Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel (9 page)

"Oh, how awful." There weren't words.

"Ellie couldn't shake the depression that followed. Her mom moved in with us and neither woman seemed to understand I'd lost a baby, too."

Leaning across the table, I covered his hand with mine and gave it a couple of quick pats. "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well, they began to shut me out, and I became a workaholic for a time."

"I understand the workaholic bit. I loved Mark with all my heart and soul, but still put in long hours, but then so did he, and now I know his reasons." My stomach lurched and seemed to press against my backbone.

Hughes drummed his fingers on the table. "To make a long story short, I came home one evenin' and Ellie's mom met me at the door. Said they'd packed up and Ellie was gone. That I'd hear from my wife's attorney. Her mom handed me two sets of keys to the house, got in her car, and drove off."

"Did you see your wife after that?" I wanted to use her name, but couldn't.

"Yeah, six months later at her attorney's office when she wanted to increase the amount of her settlement. She'd changed so much I almost didn't recognize her, a showcase for gold jewelry. As I was leavin', a body builder type got out of a red mustang parked right behind the law office. He pulled Ellie toward him, opened the front passenger door, and thrust her in. Then he turned and the muscles in his neck rippled." Hughes released a sad laugh. "That's when my attorney practically frog-marched me to my car."

"Did you sign the papers giving her the bigger settlement?" It was none of my business, but I thought I'd go for it.

"Six months after that, we signed the final papers. Still with the muscle man, she sported even more gold. But, no, she didn't get the settlement she wanted. By then she signed because she just wanted to get rid of me."

Hughes stood and sighed. "Let's sit in the livin' room. A change of scenery might be a good idea."

I left my iced-tea on the kitchen table and walked to one of the two matching recliners. "I see you've kept the his-and-hers chairs."

"Actually, I've changed everythin' in this room. Ellie didn't care for reclinin' chairs. She had a small deep cushioned couch in front of the fireplace. It was comfortable, but I didn't fit into it very well. She called it a settee."

I sat in one of the recliners, pulled the lever, and leaned back. "Hmm, very relaxing."

"So glad it's to your likin'." He laugh-snorted.

I jerked the recliner upright, leapt out of the chair, fearing I'd overstepped my bounds. "You have a very nice house."

"The one room I kept as it was is the baby's room. It's half painted. The crib's not assembled. Still in the box."

*****

Route 20

Day Nine, Half An Hour Later

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

I drove, generally aware of heading toward Abilene. I had to get away from Arroyo, from anything that had to do with the case, and away from Dawson Hughes.

Mark had wrapped me in a gilded cocoon of warmth, excitement, and passion. Then he'd cheated on me with a woman I'd called my friend. My judgment as far as men went had proved to be more than faulty. It had been catastrophic. He'd been dead just over a week and I certainly wasn't ready to take another chance on a relationship.

I made a turn, south onto Route 83, keeping up with the flow of traffic. I changed radio stations from conservative talk, to sports, to gospel, but couldn't keep my mind on any of them and turned it off.

Up ahead a white sign with red lettering announced:
Church of the Byways Annual Bazaar.
It was something to do, an activity not associated with my present situation. I pulled off the highway and into the gravel parking lot to the side of the church. A low stucco structure with a red-tile roof, it had a squat, square steeple protruding from its pitched roof.

Long folding tables with colorful plastic tablecloths dotted the scruffy lawn on the other side of the building. The first table belonged to the women's ministry and displayed cakes and pies that looked as if they would be nearly as tasty as Bertha's. The next table provided face painting for children. A woman carefully stroked whiskers onto a young girl who fancied herself a kitty. Two women stood just beyond that showing silver and turquoise jewelry. I took a quick look around, fearing I might have another run in with Ava Chandler. She was nowhere in sight and I released a deep breath.

I meandered from table to table and soon found myself heading for a bevy of food trucks. Oh, goody, lunch.

I started for Chubby's Sandwich Wagon where I ordered a grilled chicken wrap. The meat, marinated in an aromatic sauce, tantalized. My stomach growled, and I polished the whole thing off in four large bites. I twirled on my heel, about to move on to Juliane's Juice when someone bumped into me and a gelled spike of bright pink hair nearly speared my eye. Just what I didn't need. Uma Kantrel. She'd gone from pixie to punk.

I didn't have a clue why I was so surprised she showed up here. This little church was less than a fifteen-minute drive from the spa. She could live in the immediate environs.

Her pale blue eyes turned glacial. "For someone who supposedly doesn't know the area, you sure get around."

