Death on Heels (14 page)

“Get in and stay warm,” he said. It wasn’t any warmer inside the truck, but at least she was out of the wind. She turned the rearview mirror so she could watch him.

In the bed of the pickup, Tucker found a steel box. He popped it open and retrieved a fleece-lined jean jacket and some faded jeans, which he pulled on over the pants of the jail’s brown jumpsuit, and an old pair of cowboy boots. He threw the jail shoes in the back. In boots and denim, he looked much more like the Cole Tucker Lacey
remembered so well. A beat-up, sweat-stained cowboy hat completed the look.

“That’s better,” he said, getting into the cab and moving the mirror for a glance at his reflection.

He pulled a spare ignition key from a small magnetic case under the dashboard.

“Call me suspicious, but it appears this was preplanned,” Lacey said.

“Just taking the breaks as they come. We always carry extra boots, gloves, blankets, water. Shovels. You know that. Weather can turn on a dime here. You don’t want to be caught on the open range without some survival gear. Besides, what are you dragging around in that big old tote bag of yours, an IBM Selectric?”

She clutched her tote tightly to her chest. She had spent a long time looking for just the right bag to travel with on assignment, and the soft brown leather tote met all her requirements. It had a cross-body strap so she could wear it hands free. It was deep, it had lots of pockets, including a big one on the outside, and it zipped across the top so things wouldn’t fall out. It was clean and classic, so it went anywhere, with almost anything, short of black tie and evening gowns.

Tucker was right. Lacey had her own version of a survival kit, and she took a mental inventory of it. The ancient tools of her trade, a notebook and pens. Digital camera. Her address book. Her motel key. She’d left her laptop and tape recorder back at the motel. Karen had told her she wouldn’t be allowed to record her meeting with Tucker. Of course the most important survival tool, her cell phone, was missing, thanks to Tucker, and no doubt flattened like roadkill on the side of the highway.

She also had an essential supply of war paint: some touch-up, a mirror, mascara, lipstick, eyeliner. Tissues and hand sanitizer, lip balm, extra thick moisturizing lotion for her hands and face. A comb and hairpins, as well as elastic bands, in the event her hair wouldn’t behave and she had to put it up or pull it back. And rolled up in the corner of her tote was a dark green wool shawl that coordinated with her outfit. The one she’d thought
would be such a knockout in court.
Vanity goeth before the fall.

“None of your business,” she said.

He laughed. “I thought so.”

“I’m glad you were able to change clothes, Cole. You look more like yourself again.”

“Thought you didn’t care.”

Tucker fired up the pickup and circled back past the bakery Jeep. He tossed Tasso’s jacket and the keys into the driver’s seat and grabbed one of the white bakery bags. The pickup roared back down the dirt road and headed for the highway.

The AM radio crackled to life and a country DJ’s voice drawled over the speakers. “—late great Marty Robbins, singing his classic cowboy lament and love song, ‘El Paso.’” The familiar Spanish guitar intro surged through the AM static with a Mexican flourish. Normally, Lacey would have been thrilled to stumble upon this innocently nostalgic tune about a cowboy outlaw gunned down for a crime of passion. She hadn’t heard it in years, but at the moment, it was a little too close for comfort.

Lacey spun around in the pickup and scanned the barren, snowy sagebrush flats of Yampa County, half expecting to see the law riding after them in flaming pursuit.

Lacey Smithsonian’s

Pack Up Your Troubles in
Your Bag, Tote, or Purse

Aside from a dog, and diamonds, a great purse may be a girl’s best friend. There are so many great bags out there, you needn’t settle for second best. As with men, it pays to search for the right one. And it doesn’t have to be at a high-end department store. In fact, as with men, the best surprises often arrive when you’re not expecting anything.

The pursuit of the perfect purse is exciting, but, trust me, the girl with the most bags does not win. First of all, take a breath. This isn’t a race. Have patience. If you don’t see what you want today, don’t buy just anything. The stores will be there tomorrow. The stock will be replenished. You will live to shop another day.

