The Town Council Meeting (9 page)

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Authors: J. R. Roberts

BOOK: The Town Council Meeting
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“If you don't mind me asking . . . what kind?”
“What kind didn't we have?” she asked, laughing. “For one thing we had separate bedrooms. He hasn't touched me in years.”
“Well . . . I'm going to assume by looking at you that your husband was much older than you.”
“Not ‘much' older,” she said, “but you're sweet. Yes, he was older, but he had his other women—younger women—so he really hasn't been a husband to me . . . oh, I don't know. But it's been years.”
“How long have you been married?”
“About twelve years,” she said. “I was no spring chicken when he brought me here, but I soon learned he hadn't brought me here for sex. He just wanted someone who would look good—respectable—on his arm.”
“And have you—were you respectable?”
“Are you asking me if I had other men?” she asked, making her eyes wide. He noticed they were a very pretty green.
“Well—”
“No, that's okay,” she said. “You can ask me. The answer is no, I did not have other men.” Then she frowned. “Or is the answer yes, I have been respectable?”
“I think it's pretty much the same either way, ma'am,” he said.
“Oh, don't call me ‘ma'am,' ” she said. “At least I know I'm not considerably older than you are.”
“No, ma—uh—”
“My name is Barbara.”
“That's a lovely name.”
She took another sip of her drink.
“No one's said anything that nice to me in years,” she said. “You know, my husband was such a powerful man around here that men were afraid to talk to me, let alone sleep with me.”
“I'm sorry.”
“So am I,” she said. “I've become a dried-up old prune.”
“If I may so say, Barbara, you don't look dried up, at all.”
She studied him for a moment, her pretty lips pursed, then asked, “Would you like to come and sit with me and have a drink?”
“Well—”
“There's no one else on the whole ranch,” she assured him. “No one.”
“All right,” he said.
“Come with me.”
She led him out of the room.
TWENTY-THREE
He followed her swaying ass down the hallway. There was certainly nothing dried up about her. She looked as if her full-bodied figure had been very well preserved.
She took him into a sitting room and said, “Have a seat anywhere. I'm having whiskey. It's my husband's—late husband's—very best.”
“That sounds fine,” he said.
She poured him a drink, then topped off her own glass. She carried both drinks to the sofa he had seated himself on, sat next to him, and handed him one. He noticed she had given him the glass with the least liquid.
“What's your name?” she asked.
This would be a good test.
“Clint Adams.”
“I'm happy to meet you, Clint Adams,” she said, clinking glasses with him.
He sipped the whiskey. It was, indeed, very good stuff.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Adams? Are you here to steal? Investigate? What?”
“Investigate, I suppose,” Clint said. “The town council has hired me to look into your husband's murder.”
“That's because they know the sheriff is incapable of finding out who killed him.”
“Barbara, who do you think killed him?”
“I don't have any idea,” she said. “You probably thought I had a lover who did it, but I didn't have a lover. Haven't had a lover for a very . . . very long time. Don't you think that's a shame, Clint?”
“Yes,” he said, “I think it's a terrible shame.”
He noticed that, somehow, while she was pouring drinks, she had managed to undo her robe and open it, revealing a very nice pair of breasts encased in a silk nightgown. The slopes of her breasts, and her cleavage, were dotted with freckles.
“But you didn't tell me, Barbara,” Clint said, aware that there was heat coming from her body, “who do you think killed your husband?”
“Well,” she said, “I think the first person who should be suspected is . . . me. After me, I suppose Matt Holmes and Andy Rivers would seem likely.”
“Did you know that Holmes and Rivers would sometimes work together against your husband?”
“No,” she said, “but I'm not surprised. Those two were here before Big Ed got here. And I suppose him coming here gave them a common enemy. So they stopped fighting with each other to fight against him?”
“I suppose so.”
“They hid it well, then,” she said, “because everybody in town still thinks of those two as competitors.”
“Well, maybe they only joined forces when it involved your husband.”
“That could be true,” she said, “but then why kill him?”
“That's what I was thinking.”
“Well then, I see your point, Mr. Adams,” she said. “I guess that just leaves me.”
“I don't think you killed him.”
“Well, maybe I had him killed.”
“By who? You already told me you didn't have any lovers.”
“What if I hired it done?”
“Would you know how?”
“Oh my, what's to know?” she asked. “You find a man and you offer him money. If you offer him enough money, he'll do it.”
“You think it's that simple?”
“When you have enough money,” she said. “What if I offered you, say, a thousand dollars to kill my husband? What would you say?”
“I'd say let me see the money,” Clint answered. “Do you have that much money to spend, Barbara?”
“No,” she said, “but I'd have it after my husband was dead.”
“And you think a man would kill your husband for an IOU that he can collect on after the job is done?” he asked.
“Well,” she said, “I'm ashamed to say that I know for a fact that they won't.”
“You mean you tried?”
“Yes.”
“And you got no takers?”
“None,” she said.
“And should I believe you?”
“Oh my,” she said, “after we've been so frank with one another, why would I lie about a thing like that? I tried to have my husband killed, no one would do it, but someone finally did.”
“And has anyone come forward for the money?”
She blinked.
“Oh, I see,” she said, “you think I just put the amount out there and asked for takers? No, no, I talked to several men directly. This was not a . . . what would you call it? An open offer.”
“So someone else killed your husband, for reasons having nothing to do with you?”
“That's how I see it,” she said. “No lovers, no hired guns. Another drink?”
TWENTY-FOUR
Arnie Coleman knew he was doing the right thing. He just wished he had somebody more reliable than Charlie Hicks. The kid was a crack shot with a rifle, but he was young. Coleman didn't think he'd killed anyone before. He just hoped that wouldn't stop him from taking the shot when he had it.
 