I threw up my hands, palms out, to show I didn't want to tangle with her. "Enjoy the bazaar."

She spun on her heel, stalked away, and disappeared into a group of people sporting tee shirts emblazoned with
Faith Alive Singles.
In the distance, she approached a man with sculpted blond hair in a black shirt, his back to me. She gestured angrily with her hands as she spoke to him. Reece Morgan?

Well, so much for having left my situation behind. After getting a pomegranate-cranberry juice, I moseyed over to the crafts table, slurping the sweet-tart liquid through a straw. An array of small corkboards framed in pink print fabric for a little girl's room caught my eye, as well as a group of pink tufted felt flowers on headbands. Pink must've been on my mind -- big time. I shook my head to clear it and walked away from the table.

At the woodworking table, I purchased a small walnut finished, treasure-box to keep the few pieces of jewelry I'd brought with me from sprawling all over the top of my bureau. I made a pit stop at the jelly, jams, and preserves table and picked up a gooseberry jam for Bertha.

Happy with my purchases, I strolled back to my car, only to find my driver's side back tire slashed to smithereens. I dialed 911 to report the vandalism and then phoned the rental car company.

In ten minutes, a sheriff's cruiser pulled up beside my green bug. Deputy Thunder sat in the front passenger's seat, but his usual partner, Deputy Hicks, wasn't at the wheel. I knew that immediately, from the description of Hicks I'd picked up at the Chuck Wagon's counter. It wasn't gossip, per se, just my three old-timers shooting the breeze and whiling the day away.

The driver approached me, all solid muscle beneath his uniform shirt. There was no doubt he spent hours at the gym. He took one look at my car and smirked, then cleared his throat. "You've got some trouble here?"

I pointed at the rear wheel. "Someone's slashed my tires."

"Not a nice thing to do and in a church parkin' lot, either. What's the world comin' to?" He didn't want an answer. He was just another Texan passing the time as he filled out routine portions of the report. "This could be the handiwork of kids. We've had some vandalism in this area lately." He smirked again. "Probably didn't like your car."

"What?" I crossed my arms.

He made a quick note. "Do you have Triple-A?"

I decided not to tell him about meeting up with Uma Kantrel, as I would sound like a paranoid nut job. I'd let Hughes know about that later. "It's a rental. I've already phoned the company. They're going to send a truck out to deal with the plug kit and that stupid canister of air. What am I supposed to do with that?"

He turned away from me. "Thunder, we've got a camera in the trunk. Why don't you get a photo of the tire?"

Thunder nodded, got the camera, and took a couple of shots. "Ms. Ingels, I'm real sorry someone did this to you."

I gave him a weak smile, and then leaned closer and whispered. "Where's this Deputy Hicks I've been hearing about? I thought you rode with him."

The young deputy flushed, glanced at the ground, kicked a stone, and then looked up at me again. "The speed at which word travels around here, you'll find out soon enough, so I don't mind fillin' you in. Deputy Watts doctor's sayin' she's got to be careful for the duration, so Hicks is takin' over her duties."

"I-is she al-all right?" I sputtered.

"Far as I know she is. She had the sick time comin' and her husband insisted she take it."

I smiled and nodded. However the snide part of my mind, tucked way in the back, noted with smug satisfaction, not everyone in Texas kept medical information private.

The cruiser's radio crackled. The trim deputy answered and yelled over his shoulder. "Thunder, let's roll out. We've got another call."

Thunder glanced around the lot. "You should be fine until the truck comes, bein' it's daylight and all, and you're in a church lot."

"I'm sure I will be. There are people all around."

"Yeah." He ran to the cruiser, got in, and shot me a half-wave goodbye.

I scanned the lot and my serenity dissolved. My car should've been all right before, out here in a church lot, and in daylight, but it hadn't been.

Chapter Fifteen

Arroyo

Day Ten, Morning

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

Walking the length of the counter while refilling coffee cups could boost a girl's self-confidence, or not. Most often in my case, it tickled my funny bone. My scruffy trio of well-seasoned cowpokes and wranglers bestowed bashful grins upon me while engaging in something akin to a pissing contest as they back-handed what they thought were compliments.

"You know, Ronnie, for a city-gal, you caught on real good." Amos scratched the slight paunch peeking over his belt.

"Ain't you a wonder?" Curly ran a hand through his mop of gray curls.

"Little lady, you can fill my cup any day." Jasper pulled on one end of his silver horseshoe mustache.

No sooner had I topped off the last geezer's cup, the phone next to the register rang, and I turned back to answer it. "Chuck Wagon."

