Murder Takes to the Hills (13 page)

Cindy ordered a Cosmo; I opted for a bourbon old-fashioned. Nothing had ever tasted better.
 
Joe moved away, having the good sense to let us recuperate in silence.

After a sip or two, I looked around me to note our fellow customers. There weren’t many in this still off-season weekday afternoon. A woman and two men at one table, an elderly woman at another, a tough-looking man at the end of the bar, and standing at the other end of the bar, a young man in jeans and T-shirt, whose gaze drifted from Cindy to me and back again.

He looked to be about eighteen, with unruly blond hair and a sweet face. His clothes were clean, but damp in spots, and at his feet was a canvas bag that seemed to be leaking something that looked like water. I looked at him more closely, and his expression made me think he might be slightly mentally challenged.

When I caught his eye, I spoke. “Hi, young man, I’m Alex. Can I help you with something?”

He blushed and grinned. “Oh, no ma’am. I am sorry if I was staring but you must be Mr. and
Miz
Willingham’s cousins, and I wanted to tell my mom you’re here, and how pretty you both are. And Jerry says that big black dog is yours. He’s pretty, too.”

I laughed. “He may be the prettiest of all. His name is Fargo. Mine is Alex, and the other lady’s is Cindy. She’s the Willingham cousin. I’m a friend…no relative, though. What’s your name?”

Before he could answer, a short, pudgy man from the table behind us jumped up and came toward us, calling out, “Jesus X. Christ, Marbles, you’ve done it again! You’re bothering the ladies and that bag full of fish is leaking all over the floor.”

As he approached, I could hardly keep from laughing at his attire: a violently vivid green blazer, lighter green pants, a bright yellow collarless shirt and sneakers that looked like the same brand as mine, but a lot cleaner. He was still muttering to himself, when Cindy announced which side she had chosen in ringing tones.

“The young man was not bothering us at all. Unless you are an employee, the small leak is not your worry, and if you
are
an employee, why don’t you wipe it up?”

A flash of anger crossed his face, quickly replaced by a wide and contagious grin.

“Now, forgive me ma’am, I just didn’t want anyone to slip and fall.
 
Allow me to welcome you ladies to beautiful
Beulaland
. I know you’re going to love our countryside, and you’ll certainly enjoy your accommodations. In fact, after a day or two, you’ll be begging me to put a binder on one of the condos I’m going to build up on Crooked Creek Mountain, so you can enjoy it year-round. I understand you are Ken Willingham’s cousin.
 
Ken and I are the best of friends, so you just call on me if you need the tiniest thing.” He waved a business card in our direction. Neither of us moved to take it, so he placed it on the bar.

The young man got back into the conversation. “It’s just water. Joe, hand me a bar towel and I’ll mop it up.”

“Don’t worry about it, Tommy, I’ve already called housekeeping. But you better get those fish out to the kitchen and ready for dinner.” Joe turned and explained to us. “Tommy makes sure when our menus advertise fresh-caught fish that we’re telling the truth. He catches them and brings them in every afternoon.”

“I see, that’s a very good policy,” I said. “So your name is Tommy…much nicer than Marbles, I think.”

Once again the black look came and swiftly left the man in green, and I noticed a sardonic
 
smirk on the fellow at the end of the bar. “Oh, I just tease him that his head is full of marbles, it don’t mean anything. We’re family.”

Cindy sipped her Cosmo and looked innocent. “Well, now we know Marbles is really Tommy, really who are you?”

“My full name is Carter Branch Redford, but everybody calls me Branch. Now please do remember that I’m just friendly ol’ Branch, at your service, ma’am.”

Cindy placed her index finger on her chin and pulled her mouth slightly open. “Oh, I can’t be sure. I’m just a silly ol’ female. But if I forget Branch, I can probably remember Twig.”

“Well, now, while I do hope you remember Branch,
Ah’m
happy to answer any lovely lady.”

A roar of laughter had gone up from Joe and the two people left at the table. If I knew small towns, half the people in beautiful
Beulaland
would be calling Branch Redford Twig by tomorrow. A middle-aged man made his way toward us, hand outstretched and still chuckling at Cindy’s riposte.

“I’m Carl Bromfield, you must be Cindy and Alex.” He introduced us to the woman at the table, “Lou Jackson, one of our two dedicated vets in town, who’s had a rough afternoon with a foal who got herself headed the wrong way in the birth canal.

“And Clay Rodman, who was afraid he was going to lose one of his beloved—not to mention valuable—mares. And, of course, you seem to have met
Twi—er
, Branch Redford.”
 
I noted that the tough guy was not introduced.

Bromfield turned to where Tommy still stood, taking it all in. “And I think you’ve met Tommy Blackstone. Son, you’d better get those fish out to the kitchen. And when you get home ask your mother to call me, I need vegetables for the weekend.”

“Oh, yes sir. Right now. And have Mom call you.” He pulled a booklet and pencil from his shirt pocket and made a note. If I was right about his handicap, he was dealing with it well.

Bromfield ordered a round of drinks for everyone, and we moved over to the table with the others, except for Branch, who claimed an important appointment, and the rough character, who left—I thought—with Branch. I personally was not sorry to see them go. The vet and her client seemed pleasant, but fatigue was winning. In a short while we made our farewells, and I could tell even Cindy was struggling to be gracious. We collected Fargo and gave Jerry a tip that made him smile and invite Fargo to return anytime.

