The Big Fix (3 page)

“Or maybe you’ve provided Jackson Gunn with the perfect alibi for murder.”

Bingo.

Chapter 3

“I still don’t think we need to fly. We’d get there just as fast if we drove.” I gave Billy a sidelong look. “Maybe faster, the way you drive.”

“Not even if I were Colin McRae and had Nicky Grist as my codriver instead of you,” Billy said, pulling me inexorably toward the small plane on the airfield.

The Mooney 252 was a recent acquisition of his, and as far as I was concerned he was still way too enamored with it. I had thus far avoided taking a ride in it, in spite of multiple offers. I couldn’t help feeling that he was taking advantage of my current situation to force the issue.

“Who are they?” I asked, trying my damnedest not to sweat. Yeah, that went about as well as you’d expect. I had a nonsweaty aura or two in my repertoire, but none I could employ without Billy knowing exactly why I was doing it. Which sort of defeated the purpose of not letting him see me sweat in the first place.

“World-class Rally racers,” he said. “Some of the best drivers on the planet.”

“You have them? Maybe we should give it a shot. I mean, they sound like great auras. Shame not to make use of them—”

“Since when do auras come with a skill set? I’d say ‘nice try,’ but really, it was kind of sloppy.”

“Maybe not the skills
per se,
but the reflexes…”

He gave me a look. Okay, it had been a long shot. Sure, you get the physical attributes of the person whose aura you project, reflexes no doubt included. But the instincts driving the reflexes? That was more of a psychological thing connected to the mind behind the aura.

“Trust me, flying is faster,” he said. “And fast is what we need if we’re going to find Gunn and get him home to Vegas—where
you
told the police he was going—before said police come knocking on his door.”

That was true enough. Jack’s palatial home—where his wife was murdered—was just outside the gambling mecca of the western world. And I’d
had
to tell the police he’d be going there. What loving husband wouldn’t rush to where his wife had been killed? I needed to find Gunn fast, so I wouldn’t be stuck standing in for him at the funeral. I was sorry for the man, but I sure as hell hadn’t signed up for
that.

I twisted my lips into a wry expression. Wry was better than scared shitless. “Aren’t you the one who told me never to trust anyone who said ‘trust me’?”

“I didn’t mean me, twit. You can always trust me, no matter what I say.” He lifted me from behind and put me on the wing, urging me toward the passenger-side door.

“Wait!” I tried to slide back down, but was prevented by two firm hands on my southern cheeks.

“No. Waiting never makes facing something you’re afraid of any easier. Get in.”

I craned my neck enough to see the determination on his face. It did not bode well for my weaseling-out success. Not that I wouldn’t still try.

“But don’t you need to, um, file a flight plan or something? I wouldn’t want you to get in trouble on my behalf,” I temporized.

He grinned. “Since when do I need help getting into trouble? But you don’t have to worry—no flight plan required. We’re good to go.”

“But … but … I know! Flight check. We can’t leave without a preflight check, right?” That should buy me some time.

“Very good, cuz. I will be doing exactly that as soon as you are safely buckled in. Now, get in and breathe slowly. Try not to hyperventilate before I get there.”

He shoved. Frankly, there are better ways to feel Billy’s hands on my ass. I sighed and climbed in, resigned to my fate.

It’s not so much the flying I hate—if I could grow wings (alas, beyond an adaptor’s capability), I’m sure I’d have a blast zooming through the air. But stuck inside a teensy little cabin with no way out? Uh-uh. It disagrees with my claustrophobia.

I left the door open until Billy was done with the check and ready for takeoff, closing it with a grunt and a frown when I could avoid it no longer.

Billy looked at me from his seat, speculating about God knew what. Whether or not he had restocked the barf bags, probably.

“Ciel, I’m a good pilot. I promise to get you to the ranch in one piece.”

“It’s not that—I know you’re a good pilot. Why wouldn’t you be? You’re good at everything. It’s just that…” I shifted uncomfortably in the seat. “… look, I don’t like feeling trapped, all right? You
know
that.” I knew I sounded irritated, but really I was disgusted with myself.

He continued to study my face, but thankfully didn’t go into the it’s-time-you-did-something-about-that-claustrophobia-thing-of-yours lecture I was expecting.

