Clowns and Cowboys (A Miranda and Parker Mystery Book 3) (18 page)

“Or be on her way to LA, as Chavi Ito thought.”

Miranda studied the information on the board about the route to LA. “That line takes less than two days to get there. She’s had more than enough time to get there and disappear.” She felt a headache coming on. “Hell, she might have gone to Mexico. We'll never find her there. What are we going to do, Parker?”

He stared at the board another long moment then turned to her looking as disgusted as she was. “Let’s have some early dinner and think it over.”

The restaurant Parker chose was Mexican. High-end Mexican.

Sexy, slow salsa music. Old World-style chandeliers. White table cloths. Gleaming silverware and china. Art Deco Aztec designs along the walls.

Miranda stared down at a plate of veggies, guacamole and red snapper bathed in what they called Diablo sauce. Parker was trying hard to make her feel better but it wasn’t working.

She picked up her fork, noticing it glistened as if it had been personally polished by the maître d’, and sighed. “I don’t really feel like eating.”

“You need something,” Parker said, a tad of insistence in his voice.

In addition to comforting her, she couldn’t ignore the feeling he was competing with Sam. Sam takes her for Texas barbeque, Parker counters with haute cuisine
à
la southwest. But she didn’t comment. She couldn’t deal with battling male egos now. More than that, she was worried about Layla and frustrated with their lack of progress finding her.

Dutifully, she picked at a bit of the spicy sauce and snapper and put it in her mouth. Despite her mood it tasted wonderful. Okay, her man had an edge. Sam might know good food but Parker knew great food. Her appetite surfaced a little and she took another bite.

She reached for her water glass and decided to state the obvious. “I’m still wondering if Sam is connected to Tupper’s murder.”

Parker watched her tenderly, the image of that afternoon lingering in his mind. The one of his wife shoveling out only a fraction of her fury on their client in Harvey’s trailer.

There was still far too much emotion, far too much passion in her when it came to that man. Especially when she caught him watching a video of another woman.

He knew what she was thinking. He’d taken her to this restaurant as some sort of competition with their aggravating client. That wasn’t entirely true. Primarily he wanted to make sure she was fed. But it hadn’t hurt to remind her of what she had with him, though money meant little to her. He was well aware of that.

He waited for her to take another bite before he replied, weighing the options of appealing to her rational side. She was a good investigator. Logic would take over sooner or later. But it would be petty and unprincipled not to point out the facts.

Once again his professionalism won out. “Keegan didn’t do it.”

Miranda put her fork down in shock. “I thought you wanted me to consider that possibility.”

“I did. And you have.”

“And now you’re changing your tune?” Of course he had. Otherwise, he would have been pointing out the reasons why Sam was guilty every step of the way. “How come?”

Parker picked up his wineglass and swirled the amber liquid in it. “For one thing, he contacted you, as you said.”

“Me. His old lover. Someone he thought he could wrap around his little finger.” She was still burned about that.

“But he learned he couldn’t do that. He also learned I’m in the picture.”

“And?”

“And he would have tried to get rid of us if he were the killer.”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “Maybe, maybe not.” There’d be reasons why he’d keep them on, mostly that it would make him look guilty if he’d fired them and sent them packing at this point. “That’s not the reason you don’t think Sam’s the killer.”

She watched the corners of his eyes crease in a sexy, confident smile as he sipped his wine. “You know me too well.”

“So what is?”

“Think about how Tupper was killed.”

She considered it. “With cyanide. It was methodical. Planned. Had to be well-timed.”

“Does that sound like Keegan?”

Now that he put it that way…she let out a groan. “No, not at all.”

Sam had always been a spur-of-the-moment guy. If he killed someone it would be out of passion, because he’d gotten pissed beyond his endurance. And the evidence would be all over him. He’d have to cover it up. He wouldn’t have thought it all out ahead of time.

She stared down at the half eaten fish on her plate. “Okay. So Sam’s not the killer. Where does that leave us?”

Parker set his glass down with an air of satisfaction. “What are your impressions of Harvey Hackett?”

