I Gave You My Heart, but You Sold It Online Page 21

  twenty-three

  Tag Freeman’s conversation had left Debbie Sue’s heart galloping through her chest. Despite a pounding headache and a mouth that felt like cotton, she wasted no time keying in Edwina’s number.

  After the fourth burr, a voice came on the line. “If this ain’t an emergency, hang up.” The line went dead.

  Debbie Sue keyed redial. Two burrs later, Edwina’s voice said, “What the hell do you want?”

  “Ed, wake up. You won’t believe this. Monica’s dead, Quint’s in jail, and Tag slept at Allison’s house.”

  “Well, ee-i-ee-i-oh. Since those three things are in the same sentence, I know they must be related, but for the life of me, I can’t see how. I must’ve had more tequila last night than I thought.”

  Debbie Sue repeated what she had just heard from Tag about Quint.

  “My God, one just never knows,” Edwina said. “Are we supposed to do something?”

  “We have to help him, Ed. He’s in denial. He thinks they’ve made a mistake. He thinks Monica’s still alive.”

  “Well, is she?”

  “No. Maybe. How the hell do I know? But he still wants us to find her.”

  “I don’t know, Debbie Sue. Vic will—”

  “Ed, Quint’s depending on us. He needs us.”

  “And what about Buddy? He’ll be home to night. What are you gonna tell him?”

  “Buddy wouldn’t want an innocent man to sit in jail, accused of something he didn’t do. Even Quint.”

  “I meant what are you gonna tell him about last night? If he hasn’t heard the gossip already, he’s bound to hear it fifteen minutes after he hits the city limits.”

  Debbie Sue scowled. What Edwina had said was true. Still, being arrested for lewd and indecent conduct seemed like small potatoes compared with murder. “I’ll call him on his cell and tell him about the mess with the party. I’ll save the news about Quint until to night.”

  “Good idea,” Edwina said.

  “Did you talk to Vic? What did he say about last night?”

  “He laughed. He wanted to know if I brought some of that stuff home.”

  “You mean you didn’t?”

  “Hell, I meant to get one of those purple G-spot things, but Billy Don showing up distracted me and I forgot.”

  “We’ve got to be in Haskell bright and early Monday morning, Ed. This news about Quint confirms it.”

  “You mean go to night and stay over. I doubt if there’s a decent motel in Haskell.”

  “No. I need to spend all day tomorrow doing something with Buddy. If we leave at five A.M. Monday, we’ll get there by nine. That way we don’t have to stay over. So we need to move our Monday appointments to today.”

  Edwina sighed. “Okay, I’ll start calling. I don’t know how I let you talk me into these things.”

  As Debbie Sue disconnected one of Buddy’s remarks about Quint echoed through the halls of her memory: Trouble follows him everywhere he goes. I don’t want you getting caught in the middle of it.

  But how could she not help a friend?

  “Shit, Quint,” she mumbled. “You are so damn much trouble.”

  ALLISON STOOD AT the phone mounted on the wall at the end of the kitchen counter, watching the clock and waiting for eight o’clock. Dr. Sinclair’s office had always opened promptly at eight o’clock on Saturday and closed promptly at noon.

  A woman she didn’t know answered the phone and soon her old friend came on the line. “Dr. Sinclair here.”

  “Hi, Doc, this is Allison Barker.”

  “Why, Allison, what a nice surprise. Is something wrong, dear? You never call this early.”

  Allison knew his waiting room would be filling, so she got right to her reason for calling. She was near tears at the end and her voice had taken on a tremble. “So, you see, I feel I need to be there. There isn’t a decent place to stay in Haskell. Would it be okay if I stayed with you and Dot?”

  As he had done so many times in the past, Dr. Sinclair consoled her. “Of course you can stay with us. It’ll be a treat to have someone in the extra bedroom again. The kids don’t come around much. Live too damn far away and are too busy for us old folks. But Dot and I are going to exact our revenge. I’m selling the practice and we’re buying one of those mobile RV things. We’re going to go visit them and let them get a firsthand look at how we’re spending their inheritance.”

