A Tough Nut to Kill (Nut House Mystery Series) (19 page)

It was quiet in the truck at first, and dark, despite the
waxing moon. Miss Amelia and I were on our way to the Barking Coyote, but she was still put out with me. I knew my grandmother, and knew that when she got maddest at me, it was when she was maddest at herself.

Since I had no idea what she was mad at herself about, I just let it go, saying I was hungry again and that I hoped the Coyote had decent food.

“People don’t go there for the food, Lindy.” Frosty voice.

“What do they go there for?”

She sniffed mightily. “You mean to tell me you’ve never been?’

“I don’t think it’s the kind of place Blanchards go.”

“Amos went there.”

“Guess that was different. Maybe if I drank a quart of whiskey a day . . .”

“I’d watch my mouth, Lindy. I’m beginning to think maybe I was wrong about Amos—what with this place you’re going tomorrow. If he removed himself from our lives for two years the way he did, and was getting his head screwed on straight, well, it just makes me sad to think of him coming back and getting killed.”

“Anything else bothering you, Meemaw?” I asked, knowing there had to be more.

She was quiet. After a while she said, “Things I’m working on, Lindy. Just some things bothering me and I can’t put them together. Maybe folks are right about me. Losing it. Like there’re these threads in my head trying to make something—I don’t know—maybe put a picture together, and I can’t get them to move. They aren’t making a picture. I’ll tell you . . .” She looked over at me. “It’s frustrating.”

I understood what she meant. Every time I tried to look at what we knew about all of this, the figures changed. One way, it was Amos who was the target of a killer. The other way, Amos came on somebody destroying my trees. Either way what happened to Martin didn’t fit in. And hiding my trees, maybe for the police to find? There was no drawing a noose around any of it.

It was almost ten o’clock. We figured that would be a good time to get there, especially for a Monday night. Nobody but the regulars would be around, and Miss Amelia said that was exactly the people we wanted to see.

The saloon was back off the main highway, down a slope leading into a pinewood.

The Barking Coyote sign, standing high between the road and a low, red wood building, blinked a garish red outline around a coyote howling at the moon. The bare lightbulbs, half burned out, bounced a Morse code that flared and died. Meemaw pointed it out to me. “Bet anything it says, ‘Beware the Good Ole Boys.’”

“We’ll get in there, speak to this Finula, and get right out,” I emphasized one more time. “Hope that’s understood.”

“You think I was staying the night?” She pulled her blouse down hard over her jeans. “And you listen to me, young lady, I don’t want you dancing or anything. Just as you said, this is not our kind of place. Remember who you are, Lindy. Hope that’s understood.”

“Understood.” I nodded. “Just have to keep my baser instincts under control, Meemaw. Good thing I brought you along.”

“Say that again.”

I nosed my truck in among the other pickups and old Chevys, parked any which way up on the grass. With a deep breath, I got out, helped Meemaw down, and went on ahead of her, through the door and into the smoky saloon.

The place was about what I’d expected. The music was loud. The voices were loud, one trying to outdo the other. Lots of women, young and old, all poured into short, tight skirts, wearing tight tops, and strutting around in shiny leather boots. Or they wore cowboy skirts and shirts with lots of fringe. Either way, the women had big hair and makeup enough to hide a hundred bad years.

Men leaned, backs hunched, along the bar or slumped forward at tiny tables. They were in every kind of cowboy hat imaginable, old boots or new, designer boots, jeans, and flannel shirts. The place smelled mostly of beer, and something I didn’t want to think about but could be taken for mold.

The country music was loud, seeming to come from everywhere along the walls. The place was crammed full, five or more chairs pulled up to each table, where people knocked back beer out of the bottle, or straight shots of what I imagined was Garrison’s Bourbon. They were laughing, until they turned to stare at me and Miss Amelia as we stood at one end of the old-fashioned bar, taking a good look around.

I was hoping we weren’t giving off helpless vibes, like hens in a fox den.

“Help you?” A man seated backward on a chair near a front table leaned back, got up, doffed his cowboy hat to us, and came over. “Wha’cha doing here?”

“We’re here to see the owner,” Miss Amelia said. “That’s Morton Shrift we’re looking for.”

“Right down there.” The man bent to point toward the far end of the bar. “Hope you’re not looking for a job,” he added, bringing a guffaw from the people behind him.

“Watch yer mouth,” another man, hands cradling a tall beer, called out. “That’s Amelia Hastings there. Better show some respect, Bobby, or you’ll never get your sorry self a ragin’ pecan pie again in your whole life.”

The tall man in front of us colored up—to his credit. He touched the crown of his hat and muttered. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t recognize you. Meant no harm.”

Miss Amelia gave him a regal nod. “None taken. Oh, by the way, say hello from me to your mama.”

She walked off, leaving the embarrassed man behind her.

Morton Shrift, a wide man with a blue kerchief tied around his thick neck, poured whiskey down a long line of glasses while people in front of him cheered and clapped.

“Didn’t spill a drop,” he bragged to his admirers.

“Hello there, Miss Amelia,” he called out. “What can I get for you ladies?”

He smiled widely. “Bourbon? How about a double shot to start you off . . .”

Meemaw fixed Morton with one of those steely looks I knew so well. “We’re here to see Finula. That’s the woman who used to be with Amos. Remember? We need to speak to—”

Morton interrupted by pointing to the dance floor, where couples were slow dancing, heads together, bodies barely moving. “That’s her,” he said, motioning to a couple leaning on each other, dancing with their eyes closed, moving only enough to keep from falling over.