We all want a purse with top-quality materials, but you shouldn’t be a sucker for the big-name designer label. Some designer bags are like flashy gigolos: overpriced, gaudy, and not suitable for everyday use. A bag that doesn’t shout its name often has more class and can go more places.

If your funds are limited, just two or three well-constructed and well-chosen bags can take you nearly anywhere you need to go. Whether you want canvas, fabric, leather, or some man-made petroleum byproduct, there is a purse for everything. A minimum wardrobe for the working woman includes a subtle evening bag, a tailored purse for work, and a casual tote for weekends.

You should know what you really need most in a bag. Do you need a tote bag for shoes and papers,
along with a smaller pocketbook? Or do you want one immense superbag that does it all? Do you love having twenty tiny compartments to organize everything, or do they drive you crazy because you can’t remember which pocket you tucked your keys in?

Perhaps you need a briefcase as well as a small bag. In that case, the purse should be compact and tailored, sending a professional vibe. While it does not have to match the briefcase, it should be compatible.

For the city or work purse, look for a shoulder or cross-body strap that leaves your hands free to fumble with your Metro card.

Think about what your purse says about you. Black or brown leather is traditional and conservative, but also versatile. A red patent leather has extra zing and works with a variety of looks, perfectly acceptable in the working universe. In a place like Washington, D.C., where certain professions, such as lawyers, lobbyists, and bankers, require a sober style statement, women show off their personality with their choice of bags. Even if it’s a plaid Burberry tote.
Sigh.
The mild-mannered D.C. rebel might choose a gold, purple, or turquoise tote. Go crazy, ladies!

Don’t become so attached to a bag you fail to see its flaws as it grows old and becomes a candidate for retirement. Scarred and scuffed might be okay for a laid-back weekend, dashing to the hardware store for a gallon of paint. After all, that shabby old bag may feel like an old friend. But it’s not appropriate for that important meeting or interview. So here are a few tips:

• Proportion is key. You’re looking for the Goldilocks of bags. Not Papa Bag or Baby Bag, but the bag that fits
  you
  . A petite woman should not be overwhelmed by the size of her bag. Likewise, larger ladies should avoid the visual irony
  of a tiny clutch. Unsure? Look in the mirror, or shop with a friend.
  
• Don’t buy a faux Louis Vuitton or anything else from that T-shirt and sunglasses vendor on the street corner. Besides the moral implications of buying a fake, they always look phony too.
  
• Beware of the clutch. Without a strap, it requires you to either jam it under your arm and hold on for dear life, or keep it in your hand at all times. A strap simply makes life easier.
  
• Showing up at that congressional budget hearing looking like Little Orphan Annie toting all her possessions in a recyclable grocery sack will
  not
  win points.
  
• Magnets may seem like a good idea, but they can deactivate your subway cards and hotel keys. Buckles, on the other hand, rarely let you down.
  
• It’s a tote, not a suitcase. The point is not to look like you’re fleeing a burning building with everything you could grab on the way out. However, with a good tote and some editing, you can pack all the essentials to see you through a busy day on the run.
  

Details matter. Maybe they shouldn’t, but someone will always judge you by your bag and shoes. Make sure yours are presentable to the judges. Then you’ll never have to worry about your style.
It’s in the bag.

“What kind of evidence do they have?” Lacey shouted, while hanging on to both her shoulder strap and the handle over the pickup’s passenger door.

The old truck was even louder and rougher riding than Tasso Petrus’s Jeep. Kit obviously needed to have some work done on the shocks. She’d given up on the idea of jumping out of the car whenever the speedometer dipped lower. They were in the middle of snowy nowhere, and besides, Tucker showed no signs of ever slowing down. And if Lacey were to be completely honest with herself, she was curious to see where this story was going to land. Her reporter’s curse: the desire to follow a story to the bitter end.

