Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel (11 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Route 83, south of Abilene

Day Eleven, morning

Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

After filling the cruiser's tank at the pumps, I pulled the vehicle to the side of the service station, and parked it. The garage roll-up-door was open, so I walked into the auto-repair bay.

A middle-aged man in overalls approached me. "I'm Frank Dobbins, the owner here. Hep ya, Deputy?"

"Yes, sir. I'm lookin' for an employee of yours... Jimmy Logan."

"Jimmy's my mechanic."

"Yes, sir."

Dobbin's eyes narrowed. "Is there a problem with the law?"

I shook my head. "He's not in any trouble. Need to ask him a few questions."

The man visibly relaxed. "All right, then. He's the best mechanic in Taylor County, too. I can attest to that."

"If you could direct me to him?"

Dobbins pointed to a young man lying on a red-creeper with his legs and steel-toed work boots protruding from the front end of a beat up Chevy Suburban. "Jimmy, come on out from under there, son. Someone here to see ya."

The mechanic slid out from under the truck and wiped his hands on a soiled rag. He stood for a moment staring at me, walked over, and jutted out his chin. "So, what's the deal here?"

"I'll leave you two alone." Dobbins walked away.

"Mr. Logan, I have a few questions to ask you about Trudy Bobkirk."

His light-brown eyes dimmed for a moment. His shoulders slumped. "I figured you wanted to talk about Trudy. I didn't kill her."

I widened my stance, evenly distributing my weight between my feet. "What makes you think I'm here to accuse you of that?"

He swallowed. "Isn't that what deputies do?"

"Sorry to disappoint you. Most of the work law enforcement does is pure drudgery. Askin' the same questions in different ways over and over to a number of people." I chuckled when his eyes grew wide.

"Then, what do you want to know?"

"Let's take a walk." I led him outside of the station onto the gravel drive, took my miniature recorder out of my pocket, and held it up for him to see. "Do you mind if I record our conversation?"

He shook his head.

I hit the
on
button, held the recorder facing him, and had him state his consent to the interview for the record. Next I had him give his name and other particulars. Then I asked, "Did Trudy say or do anythin' unusual in the weeks before her murder?"

Logan kicked a stone with the side of his scuffed boot. "First off, we was just gettin' acquainted, so I might not know if somethin' she did was unusual or not. But, she became real moody."

"How's that?"

"Well, maybe she was tired. Her boss, Reece Morgan, had her work a double shift. Then he had her come in on her day off a couple, three days before her dea... her murder. After she worked them long hours, she was different. Not the same bubbly Trudy as before."

I pictured the girl's ready smile. "Maybe she didn't get paid overtime. Could she have been angry because the spa stiffed her on wages?"

"Naw, it weren't that. Morgan was good about pay. That's why everyone stayed and put up with him."

There wasn't enough money in all the banks on the planet to make me want to work for Reece Morgan.

"Can you tell me how she was after workin' those long shifts? How did she act?" I had softened my tone to appear nonthreatening.

"She seemed uneasy. It's hard to say, but maybe fearful, too."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, I picked her up after work one evenin'. When she came out a walkin' toward my car, I could swear, just for a second, fear flashed in her eyes."

I waited a moment, to see if he would say anything else. He didn't. "You're sure it was fear?"

"Yeah, it was. I've seen it in a fight." He shrugged one shoulder and made a face indicating he'd been in a few altercations. Then he added, "Or, out on a trail when a newbie come upon a puma for the first time and don't know how shy they are."

I wanted more from him, but said nothing, hoping he'd fill in the silence as people often do. He did.

"Bein' a macho idiot, I went right to askin' her if anyone in that fancy dude ranch had overstepped his bounds. 'Cause if some fella did, I'd set him straight." He licked his lips. "She said it weren't nothin' like that."

"Really?" I fell back into silence.

"
Nothin' like that
means it was somethin', just not what I was gettin' hot and bothered about." He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Any ideas what that somethin' could be?"

Logan shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "It's like maybe everyone workin' there knew somethin' wasn't above board. But because they were makin' real good money didn't ask too many questions. Trudy was like a kid, kinda. At times, whatever she was thinkin' would pop right out of her mouth. I always thought that was real cute."

I nodded, again using silence to pull more from him.

He looked into mid-space and his cheek muscle on one side contracted, then released. "Maybe what she was thinkin' was the wrong thing to say?"

"If somethin' is goin' on there, do you think all the others will keep silent after Mark Ingels' murder and now Trudy's?"

"Mark Ingels wasn't from these parts. Maybe folks feel he stuck his nose in where it didn't belong. Trudy's killin', I don't know… couldn't say how deaf, dumb, and blind they can stay to keep the gravy train goin'."

I thanked him for his time.

He turned and shuffled toward the battered Suburban.

When I fired up the cruiser to leave, my lip twitched. "Yep, that's the deal, awright," came out low and rasping. I agreed with Logan about one thing. The Estella Ranch and Spa had the feel of a dude ranch. Reece Morgan sure looked high-toned, like a Hollywood Boulevard cowboy. His duds, designer, if not custom made.

I had to learn what had Trudy Bobkirk so upset she might've made a fatal mistake.

Whether that meant stepping on the toes of the Abilene Police Department or not, I'd surprise a few spa employees and ask a few questions. I also needed to interview Cassidy Renault's seamstress at the store while the owner was in New York for Mark Ingels' funeral. That would be next.