  Allison knew he meant it. Time hadn’t changed him a bit. She chuckled in spite of the circumstances. “Do you know where they took Monica?”

  “They’re doing an autopsy in Abilene. They’ll be bringing her home sometime Monday.”

  Bringing her home. The words brought a lump to Allison’s throat. “I’m not sure when I’ll get there. I know you and Dot are busy—”

  “Not to worry,” Dr. Sinclair said. “If we aren’t at home, just go in and make yourself at home. The spare key’s where it always was.”

  “The fake rock in the flower bed?”

  “Yep. That old piece of plastic has been sitting there so long it’s actually turned to stone now.”

  Allison chuckled again, thinking how much she missed her former employer’s sense of humor.

  “I’ve got to run, dear. The girls out front tell me Mildred Hayes just brought one of her kids in. Looks like his tongue is stuck on an ice tray.”

  Allison hung up and reached for the phone book. She had to find someone cheap and available to work on her ailing ’91 Crown Victoria this morning. Cost be damned, she was on her way to Haskell.

  Charlene Elkins’s husband was too busy to take on the repair on short notice. Option number two was a mechanic in another town, but even if she could find one on a Saturday, the car was in such bad shape she dared not try to drive it beyond the city limits. And she couldn’t afford to have it towed.

  Her third option was Mike Jones. He taught in the vocational-education department in the high school and sometimes placed kids who needed to earn extra money in odd jobs around town. In the past, when she’d needed help in Almost the Rage, she had called Mike. She knew the department taught a few of its students about auto repair. A kid from the high-school shop class had to meet two vital requirements: availability and a willingness to work within her paltry bud get.

  Later in the morning, a scruffy senior named Jesse Martin showed up at the dress shop to pick up her car keys. She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Listen to me, Jesse. It’s very important that I leave town early tomorrow morning in this car. You’re sure you can get it running and finish with it by tonight?”

  “Heck, yeah, ma’am. I can make concrete run. And I’ve got friends who’ll help me.” He flashed a cocky grin. “I work on my dad’s tractor and my mom’s riding lawn mower all the time. I’ve got the highest grades in shop class.”

  “Shocks and tires? You can do that, too?”

  “No problemo. My cousin’s girlfriend’s dad’s got a salvage yard in Odessa. I can get my cousin to bring over everything you need really cheap. Trust me, you’ll have a sweet ride when I’m done.”

  An instant of doubt and fear squiggled through Allison. Was a sweet ride necessary? All she wanted from the wreck was to get from Salt Lick to Haskell and back with no problems.

  Deal with it, she told herself. She mustered a smile, made an agreement with the teenager, and handed him her car keys.

  “This is what happens when your choices are few to none,” she mumbled as she trekked back into the dress shop. “You just have to deal with it.”

  As promised, Jesse returned the auto to her home by evening and Allison realized she should have asked him his definition of a “sweet ride.” Sitting in her driveway was the Crown Victoria.

  Possibly.

  It was the same color as her car.

  Almost.

  The back end was still white, but red and yellow flames blazed across the front fenders from the headlights to the doors. Besides that, it had been raised several inches. New oversize rims had been a
dded to the wheels as well as oversize tires that looked like huge black bagels. Tires on steroids was her immediate thought. The license plates and the trunk were the only parts of the car that looked familiar.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “Sweet, ain’t it?” Jesse said. “You oughta let me paint it purple.” Purple would look cool with flames. He gestured dramatically to describe what he would like to do. “I’d do it cheap,” he added.

  “Uh, no thanks,” she told him. “You’ve done more than enough.”

  After the teenager left, she stood on the porch studying the car, envisioning driving it back to her old hometown, the place she had imagined returning to as a success. Deal with it? She would need some fortitude to deal with this one.

