of dead geraniums.

I parked.

Kyla spoke first. “Either Carl had a nervous breakdown or he married Snow White.”

“I’m absolutely speechless,” I said.

“I assume with envy.” She pulled her phone from her purse and snapped a picture. “I’ll send this to you to use as a model for your next landscaping project.”

“Good. A few gnomes and a concrete mushroom would really spruce up my front porch.” I looked more closely. “Those birdbaths are dry as a bone and the flowers have been dead for a while. Whoever put them here isn’t taking care of them anymore. Wonder if Snow White left him.”

I opened the door and got out. The faint sound of hammering reached us from the direction of a tin outbuilding a hundred yards away.

“Someone’s home,” Kyla said.

“And it sounds like that someone’s working, which means it’s definitely not Carl. Let’s go see.”

We found Manuel bent over what looked like an old feed trough, carefully replacing a splintered board with a new one. He straightened as we entered, his expressions changing from warm welcome to a certain wariness as he recognized us. I was not sure what to make of that.

“Hi, Manuel,” I said. “We’re looking for Carl. Any idea where he is?”

“No. I am sorry,” he answered. Although heavily accented and seldom used, Manuel’s English had always been quite good.

“Did he go to the races today?” asked Kyla.

So much for beating around the bush.

“I … I am not sure,” he answered, his eyes sliding to one side.

“What do you mean you’re not sure? Haven’t you talked to him today?” she asked.

He responded with a stream of rapid Spanish and ended by holding both hands in the air as though to prove how empty they were.

Kyla stared at him blankly. “Well, okay then. Thanks anyway.”

I gave him a half wave, and we returned to the car. Behind us, the sound of the hammer started again.

“I wonder what that was about,” she said. “He speaks English perfectly well. That was just rude.”

“He said that Carl comes and goes at all hours, and he, Manuel, has too much work to do to keep track of a … I think ‘scoundrel,’ although it might have been ‘asshole.’ He wishes that people would stop asking him where Carl is and that one day he will have enough money saved to be able to return to his family in Mexico and never see Carl again. That day cannot come soon enough, and he wishes that stupid girls would stop pestering him when he has better things to do.”

Her eyes widened. “Shit, I forget you can do that. Why didn’t you answer him? He would have died.”

I laughed. “Yeah, that would have been fun, but he really doesn’t know where Carl is and it never hurts for someone to think you can’t understand what they’re saying. You learn loads of stuff.”

“So what now?”

“Let’s go to the police station. I still don’t like it that Sheriff Bob took Kel and Uncle Herman in like they were criminals.”

“What, you think he’s applying the thumb screws?” she asked.

I didn’t smile. “Hey, I watch cop shows. What’s the most important thing you learn?”

“How would I know? I don’t watch that crap—I actually have a life,” she protested.

“Never talk to the police. Never.” I was sure about this, even though I knew if Colin were present, he’d be rolling his eyes.

“Why not?” she asked.

“Because they always twist your words and then end up arresting you.”

“Aren’t the people they arrest in those shows usually guilty?”

“Well, technically yes. But the advice is sound.”

I started the engine, and we bumped back toward the main road. We’d driven about another mile toward town when I saw a truck parked by the side.

I slowed. “Wonder what they’re doing. That’s a weird place to stop.”

Kyla looked up from her phone. “Who cares?”

“We do. I think that might be Carl’s truck.”

I thought that mostly because I was pretty sure I’d seen Carl in the front seat as we whizzed by. I applied the brakes. No one was coming in either direction, so I performed a skillful four-hundred-point turn—the road was that narrow—and pulled up behind the pickup.

“What the hell are you doing? Are you going to walk up and ask him if he’s the one who shot the jockey?”

“That’s what you would do. I’m the tactful one, remember?” I said, as I got out of the car.

I thought it was odd that Carl still hadn’t turned to see who was walking up behind him, but maybe he was on his phone. I tapped softly on the glass, hoping I wouldn’t startle him too much, then I froze.

The rifle between his knees had tipped a little to the left, but the barrel still pointed toward his face. Glazed and unfocused, his open eyes stared straight ahead, a thin trickle of blood streaming from one corner of his mouth above the red mess that had been his throat. I backed away slowly, fighting down a wail I could feel rising from somewhere in my chest.

Nothing would ever startle Carl Cress again.

I bumped into Kyla, who had her head down looking at her phone.

“Hey, watch it,” she said automatically.

I gripped her arm and pulled.

She shrugged me off impatiently. “What are you doing? Let go.”

“Don’t go any farther,” I urged. Of course, I might as well have told her to hurry up and look in the window, because that’s what she did.

To my surprise, she neither squealed nor threw up. Instead, she stared at the dead figure for a moment, then turned. Her face had lost all color but she seemed in control.

“Well, damn. That’s really gross. I think that qualifies as one of those things that just can’t be unseen.”

She let out a shaky breath and suddenly sagged against the truck. I looked at her in concern. She did not look well.

I didn’t feel very good myself. “We should call someone,” I said. “Should we ask them to send an ambulance?”

“What for? He’s not going to need medical attention. But the police will know what to do. Hey, at least they can let Uncle Herman and Kel go now.”

“What do you mean? And get off that truck. It’s a crime scene. Besides it’s dirty,” I added since she didn’t seem interested in obeying me.

At that, she did straighten up, turning to check her backside for dust. “Crime scene my ass. Carl Cress killing himself is hardly a crime. You know, I wonder if this means he’s the one who shot the jockey. And maybe Eddy, too. You said you saw them arguing, right? Maybe he figured he wasn’t going to be able to get away with it.”

“Yeah, but…”

“But what?”

“You think he killed himself?”

I could not bring myself to look inside the truck again. However, I didn’t need to. The image of the rifle and the bloody throat was imprinted on my memory forever. I suppose it was possible to commit suicide with a rifle held between the knees, but it didn’t matter. Carl Cress was not the type. He might beat up Eddy, he might cheat a neighbor or kick a puppy, but kill himself? No way.