Red Velvet Revenge (7 page)

By the time they pulled into Juniper Pass, Mel was ready to leap out of the truck and run alongside it. The five-and-a-half-hour trip had left her numb in the bum, and her legs were twitching with the need to stretch.

Tate followed the old route into town and worked his way along the side streets until he reached the center. The Juniper Pass town green took up one square block. A large stone courthouse sat on one end, and the rest of it unrolled into a lush lawn of green inhabited by huge, shade-making American elm trees.

The buildings that surrounded the square were old-fashioned Western-style brick buildings with squared-off roofs and upper stories with long rectangular windows that seemed to peer down on the town, keeping watch. The fronts of the shops boasted porches with railings that looked as if they were just waiting for a horse or two to be tied up.

“Is it just me or have we fallen back in time a year or two or one hundred?” Angie asked.

Seven

“Whoa,” Oz said as he came to stand beside Mel on the curb.

Music blared from a saloon across the street, and as they watched, two men in full Western dress, from their boots to their hats, pushed through the swinging doors, making the music sound even louder.

The saloon also had a restaurant, and Mel could smell something smoky and delicious wafting on the air.

“Anyone else hungry?” she asked.

“We need to check in and move the truck first,” Tate said. He handed out the luggage.

“Where are we staying?” Marty asked.

“Well, I had a hard time getting any rooms,” Tate said. “Because of the rodeo, most of the town is booked months in advance, but I happened to call right after a cancellation.”

Mel felt her sensors go off. She didn’t like the way Tate was talking up the answer. It was the sort of voice people used to tell you that they were out of your favorite ice cream or that those jeans you just spent a fortune on
do
make your butt look as big as Texas.

“Tate, don’t try to candy-coat it,” she said. “Give it to us straight.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “That’s where we’re staying.”

He pointed across the street at the saloon.

As one, they all looked at the saloon where the two men had just disappeared. A swinging iron signpost proclaimed it the
LAST CHANCE SALOON
.

“Last chance for what?” Angie asked.

“Probably best not to dwell on that,” Marty said.

“Here’s the thing,” Tate said. “This is an old hotel and they only had two rooms left.”

“That’s okay; we can bunk up,” Angie said.

“Okay, why don’t we check in,” Mel said. “Then we need to get the van down to the rodeo grounds. There is a big kickoff parade around the town square tonight that I don’t want to miss.”

Oz opted to stay with the truck. Mel had a feeling he wasn’t ready to let his baby out of his sight. Tate took Oz’s bag and his own and led the way across the street to the saloon. The music became louder and mingled with the roar of voices and the sound of glasses being plunked down on the thick wooden tables.

Mel felt something crunch beneath her sandal and looked down to find the floor was covered in a thick coating of peanut shells.

“I’m glad none of us are allergic,” she hollered to Angie.

“No kidding,” Angie yelled back.

A live band was playing a Toby Keith song about loving this bar, and the crowd was singing along with them for all they were worth.

Tate stopped at the bar, and an older man wearing a black leather vest over a crisp white shirt with a bolo tie gestured to a small door on the other side of the bar. Mel noticed that the man had a salt-and-pepper mustache that was waxed on the ends into curls. With the matching salt-and-pepper fringe around his head, he looked the picture of an Old West bartender.

Mel scanned the room to see if there were saloon girls present, but no. She found herself oddly disappointed that there was no Miss Kitty in attendance.

They followed Tate through the door nestled in the wall and found themselves in a small parlor with lace curtains over a picture window that overlooked the town green. A tall wooden counter stood on one side of the dark-paneled room. It had a service bell that Tate gave a quick tap.

Just seconds after the bell rang, a woman appeared from a door behind the counter. She was dressed in a floral Western blouse and jean skirt. Her impossibly red hair was piled up on top of her head in a mass of curls, making her appear younger than she was. If Mel had to guess, she’d put the woman squarely in her late fifties. She looked like she’d put some miles on her tires, but she wore it well. Maybe Miss Kitty existed, after all.