On the drive to the mall in south Abilene, the image of Jimmy Logan in a brawl flitted across my mind. He was solid-built, but wiry, more than stout. I reckoned he could hold his own. He was the jealous type, but more inclined to use his fists than a gun, in my opinion. He'd have to be added to my suspect list, but at the bottom. My gut told me the Ingels and Bobkirk murders were related and Logan had no motive to kill Mark Ingels.

I pulled into the mall parking lot. This is where I'd first met Ronnie, but on that day had no idea she'd slide into my life under the radar. As much as I might toy with a fantasy of
her and me
, I couldn't expect her to stick around Abilene after Mark Ingel's murder was solved. The reality of the situation was plain. She had an apartment and a career in New York City.

I found a spot in front of the bridal salon. The store was a woman's world and I was out of place in it. For a moment, I had concerns my boots would soil the carpeting. I shook that off and proceeded through rows of billowing white dresses to a large desk in the back with curlicue legs, its top polished to a high gloss. A phone sat at one end, next to it a fancy gold-tone tissue dispenser and an array of bridal magazines.

A young brunette approached me with halting steps, yet offering a ready smile. She showed gleaming white teeth, as they do in beauty pageants. "Can I help you?"

I didn't remove my hat. "I'd like to see the seamstress who works here."

"Sally Crimmins?"

"Is that the name of your seamstress?"

"Yes, sir." Her artfully painted lips turned into a pout.

"Then that's who I'd like to see."

She disappeared into the back.

In less than a minute, a woman came out with a pincushion fastened at her wrist and a cloth measuring tape draped around her neck. She extended a hand with long fake tangerine-colored nails, one of them slightly chipped. Perhaps the one that pushed and pulled out all the straight pins. "I'm Sally Crimmins."

I shook her hand. "Deputy Dawson Hughes. I need to ask you a few questions."

Ms. Crimmins ran a hand through her voluminous strawberry blond curls and turned to the sales clerk. "That will be all, Denise."

The girl's pout deepened, then she walked to the front of the store.

"Ma'am, I need you to tell me what you know about the nature of the relationship between Cassidy Renault and Mark Ingels."

She slid a fingernail under the double-strand gold chain that disappeared into her cleavage. "You can call me, Sally."

"Thank you, ma'am, but regulations demand I keep this professional. What do you know about Mr. Ingels and Ms. Renault?"

"What a pity, about regulations, I mean." She cleared her throat. "Well, I guess everyone who works here knew Cassidy and Mark were seeing each other."

"Did you know he was married?"

"My, no. When his wife turned up from New York it came as quite a shock."

"Were there any other goin's on here at work that concerned you?"

She snatched up one of the bridal magazines and clutched it to her bosom. "No, nothin' like that."

I didn't believe her. "Like what?"

She held the magazine tighter. "Nothin' suspicious."

I saw a flicker of fear in her hazel eyes, which brought to mind what Jimmy Logan had said about Trudy Bobkirk.

"Besides your salesgirl Denise, who else works in the store?"

"The only other employee is Pedro Martinez, our stock clerk. He's in the back."

I nodded. "I'll need to speak with both of them. I'll start with Mr. Martinez."

"Is that absolutely necessary?" Now she clutched the magazine so tight her knuckles turned white.

"Yes, ma'am, it is."

She returned the magazine to the desk with a slight slap. "All right. Follow me."

She pulled back a pastel pink drape and we walked past several dressing rooms. She pointed to them and with forced bravado said, "We don't have any fittin's now, or I couldn't allow you to come back here."

Behind the fitting rooms, a large utilitarian area had been divided into two. White gowns, in heavy, clear, zipped plastic bags, hung on racks covering two thirds of the room. Each one had a last name and a date attached to it. Bolts of flimsy white cloth stood behind two sewing machines in the remaining part of the room.

A man carried two bridal gowns not in garment bags. The dresses obstructed his view of me. "Sally,
jou
want me to put these on the sale rack?" He had a thick Spanish accent.

"Pedro, you'd better put those down. A deputy is here to see you, actually to see all of us."

The short dark-skinned man jerked the gowns to the side and eyeballed me. "I'm legal. Got my green card."

He slung the dresses onto a rack. Then he fumbled for his wallet, opened it, and pulled out a greenish drivers' license size card. His permanent resident card.

I was glad to see it, but shrugged. This was about drug smuggling and murder, not immigration. So, that green card meant nothing. "I'm not here about your legal status."

"Oh." His shoulders relaxed. He returned the card to his wallet and slid it into his back pants pocket.

I turned to face the woman. "I need to talk to Mr. Martinez in private."

She hesitated, then pivoted, and left us.

"So, Mr. Martinez, are you aware that a man who was in a relationship with your employer has been murdered?"

He took a step back. "
Jes
."

"This man, Mark Ingels... did he come into the store often?"

"He come a few times, no too much."

"Did you ever notice anythin' strange goin' on here? Not havin' to do with bridal gowns?"

The man's gaze found his shoes. "No, nothin' like that."

"Like what?"

He looked up, a hint of a plea in his eyes. "Nothin' strange." He looked down again.

"You went to a lot of trouble to get into this country legally. Withholdin' evidence of criminal activity could jeopardize your status."

He didn't raise his head, but balled a fist and tapped his chest. "Me, I don't know nothin'."

He was not telling the truth, and he was scared. A lot of that going around. "Thank you, Mr. Martinez. If I have further questions, I'll be back."

I strode into the front of the store and approached the sales girl. "Denise, is it? Denise what?"

"Yes, sir. Denise Jennings."

There was no percentage in asking her if there had been unusual happenings at the bridal salon. I'd get the same answer the other two had given me. "Tell me, Denise, how is it workin' here? Are your coworkers nice?"