Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel (8 page)

Something in my gut clenched and I realized I feared for this infuriating woman. "Good thing you're not a cat because you know how that old sayin' goes."

"Yeah, that curiosity wasn't so healthy for the cat."

"Exactly. Listen, Ronnie, there's a killer out there who may not find your intrusion all that amusin'."

"Hon, maybe you ought to listen to him." Bertha chimed in.

I turned toward Ronnie and nodded. "Since you brought up the cat, let me remind you what happened to him. It wasn't a pleasant end."

Chapter Thirteen

Arroyo

Day Eight, Morning

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

Pete walked in to the Chuck Wagon, and on his way to his usual back booth, asked me to bring him a menu. I nearly fell on the floor.

I plunked it in front of him. "Do you need a moment to peruse the menu before you order the same thing you order day in and day out?"

"Well, I don't know about no persuin', but I'm gonna give it a gander." He took a pair of glasses out of his breast pocket.

I turned to see if any of my other customers needed something, Winslow Chandler strode in with a look on his face that would've scared little children. Without waiting to be seated, he slid into a front booth.

I approached trying to hide my annoyance and placed a menu on his table. I don't like bullies. "Can I get you coffee?"

He stuck his nose in the menu and barked, "Yeah."

I brought him a heavy ceramic mug filled with coffee, and a stainless steel creamer. "Can I take your order?"

"I'm good with coffee." He closed the menu.

I pivoted to walk away, before the look on my face showed I'd gone from annoyance to dislike. He could've sat at the counter for coffee. Some nerve.

"Just a minute, young lady." His voice had a hard edge to it.

I wasn't in the mood to be
young-ladied
by him and spun around to face him. "Yes, young man?"

His head jerked up. "What?"

"You wanted something besides coffee?" I held my order pad in front of him so he'd get the hint.

"Why, you're just as smart as they say you are." He sneered.

"Nobody's ever accused me of being dumb." I tapped the pad with my pen.

"I hear you're runnin' around usin' my wife's name to worm your way in at the spa."

"I don't have to worm my way in. I'm a member, and everything I said was true. Your wife has openly praised the spa."

He stood, towering over me, his eyes dark and menacing, and threw a ten-dollar bill on the table. "Do not involve my wife in your shabby schemes."

"I didn't involve her in anything. She involved herself when she accompanied Cassidy Renault to my murdered husband's hotel room."

"What's goin' on here?" Hoot advanced from the kitchen wiping his hands on his butcher's apron.

Chandler turned to face him. "This New York woman has overstepped her bounds." He pronounced the word
woe-man
.

"Ronnie's my employee and in this here restaurant and she's under my cover. You can't come in here raisin' your voice to her. I suggest you leave."

The big man turned and pointed at me. "If you mess with Winslow Chandler, this won't be the end." He stormed out.

Hoot grabbed the ten off the table and offered it to me. "Take this. I don't need his money."

I stepped back. "I don't want it."

"I'll give it to the church." He stuck the ten in his shirt pocket.

After my shift was over, I asked Hoot if I could take Rascal with me and ride Henry into the hills to relax.

Hoot had been giving me a few riding lessons. With Henry, all I had to do was stay in the saddle.

The mule followed the road and then took a trail branching off into the hills. It was wide enough, but at such a steep incline, only a four-wheel drive vehicle could navigate it. Henry went at an even pace, never in a hurry. When I wanted to return, all I'd have to do was turn him around. Rascal always stayed at Henry's side and perfectly responded to the few commands Hoot had taught him.

Hoot insisted I take his Remington rifle because of its fluid action and also take some extra ammo. Nervous about the feral hogs I'd heard roamed the hills by the hundreds, I also took my Glock and had my .22 at my ankle.

Once we hit the trail, it was obvious Henry was sure-footed, as Hoot had bragged. He traversed the stony upward lane with ease. Rascal loped ahead, then fell behind, then took the lead again.

"Whew." I whipped off the straw cowboy hat I'd purchased in town and fanned my face, glad for its protection from the sun.

Rascal slanted his head and gazed at me, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.

"Thirsty, boy?"

Drool dripped off his tongue.

"When we get halfway up this ridge, we'll stop under those scraggly pine trees and have a drink. How's that, fella?"

He gave me a huge doggie smile.