“We’ll wait . . .” I started.

“I wouldn’t do that.” Morton shook his head. “Finula leaves the dance floor only if she’s gotta pee. Drinks while she’s dancing. Takes care of business while dancing . . .”

“What business would that be, Morton?”

The man smiled slyly at Meemaw. “I guess you’d call it the entertainment business, Miss Amelia. She kind of makes appointments.”

Meemaw looked at the woman, who barely moved her feet as the rousing song, about a guy in a bar with no place to go and crying in his beer over the women he lost, throbbed like a heartbeat from speakers around the room.

I walked ahead of my grandmother, parting the crowd so she could follow me to the dance floor. Up close, Finula didn’t look any more appealing than she did from far away. The changing gel lights turning her skin red, then blue, then yellow making her appear more harsh and older than her thin body and seductive clothes advertised. Finula danced with her head laid on the cowboy’s shoulder, her thick, long, dyed black hair spilling across his plaid shirt. Her bottom, in a short leather skirt, twitched back and forth to a beat of its own.

“Finula?” Meemaw tapped the woman on her shoulder.

The response wasn’t immediate. It took another tap before she blinked around and up.

“Yeah?” she said, continuing to sway against the cowboy.

“Are you Finula?”

“Yup. You got a reason for asking?”

“I’m Amelia Hastings. This is my granddaughter, Lindy Blanchard. We’d like to talk to you, if you’ve got a minute.”

Finula pulled back from the cowboy, who looked around for another partner. Her body stiffened. “You from Amos’s family?”

I nodded.

“Well, what do you know? I heard somebody did Amos in over at your ranch.” She motioned us back through the clustered dancers, to a table in a back corner of the room. She nodded for us to sit though I looked down at the overflowing table, filled with empty bottles and dirty glasses, then up at Miss Amelia, thinking the woman would never join a table like that.

Meemaw didn’t flinch. She took a chair, sat, and folded her hands over her purse.

“Sorry for your loss.” Finula leaned toward us across the small table. “But you have to admit Amos had a way of making enemies. This about his murder?”

Meemaw nodded. “In a way.”

“Do what I can for you.” She lifted a beer glass, took a swig, then straightened her shoulders and pushed her heavy hair back from her face.

“We were just wondering about a couple of things.”

“Like what?”

“How’s the baby doing?” I leaned in with a big smile.

Finula sat far back and studied me. “Who told you I had a baby?”

“Got it from a friend.”

“Bet it was that Mexican girl Amos was with before me.”

I sat quietly.

“Turned out I never was exactly pregnant.”

“How do you go about being not ‘exactly pregnant’?” I asked.

Miss Amelia rapped my knee hard with her knuckles.

“What happened to the boyfriend you had when you were with Amos?” she asked, her no-threat smile in place.

Finula’s face went dark. “What in hell are you really asking, lady?”

“Just wondering, that’s all. Heard he didn’t much like Amos.”

“You can say that again. Like to kick the piss outta him. But he found another girl and was gone before you could whistle Dixie.”

“He’s not in Riverville then?”

She shook her head. “Seen nary a hair nor hide.’” She laughed.

“You hear from him?” I asked.

“Well.” She drained one of the murky shot glasses. “We weren’t on the best of terms when he left, you know. Didn’t get no Christmas card, that’s what you mean.”

Finula drew back and lifted an eyebrow at Miss Amelia. “Bet you’re a lot like me, lady. Seen a few things in your lifetime.”

Miss Amelia ignored her.

“Before he left, did Amos tell you he was going to Houston?” I wanted the conversation back on track so we could get out of there. I was well aware of eyes turned our way and people talking.

“Think that’s what he said. Seemed like he was going to clean up his life. Said something about how having a baby was really waking him up.”

“So when he left, he didn’t know the baby didn’t exist.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s the way it was.” She shrugged.

“Was he having trouble with anybody while he was still here?’

She nodded. “Plenty. First it was just about all you Blanchards. Then that seemed to go away and he was talking about people I didn’t know. He was sayin’ how he was on to something. I never quite figured what he was getting at. But he sure was worked up about it. Kept saying it was time he stepped up or something. Like people wouldn’t believe him, the way he was. But you know Amos, had a way of rambling around the horn and back to get where he wanted to go.”

Morton’s voice came over the PA system. There was a line dance coming up. A short cowboy in high-heeled boots came over to ask Finula to dance. She looked him up and down then smiled blearily, showing teeth too perfect to be real and red gums that could have used a dentist.

“Sorry, ladies. Got to get back to business.” She took the cowboy’s hand in hers. “Nice to meet y’all. Just think, we coulda been kin.”

Another man approached the table where we sat. I was still thinking about what Finula had said and putting it down to another mark in Uncle Amos’s favor. The man, older, grizzled, looking a little bit shy, bowed to Miss Amelia.

“Sure’d be honored if you’d give me this dance, Miss Amelia. Been missing your pies and thought maybe I could talk you back into yer kitchen while we showed these younger folks a step or two.”

“I haven’t danced in a while, Jefferson.” She smiled up at a man I didn’t recognize.

“Bet you didn’t forget how. It’s the Dean Brothers. ‘Waltz Across Texas.’”

“Oh my.” Miss Amelia thought a minute then surprised me by reaching a hand up to the man, and standing. She let him lead her off to the dance floor, where other couples were already lined up, row after row. The music came on and people began stepping to their right, then left, in a waltz as formal as a minuet.