Fool's Gold (A sexy funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 2) (30 page)

Whitey garbled something, the only
recognizable part being his utter terror.

Brax seized the distraction like a
lifeline.

A chicken, Peppermint by the scent of her,
grabbed Brax’s arm, and whispered in his ear. “It’s a game they
played, that’s what he said, that he would have let Carl have the
outhouses in the end.”

Brax closed in on Maggie and the two chickens
with death grips on her upper arms. Their muscles flexed and
rippled with effort. He didn’t know how much longer they could hold
her, but he couldn’t gauge the transfer of power at this point. If
he tried to take Maggie too soon, she could bolt. Either for
Whitey’s throat or into the night where Brax would never find her.
The desert was too damn dark and too damn easy to hide in.

“Maggie, honey, let’s calm down. Let’s talk.”
He held up both hands in a peace gesture.

“He killed him, he killed him.”

With more unrecognizable rhetoric from
Whitey, Peppermint murmured once again, like a UN interpreter
deciphering a foreign language for Brax. “He’d never kill Carl over
an outhouse. The first edition of
Death Game
Carl found at
Goodwill, maybe, but not the outhouses.”

“Why the hell is he saying he had a reason?
He’ll set her off again. Shit.” Then louder, so his sister could
hear, he brought out the big guns. “Maggie, Mom’ll be here soon.
You don’t want her seeing you like this. You know what she’ll
do.”

Suffer heart failure, that’s what she’d do.
Maybe he shouldn’t have called Mom. Seeing Maggie like this would
break her heart.

“Come on, sweetie, let’s go home so Mom
doesn’t worry.”

Maggie stared at him, her face a garish
collage of harsh lines and hollows in the flood lights. “Mom’s
going to be mad, isn’t she?”

She’d morphed from ferocious feline to
whimpering child so quickly moisture sprang to Brax’s eyes. His
skin prickled as if someone walked over his grave. “She’s not going
to be mad, Maggie. She’s going to be sad. Let’s go home and get you
cleaned up.”

“You don’t think Whitey killed him? I can’t
leave if he did.”

Brax eyed the man’s white beard and scrawny
chest. “Nah, Whitey didn’t kill him. It was somebody else, somebody
we don’t know.”

Behind him, someone gasped. Had to be
Chloe.

“Maybe it
was
the book. I forgot all
about it.” Maggie suddenly wore the most beatific look of hope.

Brax hated to crush it. “Nobody kills anybody
over a book.”

“It’s a first edition.” The chicken with
nothing to do but watch uttered that. Cotton Candy? She’d need a
good lecture about the art of talking a jumper off a window
ledge.

Maggie started pointing and jabbering. “See,
see. It could be.”

“Listen to me, Maggie. The book isn’t
important.”

Another interpretive whisper in Brax’s ear:
“Carl could have sold it on eBay for a thousand dollars.” Which
explained why Carl had
Death Game
in his desk drawer. It had
to be the same book Maggie referred to.

The sound of crunching rocks once more issued
forth from Whitey’s mouth.

The chicken clucking in his ear was starting
to fray Brax’s nerves, but he needed the info. “He says he’s still
got author copies left, and he doesn’t need the thousand dollars
because he got six figures on his last advance.”

Brax whipped his head around to stare at her.
“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Whitey. Waldo Whitehead.”

The old geezer sitting on his butt in the
gravel was bestselling science-fiction writer Waldo Whitehead?
Jesus. That
was
the name Maggie used when Brax first climbed
out of his car.

What the hell did it matter now except to
bring Maggie back to the real world? “Honey, listen to him. He’s
got more money than Carl ever dreamed of, and he’s got a whole box
of
Death Game
in his house. He didn’t need the one Carl
had.”

Whitey, a.k.a. Waldo Whitehead, nodded his
head vigorously in agreement.

“So let the nice chickens go, and we’ll go
home, okay?” Brax pleaded.

“But what about Carl?” she moaned. “Somebody
pushed him off the trail. I can’t let them get away with it.”

Everyone stared, four pairs of chicken eyes,
a mother hen, a rooster who’d lost his cockscomb while sitting on
his ass in the gravel. And Maggie. Brax’s broken down sister.

To lie or not to lie, that is the
question
.