Charlie Hicks was scared.
He knew what Arnie Coleman told him was true. Clint Adams deserved to die for killing Big Ed Kennedy. And Charlie was the best shot on the ranch. He knew both of those things were true, but the other truth he knew was that he'd never shot anything but an animal before and that was only when he was hunting for food.
He got up on the highest roof he could find and hoped that when the time came he'd be able to take the shot. If he didn't, he didn't see how he could stay on the ranch anymore.
“I know who you are, you know,” Barbara Kennedy said to Clint.
“What?”
She nodded.
“The hands were talking, and Arnie Coleman told me that you killed Ed.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No.”
“Or how he knew?”
“He said everyone knew Big Ed was going to hire you,” she said.
“To do what?”
“Nobody knows,” she said. “Arnie thought it might be to kill Andy Rivers or Matt Holmes.”
“Did your husband ever say anything to you about having them killed?”
“Oh no,” she said, “Big Ed never talked to me about his business.”
“Did he ever talk to anyone about his business?” Clint asked.
“I assume Arnie, since he's the foreman.”
“So Arnie
would
know if Big Ed had hired me,” Clint said. “And he'd know why.”
“I guess.”
“And he'd know if Big Ed
didn't
hire me.”
She sipped her drink and noticed her glass was empty. “I would say so. Could you fill my glass for me again, please?”
“Sure.”
He stood up and she handed him her drink. From that position he was looking right down the front of her nightgown.
“So,” he continued, yanking his eyes away from her cleavage and walking across the room, “Arnie Coleman should be the only man who knows the whole truth.”
“If you say so. Are you coming with that drink?”
He poured some whiskey in the glass and carried it back to her. She reached for the glass and took it. Her other hand brushed against his thigh as he sat back down next to her.
“Barbara, would Arnie Coleman have any reason to kill Big Ed?”
“I don't think so,” she said. “I mean . . . why would Arnie kill the man who was paying him?”
“Maybe,” Clint said, “Arnie got fired?”
“I don't know anything about Arnie getting fired,” she said.
“You said your husband didn't talk to you about his business,” Clint said. “So why would he tell you if he had decided to fire Arnie?”
She tapped her nail on the glass she held.
“So Arnie is trying to blame you?”
“By telling all the hands that Big Ed was hiring the Gunsmith,” Clint said. “That's why they all knew about Big Ed's plans. And for everyone to know, that would be unusual, right?”
“Yes, correct,” she said. “Tell me, how do you intend to prove this?”
“Well,” he said, “we'll have to question all the hands, find out how they heard that Big Ed was planning to hire me.”
“And?”
“And I'll need you to testify that your husband would only discuss his business with his foreman.”
“So, you need me to come to town with you?”
“Yes.”
“Tonight?”
“Well . . . that would be helpful.”
She thought it over for a few moments, then said, “I don't think so.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“What?”
“I don't want to ride into town tonight.”
“But . . . why not?”
“Well . . . for one thing,” she said, “I'm kind of drunk. Who's going to believe anything I say in this condition?”
Clint had been wondering when she would show some effect of the whiskey she was drinking. He assumed she'd been drinking before he got there, and so far she was remarkably lucid.
“I think I can convince the judge to believe what you say, Barbara.”
“Well, maybe, but . . . I still don't want to go.”
“Why not?”
“You need me to do this, don't you?”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “I wouldn't ask you if I didn't need you.”
“Well,” she said, “I need you, and I need you to do something for me, first.”
“Okay.”
“And after you do something for me,” she said, “then I'll do something for you.”
“Okay, Barbara,” he asked, “what do you want me to do for you?”
She put her drink down, settled her hands primly into her lap, tossed back her hair, and looked at him.
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Barbara—”
“Now, hear me out,” she said, raising one hand. “I know that's a rather lowbrow word for what I want you to do, but that's what I want. I don't want to ‘make love,' and I don't want to ‘have sex.' What I want to do, pure and simple, is fuck.”
“Barbara, I don't have time—”
“Where do you have to go?” she asked. “Back to town? To take sanctuary in the saloon again? I have a wonderful bed upstairs. All you have to do is come up there with me, get naked with me, sweaty, and fuck.”
“Is that really what you want?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, reaching out and running her hand over his thigh. “Yes, yes, yes, Mr. Gunsmith. I told you, my husband hasn't touched me for years, and no other man dared while he was alive. I need to find out if what you said earlier is right.”

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