I dismounted under the first bedraggled tree, part of a group of windswept pines, took a cold bottle of water from one of the pockets of the insulated saddlebag and drank half of it. I took out a second bottle and an aluminum dish from the other pocket and then watered Henry and Rascal.

As I was about to return the bottles and the dish to the saddlebag, a shot rang out.
Whop
. I froze. I knew what it was on a visceral level, but it took my brain a couple seconds to catch up.

The bullet hit the dirt about five feet in front of Henry, kicking up a piece of sod.

Whop
. Another shot fired. Another piece of sod kicked up. This time the clod of dirt struck the mule and he shied. I dropped the bottles and dish, grabbed the reins and pushed him back from the edge so he wouldn't go over into the gorge. Hoot loved Henry and I wasn't about to lose him.

Straining every muscle I possessed, I fought the frightened animal and backed him down the hill until we found cover behind a rock formation. After I calmed Henry, I gave Rascal a sit command behind the grouping of boulders. He sat and stayed put.

"Good dog." I patted him. "Not much of a shot, are they boy, to miss twice from up above?"

Stroking Henry, I spoke again, soothing and gentle, to keep the animals calm. "You think Ava Chandler's any good with a rifle?" The mule stared at me, wide eyed. His muscles rippled and he pawed the dirt. I stroked him again.

I whipped the Remington out of the saddle scabbard and got off a round in the direction from which the shooting had come, just for good measure. At least I was doing something in my own defense, though not a chance I could hit the shooter from this far below. Then I ducked, and tried to call 911, but my cell phone had no service. That seemed to be a reoccurring pattern with me. When I needed the phone, it was useless.

I quickly removed the extra ammo from the saddlebag and turned Henry around so he faced the trail going back to the Chuck Wagon. After taking two more shots in rapid succession at the top of the ridge to keep the shooter down, I slapped Henry on the rump as hard as I could with my cowboy hat, screaming, "Get."

The mule took off at a trot down the trail. I hoped Hoot was right, that Henry would always find his way home. When he showed up riderless, Hoot would come looking for me.

"God's speed Henry." I took two more shots at the top of the ridge, hoping to keep the shooter pinned and unable to fire, though whoever it was had the advantage being on higher ground.

Whop
. The shot kicked up dust about five feet from Henry. The shooter must be further away than I'd originally figured, or was a much worse shot. I took a deep breath, feeling a tad safer.

It seemed as if an eternity had gone by, but it was probably less than a minute when another couple of rounds rained down on me, hitting the top boulder of the rock formation making two cracking sounds in rapid succession.

I ducked, as rock fragments flew through the air. Whoever was up there was taking their time and their aim had improved. Though, the protruding rocks protected me from the hail of bullets.

I didn't return fire, in order to preserve ammunition. I figured the only way the shooter could hit me or my buddy Rascal was by attacking our flank, but then I'd have a clear shot at my assailant. I patted the hound. "We'll be fine right here. We'll wait for Hoot to come."

A few minutes later, up above on the ridge, I thought I heard the rumble of a vehicle's engine. I stroked Rascal. "Maybe the shooter left."

I didn't trust that perception, so I stayed where I was, safely behind the boulders.

Five minutes after that, Hoot came up the trail in his Army-green Jeep Wrangler Sport. He pulled up behind the rocks and jumped out, holding in one hand a Browning X Bolt with a scope.

He hunched over and waddle-walked toward me. "You all right, Ronnie?"

"Someone's using me for target practice, but yeah, I'm good. Not too sure, but the shooter might've taken off. I thought I heard an engine start up a few minutes ago."

"Let's stay here and not take chances. I phoned Dawson Hughes before I left. He'll arrive soon."

*****

Hill-Country, Behind Arroyo

Day Eight, Afternoon

Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

They were huddled behind a pile of boulders, both well-armed. Thank God.

I knew although the cruiser had four-wheel drive, due to its low suspension, it still might have difficulty making it up the trail. So I took my Dodge Ram. I pulled behind Hoot's Jeep, threw the door open and got out, crouching behind it while drawing my Smith and Wesson. On the passenger side, Deputy Wyatt Thunder, the youngest member of the sheriff's department, slid out, took cover behind his door, and pulled back the bolt action on a Ruger Hawkeye Tactical Rifle.