“Sheriff Teesdale and I are going up the
trail tomorrow morning. We’ll look for evidence. I swear to you,
Maggie, I will not sweep this under the rug. I’ll do right by you
and Carl. I promise.”

After interminable moments, she let the
chickens lead her to him. His damn hands shook as he put his arm
around her shoulders and tucked her close. The passenger side door
stood open, and he helped her climb inside, strapped her in
carefully, then shut the door. Chloe hoisted herself into the
backseat.

“Somebody murdered him?” Caramel?

Brax gave them all a nod. “Most likely.”

“We’ll boil the asshole in oil.” Maybe Cotton
Candy.

“We’ll draw and quarter the bastard.”

“We’ll cut his balls off.” He was sure that
was Chocolate.

He’d never known chickens could be such a
bloodthirsty lot. Brax held up his hands in supplication. “Enough
or I’ll have to haul you all in for vigilantism.”

Beyond them, Waldo Whitehead still sat in the
gravel as if he’d lost the use of his legs. Brax strode to him.
Waldo “Whitey” Whitehead, supplier of skull license plate frames
and author of New York Times bestselling science-fiction novels.
Brax stuck out his hand and hauled the man to his feet.

“How much were you going to charge Carl for
the outhouses?”

“It was the percentage we were haggling over.
I wanted fifty-five and he wanted fifty-five.”

Amazingly, Brax understood every word, as if
there were a phantom chicken at his ear interpreting. Or Whitey
merely affected the garble for incomprehensible reasons. “Why
didn’t you settle for fifty-fifty?”

Whitey dusted off the seat of his worn
trousers. “What’s the fun in that?”

The scrawny man might have gotten the jump on
the much beefier Carl if he’d charged him from the rear. But what
would have been the fun in that? Outhouse haggling would be over
with the snap of a finger.

“What about the first edition?”

“I only wanted to sign it. Can’t stand one of
them being out there unsigned, though I know there’s a million
anyway.”

“How badly did you want that signature on
it?”

Whitey stroked his beard, then opened his
musty brown eyes wide. “How badly do you think, son?”

Brax had read in some magazine, probably
while waiting in the dentist’s office, that Waldo Whitehead’s last
book contract had topped the million mark. Murder was about money,
desire, love, greed, fear, pain, envy, or a host of other strong
emotions. Except on the part of the occasional serial killer, it
wasn’t about fun.

Waldo hadn’t needed money. More than likely,
he’d needed to wage the war with Carl for his own amusement. Innate
logic dictated that Waldo wouldn’t do away with his entertainment
source. “Badly enough to hold out on those outhouses, I’d
wager.”

The old man smiled, the barest of crinkles at
his eyes and a forehead smooth enough to make Brax wonder at his
age. “Gonna miss that boy something fierce. Think I’ll name my next
hero after him. Carlsonicus Felmanicus. Whatd’ya think?”

“Nice ring. I think Carl would like
that.”

Like Teesdale, Whitehead had chosen a
different path, where Twinkie wrappers and outhouses symbolized a
better life. Life out of the fast lane. Minus the pressure.

Brax envied them.

He might be making another monumental
mistake, but in his judgment, Whitey didn’t fit the killer
profile.

Brax slapped his hand on the hood as he
rounded the front of his SUV, then turned back. “If any of you
think of something important, the slightest detail, call Sheriff
Teesdale.”

The word would be all over town before the
sun came up. By tomorrow morning, everyone in Goldstone would know
Carl hadn’t merely fallen to his death. He’d been murdered.

* * * * *

Maggie spent the five-minute drive with her
head against the window. She snuffled, sniffled, wiped at her nose
and her eyes, then started all over again.

Brax didn’t know how to help her.

Chloe did more for her than he could by
leaning forward from her backseat position and slowing rubbing
Maggie’s arm. Up and down, up and down. It mesmerized his
peripheral vision.

A convertible sat in his spot at the top of
the drive. Brax pulled in next to it and cut the engine. He
unbuckled Maggie’s seat belt as Chloe climbed out and opened the
door where Maggie rested her head.

“Come on, sweetie,” Chloe crooned like the
mother hen she so obviously was.

Brax took Maggie’s other arm, and together
they led her to the front door. It opened before they reached
it.

Light spilled out, silhouetting a tall,
gangly figure.

Jason Lafoote, hotelier. The object of Carl’s
animosity the night before he died. What the hell was he doing
here?

