Harmful Intent: A Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels/Dawson Hughes Novel (12 page)

She gave me her pageant smile again. "Yes, they are. And Sally's very talented with sewin' and design."

"Really, that's high praise."

"She's gonna make me a dress for the evenin' gown competition in the next pageant I enter."

Bingo, her smile had been honed on the runway.

"Do you socialize with Ms. Crimmins outside of the store?"

"A little. Sometimes we stop in the mall at Chick fil-A for a bite."

"And Ms. Renault. Did the two of you have a personal relationship outside of work?"

She began to giggle and pushed it down. "No... no."

I knew the answer would be a negative, but pursued that line of questioning anyway. "Would you say Ms. Renault was friendly with staff?"

This time Denise couldn't hold the nervous laughter down. "Like... she's the boss."

"Well, some bosses are chummy and supportive of their employees."

She giggled again. "Way not, Cassidy. She never lets us forget we're beneath her."

I feigned disbelief. "No, and she's even that way with Ms. Crimmins?"

"Um... not to Sally so much. But to me and Pedro... yeah, all the time."

"Well, you hang in there, you hear, and best wishes with your pageant."

She tossed me a super big smile, this one with some genuine warmth. "Thanks."

My later interviews with Uma Kantrel, Marjean Barnes, and Nellie Johnson went in a similar fashion. Everyone reticent and with a tinge of fear, Uma Kantrel adding a dash of smugness. The one thing I'd learned was there was enough fear going around at the spa and bridal salon to bottle it.

Chapter Nineteen

Arroyo

Day Eleven, Morning

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

Ten days at the Chuck Wagon and I'd served Pete the super deluxe breakfast special every single morning. He smiled as I set down the stack of five pancakes drenched in butter, hot syrup on the side, two fried eggs, and coffee he insisted I keep coming. Grabbing his fork, he began shoveling it in. If nothing else, the man relished his food. He probably burned the calories running away from fifteen-hundred pound horned beasts.

Hughes slid into a booth, waved the menu away, and ordered two scrambled with bacon, home fries, and coffee. His usual, as well.

I glanced at the round school-clock on the wall behind the register. "You're here a little late this morning. Doug's on his third cup of java."

He placed his hat on the seat beside him. "Got an important phone call that tied me up some."

"Hopefully some movement on the case." My voice rose in expectation.

"On a case. But not your case. You might be surprised to find out Taylor County pays me to investigate more than your concerns Mrs. Ingels." He threw me a slightly mocking look and a soft laugh.

I smiled sweetly, but my tone matched his attempt at piercing humor. "Well then, let's get food into you so you'll have fortification to do your job for the fine citizens of this county."

I put the order in and got Doug a cup to go. The man seemed to run on caffeine.

A middle-aged couple I'd never seen before walked in. I motioned for them to seat themselves. It was a good possibility they were here for the weekend festivities at the Grange Hall featuring Morris Dancing. It was Arroyo's one and only summer tourist event and many of the small businesses needed it to be a success. Tonight, I'd be working Bertha's dinner shift as Hoot planned to sashay her around the floor when the line dancing started. Would this be the night? Would he pop the question?

Hoot hit the bell and I stalked toward the service shelf with half a mind to lecture him on the merits of perfect timing. Instead, I merely brought Hughes his order.

Then I set out menus before the couple, he sporting salt and pepper sideburns and she with a pair of bifocals perched on her nose.

Another couple came in. These two in their mid-thirties. After I seated them and handed out menus, Hughes flagged me down for a check.

He met me at the register and paid. "Looks like the Chuck Wagon is makin' some business off the dancin' this weekend."

I nodded. "Yes, and it's a welcome change from the same-old, same-old every day."

He made that sad-doggie face of his. "Are you sayin' Pete, Doug, and I are borin'?"

"About as exciting as standing by until water boils."

His shoulders sagged. He shook his head and walked out, but the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

I took orders from the two couples and clipped the chits up for Hoot. The woman with bifocals had noted my accent wasn't from anywhere in Texas. Her eyes twinkled with amusement when I told her I hailed from Brooklyn. Her husband informed me they'd driven up from Corpus Christi.

My cell phone rang and it was Jack.