Hoot called out, "We think the shooter's gone."

I stood and turned toward my deputy. "Thunder, get on the horn and ask the sheriff to get a chopper in the air. It's probably too late, but we might get lucky."

"You, bet." The kid grabbed for the speaker on my truck's radio system.

"Are you all right?" I advanced toward Ronnie.

"I suppose you're here to tell me I told you so?" Her cheeks flared a bright pink that had nothing to do with the fierce sun overhead.

"No, I wasn't gonna say that, but since you said it for me, perhaps you should listen to yourself." I had to shove my hands into my pockets... afraid I'd either strangle her or wrap her in my arms and clinch her to me.

The four of us walked up the trail, bullets in our chambers. At the top of the ridge, we found boot tracks. Could've belonged to a medium sized to tall woman or a small to medium sized man. I wondered what size boot Reece Morgan wore, whipped out my cell, and dialed for CSI to come check the prints out.

As Thunder walked the perimeter, he stroked the Ruger's stock. "No shell casin's left behind. Took 'em all."

I turned and kicked a stone over the edge of the ridge and it plummeted into a deep abyss. What would it take to keep this woman out of trouble?

I pivoted back. "Shooter's no dummy."

Chapter Fourteen

Arroyo

Day Nine, Noon

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

Breakfast had been unusually busy and now I had a pocket full of tips. I thought maybe spending money was one way to get over the jitters from just having been used for target practice the previous afternoon. Good thing it didn't happen too often… I'd be broke.

Oglethorpe's Western Wear's aisles held excitement for me in the same way a Toys 'R' Us would for a child. I found myself drifting from display to display, enthralled.

I needed another pair of jeans, but on this shopping excursion, the dancers' clogs fascinated me. I picked up a leather silver-toned, oxford-type shoe with steel taps on the toes and the heels. Mr. Oglethorpe happened to mention Arroyo had an award winning dance team, and he kept shoes for them in several styles and colors.

The Grange Hall, where Hoot intended to take Bertha on their next date, would have skilled cloggers and Morris dancers tapping and twirling on the floor, not to mention line dancing. The thought of her pure happiness warmed my heart. There was indeed such a thing as true love. I wondered if she'd wear yellow again. That seemed to be their color.

I made my way down an aisle and threw several pair of denims over my arm, then headed for the dressing room. Once I'd pulled the curtain closed, I climbed in and out of Levis, Wranglers, and several brands until a pair of black stretch jeans by an outfit called Rock 'n Roll Cowgirl won out. Slimming and comfortable. Couldn't beat that combo. I'd been in fitting rooms where women were reduced to tears trying on jeans.

Mr. Oglethorpe smiled as I approached the register. "How're you enjoyin' that straw cowboy hat you got last week?"

Recalling how I'd slapped Henry's rump with it, sending the mule to alert Hoot of my dilemma on the trail, I grinned. "It's come in real handy."

He nodded and rang up the purchase, I carried the bag outside into the noonday heat. Oppressive was the word. I wasn't out there more than a few minutes when I wiped my brow.

My cell phone rang.

"Ronnie, it's Jack. I've run down this Stanley Fishburn."

"Jack, you're the best. Who is he?"

"He's the accountant husband of a socialite who's an heir to the Leafy Green Vegetable fortune. They grow, pick, ship, and sell lettuce, and other green stuff like arugula to supermarkets on the east coast."

"He's the accountant for Leafy Green and she's the heir?"

"Nope. She's a distant heir. Daughter of a cousin to the CEO, but she's got some company stock that's worth a bundle, and she inherited money on her mother's side, too."

"So, her husband has an accounting firm?" My mind strained to put the pieces together.

"No, he works for her. She put her inheritance money to good use and opened an upscale day-spa in Westhampton Beach."

"A spa." I shivered, even though the mercury rose by the minute.

"Yeah, interesting, since all leads on your end point to a spa."

"As you know, in murder, I believe there's no such thing as a coincidence. So, there's got to be a connection between these two spas."

"She went all biblical and called it Eden's Essence Day Spa." He gave a dry, humorless laugh.

"I've met good people here who take the Bible very seriously."