“Not sure. Karen Quilby said we’d find out more at what she called ‘discovery.’ Some of the victims’ personal things they found at the ranch. I heard they found Rae Fowler’s backpack. One of Corazon’s too, and some other things. According to Sheriff T-Rex, it was Corazon’s necklace.”

“Do you remember the necklace?” Lacey grabbed hold of the cupid pendant around her neck, rubbed it, as if for luck, and made a wish to see Vic.

“Course I do. She wore it all the time. It was a turquoise heart on a silver disc. Her name engraved on the back. It was a present from her parents for her
quinceañera
.”

That made sense, Lacey thought. The name Corazon meant
heart
in Spanish. “And the evidence they found from Ally?”

“Not sure. They may have told me, but I was kind of
stunned, like I’d been stomped by a bad bull.” He shook his head. “Sheriff said I should know. I’m guessing it’s jewelry.”

“Why was it all found on your property?”

“No idea.” Tucker kept his eyes on the road, scanning for police vehicles. “Their bodies weren’t found anywhere near our land. I got no idea how these things got to where they were dug up. If they really were dug up. But sure enough, all this stuff showed up after Grady got his anonymous tip.”

“Vic said you were dating Corazon Reyes.”

“He would, wouldn’t he?” Tucker made a face. “We went out a few times. That’s all.”

“Corazon was very pretty.” Lacey thought about the picture of Corazon with her wide smile, dark eyes, and luxuriant hair.

“That she was, but not really my type. A sweet girl. Turned out we really didn’t have anything to talk about.”

“I’m sure you had better things to do than talk.” Lacey couldn’t believe she made that crack. She couldn’t be jealous of anyone who was with Tucker. Not at this late date. Could she? Besides, there was Vic. The thought of Vic made her suck in her breath.
What’s Vic doing right now? And more important, what’s he thinking?

“Corazon was a nice lady and I liked her. We just didn’t click. The way it happens. I’ve dated a few women since. Even so, when they found Corazon’s body, I felt pretty torn up.”

“Did she date anyone after you?”

“Sure. She liked a good time, she was fun, she liked to salsa. We didn’t stay in touch. I’m real sorry she died, especially like that.”

“I’m sorry too,” Lacey said. “How did you meet her?”

“She was a cook over at Henderson’s cow camp last spring and summer.” Tucker smothered a laugh. “I don’t know how she got that job. She couldn’t cook worth beans, she couldn’t
even
cook beans, and what she did to a pie was a crime. Even hungry cowpokes found her food hard to handle. And swallow. She hated it, but it was work.”

“How many people did she cook for?”

“Maybe six, maybe eight, depending on how many hands were helping out with the herd. Anyway, she’d get weekends off and head into town. Then she didn’t show up to cook one day. Folks figured she just gave it up, left town. But they found her body the next week. Way up north of town.”

“What was Corazon like? What did she want to do, if she didn’t want to cook? And what kind of clothes did she wear?”

“Oh, Chantilly Lace, you always did go on about clothes.”

“Hey, I just want to get a picture of her. Clothes are important. Especially for a woman.”
Even way out here.

“But what’s that got to do—”

“Cole Tucker, if I’d never seen you before, I’d still know you were a cowboy. Maybe not in that brown jail outfit. Uniforms take away your identity, or give you a new one. But in your jeans and jacket and hat and boots, I’d know exactly what you are, and I’d know you’re the real thing. Everything you wear is worn just
so,
because your clothes work for a living on a real ranch, on a real horse, or bouncing around in this junker of a pickup truck. Not because they were stonewashed or acid-washed or distressed to look
faux
real.”

“You got me there. You’ve thought about this some.”

“And it’s not just your clothes and how they’re worn, it’s how you wear them. You’ve got a cowboy swagger when you walk.” She would never tell him he was ever so slightly bowlegged.

“Cowboy swagger, huh?” He glanced sideways at her and grinned. She ignored the look. “Sexy, huh?”