"Is Mrs. Ingels there?"

I took a breath. The voice sounded familiar, yet I couldn't place it. "Speaking."

"Mrs. Ingels, this is Trudy, from the spa. I really need to speak with you, but I don't want anyone in Abilene or Arroyo to see us together. Could you come to my apartment?"

"Sure, no problem." The hairs on the back of my neck prickled against my skin.

"I live in the Silverado Apartments in Tuscola. That's about six miles east of Abilene on Route 20." She gave me driving directions. My hand trembled writing them down. I didn't want to let myself hope for a break in the case.

Bertha emerged from the kitchen, carrying a covered dish. "Ronnie, are you all right? You look as pale as a wanin' moon."

I turned my hip away from her, leaned against the counter, and gave her my best smile to distract her. At the same time, I slipped the phone number into my apron pocket. "I'm fine, just tired is all."

"Honey, you gotta take care of yourself and make sure you get enough sleep."

"I will. I promise."

She lifted a covered dish in my direction as she walked toward the door, a large sack handbag flapping back and forth on her arm. "I'm takin' this here casserole over to Dixie Watts. Can't have her gettin' outta bed to cook. Not in her delicate condition. Be back before your shift is over."

I gave a little wave of my fingers. "Give her my best wishes."

"I sure will, honey." And she was out the door, casserole and all.

Deputy Thunder was right, Word traveled fast in Arroyo.

Though I checked about every five minutes, my eyes on the clock didn't make the time pass any faster.

Bertha returned, as promised, to take over the dining floor. As soon as she donned an apron, I hopped into the Smart Car, drove east toward Abilene on 20, skirting the northern border of the city. Then I turned south on 83. It would not be more than another ten minutes to Tuscola.

Trudy had been the only one at the spa who extended herself to have an honest connection with me. She'd offered what appeared to be heartfelt condolences and then later, when she checked Bertha and me in for the yoga class, had exhibited genuine warmth. Even cracked a few small jokes and laughed with us. Everyone else offered professional smiles, barely disguising they'd rather Bertha and I not be there.

I made the turn off the highway where she'd instructed, and within minutes pulled into the driveway of the Silverado Apartments. The complex was a two-story poured-concrete jobbie, and like every other building on the street had a red adobe-tiled roof. The second floor units had balconies.

I parked in front of the unit number she'd given me, next to a white Ford Fiesta with an Estella Guest Ranch and Spa bumper sticker. After a short walk up the cement path to the apartment, I was about to ring the bell when I noticed the front door slightly ajar. Couple that with the worry I'd heard in Trudy's voice over the phone, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose again. My head dropped, and my shoulders hunched… fairly decent likeness of Rascal when he's wary.

I stepped away from the door so my body would be protected by the building's outside wall, pulled out my Glock, and nudged the door with the barrel. The door swung open but nobody fired at me. I took that as a good sign and inched my way into the apartment.

Trudy lay in a pool of blood on her living room floor, a bullet wound to the chest.

Nausea threatened. The only other time I'd witnessed gunshot wounds had been when I worked as a bank security guard to support Mom and me while I finished up my final year at the community college. That was after Dad started pleading poverty and his checks stopped coming.

A man in line who'd been waiting for a teller, thrust his body in front of his wife during the robbery. The punk in a zombie Halloween mask, his body twitching as if he were coming off some drug, wheeled around and shot the man in the gut.

It just so happened, Jack Cooney was in the same line to make a deposit. He took down the zombie guy and another who'd come as the Joker. I nicked the third robber as he ran out, and the cops picked him and the driver up as the getaway car careened down the avenue. The next day Cooney came back to the bank and offered me a job at double my salary.

Trudy was dead, but still, I took another long look to be sure, maybe hoping to see some sign of life. Anything.

Sorry, Hughes... I couldn't recall a topic in the front of that Gideon volume for the senseless murder of innocent people.

Wouldn't contaminate the crime scene any more than I already had, so I didn't take a step farther. Still, out of habit, I scanned the L-shaped living room with its dining area and snapped a few photos with my phone.

No desert colors here. The walls were a light, yet bright yellow. Much like the blouse Trudy wore, now covered in her blood. I recalled the girl's tendency to wear pastel silk tees at the spa, but until now had not given it much thought. A framed decoupage collage of colorful butterflies dominated the wall behind her mint-green sofa. Off to the side, a small blond-wood dining set for four stood with a milk glass swan as a centerpiece. A light green ceramic lamp lay in pieces next to her. I hadn't known Trudy at all. With a twinge of guilt, I acknowledged she'd been inconsequential to me.