I yelled to Hoot, "I've got Jack here. Can you cover the tables a second so I can run out front and tell Hughes?"

"Git ya goin'."

I raced out. "Hughes, hold up. I've got Jack Cooney on the line. He's at Mark's viewing."

Hughes shut his car door and turned to face me.

I pressed a button on my phone. "Go ahead, Jack. I've got Deputy Hughes here and I have you on speaker."

"Yeah, well, I've already had the pleasure of meeting Cassidy Renault. Came right up to me asking how I knew Mark."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I got to know him running along the waterfront in Shore Road Park in Bay Ridge."

"Don't tell me you told her you were Alfred Gilhouly?"

"In the flesh. Signed the guest book Alfred Gilhouly, the third. Have a business card in my wallet if required."

I felt my eyes crossing. "The one that says Gilhouly's an ornithologist?"

"Hey, that's plausible. I like birds and actually know something about them. It's also excellent cover when carrying binoculars and a camera."

I sighed. He enjoyed his games way too much. "And I suppose it also gives you a reason to carry a Smith and Wesson?"

Jack gave a throaty laugh. "That's an entirely different matter."

I took a deep breath. "Um… how does he look… my husband?"

"He doesn't. Sorry, kid, it's a closed casket."

Although I knew that would be the case, his remark smarted. My one small comfort was Jack had fewer social graces than I possessed.

Hughes placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Ronnie, he was shot in the head."

Jack's gravelly voice came at us. "There's some kind of memorial table set up next to the coffin with three framed photos. One when he graduated from Brooklyn College, the second where he's speaking at some seminar, and the third on a golf course. There's a golf ball and two tees."

"Yeah, if Mark wasn't in front of an audience, he was on the golf course. Come to think of it, Cassidy golfs."

Hughes gave my hand a squeeze. "Don't go there."

I nodded and turned toward the phone. "Okay, so, who showed up?"

"Being a world class PI, I pulled out my trusty cell phone and got a shot of the signatures in the guest book." Jack chuckled.

Hughes leaned across me, to get closer to the phone. "Can you email those to Ronnie?"

"Oh, sure," Jack rumbled back at us. "I'll try to get another shot when there's more signatures then I'll send them."

"Very good. Thanks. Maybe something will turn up." Hughes rubbed his hands together.

My husband's funeral and I wasn't there. My stomach burned and I was sorry I'd eaten Hoot's five-alarm chili for lunch. "Is Stanley Fishburn's name on the list?"

Jack cleared his throat. "No, but people are still coming in."

"Who all is there?" My impatience leapt toward the satellite and beamed off it to Jack.

"Your husband's parents and a few of their Wall Street friends… or so it appears."

"Even though they made it clear I wasn't worthy of their son, I feel sorry for them." They had disdained rough-hewn Jack Cooney to such an extent they'd gone to great lengths not to meet him. This worked to his advantage now.

"Ronnie, you must know the tall thin fellow with reddish-brown hair. He said he was Mark's booking agent. Then there's a handful of workout buddies from his gym and some little Jewish guy who's a tobacconist."

"Henry Schwartz."

There was a beat of silence. "That name was in the guest book."

"Mr. Schwartz is a very nice man."

"Oh, and I met the manager of the virtual office Mark used. He handed me his business card, in case Gilhouly has need of his services."

"Sounds like he misses Mark's business more than his presence."

"Welcome to the real world, kid. It ain't always nice."

"What are you telling me I don't know? I'm cooling my heels in Arroyo, and Cassidy's there in my place acting the prima donna."

"Well I'll be, your mother just walked in. Ronnie, you
did
call her."

"Mom's there?" This couldn't be good.

"Wait, I gotta scoot into an empty viewing room. If she sees me, she might blow my cover, such as it is."

"What is she doing?" I hissed.

"Wait, wait, I'm trying to see and hear. Okay, she just approached Mark's parents, took his mother's hand, and is paying her respects."

A lump formed in my throat. "How are they receiving her? If they belittle her…"

Lately I wondered, how much his parents' disdain for his working-class bride and her spurned and impoverished mother had enabled Mark to break his marriage vows.

"You'd be proud. Your mom's got class. She just shook Cassidy's hand."

"If anything, appropriate etiquette is important to my mother." The purpose of good manners might indeed be to get through horrid situations like Mark's funeral. Mom might not be all wrong.

