trigger.
Chapter Forty-six
It was a week later. Cindy and I were in bed together, where we belonged, watching the local nightly news. Ginger the dog was burrowed under the covers between my ankles. Now, after twenty-five minutes of grisly murders, missing kids and reports of unsafe foods and medicines, came the feel-good story of the day-wrapped around, of course, another murder.
There, on Cindy’s 19” TV screen in her cozy bedroom was Jones T. Jones’s hawkish face and gold hoop earrings.
Jones was standing in front of Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe, before a crowd of reporters. For the cameras, Jones ditched the cheesy used car salesman facade and adopted a more somber expression and tone. Peppering his speech liberally with references to his store, Jones announced that with the help of private investigator Jim Knighthorse-yes that Jim Knighthorse of football fame-they had not only uncovered the name of the mummy, but his original murderer.
The camera cut to a young male Asian field reporter, who then went on to explain, in a butchered and confusing summary, the role that Tafford Barron’s ancestor, yes that Tafford Barron who is currently running for a House seat, had had in the murder of Boonie Adams.
“You were mentioned on the news!” Cindy squealed, turning off the TV. “And in a non-football capacity. I’m so impressed.”
“Impressed enough to sleep with me?”
“What the hell do you call what we just did thirty minutes ago?”
“Not sleeping.”
Ginger shifted positions and pressed her cold nose into my anklebones. I shivered involuntarily.
“I don’t like this Jones T. Jones chap,” said Cindy. “He reminds me of a used car salesman.”
“He’s worse than that,” I said. “He’s selling dead men. So to speak.”
“Oh, yuck.”
Ginger raised her head. I knew this because a section of the comforter between my feet rose up. It dropped back down a moment later.
“Business is already picking up,” I said. “And I just received my final check from Jones. Want to go to Sir Winston’s?”
She shook her head. “Too snooty.”
I hugged her tightly. “My kind of gal.”
“So what are you going to do with the bonus?”
“Take you to dinner. Buy you pearls and diamonds.”
“Or get caught up on your bills.”
“Or that,” I said. “Or I could always use it to start a new life in the Bahamas. Maybe run a juice bar on the beach.”
“Can I come?”
“Only if I can refer to you as my bikini babe.”
“Deal,” she said, then frowned.
“Something I said?”
“No. It’s this Jones T. Jones character. Just doesn’t seem right that he’s still profiting from Boonie’s murder.”
“I agree,” I said. “Which is why I took the liberty to research Boonie’s kin.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“Judging by that smug grin on your face, I would say that you found them.”
“I did. Or some of them who still happen to live in Barstow. I suggested to them that Boonie should receive a decent burial with his family present. And they agreed. One old lady, a great great granddaughter, actually cried.”
“And what does Jones T. Jones think of this?”
“Oh, he won’t like it at first, but he’ll cave in, and work the funeral into a huge propaganda stunt. Believe me, in the end, Jones will have profited very well from Boonie’s murder.”
“Speaking of which, explain to me again what happened to Boonie’s killer. The news sort of jumbled it.”
“A hundred and twenty years ago, young Johanson Barron gets in a barroom fight with Boonie Adams, stabbing Boonie in the shoulder. A week later Johanson somehow lures Boonie out into the desert, shoots him and leaves him to die. A month later, the Barron family, perhaps aware of this killing, quietly ships Johanson out of Rawhide, where he eventually winds up in Dodge City. Where, I might add, he eventually hangs for a different murder two years later. So justice was served, so to speak.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I happen to be an ace detective,” I said. “That, and I had the help of Rawhide’s newest curator, one Patricia McGovern.”
“Will this somewhat scandalous news hurt Tafford Barron’s chances of running for Congress?”
“One can only hope,” I said. “A good spin doctor can probably get him out of this scrap, but we’ll see.”
“Did you eventually find Jarred’s father?”
“I did.”
“Did you relay the message?”
“It was a dying man’s last request,” I said. “What else could I do?”
“Was it hard for his father to hear?”
“He broke down crying, so I think so.”
“Like pouring salt in the wound,” said Cindy.
“Yes,” I said.
“But you had to do it,” she said.
“Yes.”
Street sounds came from below, especially the sound of a loud muffler. In fact, I heard it pass on several occasions. As it was coming again, I got up out of bed, padded across her hardwood floor, and glanced out her third story window in time to see an older model white BMW chug slowly down the street. Black exhaust spewed from the muffler. I frowned.
“You okay?” Cindy asked.
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said, and came back to bed.
“So tell me,” said Cindy, snuggling against me, her breath hot on my neck. “Was it Jarred who shot at you in the desert?”
“We’ll never know for sure, but I think it’s a safe bet. A Rawhide maintenance truck was getting serviced not too far from where we had met for lunch. He could have easily swapped vehicles.”
“Why bother swapping vehicles if his intent was killing you?” Cindy asked. “With you dead, there would be no witnesses.”
I shrugged. “In case he didn’t kill me; in case there was a witness.”
“I’ve never had anyone shoot at me,” she said, shuddering under the covers. “I would be terrified.”
“At first, but then survival supercedes fear.”
We were silent some more. Ginger snored contentedly between my ankles. A helluva heating pad.
“Do you think you’ll coach again next year?” Cindy asked.
Our team had played its final game tonight. We finished the season on a high note, winning by a huge margin, the biggest in quite some time. In fact, we had won four of the last five games, which, coincidentally, was when I was hired on as an assistant coach. Coach Swanson had asked me back next year.