A flier, for an organic cooking class, on top of the coffee table caught my eye. Reaching and bending over as far as I could without moving my feet, I took a photo of it. Then I retreated outside the unit and called 911.

Within minutes, a sheriff's department cruiser pulled up in front of the apartment. A burly deputy, with ruddy cheeks, killed the engine, got out, and hoisted his belt over an ample, but firm waistline. His nametag identified him as:
Deputy Ornis Hicks
. Thunder's usual partner looked exactly as I'd expected.

Thunder got out of the passenger side. He walked over to me and nodded. "Ma'am, are you the one who phoned this in?"

"I did."

He told Deputy Hicks who I was and about my connection to a previous murder, which brought on raised eyebrows and a snort from the thickset man. No doubt he and the deputy I'd met in the church parking lot were vying for the Mr. Congeniality award.

A second cruiser pulled up. Dawson Hughes got out and hurried over to me. "You're a trouble magnet. What brought you out here?"

I gave him the short version.

Hicks jutted his chin at me. "Mrs. Ingels, bein' a PI and all, you wouldn't happen to be armed, would you?"

I handed him my Glock, knelt and unholstered the banker's special at my ankle. "Neither has been fired."

"The lady feels the need to wear two guns." He smirked. "Our ballistics department will determine whether they've been fired."

Hughes motioned to the younger deputy. "Thunder, would you escort Mrs. Ingels to my cruiser and wait there with her while Deputy Hicks and I enter the apartment?"

"Yes, sir."

Hughes motioned to Hicks. "After you bag those weapons, put on a pair of booties, and be careful where you walk in the apartment. Don't want to hear any howlin' later from the DA about how we contaminated the scene. And don't touch the body until the medical examiner's seen it."

*****

Silverado Apartments

Day Ten, Ten Minutes Later

Deputy Sergeant Dawson Hughes

Some cops allowed themselves to feel nothing at a murder scene. I always felt something, often disillusionment. I needed to remember the deceased was human in order for me to continue feeling human.

It ripped right through my gut, remembering this victim in life... so young, so many things yet to experience. I hadn't known her well, but could recall her coy smile greeting guests at the spa, and how flustered she got finding out Ronnie was Mark Ingels' wife. Trudy Bobkirk shouldn't have been reduced to this... on her back with a gaping hole in her chest, and medical examiner Manny Alvarez kneeling at her side.

Someone from Crime Scene Investigation walked by, with a video camera, shooting every inch of the cheerful apartment. His partner scraped evidence from the light green area rug and off the type of pale wood furniture
the ladies
like.

There was no sign of a break-in. Trudy had let whoever killed her into the apartment. However, the shattered pieces of a ceramic lamp littered the floor near her body, its cord pulled out from the wall socket. When she realized her guest meant her harm, had she grabbed it and attempted to fend off the assault? A futile move. Perhaps she intended to throw it at her assailant, hoping to knock the gun from his or her hand but wasn't fast enough. CSI would bag all the pieces and check for fingerprints, though most likely nothing much would come of that. Any number of people could've touched the lamp for a variety of reasons.

Deputy Hicks emerged from the back of the apartment, waddling in the booties covering his shoes. "A bedroom, kitchenette, and bath. Nothin' out of place back there."

Let this bear of a man loose at the site of a five-car wreck with bodies strewn across the highway and he could handle it in his sleep. Put him in charge of rounding up stray livestock and he'd be able to face down a longhorn steer. But we didn't get many murders in Taylor County, so I kept my eye on him. So far, he'd performed admirably, a good choice to temporarily replace Dixie Watts.

Alvarez stood, brushed off his pants, and smiled ruefully. "You can have her. I'll make a determination after autopsy, but I'm sure it'll be death due to gunshot wound to the chest."

I nodded. It was what I expected him to say.

Hicks gave the body a wide berth, careful not to step in the blood, as he advanced toward me. "Find anythin' of interest?"

"Not yet." I put on a pair of latex gloves, knelt beside the body and searched her jeans' pockets. Nothing.

Hicks bent to examine the broken lamp.

"Don't touch that. We're gonna bag the pieces and take them to the lab," one of the CSI guys yelled.

Hicks raised his gloved hands, palms out. "No problem."

I stood and nodded to my deputy. "As soon as Alvarez takes the body, and CSI leaves, you and I are gonna tear this place apart, piece by piece. I don't want to overlook anythin'. This girl knew somethin', or had somethin' in her possession that got her killed."