She made a face like she’d bitten into a sour apple as she considered the man. “He’s disgusting, but…I don’t know.” An old drunk planning Tupper’s murder? That was as unlikely as Sam. “He just doesn’t feel right.”

“Not to me, either.”

So who else did they have as suspects? They’d talked to a lot of the performers but hadn’t had time for everyone. UBT must have had over a hundred employees. And Underwood hadn’t indicated there were other leads, though she might not have shared that information.

Then she remembered the family. “The Vargas,” she murmured.

“What about them?”

“They looked like they were hiding something.”

“True. Or they simply wanted to stay out of it.”

They were guilty of something, but she had no proof they’d done anything. Just a gut feeling. Suddenly she felt a slight chill on her skin, as if winter had suddenly blown into the dining room.

“Layla?” she asked in a whisper.

Parker studied his wine again. “We know the young woman attempted to leave town shortly after Tupper was murdered. It appears she was either running to something or running from it.”

Miranda thought of the beautiful performer with the graceful moves hanging from her silken strands high in the air. Nobody knew where she came from, who her family was. She was mysterious. And yet, she had an air of innocence.

“My money’s on running from it. And I don’t mean she killed her fiancé.”

“You think she saw something that night?”

“Maybe. But it’s not so much of a threat to keep her from going back to her trailer and packing a bag.”

“And getting a ride from Chavi Ito,” Parker added.

“Had to mean the killer didn’t see her.”

“Or she was the killer.”

“Yes. I know that’s a possibility.” She felt more frustrated than ever. “We need to find her, but we have nothing to go on. She probably doesn’t even have a credit card to trace. You could do a search on her with the fancy databases the Agency has access to if we just had a last name.”

Parker finished his meal, wiped his mouth, set down his napkin. His face was pensive. She knew he was coming up with something.

“What?” she had to know.

“Keegan’s expecting us at the dress rehearsal tonight, isn’t he?”

“I guess so.” She tapped her fingers on the tablecloth and envisaged the performance. “It would be a good way to watch everybody—all the folks we haven’t talked to yet—see if anything jumps out. And I’m not talking about the acts.”

He nodded, not smiling at her joke. “Yes, that’s important. But more important, everyone will be there, included Paxton Tenbrook.”

“He’s the ringmaster and the creative director. I’m sure he’ll be there the whole time.”

“And not in his office.”

She blinked at him. Was he thinking what she thought he was thinking? “You think he’s got some information on Layla in his office?”

The waiter laid the check on the table and Parker reached for his wallet. “Didn’t you think Tenbrook was evasive the other day?”

She thought back to his nicely furnished office, his big frame, his distraught demeanor. “He seemed disorganized. And obsessed with his show, his ‘baby.’”

“He made excuses not to show us any paperwork on Layla.”

“He offered to pay us to find Layla.”

“To get us out of his hair.”

She agreed with that assessment. She thought about the big man rifling through his desk drawers. “Yeah, his behavior about the paperwork did seem kind of odd. But I chalked it up to his being a typical boss.”

He raised a brow.

“Present company excepted. Wait a minute. Are you saying…?”

He nodded slowly. “While the rehearsal is going on, you keep an eye on Tenbrook, and I’ll pay his office a visit.”

She had to gulp down a mouthful of water on that one. Parker was going to break into the circus owner’s office while he was performing?

And he thought she took too many risks.

But Parker was right. If Tenbrook was hiding something, they had to dig it out. She gave him a nod. “Sure. I can do that. Do you really think you’re going to find something about Layla?”

With a wry grin he rose and reached for the back of her chair. “You never know, my dear, until you look.”

Sam sat in front of the mirror in his trailer applying the final row of dots to the brown and peach makeup outlining his features.

He tossed down the pencil and stared at his own image.

What a damn screw-up he was. He could still hear Miranda’s voice accusing him. “
Did you kill him, Sam? Did you kill Tupper? Did you kill Layla?
”

How could she think that about him?

He yanked the towel off his head and ran his hands through his thick hair. He grabbed a comb and began to style it, every so often reaching for a dab of stage mousse mixed with glitter.