The gravel road indeed led to Ken’s and Frances’ cabin. When we pulled into the parking area we saw that a dusty red pickup was already there. We looked at each other with dismay at the thought of more people and slowly climbed to the front deck.

A middle-aged woman packed into slacks that matched her truck came out of the house and across the deck.

“Ah, good. I was hoping you might get here before I left. I’m Florence
Fouts
—ha-ha, jack of all trades I guess you’d say. The beds are all made up and towels are out.

“I got you some coffee and bread and eggs, all that kind of stuff. Also some hamburger—it’s Black Angus, raised right down the road, can’t be beat. And a piece of ham—from over Oaktown way. Acorn fed, the best around. I’ll be back on Friday to straighten up and change the linens. You need anything bought at the store, call me by Thursday. Number’s on the kitchen corkboard. Good day to you.”

She was gone before I could ask her what we owed her for the groceries. Well, there was always Friday.

The cabin was pretty typical from the outside. There was a generous deck attached to a sizable building of dark logs interspersed with yellowish gray mortar and topped with a red brick chimney. The view was marvelous. Along the back and side of the house a frisky stream about twenty feet wide splashed its way down toward the foot of the mountain, where I lost it among the trees. I had the feeling it emptied into Bromfield Lake, sparkling in the distance.
  

The interior did not meet expectations. There was no sagging couch covered by an Indian blanket, no bearskin rug leering at us, not a single deer head
moulting
over the fireplace. The kitchen was not primitive and conducive to paper plates and pizza dinners. The bathrooms held no rusty tubs without showers. And when we peered into the bedrooms, not a single bunk bed peered back.

The kitchen had an up-to-date stove complete with grill, a large refrigerator freezer and a gleaming dishwasher. The two baths—one upstairs and one down—had tubs with showers and—honest—heated towel racks and bidets. We stared at each other, and finally Cindy said. “Well, I’ll call Orrick. It may not be too late.”

The master bedroom had a queen-size bed. Upstairs, the kids’ rooms each had twin beds, as did what was obviously a guest room. The living room and the dining area were tastefully and comfortably furnished in traditional style. For a log cabin, it wasn’t too shabby.

I looked at Cindy and said, “Nap?”

“Oh, thank God. I was afraid you were going to say, ‘hike.’”
 
She flicked back the bedspread and Fargo leaped into the middle of the bed, stretching all four legs as far as he could. Look, Ma, no chintzy car seats. We arranged ourselves on either side of him.

I was awakened by a low growl from Fargo, as if he weren’t sure whether to bark or forget it. It was very nearly dark; I could just about make out the furniture in the unfamiliar room. But the windows were all open, and I thought I heard voices talking quietly on the deck.

I turned to Cindy, who was stirring. I whispered, “Be very quiet, honey, I think someone is on the deck. Fargo, you be quiet, too.” He rumbled deep in his chest but didn’t bark.

I had fallen asleep with my clothes on, so I simply swung out of bed and stood up in my sock feet, collared Fargo and started for the deck. Passing by the living room fireplace, I acquired a small shovel. It was the first thing I touched, and I didn’t want to fumble around for the poker.

Reaching the front door I felt along the wall to the right side of it. Sure enough: light switches. Not knowing which switch controlled what, I simply pushed all of them up at once. The living room lights went on, the deck lights went on, the parking area lights went on and the back and side yard lights went on. It was as bright as the county fair.

At that moment Cindy obviously reached the fireplace utensil holder. It went over with a resonating clatter, Fargo—who hates being collared—began to bark furiously, and Cindy arrived at my side clacking the fireplace tongs together like a small irritable alligator.

Swallowing a giggle at Cindy’s ferocity and managing to hang on to Fargo so that he would not climb into my arms, as he is wont to do in times of stress, I stepped out the front door.

“Well, well, if it’s not Twig Redford. To what do we owe the honor of this visit?” I gushed.

Branch and the man with him seemed frozen, immovable and silent.

Cindy joined me on the deck. “Yes, Twig, how about an answer. I don’t believe the deck is a public park.”

Branch still did not speak, but his companion did. “Jesus Christ, Branch, what the hell is wrong with you? Of all the places to meet in the State of Tennessee, you pick Ken Willingham’s. And if that ain’t dumb enough, you pick a weekend he’s got company. I thought you said the broads were staying at the Bromfield!”

“I thought they were, Mickey. Just shut up.” Branch finally looked at us, as I quieted Fargo. “I’m sorry if we frightened you ladies, but honestly I had no idea you were here.”

“Didn’t you see our car?” Cindy wanted to know.

“Yes, but I just figured you parked here to avoid tipping the valet every time you went out. Oh, God, it’s all really simple. I wanted to meet my business partner, Mr. McCurry, privately, and this seemed a nice quiet place. I told you, Ken Willingham is a good friend, so I figured he wouldn’t mind if we sat on his porch for a while.”

McCurry snorted a sarcastic laugh, which told me about how good a friend Ken really was.

“Don’t you
live
somewhere?” Cindy snapped her tongs impatiently.

“Uh, well, I have an apartment behind my office in
Beulaland
, but I had to close it a few days for…for renovations. I’m staying with my brother for a day or so.”

“Or forever,” I muttered sourly. “Who’s your brother, just in case we want to confirm all this?”

“Clay Rodman,” he answered reluctantly. “You met him at the Bromfield.”

“Why the different last names?” I was beginning not to like any of this.

“Actually we are half-brothers. Same mother, different fathers.”