The Gingerbread Bump-Off (19 page)

“No, I’m able to have all of that done through the bank,” Trafford explained. “Starting this year, anyway.” He made a face. “Hate to speak ill of the dead and all that, but poor Georgia made a botch of things last year, I’m afraid. Took me quite awhile to straighten it all out, and cost me a bit more in penalties and interest than it should have, too.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Trafford waved that off. “Just one of the hazards of living in a modern, very complicated world, I’m afraid.”

“You got that right,” Sam agreed as he stood up. “But at least we’ve still got Christmas.”

“Yes, although it’s not as simple as it once was. Witness this rigmarole.” Trafford nodded toward the Santa suit.

“I’m surprised your wife didn’t have you wearin’ it the night of the tour.”

“She hadn’t thought of it yet. Anyway, it wouldn’t have done her any good. I wasn’t here that evening.”

Sam tried not to show how interesting he found that piece of information. He said, “You had to miss the big show?”

“That’s right. When it’s evening here, the next business day has already begun on the other side of the world. I had to go in to the office that night and handle some negotiations with my opposite number at a Japanese bank.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes, I would have liked to have been here, but duty calls, you know.”

“Yeah, me, too. I’ve got some other stops to make.” Sam put out his hand. “It was mighty nice meetin’ you, Alan.”

“Same here, old man,” Trafford said as he gripped Sam’s hand. “Or perhaps I should rephrase that . . .”

Sam chuckled. “Nah, that’s fine. I never deny that I’m old. I like to think that I’m dignified. Like, say, Big Ben in London.”

“Definitely,” Trafford agreed. “And you’re rather tall like Big Ben as well.”

Sam said his farewells and left the house. As he drove away, he thought about what he had learned there. Alan Trafford was no muscleman—he had fit just fine in that Santa suit without any padding, as he himself had pointed out—but his grip was firm and strong, and Sam figured he could have lifted that gingerbread man if he’d been motivated enough. Also, he hadn’t been home the night of the tour, although if he had been conducting business with some Japanese banker at the time, he might have an alibi that the police could check out.

But from the sound of it, he bore a grudge against Georgia Hallerbee over the tax work she had done for him and his wife the year before. That seemed like a mighty flimsy motive for murder, Sam thought . . . but maybe it had amounted to more than that. Besides, some folks got really upset when they felt like they’d been cheated out of any money at all, even if they could well afford it.

All of that didn’t make Alan Trafford a strong suspect as far as Sam was concerned, but he couldn’t be ruled out just yet, either. Sam was eager to talk to Phyllis about it.

But he had another stop to make first.

Chapter 18

T
he other address Sam had memorized took him just out of town, to a hilltop estate not far from Lake Weatherford. This house was the farthest stop out on the list, and it was where the tour had ended that night. Sam turned off the farm-to-market road between a couple of tall stone pillars that had a wrought-iron arch between them. Worked into the metal of that arch was the legend DIAMOND C RANCH. The
C
had a diamond shape around it representing the brand. In smaller letters underneath was the name COCHRAN. There was a heavy metal gate that could be closed, but right now it was open.

Sam didn’t know if the place was a working ranch or not, but it had plenty of pastureland around it. The main house sat in the middle of some rolling, sparsely wooded hills. It was a single story but sprawled impressively across the top of one of those hills. A driveway that was at least a quarter of a mile long led up to it, and that driveway was lined with Christmas decorations, including Santa Claus wearing overalls, a flannel shirt, and a huge Stetson. Instead of his usual high-topped boots he wore high-heeled cowboy boots made of what looked like lizard skin. The elves and Mrs. Claus had been similarly “cow-boyed up.” Instead of a sleigh, Santa had a chuck wagon.

Sam had to grin and shake his head at the sight. It was pretty cute, although people who weren’t Texans might think it was going a little overboard.

