Natalie shivered even though the car was plenty warm. “The killer is still in Yuccaville.” She stared out at the buildings and vehicles as they cruised into town, wondering where the son of a bitch was hiding.
“Did Tank get a look at the killer?” Chester asked.
“Yes, but the guy was wearing a mask the whole time.” She grimaced at Chester in the rearview mirror. “Get this. It was a mask of John Denver.”
“The country singer?” Harvey asked.
Kate nodded. “Here’s something even creepier. Tank told the cops that the killer kept whistling ‘Sunshine on My Shoulders’ while he was beating Tank with the hose.”
“Hmmm,” Harvey said. “I’ve always preferred ‘Thank God I’m a Country Boy,’ myself.”
“Me, too,” Chester said. “But that would be harder to whistle.”
“Yeah. I’d want to clap, too, or at least smack my knee.”
Chester grunted in agreement. “Probably makes it hard to torture someone when you’re happy clapping.”
Natalie scowled at Chester.
“What? It’s important to analyze personality traits when trying to find a killer. We need to know if he’s calculating or just plain crazy, like Kate.”
Kate reached behind her, trying to pinch Chester’s leg as she swerved across the centerline.
Natalie grabbed the wheel. “Kate, knock it off.” When Kate turned back forward, Natalie leaned back and pinched Chester’s leg herself.
“What’s that for?” He rubbed where she’d pinched.
“Don’t call her crazy!”
Harvey grinned. “Yer cousin reminds me of Sparky—all pinches and pokes.”
“Sparky” was his nickname for Violet up in Deadwood. And he was right, except that Violet’s brain wasn’t on leave due to temporary insanity.
“Speaking of pokes,” Chester said, “how about we swing by Dirty Gerties before heading home.”
“Isn’t it a little early for a strip club?” Natalie asked.
“It’s never too early for a strip club,” Harvey said. “Or a poke.”
Chester raised an invisible glass in a toast. “Where have you been all of my life, Willis Harvey?”
“Chasin’ skirts.”
“Dear Lord,” Kate said. “You’ve managed to clone Chester.”
“Who knew there were two?” Natalie settled back in her seat, ducking a little as Kate drove by Grady’s office. “So, Ronnie is somewhere tucked away and Claire is still in Tucson. I guess for the moment, we can breathe easy.”
“Maybe,” Kate said.
“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?” Chester asked.
“The killer is going to wait us out. The Prickly Pear Posse needs to take the offensive now.”
Harvey leaned forward. “Did you just say prickly hair pus—”
“Prickly pear posse!” Natalie interrupted, emphasizing the last word. She squinted at Kate. “What do you mean, take the offensive? Where are you taking us this morning, Kate?”
“Well, for starters, Ronnie wanted me to drop off a fresh set of clothes at her current hideout and pick up Claire’s Jeep keys.”
“What about after that?”
Kate smiled—the wild-eyed version. Then she pulled what looked like a snub-nosed black and yellow pistol from her coat pocket. “The posse is going hunting.”
Chapter Fourteen
Six hours later …
“I leave this place for one damned day,” Claire muttered as she strapped on her tool belt. “And my sisters go full-goose bozo on me.”
Claire had woken up this morning to a slew of voicemails and text messages, most of them from Kate, none of them making much sense. When she’d texted Ronnie to get some answers, she’d gotten crickets. It wasn’t until Butch called Mac an hour later to see if he could help behind the bar at The Shaft tonight that she’d been able to clear things up about Kate, Ronnie, and the diamond killer’s latest victim.
Mac and she had wasted no time packing up and heading back to ground zero. Death threat or not, this was her family. He didn’t question her need to return to the nest in spite of the dangers it posed.
“Kate is definitely flirting with the lunatic fringe these days,” Natalie said. Her cowboy hat shielded her eyes from the noonday sun as she looked up from mixing a wheelbarrow full of cement. “Her common sense has a Gone Fishin’ sign posted on the door. But Ronnie isn’t cuckoo. Not yet, anyway.”
“What do you call parking alone in the desert in the middle of the night when a killer is on the loose?”
“Unraveling at the seams.”
“Six of one,” Claire said with a shrug.
She took a moment to check out what her cousin had accomplished so far on the back deck project. Five of the twelve piers were already in the ground with the cement starting to cure. Natalie had made good progress, along with her “helper.”
Claire smirked. Detective Cooper sure didn’t look like he was on vacation with the way he was shoveling away to make room for the eighth pier. Were those bullet holes in his T-shirt? Behind him, in the shade of a cottonwood tree, Chester and Cooper’s uncle were tossing back beers and smoking cigars while enjoying the show.
“Who told you about Ronnie’s adventures last night?” Natalie asked, setting aside the hoe she was using to stir.
“Butch called.” Claire pulled on her gloves and stepped over to hold the concrete tube form in the hole while Natalie poured the cement into the hollow center.
When the wheelbarrow was empty, Natalie stood back with her hands on her hips. Her flannel shirt and jeans were torn, dusty, and splashed with cement. “So you heard about the scuffle between Kate and Grady’s ex?”
A guffaw rang out from the hole digging crew. “That was no mere scuffle, Beals.” Coop paused to look their way, leaning on the shovel. Sunlight glittered on the beads of sweat
