Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel (16 page)

Hughes stirred his float with his straw and looked directly at Farber. "With all due respect, I have a history with Reece Morgan and might be able to push some buttons. I'm gonna to interview him again. Dorothy Chandler says he took Mark Ingels and Cassidy somewhere two nights before Ingels was murdered. I'll ask him where they went and I'll push for an answer I can believe."

A laugh snorted through my nose. Couldn't help it. "Hope you get it. An answer that's someplace in the truth ballpark."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Arroyo

Day Fourteen, morning

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

Early morning sun flooded through the Chuck Wagon's front windows. I stood there a moment, basking in its rays shimmering on the front windowpanes, and it made me smile. I'd found many little joys in Arroyo, things I'd overlooked while rushing around, multi-tasking in Brooklyn. If I could bring anything home with me it would be the ability to slow down and let myself experience the simple pleasures in life.

Doug charged through the front door bringing a whiff of hot air with him, which promised another scorcher. At least there wasn't exhaust and grime clinging to the skin making it clammy, like we usually had with warmer weather in Gotham.

He settled in his usual booth, waved, then flipped his fingers upward near his mouth indicating his need for java.

I topped off the coffee cups of the trio of well-seasoned yokels at the counter who were the sum-total of the members of my fan club. They were still yakking about Pete's win in the Cross-Country Trail Competition. Every once in a while, they'd steal a peek toward the back at the
golden one
, as Pete, oblivious, scarfed down his pancakes.

Stifling a grin, I navigated around the counter and continued to Doug's table with the carafe and a mug. "Your usual for breakfast?"

"Yep, eggs over easy, bacon, home fries, and coffee."

I wrote it down on my pad, though I don't know why I bothered. Could've just told Hoot to give me Doug's usual.

He mopped the back of his neck with a blue bandanna, then jerked his head toward the back. "How's it feel now that one of your regular customers is a local celebrity?"

"Pete's the only one here who's not at all concerned with his new status."

"Since he's got this new found popularity, maybe he should run for mayor." Sadness flashed deep in Doug's eyes.

"If I were a registered voter here, I'd vote for anyone running against Her Honor."

Pink tinged Doug's cheeks. "Sorry, bitterness got me, that's all."

I filled his mug. "You'd make a terrific mayor."

Hughes walked in, looking fine as they come, in a comfortable pair of jeans with his Stetson in his hand. It had to be his day off. And just why should I care how he filled out his jeans? Mark had been a Dapper Dan and look where that got me.

I waved him toward a front booth the busboy had just cleaned. He nodded, but passed that by and stopped to chat with Pete for a moment. They must've been talking about the cross-country competition because Pete swiveled to the side, stretched his torso forward with his arms fully extended. It was as if he held the reins and was giving the horse its full head, just as he had done in the race. Hughes patted Pete on the back and then took a booth toward the back.

After putting Doug's order in, I got a fresh coffee carafe and a mug for Hughes.

He lowered his eyelids. If it wasn't Hughes, I'd swear he had glommed onto my gait. With this awareness, my stomach flip-flopped and I almost missed a step. As if on cue, I lowered my voice. "So, what's your pleasure this morning?" That was kinda cheesy. Not at all suave.

He took a moment allowing his gaze to linger on me then grinned. "What if I want something not on the menu?"

I averted my eyes and poured coffee into his mug. "Not a problem."

"Oh, really?" Surprise competed with glee.

"Um… yeah, Hoot'll make it up for you. Whatever you want."

"Oh, okay." His tone sobered. "Then I'll have two scrambled with bacon, um… jalapenos fried up in my taters, a couple of Bertha's fresh baked biscuits with country gravy and some pancakes."

"That
is
different for you. Coming right up." I put the order in contemplating what had just happened. Or, had anything happened?

After serving Doug his breakfast, I brought Hughes his order. "Hoot says those potatoes are going to have some kick."

"That's what I ordered. Maybe it's time to get out of my same-old, same-old breakfast rut."

"You got what you ordered, all right." What on earth was with Hughes?

"Say, how about takin' a break from this case and gettin' away? Maybe go with me to play some miniature golf after your shift is over. There's a new place opened near Buzzard Mountain… only about a half an hour drive." There was a slight glint in his eyes.

"I like miniature golf." Could be that distance from this locale would give us a new perspective on these murders. Like we might put the pieces together on this drug cartel-murder conspiracy. It was worth a shot.

"They call it Roustabout Adventure Land. It's gonna be real hot today, so bring a bathin' suit. They've got a mini-water park where we can cool off a spell."