Finally, he sighed. “I was hoping this wouldn’t be necessary, but…” He reached behind my seat and pulled out a parachute. “You can wear this, if you want. Won’t make for a comfortable flight, but you
can
—technically—leave the plane whenever you want, if that helps,” he said.

Yeah, right. As if I’d jump out of a perfectly good airplane. Still, oddly, it did help to know the possibility existed. My breathing slowed to something resembling normal.

“Thanks,” I said quietly. “Are you going to wear one?”

“Nope,” he said, showing one dimple. “I trust the pilot.”

I squared my shoulders. “So do I. If you’re not, neither am I.”

“You sure? I braved ridicule from my fellow pilots to stow that onboard for you. Had to recalculate the weight of the aircraft and everything. It’s here, so you may as well use it.”

“I don’t need it,” I reiterated. (Stubborn? Moi? Perish the thought.) “Put it back. I’ll be fine.”

He complied, with an amused shake of his head, then dug into his pocket. He pulled out a miniature bottle of gin and tossed it at me. Billy’s version of Boy Scout—always prepared.

“I don’t need that either.”

“It’s medicinal. Drink it down.”

I shook my head. Paused, and finally sighed. Who was I kidding. I twisted off the cap and focused my thoughts on the parachute behind me. Even if I wouldn’t put it on for the world—not if Billy wouldn’t wear one, too—it still made a pretty good security blanket.

*   *   *

Never have I been as happy to set foot on my dude ranch as when I left the plane after we touched down on the landing strip. I would have kissed the dusty ground if I hadn’t been sure it would send Billy into gales of laughter. I’d had enough gales for the day, thank you very much.

Billy clapped me on the shoulder and said, “Come on, cuz. It was just a little turbulence. Storms pop up. You did great—only one bag!”

I groaned. “Don’t remind me.” But at least, thanks to the gin, I’d been giggling while I barfed.

He draped an arm over my shoulder and kissed my forehead. (I was sucking on a peppermint, but perhaps it hadn’t kicked in enough for him to risk my lips.)

“It’ll get better,” he said. “You need more practice is all. Once you’re used to it, you’ll be fine.”

I groaned again, but was spared from having to come up with a pithy rejoinder by the approach of my ranch manager, on horseback. He dismounted the palomino with ease, dropping the reins to the ground. Trigger would no more move from that spot now than if he’d been tied to a post—he was that well trained. (Yeah, Trigger—Dave’s idea, not mine, but to be fair, Trigger
was
a dead ringer for Roy Rogers’s horse. The big gelding and I were pals.)

Dave lifted me into a hug. He liked doing that because I was one of the few women in his life short enough to make it possible. He was not a tall man.

“Hi,” I said after I sucked back in the breath he’d squeezed out of me. “What’s going on?”

He shook Billy’s hand as a smile spread over his face. “Cody found him out near the barn.”

Cody Carmichael was the security guard for the Circle C, a younger—and more authentic—cowboy than Dave. I knew from employment records that his real name was Clarence, but he seemed to think Cody suited him better. Have to say, I agreed. He was too ruggedly western to be a Clarence.

“Seems Mr. Gunn went on an unscheduled hike and got himself lost. I already read him the riot act about heading out without me or Cody. He’s taking a nap at the moment, after a busy afternoon ‘rehydrating’ himself. Sorry if you came all the way out here for no reason. I would have called, but I knew you were already on your way.”

Whew. One less worry. “That’s okay—I had to come anyway. I’m afraid I have some bad news for Mr. Gunn.”

“His wife? Yeah, I saw—it’s all over Twitter.”

“Does Gunn know?” I said. I had Jack’s smart phone (I couldn’t very well “be” him without it), so, if Dave had been careful, Gunn shouldn’t have been able to hear about his wife’s murder from any outside source.

“Not yet. I haven’t let him near a computer or the TV, and Rosa is completely tongue-tied around him.”

“Rosa? Tongue-tied? I can’t see it,” I said. Rosa Delgado was my combination cook and housekeeper, a formidable fifty-year-old second generation Mexican American with a figure that rivaled Sophia Loren’s, and who, as far as I knew, wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.

“Quivers in his presence. Can’t get a word out. Funniest thing I ever saw—I’d try for a video if I wasn’t so sure she’d hog-tie and geld me if she caught me. You want me to call her and have her wake Mr. Gunn up for you? I guess she can knock on his door and use sign language,” he said, a tad wryly.