"When I was a kid, I had to go to religious instruction. Come to think of it, wasn't Nero fiddling in a spa, didn't David see Bathsheba in a spa? Looks to me like they're up to no good in spas. Seriously, no offense. She's the one who named the place."

"None taken." Now it was my turn to laugh. I had to check myself out. Wow, how people got all bent out of shape these days when no offense was intended.

"Oh, and by the way, she goes by her maiden name. Whitney Berensen."

"That sounds upper crust." My tone came off snide.

"Yeah, well, who do you think lives in Westhampton Beach, and vacations out there in the summer?" His laugh sounded more like a gargle. "Rich people, that's who."

"Yeah, yeah. So, can you get anything else on this Whitney Berensen and her spa?"

"I'm already on it. I have a former divorcee client in Westhampton Beach who loves me to pieces for getting her daughter out of a cult. I asked her if she'd like to take a couples' massage with me at the day-spa. Stunning woman, and she knows Whitney. They've worked on a few celebrity charity events together."

"Jack, could you try to keep it all business?"

"Why? That's no fun. But no matter, the lady declined. She did agree to have a facial while I get a massage. So, we're going to pay the day-spa a visit. When I find out more, I'll let you know."

"Men. You're all alike." I regretted the bitter tone in my voice.

"Now, Ronnie, you know I was faithful as the day is long to Marjorie."

"Yeah, but what about the nights." I really should practice biting my tongue.

A long sigh traversed the line. "Nights? I fell asleep in front of the TV after dinner. She had nothing to worry about."

"Sorry, Jack, I didn't mean to imply otherwise." What a dope I was.

"I know. Listen, kid, you hang in there. Be careful, someone's already tried to use you for target practice." He clicked off.

A comforting parting shot if I'd ever heard one. Punning myself was intended. I put my cell away and carried the bag with my newly purchased jeans to the car. After firing up the engine, I turned the air conditioning to full force, and pulled away from the curb. My mind spinning with possibilities about the case, I made a wrong turn and found myself on the back streets of Arroyo.

Five minutes later, unsure of which way to go, I turned down a narrow alley, not so much a street. The sign proclaimed
Lone Horn Lane
. I turned on my GPS to get back to the Chuck Wagon. Following the woman's voice brought me past a small ranch house with an adobe red-tiled roof that might not have ordinarily caught my attention. However, Dawson Hughes happened to be out front replacing a few slats on a four-foot high cedar picket fence.

I pulled over, got out, and watched him. "Say, you're not too bad with a hammer and nails."

"So glad I meet your approval." He tossed a half smirk my way. "What brings you here?"

"I took a wrong turn and then followed Mandy."

"Mandy?"

"The woman in my GPS." My exasperation showed when the words came out in a growl, proving once again social graces were not my forte. My palms began to sweat and I couldn't meet his eyes. My history displayed a long list of social blunders, starting just after my dad began staying out late at night. I never felt quite good enough after that.

Hughes wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his wrist. "I was about to take a break. Can I interest you in a glass of sweet iced tea?"

"Do you freeze your glasses like they do at Billy-Joe's?"

He wiped his hands on the legs of his jeans. "No, I can't say that I do, but maybe I should start."

He led me up the cement walk and into a comfortable living room. Two matching tan recliners with buffalo-check blankets on each headrest sat kitty-cornered before a stone fireplace. A low-table nestled between them with a few
Field and Stream
magazines strewn about on top. I couldn't help imagining one of the pair had been his former wife's seat.

"Come on into the kitchen." He motioned with his hand.

I pulled out a ladder-backed wooden chair at the round pine table and plunked down my tush. Opposite me, a red and white checked valance hung from the top of the window over the counter. A microwave, toaster oven, and a high-end coffee maker sat to one side of the sink. On the other side, a restaurant quality cappuccino/latte machine took up most of the space.

"That's the machine Hoot teases you about." I pointed, not able to hide a slight smirk.

"Aw, he's just sore 'cause I don't come in and drink his mediocre brew." Hughes grinned.

I walked over to the coffee maker and inspected it then went on to the fancy jobbie. It had the ability to brew espresso and spew steamed milk.

The open shelves above the machine housed a white ceramic Melita, a glass French press, and several sugar and creamer sets. Eight large mugs hung from hooks beneath the shelves.

I pivoted to face him. "I'm impressed."

