Texas Tough (The Tylers of Texas 2)

Opening her desk, she took out a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Hands shaking, she lit the cigarette and inhaled the bitter, calming smoke. Abner had also told her the dead man was a cousin of Sky Fletcher’s—Lute’s brother, most likely—and that he’d been growing weed on Sky’s land. None of that had anything to do with her or with Nicky, but if the murder weapon could be traced to the bar, who was going to believe it?

/> Sinking into the chair, she leaned back, blew a smoke ring, and watched it dissolve against the low ceiling. This was no time to panic, she told herself. She hoped it wouldn’t be too late for some damage control.

At this stage, Acting Sheriff Sweeney was little more than a friend. Solidly married, he wasn’t a candidate for seduction. But in exchange for Stella’s loaning him interest-free money for his new SUV, he’d delivered a gift-wrapped box of chocolates to the attendant at the county jail. Sweeney had no clue what had been hidden under the chocolates, let alone that it had any connection to Hoyt Axelrod’s death. But over the past few weeks Stella had made sure he owed her some small favors. Maybe it was time to call them in.

Blowing one last smoke ring, she snubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and punched in Sweeney’s number on her phone.

“What can I do for you, Stella?” His voice was cordial enough, but she sensed a note of discomfort in the question. Maybe he wasn’t alone.

“I’d like to report a theft,” she said. “A pistol—a Glock—was stolen from the Blue Coyote a few days ago. I only just now discovered it was missing, but there’s a chance it may have been used in a crime.”

There was a pause. “Are you talking about that murder on the Tyler place? That Glock?”

“We can’t be sure, of course—except that the gun’s definitely been stolen.” Stella felt like a fool. The crazy thing was, everything she was telling him was God’s truth. “If there’s any way you could—”

“I’m sorry, it’s out of my hands,” he said. “The gun’s been sent to the lab. We can’t even be sure it was the murder weapon till we get the autopsy and the ballistics report. But I wouldn’t worry. Even if the Glock turns out to be yours, the real criminal’s prints should be on it.”

Not unless the real criminal was too stupid to wear gloves or wipe the gun, Stella thought. “You’ll keep me posted, won’t you—as a friend?” she asked.

“I’ll do what I can.” Abner sounded like a robot. There must be someone with him, maybe a deputy or even that dumpy wife of his who popped out babies like a brood mare. Could she count on Abner to cover for her, or was it, as he’d said, out of his hands?

Swearing, Stella slammed the phone onto the desk. Why now? Just when everything was going so well? She had Garn Prescott under her thumb—especially now that he knew his campaign ads had been paid for with dirty money, and a single anonymous tip to the press could ruin him. Once the organization in Dallas saw proof that she could deliver a U.S. congressman, they’d be begging her to join them. She’d be on her way to having the wealth and power she’d always wanted.

But now she had this mess to deal with. If the gun proved to be hers, and the real murderer wasn’t caught, the evidence could cast enough suspicion to bring her down.

The ironic thing was, for once, she and Nick were as innocent as newborn lambs.

Listening in the upstairs hallway, Marie had heard enough to get the gist of both of Stella’s conversations. After the crash of the phone, she lurked in the shadows hoping to hear more through the thin planks under her bare feet. But there was nothing except the sound of the toilet flushing in the restroom. After a few minutes she crept back to her room, crawled into her bed, and pretended to sleep. Any time now, Stella was bound to show up and question her about the gun. She would need to appear completely clueless.

The tiny room was stifling in the late-morning heat. Marie willed herself to lie still and keep her eyes closed. Beneath the ragged cotton blanket, her body was drenched in sweat. Her heart was pounding.

So far everything she’d planned was falling into place. Stella was running scared. If the cops arrested her or Nick for Coy’s murder, the bitch would be at her mercy.

She should be happy, Marie told herself. But all she could feel was a stomach-curdling tension that crept into her throat, making her want to gag.

On the way back from shooting Coy, she’d pulled the Harley off the road and thrown up in the grass. She’d always hated Coy, the way he’d tortured the animals she loved and the way he used to spy on her through that hole he’d made in the bathroom wall. He’d never touched her physically, but she could just imagine what was going through his mind. She’d told herself that killing him would be a pleasure. But she’d been wrong about that. Whatever happened, the memory of murdering her own brother would never go away.

After meeting Sky in the parking lot that night, she’d known she had to act. Wearing her motorcycle gloves, she’d taken the Glock out of the drawer and had ridden her Harley out to Coy’s camp. It had been easy enough convincing her brother that he had to get rid of the two guns—the lever-action rifle she’d used to shoot the old man and the twenty-gauge shotgun they’d taken off his ATV.

Lute had told her about the bog, and Marie had made sure she knew the way. Telling Coy it was the perfect place to ditch the two guns, she’d taken him there on the back of the motorcycle. She remembered the sweaty heat of his body behind her, the familiar, unwashed stench of him. And she remembered the trust in his eyes when she’d told him to take the guns, walk out to the deepest part of the bog, and shove them under the water with a big rock to anchor them down.

Coy had followed her instructions without a moment’s hesitation. Marie had waited on the dry edge until Coy reached the middle of the bog. Then she’d drawn the Glock and pumped three shots into his back.

On the way back to her bike, she’d tossed the pistol in the cattails.

A sharp rap on the door jerked Marie’s thoughts back to the present. “You in there, girl?” The voice was Stella’s. No surprise there.

“Yeah. . . . Just a minute.” Marie mumbled the words and made sure Stella could hear the creak of rusty springs as she rolled out of bed. Her fingers fumbled with the chain lock on the door.

“Wha . . . ?” she muttered, squinting at Stella through the narrow opening.

Stella shoved her way in. She was dressed for work in her usual silk shirt and tight denim skirt, but her feet were clad in rubber flip-flops, the toes adorned with corn plasters. Her high-heeled, red cowgirl boots wouldn’t go on until the bar was about to open.

“Sit down before you fall down, girl,” she snapped. “Look at you! Have you been drinking? You know that isn’t allowed here unless you pay!”

Marie sank onto the edge of the bed. “Just tired, that’s all. I worked late, and it’s hard to get to sleep in this heat. If I could have a fan—”

“You want a fan, buy your own.” Stella loomed over her, hands on her hips. “That’s not why I’m here. There’s a gun missing from the drawer under the cash register. If you know anything about it, you’d better fess up now.”