“Better let him sleep it off a little longer—he should be clearheaded to hear what I have to tell him.”

“So, how long would you say Jack was gone?” Billy asked casually. I gave him a sharp look. Did he
really
think Gunn could have killed his own wife?

“A few hours,” Dave said.

“You sure about that?” I said, sounding maybe not as casual as Billy, but I covered it by hugging Trigger’s head when he nuzzled my chest. If Jack had only been gone a few hours, he
couldn’t
have done it.

Dave scratched his head. “Could have been longer, I guess—he didn’t come down for breakfast, so I had Rosa take a tray up. She knocked and left it outside his door. Guess she didn’t want to risk catching him in his skivvies—might’ve made her faint dead away. I didn’t get worried until he didn’t come down for lunch and I found out he’d never touched his breakfast tray. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s back, safe and sound.”

I nodded. “Hey, do you mind walking back with Billy? I think Trigger wants me to go with him,” I said. Also, I felt the need to ride on something I was in control of. Horses don’t scare me, not one bit.

“Sure thing, honeybunch. Trigger would rather haul you than my fat ol’ tuchus any day. Here, let me give you a leg up.”

I laughed. While not exactly roly-poly, Dave
was
starting to fill out—and above—his jeans more than he had when he was living in Manhattan. He blamed the healthy Arizona air for stimulating his appetite, resulting in what he called “Dunlop’s Disease”—his belly had “done lopped over” his belt. Which was a slight exaggeration, but after being skin and bones most of his life he seemed to get a perverse joy out of complaining about his few extra inches.

“Sure, boost away,” I said. I could have made it myself, with a hop and a pull on the saddle horn, but why spoil his obvious pleasure at being a cowboy gentleman?

Once I had the reins in my hands, I was off, tossing a “See ya at the barn!” over my shoulder. Dave hadn’t even had to adjust the stirrups for me. He carried his height in his torso—his legs weren’t much longer than mine.

I felt mildly guilty about leaving them to deal with my luggage. Okay, not really. It wasn’t as if Dave would have let me carry it anyway, and we weren’t all that far from the ranch house.

Now that I knew my client was safe and sound—and sleeping—I figured taking a time-out for a short ride before dumping bad news all over his world wouldn’t hurt him, and it would do
me
a world of good. It had been too long since I’d been in the saddle.

Trigger had his own ideas about where to take me. I wasn’t picky, so I gave him his head. He turned west toward the pond. Good choice on his part—a quick spin around the water would be refreshing, and I should still be able to get to the barn about the same time as the guys.

It felt good doing something that didn’t scare the poop out of me. Horses, I knew. I’d had some pretty wild rides in the past, even been tossed a time or ten, and once had my foot stomped on (accidentally, I’m almost certain) by a horse who’d objected to being curried in a ticklish spot, but for some reason the huge animals didn’t scare me. When I was on one, I could breathe. I could
go.

I like being able to go.

I was halfway around the pond when my cell phone chimed in with the theme from
Jaws.
My brother, Thomas, the lawyer (a legal shark if ever there was one), which immediately worried me because he never calls when he knows I’m on a job—his overdeveloped work ethic won’t allow it. As an adaptor himself, he knows not to interrupt me when I’m not myself.

“You
rat,
” he said, skipping the preliminaries.

Gulp. Uh-oh. “Hi, Thomas. Listen, kinda busy here—”

“I know it was you, so don’t deny it.”

“I can explain—”

“I can’t believe it. After everything I do for you!”

True. Home, office, business advice … you name it, he was there for me.

“She had my back to the wall, Thomas! There was no way out—I
had
to tell her. You would have done the same thing. Besides, it was only a matter of time before she found out anyway. I just ripped the Band-Aid off for you, so now you don’t have to. When you really think about it, you should be thanking me.”

Okay, that last part was a stretch.

“The
plan
was that Laura and I would tell Mom
after
we were married. Do you know what she’s doing?
Do you?
”

I held my phone away from my ear. Trigger flinched. I grabbed the pommel, holding on to it and the reins both while I squeezed my legs reassuringly against the saddle. Trigger was a steady horse, but Thomas’s “annoyed” voice could startle a rock.