Maggie turned her head to murmur in Brax’s
ear. No chicken whisper, the sound chilled his bones. “That man did
it. He pushed Carl. I know it. I feel it. It’s all because of
him.”

She was calm. She was sure. Her voice was
damn scary. The level of menace in her tone churned in his
belly.

Lafoote stepped forward with the most abject
look of sorrow and sympathy that had ever graced a Hollywood
screen. Ariana Chandler couldn’t have done better.

“Maggie, my poor, dear woman.” He clasped her
hand in both of his. “I had to rush over and offer my condolences.
This is the most terrible of terrible things.”

Maggie let him touch her without recoiling,
but Brax felt the instinctive flexing in her arm.

His own instinct told him to drag her away
from the sallow, scarecrowlike man.

The observer in him held back. And watched.
He didn’t like himself, was in fact starting to hate the part of
him that could so callously analyze his sister’s reactions.

He’d never know what she’d been about to do
because Chloe pulled her away and shot Lafoote a look. “This isn’t
the time, Jason. Go away.”

“But—”

“I said go.”

When Madame Chloe meant business, few men
disobeyed, Brax was sure, and Lafoote wasn’t one of the brave few
who might. He scuttled to his car.

“Take Maggie inside,” Brax told Chloe, then
went after the weasel. He had questions he wanted answers to.

“Hold on, partner.” He stopped Lafoote before
he could throw himself into the front seat and escape.

Lafoote matched him in height, but Brax was
almost twice as wide. The man protected himself in the vee of the
car, holding the door in front of him like a shield. “I’m very
sorry to have disturbed you.”

“I apologize for my sister. She’s not
thinking clearly.” The best tactic was non-confrontational—until
Brax was ready for the slam.

Lafoote bobbed his head. “Carl’s death is
terrible, just terrible. I don’t hold her anger against her.”

“Yeah. And with Sheriff Teesdale calling it
murder, Maggie’s beside herself.”

“The sheriff thinks Carl was murdered?”

Brax could have wished for better lighting,
but as it was, Lafoote showed appropriate surprise. He could almost
see the man’s mind digesting that. “Yep. Pretty damn sure foul play
was involved. Course, I had to tell the sheriff about that
disagreement I witnessed the other night.”

Lafoote cocked his head. “What
disagreement?”

Again, the reaction seemed fitting. Either
the man was one hell of an actor, or he didn’t remember. “At The
Dartboard. Thought you and Carl might knock each other’s blocks
off.”

It registered. Lafoote blinked. “Well, that
was just a friendly game. I’m surprised you’d call it a
disagreement.”

“Carl seemed to think you were pissed as hell
at him for not backing you on getting that resort open. Pissed. As.
Hell.” He wanted Lafoote off-kilter. “Had to tell the sheriff it
seemed like more than a mere disagreement.”

“Well, well—” Lafoote sputtered.

Brax waved him off. “Didn’t seem too friendly
to me, but I’m sure Sheriff Teesdale will ask you all about it
tomorrow.” He scratched his neck. “What’s got him really curious is
why you and Carl were at the bank together yesterday. Right before
Carl got himself killed.” It was a long shot, but there was nothing
that said a cop couldn’t make up a few stories to rattle a
suspect’s cage.

Lafoote took a long time answering. Another
telltale sign. Sometimes, a suspect had to really think about his
answer. Innocent, confused people usually blurted out,
Huh?

“I really don’t have any idea what you’re
talking about.”

An inconclusive answer. “You weren’t with
Carl yesterday?”

Lafoote blinked over extraordinarily black
eyes. “No.”

“Where were you then?”

Another pause. Too long. Maybe he couldn’t
remember a day ago. Then: “I was in my office mostly. I had a lot
of calls to make.”

“Hmm,” Brax muttered, then stared the other
man down for several seconds. “I’m sure the sheriff will talk to
you about that tomorrow, too. So you might want to get hold of some
phone records to prove it.”

Lafoote jangled his keys. “Of course, I’d be
more than happy to talk to the sheriff. And answer any questions he
has which might help find the dastardly culprit. If Carl really was
murdered. I’ll let you get back to Maggie.”

That was a funny thing. Most people would
have asked why the sheriff was interested in what they’d been doing
when Carl died. Lafoote just wanted out. Interesting.