No one had ever made him feel the way Miranda did. He still remembered the ache in his heart the first day she’d sauntered onto his job site, acting so tough and defiant. Talk about falling for someone.

He’d been trying so hard to win her back, but she’d never love him again. If she ever had. Still, how could she have married that stuffed shirt Wade Parker? He wasn’t her type. Not the match for the Kick-Ass Miranda Steele he knew.

Except…she was different now. She was a razor-sharp PI.

She’d caught him dead to rights. Yeah, he’d fallen hard for Layla. Real hard. Thanks a lot, Harvey, for letting her know about that.

But Layla had dumped him for his best friend. He might have wanted to kill him for that for maybe a minute, but how could anyone stay mad at Tupper? He was the kindest, most generous human being Sam had ever known.

Finished with his hair, he wiped his hands clean and stepped into his jeans. He stared down at the gold embossed belt buckle. A wild cowboy on a bronco wielding a lasso. A gift from Tupper.

He pulled up his pants, let out a long, painful sigh.

And now Layla was gone, too. Was she dead? Maybe. Or so far away, he’d never see her again. He knew she hadn’t killed Tupper. She loved him with all she had. She could never hurt him. But she had to know something about it.

Just like he did.

He’d just wanted Miranda to find her.

Everything was so messed up now. If only he could talk to Miranda. Be straight with her. Tell her everything.

As he pulled on his ocean blue sequined vest with the fringe, and set the matching cowboy hat on his head, he made his decision.

If she came to the rehearsal tonight, if he got a chance, he’d do just that.

The sun hung low in the Texas sky behind the big tent, casting a golden glow over the skyscrapers of the tech-and-cow town stretching lazily along the horizon.

Miranda sat in the rental car in the parking lot across from the main entrance, watching people in casual clothes strolling from their cars and across the street to the UBT entrance beyond.

After they’d left the restaurant, she and Parke had gone back to the hotel for a nap and a change of clothes. She had on dark skinny jeans, a metal gray tank top and a light jacket. Parker was in his designer jeans with a black T and sexy dark blue blazer.

“Didn’t think a rehearsal would be open to the public,” she said, wondering if the small crowd would spoil their plan.

Behind the wheel, Parker studied the pedestrians with a cautious eye. “Special guests. Contributors, most likely.”

“Whatever.” She reached for the door handle and stepped out before Parker could come around and do his southern gentleman thing and open it for her.

She wasn’t thinking about manners and niceties. All she could think about was the hope Parker could dig up some information on Layla tonight.

If the mysterious young woman hadn’t already slipped through their fingers completely.

They made their way across the street, and Parker ushered her inside the huge tent. He handed their passes to a ticket taker, and they settled into seats about midway up.

There was just one ring. European style, she’d learned somewhere.

Several rows of padded theatre seats done in a cinnamon color encircled the entire circumference, except for the aisles. Under a tall French blue canopy, scaffolding rose high overhead. The tubular system held lighting, various cording, and the trapezes for the flying act. Miranda recognized a couple of the ring crew guys clad in black like stagehands, giving the cables a final adjustment.

The seats were comfortable, the air cool and scented with an indeterminable circus tent smell. A/C must cost a bundle. Somewhere corn was popping. Around them conversations buzzed.

Miranda eyed the other “guests” chatting to each other and sharing a laugh or a private story. Finally she spotted Tenbrook making the rounds, schmoozing some folks in a nearby row. He was in a sparkly yellow vest, fuchsia pants with yellow swirls and a matching top hat. An outfit that definitely shouted, “I’m the top banana around here.”

It didn’t take long for the man to get to them.

“Good evening, detectives.” He grinned, shaking hands with Parker then with her.

Both of his big paws swallowed up Miranda’s hands while he worked her arms like she was a water pump.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Tenbrook,” she forced herself to say.

“We’re looking forward to this evening’s performance,” Parker said smoothly.

Tenbrook shook his head. “It was a miracle we pulled it together, but we’ve really got a dedicated bunch here.”