"Wait," Jack growled. "It was a very subtle move, but that Renault babe just removed her hand from your mother's clasp. She's beginning to pivot away."

"Don't tell me that little witch is turning her back on my mother!"

"Hold on. Your mom just did a little fancy footwork and blocked that Texas skirt from an escape."

"My mother did that. It's not like her at all to cause…"

"She just flashed a beneficent smile and told blondzilla she remembered her from your college days when the two of you were best friends. Then she turned around and walked out."

*****

Abilene

Day Eleven, Afternoon

Veronica "Ronnie" Ingels, PI

When my breakfast shift finished, I had to get the lingering bitterness from Jack's phone call out of my craw.

Earlier in the week I had stopped at Fed Ex and blown up the photo of the flier for the organic cooking class I'd snapped in Trudy's apartment.

The paper I now held in one hand, while driving with the other, was sweaty and crumpled. Could be aggravation and nerves, or maybe it was the heat of the day? At least the address was still legible.

The woman's daughter had taken my reservation, and I hoped she'd remembered to tell her mother. The girl had seemed a tad disinterested. Teenagers, what are you going to do with them... the most self-centered beings on the planet.

I pulled up in front of a neat, and somewhat compact, ranch with the requisite adobe-red tiled roof and a carport housing a late model, white Toyota Prius. A hybrid, natch. Two cars were already parked in the driveway so I parked on the street in front of the house.

As I walked up the drive, my palms oozed sweat again and I rubbed them on my jeans. Although I loved to eat, I wasn't much of a cook and had never paid attention to the organics craze. I envisioned myself in the company of neuveau-hippy types who had breast-fed their young and never let a product containing hazardous chemicals into their homes.

I knocked on the front door.

"Hello," I sputtered. At the spa, Dorothy Chandler's industrial hair net made me think of a surgical nurse. Here with her razor cut, wheat blond hair, she brought to mind Renee Zellweger. Today she'd donned an apron proclaiming:
Organic Cooks Do It Naturally
.

The woman blanched. "I didn't realize you were my third student. My daughter botched your name on the message she left me. Ronnie Eggers. I thought I'd have a gentleman in class today."

"Well, I'm certainly glad to be here." I smiled demurely. The benefit of giving
Ronnie
as my first name over the phone was time tested. That the kid messed up the last name... an added blessing.

The other two women were in the kitchen reading the menu Dorothy had printed out on her computer. The older student, with salt and pepper hair, was Lacey Glover, and the younger one, who appeared to have a tiny pregnancy bump, Amanda Doyle.

The print out showed pictures of what the various dishes should look like. A tossed green salad with pale-striped cucumbers and cherry-tomatoes, pan seared chicken breasts with shallots, golden sparkling cider as the beverage, and grilled pineapple slices for dessert.

"This is the type of olive oil I recommend for salads." Dorothy held up a bottle of green tinted oil which she assured us was extra virgin and not only the most tasty, but with the desired health benefits.

Amanda rubbed her belly. "I want to start my baby off eating the best."

A pang ripped through my gut. I'd never have a baby with Mark. Taking his secret life into consideration, this might have turned out to be a good thing. An overwhelming craving hit me for a bacon and cheese Quarter Pounder with all the trimmings, super-sized French fries, a side of onion rings and a McFlurry. I willed myself to look at the array of salad greens on the counter and forced a smile.

Dorothy gave me the job of rinsing and patting dry the skinless chicken breasts, which were of course, free range and grass fed. Then I had to sprinkle them with salt from the Dead Sea and crack fresh peppercorns over them. Pride swelled within my chest when she noted I'd done that well, neither over nor under seasoning.

Each member of the class had a task as we prepared the chicken for the skillet. Minced garlic in butter and olive oil sizzled, their aromas mingling and wafting through the kitchen. Of course, Dorothy closely supervised as we all tried our hand at turning the breasts while they sautéed.

We removed the chicken breasts from the pan, keeping them warm in the oven and stirred chopped shallots into the pan with a healthy splash of white wine. This light sauce would be spooned over the breasts right before they went to the table.

Dorothy assured Amanda she need not worry about her pregnancy because the alcohol would cook out of the wine.