"I don't have a suit with me. Sorta came on the fly, you might recall."

He frowned, then his expression brightened. "We can stop at Oglethorpe's and you can pick one up. Or if you don't like the selection there, we can make a quick stop at the Mall of Abilene. It's practically on the way. We have to go down Route Two Seventy-Seven anyway."

"Let's try Oglethorpe's. I've had good luck there and I don't want anything too outlandish."

*****

Arroyo

Day Fourteen, morning

Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

Like most long-time residents of the village, I'd known the man for years, and liked him Most of the garments in my closet, I'd purchased in his store… all of the jeans.

"You'll have quite a selection. Just got a new rack of swimmin' suits come in. They're in the back." Mr. Oglethorpe pointed. "I think you know where the dressin' rooms are, Miss."

"I do." Ronnie took off down the center aisle and I followed. There was a greater selection than I'd figured on, but then probably nobody had picked through them yet. Ronnie went right to her size and started sliding suits along the rack and lifting out ones that appealed to her.

She held up a bright striped one with a top that skimmed the torso and a sort of high-cut bottom. "How's this?"

My focus stayed glued to the bottoms, wondering if the waist would rest above or below her navel and just how high cut the legs would be. I swallowed hard. "Nice, real nice."

She handed the suit to me and continued looking. Finally, she pulled out a halter-top two-piece in a tropical print. The bottom looked a tad skimpy. "What about this one?"

I had to admit; I'd love to see her try it on, but wouldn't want any other guys to see her in it. Although to be honest, the suits on the racks here were tame compared to some I'd seen at poolside and on beaches in recent years.

She quickly skimmed through the rest in her size and lifted up the last one. A peacock-blue two-piece. The top reminded me of the type of thing starlets wore during Hollywood's golden age. The bottoms were boy-shorts. "And this?"

I took half a step back and scrutinized it. "There's something catchy about it."

She took all the suits and disappeared into the dressing room. Hangers clattered. After close to ten minutes she came out in the peacock-blue suit. "This is the only one I liked. Catchy enough?"

"Wow, yeah. Beguilin', in a classy way."

I pulled out my credit card at the register, but she absolutely refused to allow me to purchase the suit for her. After she paid, we piled into the Ram and headed for Route 277.

I gave her a broad wink. "How about another challenge. Bet I beat you at miniature golf."

Her eyes sparkled. "You're on. Of course, you know I cheat."

I stifled a grin. This was going to be quite a day. Fantastic.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Buzzard Mountain

Day Fourteen, Late Morning

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

Roustabout Adventure Land sat at the bottom of a low, rounded peak covered in scraggly pine and what I'd come to learn were Texas ash. My mind's eye conjured up a solitary Native American warrior, in the distance, mounted on his painted pony. This was lonesome, gorgeous country and it was slowly captivating me.

Hughes found a spot for the Ram in the parking lot. We took a trolley designed to resemble the pioneer steam engines that had traversed the old west. It soon deposited us at the front gate where Hughes paid the entrance fee.

To our left, a gargantuan acrylic cowboy wearing chaps and waving a ten-gallon hat beckoned us to play miniature golf. To our right, the water park's lazy river coursed by. We opted to first work up a sweat putting around the golf course, and then cool off in an inner tube floating along with other park goers.

I hit a hole-in-one on my first try and the ball eased through the front door of a tiny ranch house.

Hughes eyebrows rose. "You said you cheated, not that you were a putt-putt golf pro."

As much as I would've liked him to believe that, I knew my performance at the next hole would give me away. I shrugged. "Lucky shot."

It took Hughes two shots to get the ball into the hole on his next try. Just as I had supposed, I smacked the ball into the horse's head emerging from the barn's half-door at the second hole. The ball sailed past the next two holes and wound up in some tall grass. Hughes laughed while I hustled to retrieve it.

As far as I was concerned the third hole was war. Hughes took two shots and still hadn't driven his ball into the hole. I gasped and pointed at a mousy-brunette with chin-length hair. "Isn't that Arroyo's mayor?" When Hughes turned to look, I kicked his ball five feet farther away from the hole.

He turned back shaking his head in the negative, then noticed his ball. "Hey!"

I wagged my head with faux smugness. "Told you I cheat."

After that, he didn't have a prayer.

At the ninth hole, he came up behind me. Circling me with his arms, he repositioned my hands on the club, pulled it back, and guided me to smoothly strike the ball with some force. It stopped two inches from the hole.

When he released me, my arms tingled with an electric current where his skin had touched mine. I forced myself to focus on what I had to do next, walked toward my ball, and tapped it into the hole.