“Good afternoon. Welcome to the Last Chance Saloon,” she said. “My name is Delia. How can I help you all?”

“Hi, Delia. I’m Tate Harper. I have some rooms reserved.”

“Indeed, you do,” Delia said. “I am so glad you could make it, Mr. Harper.”

She batted her long eyelashes at him, and Mel could see that Delia had known how to work it in her youth. In fact, she was doing a pretty good job of working it right now.

“Ahem,” Marty coughed. Tate looked at him and then caught on.

“This is my associate, Marty Zelaznik,” he said.

“How do you do, Mr. Zelaznik?” Delia said.

She gave Marty a coquettish look, and Marty looked 100 percent, grade-A smitten.

“Oh, good grief,” Angie said. “Isn’t he dating Beatriz?”

“I thought he was,” Mel said. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen much of her lately. You?”

“Hmm, no,” Angie said. “Has he been holding out on us?”

“Well, if he has, it’s game over.”

Delia handed Tate the keys while he signed some papers. Mel and Angie each sidled up to Marty and took a firm grasp of his elbows.

“Something you care to share, Marty?” Angie asked.

He looked between the two of them and paled. Then he caught Delia watching, and he went for suave.

“Ladies, can I escort you to your room?”

Delia gave him an approving smile and turned back to Tate.

“Unless you want to suffer a full-on DeLaura-style atomic wedgie, you’d better start talking,” Angie hissed.

Marty looked pleadingly at Mel.

“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I’m her backup.”

“All right, I’ll tell you upstairs,” he said. When they didn’t let go of him, he added, “I promise.”

“Check his fingers,” Angie said to Mel. “No crossed fingers?”

Mel looked at Marty’s hands. “No, he’s good.”

“Now, you just head up the stairs and yours are the first two doors on the right. Your rooms overlook the street. You even have a small balcony, so you can watch the parade from up there.”

Mel and Angie exchanged a look. It sounded promising. They grabbed their bags and hurried up the stairs.

The stairs were narrow but opened up into a wide hallway that was half–white wainscoting, and above it the walls were painted butter yellow with an old-fashioned wall sconce every ten feet.

Tate was bringing up the rear, so Mel and Angie turned around on the top step and boxed Marty in before he could get away.

“Spill,” Mel ordered.

Marty gave a sigh. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“What’s going on with you and Beatriz?”

Marty pressed his lips together.

“You may as well give them the details, Marty,” Tate said. “I can tell you right now, you’ll never get one toe past them without full disclosure.”

“But it’s personal,” Marty balked.

“We’re family,” Angie said. “There’s no such thing as personal within a family.”

“You have serious boundary issues—you know that?” Marty asked.

“Still not moving,” Mel said.

“Oh, all right, I give up,” Marty exclaimed. “She dumped
me. Happy now? She cut me loose for a double-jointed yogi freak.”

“Well, that blows,” Angie said.

“Completely,” Mel agreed. “I liked her.”

“Me, too,” Marty said. His voice was suspiciously low, and both Mel and Angie reached to give him a hug.

“Well, don’t you worry,” Angie said. She stepped back and studied him. “You’re a fine catch, and some other lucky babe is going to be happy to know that you’re on the market.”

“That’s right,” Mel agreed. “I think Ms. Delia downstairs was checking you out.”

“You think?” Marty asked hopefully. “I kind of got that vibe, but I didn’t want to come across too strong.”

“She’s definitely interested…” Angie began, but Tate cut her off.

“Are we done here?” Tate asked from behind Marty. “Now that you two have given his personal life a thorough physical, can we see our rooms?”

“Oh, yeah, you bet.” Mel and Angie scooted out of the way, letting Marty and Tate join them in the hall.

“We’re right here,” Tate said. He paused in front of the first door and used the old-fashioned key to open the lock beneath the glass doorknob.