  Undaunted, before daylight Sunday morning, she was on I-20, driving east, the reason for the trip gluing her hands to the steering wheel. As the sun rose and brightened the day she kept her eyes straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the stares of other travelers on the highway.

  She had spoken to Debbie Sue and Edwina, explaining that she would be driving to Haskell before them and why. She had called her mother and reported the circumstances. Jill was ecstatic when she described the changes to the car.

  At the last minute she decided to not call Tag. They hadn’t parted on the friendliest of terms. With the loyalty he felt for Quint, staying away from him had to be the right thing to do. She wasn’t emotionally prepared to discuss Quint further just yet. With so little to go on, the best thing was not to give in to assumptions and emotions.

  Reaching Abilene, Allison began preparing herself for the task ahead of her. Haskell was less than an hour away. She concentrated on the last time she had seen Monica alive and was occupied with that thought when the dashboard displays lit up like a slot machine. Only lights racing around the steering were missing, but she was certain they would have been there if Jesse Martin had had more time.

  She managed to steer to the side of the road. She had no sooner brought the Ford to a stop than it shuddered, let out one pitiful lurch, and coughed and died. Allison did what any sane single woman alone on the highway in a broken-down car would do. She cursed, hit the steering wheel with the heel of her palm, and kept turning the key in the ignition until the battery was completely dead. Then she broke into tears.

  This was probably the very kind of situation her mother had warned her about when she’d chastised her for not having a cell phone. She had no one to call anyway. Still, just having a link to another human being right now would be comforting.

  Early-morning highway traffic was light and what few cars there were didn’t even slow down. Well, this was West Texas, where chivalry was still alive. All she had to do was make it clear she needed help. On second thought, the notion gave her pause. While gallantry might still be a part of the area’s tradition, so, unfortunately, were abduction, rape, and murder.

  Gathering her will, she left the comfort of her sweet ride, went to the front of the car, and raised the hood, the universal sign of distress. Then she got back inside and waited. Soon her early-morning departure caught up with her and she nodded off.

  She awoke with a start and the sound of someone tapping on the driver’s window. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said, cranking the window down. “I’m having some—”

  She halted midsentence, the words frozen in her throat as she looked into the face of Tag Freeman.

  He smiled. “Trouble? You having some trouble?”

  A more beautiful face she had never seen. “Uh, yes. I had my car worked on yesterday and—”

  “This is your car?” His gaze roamed over the Crown Victoria from bumper to bumper.

  She squared her shoulders, refusing to be intimidated by what must be his opinion of the car’s appearance. “Yes. Yes, it is. A boy from the high school worked on it. He threw in the paint job for free.”

  “That’s lucky. I was thinking you should ask for a refund. Nice tires. You oughta be able to just float on down the road.” He made a forward-motion gesture with his hand.

  Allison’s lips twisted into a one-sided scowl. “Well, not everyone can afford a Lincoln Navigator.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have popped off. Uh, why don’t you try turning the engine over and I’ll take a look.” He walked to the front of the car and stood waiting.

  Allison turned the key. The only sound the thing produced was a sickening click. He walked back to his Navigator and moved it alongside her car. Then he dug in the back and came up with jumper cables. “Let’s give this a try,” he said, and connected the cables to her battery.

  Suddenly a single flash of real flame, accompanied by an ear-piercing roar, shot the Ford’s hood ten feet into the air. A huge round disk sailed through the air behind the hood. Both objects landed with a crunch several feet away in the neatly plowed rows of a ripe cotton field.

  Wide-eyed and shaking, Allison scrambled across the bench seat and out the door on the passenger side. She darted to the front of the car and clamped both hands against her jaws. “Oh, my God. What happened?”

  Tag had already disconnected the jumper cables. She could see several wires twisted and singed.

  “Blowback,” he said. “A spark from the battery touched off the gas fumes.”

  She looked up at him. “Is it ruined?”

  He looked back, biting his lip.

  Allison broke into tears.