He clapped. "See, you only have to improve your form and you'll play much better." Then he slanted his head to the side and peered at me. "On second thought, I can't see a thing wrong with your form."

His gaze had an unsettling effect on me. I tugged at the side-seams of the pair of navy Capri pants I'd picked up the week before at Wal-Mart's. My mouth went dry. Was this where I wanted to go? What if it wound up like every other relationship I'd ever had? Shattered.

He strode toward me and retrieved my ball and handed it to me. After walking back to the tee, he made a hole-in-one.

The game was on again for the remaining nine holes. I won, but only due to masterful cheating.

We stopped for lunch at the park's Hacienda Food Court. After ordering two taco platters with large Cokes, we took our trays and sat at a bright red plastic picnic table. We both grabbed for the small packets of hot sauce and his hand rested on top of mine.

In a slalom-like motion, he lightly traced my fingers, one then the next, with his index finger. Heat raced up my arm. "You have lovely, fingers. Have you ever considered hand-modelin'?"

Now my cheeks burned. Handling complements gracefully wasn't in my repertoire of social skills. "Not really. I sometimes think of them in terms of pulling a trigger."

He turned my hand over. "And what a lovely trigger finger you have."

"How you do go on." I grinned. Only two law enforcement types could turn the subject of trigger fingers into something sensual. Which probably meant he was as awkward at romance as I was. Oh, brother.

Somehow we managed to finish lunch without stumbling over our intentions, whatever they might be, which was unclear… and without making complete fools of ourselves.

We changed into our swim suits and Hughes insisted on lifting me into my inner tube at the lazy river. I fought the objection on the tip of my tongue and allowed myself to melt into his arms. For a mere moment, I rested my head against his shoulder. Then he released me and I plopped into the tube. Cool water splashed over me, which felt wonderful, but not as wonderful as Hughes' shoulder had.

We each sat in our own tubes, holding hands as we floated with the current. An invisible sound system played the old Bing Crosby song, "I'm An Old Cow Hand."

Hughes sang along at the refrain. "
Yippie ki yo ki yay."

All I could think of was the Bruce Willis take on it in one of the Die Hard movies. I shook my head to dispel the image of the Willis character and his daughter with guns to their heads. Mark had been shot in the head.

My hand bore down on Hughes' hand, squeezing it none too gently.

His head jerked toward me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's just when you hit those high notes, I'm afraid you might attract buzzards."

"Well, this is Buzzard Mountain, so that might be possible." He laughed.

We drifted past the cattle round up with its piped in mooing sounds. Then it was on to the Painted Desert, and the Can-Can Saloon, after that Rustler's Cove. We finally made a full circle and, quite aptly, jumped out of our tubes at the sheriff's office and jail.

Hughes wrapped his arm around my waist and guided me into Waterfall Fantasia, a series of waterfalls that increased in intensity. The first was a gentle spray, the second cascaded upon us. The third, quite unexpectedly, had an alcove in the fake boulders behind it. Hughes led me into the recess and pulled me toward him. His lips found mine. He kissed me gently, then captured my lips again. As the passion of this kiss increased, his hands caressed my back.

I slid my arms around his neck and pressed my body to his, allowing him to kiss me with abandon. Then, without warning, in one sudden movement, I jerked away and ran under the large thunderous waterfall as fast as I could. Tears coursing down my face were sloughed away by the torrential onslaught. I gasped for breath, swallowed water, and started choking.

Hughes materialized at my side and whisked me out of the roaring waterfall. He brushed strands of hair off my face that had fallen out of my ponytail. "I'm sorry. I rushed things. Just give me the chance to apologize."

I turned my back on him. "Don't you get it? It's not you, Hughes, it's me. It's always me. I can't do this."

He circled his hand around my shoulder and shepherded me to one side of the raging waterfall just outside of most of its spray. "We don't have much privacy here, but at least we can't be overheard. And I don't want you to blame yourself for anythin'." He had raised his voice a decibel to overcome the sound of the water barrage.

"You're not hearing me." I stamped my foot.

He stroked my face. "I take full responsibility for all this awkwardness between us."

I grabbed him and shook him. "How can I make you hear me? Do I have to spell it out for you? I'm lousy at intimacy. I get skittish, scared. Aw, heck… even go all cold fish. I thought Mark understood, but apparently not. He took another lover."

He clasped both my hands in his and kissed them. "I've always believed the best part of makin' love is truly and deeply bein' in love with your spouse... the person you trust with your deepest, darkest secrets and fears. Modus operandi isn't so important."

I clung to him and sobbed.