Mel glanced at the door. It had a brass number 8 on the front. Tate swung the thick wooden door open, and Mel and Angie stepped in. This room had two queen-sized beds made up in matching 1950s-era white chenille bedspreads.

A vintage walnut wardrobe took up one corner of the
room, while a matching walnut dresser with a large mirror stood against the wall opposite the beds.

“I feel like I’m in Nonni’s bedroom in her house on Long Island,” Angie said. She lovingly put her hand on the dresser on which sat an antique pitcher and basin. “It even smells of lemon furniture polish just like hers.”

Mel crossed the wooden floor to the French doors. A sheer curtain hung over it, but she noticed there were heavy drapes pushed to the side that would cover the doors when closed. Probably, they’d been installed to block out the early-morning desert sun so that visitors could sleep. For now, she left them drawn and moved aside the sheer curtain to unlatch the door and pull it open. The narrow balcony was only about three feet wide but had a small wrought-iron table and chairs and connected to the balcony next door, which made it run the length of the building.

Mel could see Oz waiting beside the truck. She waved, but he wasn’t looking up. She looked over the town and decided that this was definitely going to be the place to watch the parade.

She ducked back inside to see Angie open another door that led into a small bathroom. While they checked out the double sinks, a door on the other side opened, and in walked Marty and Tate.

“Did I mention that these two rooms are generally rented out as a suite?” Tate asked.

“So, one bathroom?” Mel asked.

“Looks like we’re sharing,” Tate said.

Mel and Angie peeked into the boys’ room to find that it was the same as theirs but also had a trundle bed. All four
of them looked at the bed Marty had pulled out from under his bed, and as one they said, “Oz.”

“Speaking of, we should get back to him,” Mel said.

The four of them trooped down the staircase and left their room keys with the lovely Ms. Delia.

“We keep the keys here at the desk,” she said. “Someone is always on duty, so don’t worry about coming in late.”

They ducked back through the bar, and now that she had stretched the tired out of her bones, Mel could feel the festive atmosphere of the place filling her up, making her want to shoot a game of pool and chug down a frosty beer at the bar.

She looked longingly around her, and Angie looped her arm through hers.

“Later,” she said. “We need to get to the rodeo grounds first.”

They strode out into the afternoon sun and climbed into the truck. Mel’s entire body protested being forced back into the jump seat, but she made herself buckle up.

Oz took the wheel while Tate navigated. Juniper Pass was a small town and pretty much survived on the revenue the rodeo generated each year. The rodeo grounds were strategically located close to the center of town to keep the tourist dollars flowing in and out of the local businesses.

They turned onto a wide dirt road, and Oz slammed on the brakes.

“What the h—?” Angie began, but Mel cut her off. “Oz, what are you doing?”

They both turned around to see what had happened. A small group of people were standing in the road with their
arms linked, as if in protest, and Mel wasn’t sure but it looked like they were dressed for Halloween with bloody smears on their shirts and ripped and torn clothing.

“‘Come and get it! It’s a running buffet!’” Oz said.

“
Shaun of the Dead
,” Angie identified the movie. “Do you think they’re supposed to be zombies? Mel, did Slim say this was a zombie rodeo?”

“That would be so cool,” Oz said.

“Stop animal cruelty!” a gorgeous woman, despite the bloody outfit, shouted.

She was standing in the middle of the group, so Mel assumed she was in charge.

“Oz, roll down your window,” Mel said.

Oz did, and the woman rushed forward with her followers behind her. “Rodeos are barbaric! Stop the abuse now!”

“Uh,” Oz stammered as she tossed her long, strawberry blond hair in his direction.

“Are you a news van?” the woman asked, looking over all of them and focusing on Tate, as if hoping he was a reporter looking to give her a close-up.

“No,” he said. “We’re a vendor.”

“So, you’re for animal cruelty,” the woman spat. “Killers! Murderers!”