He held up gritty hands. "Listen, I've got to get cleaned up before I put out the sweet tea."

I hiked one shoulder and grinned. "I kinda like a little dirt on a man." It had to be a giddy moment. There could be no other explanation for that comment.

Tiny sparks seemed to dance mischievously in his eyes. He laughed, turned, and walked down a short hallway, shaking his head. "New York woman."

That's what Winslow Chandler had called me. Somehow, it sounded very different coming out of Hughes' mouth. Sounded kinda nice.

A moment later, a door closed and the sound of running water drifted down the hallway and into the kitchen.

I ducked into the living room to see what kind of a fix I could get on him from his surroundings. Photos on the mantel showed him hunting with Hoot and another fellow, him at a rodeo, and him at what looked like a county fair. No pictures of an ex-wife. I let out a long sigh and realized I'd been holding my breath.

A tuft of dust caught my attention at the bottom of a small bookcase in the otherwise immaculate room. I dashed over. He read Vince Flynn and David Baldacci. Grabbing the thick book at the bottom, I gave a yank. To my astonishment, I stood there eyeballing a Bible, covered in a thin layer of soft gray grit. Hughes vouched for this book, but it didn't look like he read it. I realized the water had stopped running. So, I shoved the volume back where I'd found it, stood and took two quick steps bringing me back to the center of the room.

"Find anythin' interestin'?" He leaned lazily against the doorjamb, one weathered boot crossed over the other.

Startled, I pivoted and dug the heel of my running shoe into the textured pile area rug, nearly lost my footing and had to reach out and grab hold of one of the recliners. How long had he watched me? "Oh, sorry, I've been a professional snoop so long, it's second nature."

He motioned with his hand. "Come back into the kitchen, take a load off, and I'll get the tea."

I followed him. "While we're on the topic of snooping, my boss, Jack, has tracked down Stanley Fishburn. I'm sure your pregnant deputy told you the seamstress came out with a message for Cassidy to phone that individual. By the way, she's huge. Bertha speculated she might be having twins."

Hughes took down two tall glasses from one of the higher open-shelves, placed them on the counter, and shook his head. "Yes, Deputy Watts did mention that and no, I wouldn't know anythin' about her medical condition. I don't know how you do things in your neck of the woods, but in Texas that sort of thing is considered personal. So, who is Fishburn?"

Once again, I'd proved I had the aplomb of a stevedore. I cleared my throat. "He's the accountant at some fancy-schmancy day-spa in Westhampton Beach on the south shore of Long Island. About two hours east of Brooklyn if traffic's moving."

"The goin's on at two posh spas more than a thousand miles apart intersectin' in a murder investigation, and it bein' an accident? I don't think so." He scowled, opened his refrigerator, and took out a store-bought, plastic gallon jug of sweet tea with lemon.

"I'm flabbergasted. I thought you were a purist. That you'd brew your own."

"If it were iced coffee, I'd brew it." He poured the tea into the glasses.

"That's your passion, coffee, I mean."

He nodded. "One of them."

He screwed the cap back on the jug and the muscles in his jaw tightened. "Listen, gettin' shot at is serious stuff. If you ever want to talk it out, I'm here."

"Thanks." I took the offered glass. While the twisting in my gut proclaimed my belief that Cassidy had been the shooter, I wasn't about to belabor that point... just yet.

He raised his glass. "To justice."

"To solving this murder and putting the guilty party away." I clinked my glass to his.

He nodded. "I'm goin' to pass along the little tidbit you just gave me. I'm sure the Abilene PD rookie detective would appreciate knowin' about Fishburn and that other day-spa."

"You going to tell him the info came from me?"

"Yeah, and I'll probably tell him what a pain in the butt you are, too."

"If that's the case, I can always keep information to myself." I gave him my best
gotcha
smile.

"I'm bankin' on the fact that because you're the consummate professional, you won't do that." His grin proclaimed self-assurance.

"Speaking of information, you know an awful lot about my sordid life. If you don't mind a brazen New York woman reminding you... at Billy-Joe's you said you'd tell me about your divorce."

He sat opposite me at the table. "Ah, yes, I did."

I leaned back in my seat, trying not to appear as eager as I felt.

"My wife, Ellie, miscarried our baby in her fourth month. It was a bloody and traumatizin' affair for her."