He saw a large metal barn and several smaller sheds and buildings scattered behind the house. About a dozen cattle grazed in one of the pastures to the side of the driveway. As herds went, this one was pretty small. Sam figured the owner of the place liked the idea of being a rancher more than he did the actual job of raising cattle. He was willing to bet that Charles Cochran made his living doing something else.

The yard in front of the house was enclosed by a chain-link fence that ran on around to the back. As Sam pulled up in the driveway beside the fence, three big dogs came loping around the house and charged toward the fence. They were Great Danes, and they looked big enough that they could have just stepped over the fence if they wanted to, but they stopped on the other side to bark thunderously at him.

Sam knew enough about dogs to be confident that he would be all right as long as he stayed on this side of the fence. He got out of the pickup and said, “Hello, puppies,” to the Great Danes. They responded by barking even louder. Sam looked at the house, figuring somebody would hear the commotion and come out to see what was going on.

He wondered if the dogs had been penned up somewhere on the night of the tour. They must have been, he decided; otherwise, the people who came to look at the decorations never would have been able to get in the house.

The front door remained closed, and he didn’t see anybody looking out the window. When the dogs settled down for a second, he called, “Anybody home?” That set them off again, of course, and still there was no response.

Sam was about to give up and assume that nobody was home when he heard the shots, three flat booms blasting out one right after the other.

Out in the wilderness, three shots like that were a signal that somebody was in trouble. This was hardly the wilderness—downtown Weatherford was ten minutes away, less than that if the lights didn’t catch you—but Sam knew he couldn’t just drive away without checking to make sure everything was all right. The shots sounded like they came from the other side of the barn. He started walking in that direction.

It took him a couple of minutes to get there. Before he did, another group of three shots shattered the pleasant December afternoon. This time, however, Sam was close enough to hear the laughter that followed those shots. It sure didn’t sound like anybody was in trouble.

The barn doors were open, and Sam could see all the way through it because the rear doors were open, too. That was the quickest way to get where he was going. He walked through the metal building, smelling hay, manure, feed, and dirt all blending together in the distinctive aroma of barnyard.

When he stepped out the rear doors, he saw two young men, one of them sitting on the open tailgate of a pickup parked back here while the other stood a few yards away with a pistol in his hand, aiming at something down the hill. The gun was a heavy revolver with a silver sheen to it. Sam was no expert, but he judged the weapon’s caliber as either .38 or .44.

The young man sitting on the tailgate said, “Chris.”

The one with the gun lowered it slightly and turned his head. He was in his early twenties, Sam guessed, tall and lean with spiky brown hair that had been tinted with blond highlights. He wore jeans and a long-sleeved work shirt with the tails untucked. The sun was warm enough this afternoon that he had rolled up the sleeves a couple of turns. Tattoos curled over his bare forearms.

His companion was about the same age but considerably chunkier, with longish dark hair. He wore jeans, too, and a denim jacket. A couple of open cans of beer were on the tailgate next to him, and Sam guessed that the rest of the six-pack was in the ice chest sitting in the pickup bed.

“You must be what the dogs were barking at,” the young man with the gun said. He didn’t sound happy about it. “Help you?”

“I hope so,” Sam said. “I’m lookin’ for Charles Cochran.”

The young man shook his head. “He’s at the hospital.”

“Something wrong?”

“No.” Chris managed to pack quite a sneer into two letters. “He’s a doctor. That’s where he works.”

“So’s his mom,” the other young man added.

“Is she here?” Sam asked.

Chris smirked and shook his head.

“Let me guess. She’s at the hospital, too, right?”

“You got it. What do you want with them? You selling something?”

“Nothing we want, I bet,” the other one said with a laugh.

Sam didn’t think the story about collecting for flowers for Georgia Hallerbee’s funeral was going to work with these two. He had never seen them before, but he recognized them anyway. The spoiled rich kid and his sycophantic sidekick. Even in a small-town high school like the one where he had taught, those stereotypes showed up. And they were stereotypes because they were true and everybody knew it, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

“Were you here the other night when the Christmas Jingle Bell Tour came out here?” Sam asked bluntly. He didn’t know if he would get an answer, but these two clearly felt so superior to him that he just might. They wouldn’t consider him any threat.