  He looped an arm around her shoulders. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  “That’s my car,” she wailed. “I’m going to be riding with my mom till I’m fifty. I should have already been in Haskell, but I couldn’t leave Salt Lick till I had the car worked on.”

  “You can ride with me. I’m on my way there now. They’ve transferred Quint—”

  “Quint.” She gave him a look. “I’m not worried about Quint.”

  Her mind raced. What choice did she have? She had to ride with Tag. She huffed out a breath. “I’ll accept your offer for a ride, but I don’t want to hear anything except facts about the murder, if you know any. Facts. Not opinions, not a speech about your undying loyalty to your friend. Just the truth about what happened.”

  She marched around the car and retrieved her purse from the passenger seat and her one piece of luggage from the backseat. Without another word she walked to Tag’s Navigator and climbed in on the passenger side.

  THE DRIVER OF the tan KIA sat up the street from the funeral home, using an unfolded road map as a ruse. The real focus was the funeral home. Numerous phone calls had yielded the information that the body hadn’t yet been delivered from Abilene.

  The driver was about to give up and return to the motel when a shiny black hearse rounded the corner, pulled into the private driveway, and disappeared behind the building.

  A tear slid down the driver’s cheek.

  Monica Hunter had come home for the last time.

  twenty-four

  I swear to God, when I left she was alive. In fact, she was laughing.”

  Tag looked at his friend through the security window of thick glass in the visitors’ area of the Haskell County Jail.

  “That’s the last thing I heard when I went out the door,” Quint added. “Her laughing.” His voice trailed off.

  The room surrounding them was small and dismal. Kind of like Quint’s chances at this point. “What about an attorney?” Tag asked. “Who are you using?”

  “The only lawyer I know doesn’t practice criminal law, so he called a buddy of his in Abilene. He came to see me when I was back there. He seems competent. He’ll be here tomorrow when I go before the judge.”

  “Did he say what kind of evidence they’ve got?”

  “All they’ve told me is Monica called a friend at eight-thirty and talked fifteen minutes. I got there shortly after that and stayed about thirty, forty-five minutes, I’m not sure. The coroner put her death between ten and midnight. I was there in that time frame. But, honest to God, Tag, I didn’t do it.”

  �
��Oh, I know that. I never thought for a minute that you did. How did she—how was she—” Tag struggled with the question. Quint was already in obvious anguish. He hated adding to it.

  “Electrocuted.” Quint hung his head. He wiped an eye with his hand.

  “Electrocuted!” Tag practically jumped from his chair. “How can they accuse you of murder in an electrocution? That happens often enough and I’ll bet you not one is a murder.”

  “Apparently there was. Right here in Haskell. In the late seventies. A pregnant woman was sitting in the bathtub. Her husband dropped in a radio to keep her company. A plugged-in radio.

  “The kid who did it walked, and some twenty years later a Texas Ranger working cold cases reopened the file and found enough overlooked evidence to not only prosecute the case, but fry the bastard’s ass. It made the news, big-time. That DA’s still here and has he ever got a hard-on to correct that oversight.”

  “I still don’t see—”

  “When I got there Monica was sitting in a hot tub out back on the deck. She was a little tipsy. She’d had several glasses of wine. I offered to join her in the hot tub, but she said no. Near the tub was this little cabinet with a counter made out of brick. She had one of those grilling machines plugged in. When she was found, the thing was in the tub with her.”

  “It couldn’t have fallen in by mistake?” Tag asked.

  “Not according to the sheriff. They said the only way it could be in there was to have been thrown or dropped.”

  “They’re guessing,” Tag said.

  “That’s what my lawyer said, but here I am all the same.”

  Tag remained quiet for several minutes, his mind trying to visualize the crime, but since he had never been in Monica’s home, he couldn’t see it.

  Quint broke the silence. “Did Debbie Sue say when she was coming?”

  “She and Edwina will be here tomorrow. They’re taking on the investigation full throttle.”

  Quint huffed. “That woman’s got a way about her. Haskell may never be the same.”