Chris pointed the gun at the ground. Sam could see now that they had been shooting at a target—a human silhouette—attached to three bales of hay that had been stacked up.

“You don’t look like a cop or a lawyer.”

Now, why would Chris think that a cop or a lawyer would be coming to see him about something that happened during the tour, Sam wondered? It didn’t seem likely that he would . . . unless there had been some trouble.

“It’d be better if you just answered the question, son,” he said.

Chris bristled at that. “And what if I don’t?”

Sam shrugged and said, “Then I guess I’ll have to go hunt up your daddy at the hospital and ask him about it.”

For a second, as anger flashed in Chris’s eyes, Sam had to ask himself just how smart it was to be prodding a hot-tempered young fella with a gun in his hand. He was sure glad that Phyllis hadn’t come out here with him. He wouldn’t put her in danger for anything in the world.

“Take it easy, Chris,” the other kid said quietly. Obviously he recognized the signs of possible trouble.

Chris grimaced and shook his head. “I’m not saying anything without my lawyer, dude, except that I didn’t touch that mousy little bitch, and if she says I did, she’s lying.”

Sam had no idea what he was talking about, but he said, “That’s not the way I heard the story. Why don’t you tell me your side of it? I might be able to help you.”

That brought a laugh from Chris. He found the idea of him needing help from Sam amusing.

“I’ve got a better suggestion,” he said. “Why don’t you go to hell? Or at least get off my property.”

“If you’re in trouble—”

“Both my parents are doctors, man. Even with Medicare not paying worth a crap anymore, they still make a boatload of money. I’m not worried about what some secretary says.”

“Have it your way,” Sam said. “I tried.”

“Go on. Get out.”

Another twinge of worry went through Sam as he turned his back on Chris Cochran. Chris still had that gun.

Nothing happened, though, as Sam walked through the barn and back to his car. Before he got there, he heard more shots ring out as Chris resumed his target practice.

He wasn’t sure if he had found out anything worth knowing, because he couldn’t figure out what any of it meant. He had a pretty good idea who might be able to, though.

He needed to get back to the house and talk to Phyllis.

 

 

 

“He had a
gun
?” Phyllis asked, trying not to sound as horrified as she felt.

“Yeah. A revolver. A .38 or a .44, I think.”

“I don’t care what size it was,” she said as she looked at Sam. “It was a gun. He could have
shot
you.”

Sam shrugged. “I didn’t give him any reason to.”

“You antagonized him. And you were asking questions about something he obviously didn’t want to talk about. Something that could get him into trouble.”

“That was the feelin’ I got, yeah,” Sam said with a nod. “I’m hopin’ you can figure out what it was.”

Phyllis shook her head. “I don’t have any idea. But I had a feeling when we got back and you weren’t here that something was wrong. I never dreamed, though, that you were out almost getting shot.”

“Nobody almost shot me,” Sam insisted. “The kid was just gettin’ in some target practice.”

“You said yourself that for a second you were worried he might take a shot at you.”

Sam shrugged. “He didn’t. That’s what counts.” He paused and smiled. “It’s always good to hear that you were worried about me, though.”

“It wasn’t particularly good as far as I was concerned,” Phyllis said.

In fact, worry had nagged at her so much she had come close to calling his cell phone just to make sure he was all right. But when that urge seized her, she told herself that she was being silly, that Sam was a grown man and could take care of himself, and that he had a perfect right to be out doing whatever it was he was doing. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might be carrying on the investigation for her while she was busy with wedding preparations, but even if it had, that would have been all right, too.

And the things he had discovered
were
intriguing, she thought as the two of them sat in the living room talking about what had happened.

“I think I need to find out more about Alan Trafford and that Cochran boy,” she went on. Sitting around arguing about whether Sam had almost gotten shot wasn’t going to help anything. “If Trafford had a problem with Georgia over his taxes, that gives him something that at least resembles a motive.”