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“I can handle my luggage, but thanks anyhow.”
“No problem. All part of the service. And B.D. is stronger than he looks.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle,” one of the other old gents said, standing.
B.D. looked as if a strong gust of wind would blow him to Oklahoma. Torn between not wanting to hurt the old man’s pride and her fear that lifting her bags might give him a heart attack, she finally smiled and said, “Thanks.”
“Glad to oblige,” B.D. said, beaming. She’d made the right choice.
“I’d like to get something to eat,” Carrie said. “Is the restaurant open?”
One of the other men at the table glanced at the clock and shook his head. “The tearoom’s only open from eleven to one, so it’s been closed for more’n half an hour, but I reckon Mary Beth’s still in the kitchen. I ’spect she could rustle up a bite for you. Let me run and ask her.” He took off at a spry clip.
The fourth old man stood. “I’m Howard, and I’ll give B.D. a hand with the bags. You planning on staying long?”
“I may be here for several weeks,” Carrie said. “I’m a genealogist, and I’m researching several lines in this area.” The lie rolled easily off her tongue. It was best if the word didn’t get out too soon that she was a landman for an oil company and interested in leasing acreage in the area, or she’d find competition sniffing around. To keep things quiet until she was ready to make offers, she frequently posed as a professional genealogist, and in fact had done some real research as a hobby.
“That so?” B.D. said. “You ought to talk to Millie down at the library. She knows about all there is to know about the town history and the early settlers.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that.”
B.D. squinted at her. “I swear. I just noticed your eyes are purple.”
She laughed. “Actually, they’re more violet.”
“Now that you mention it, I believe you’re right. Puts me to mind of that actress, you know, the one that’s been married so many times. Anyhow, they’re right pretty.”
“Thanks, B.D. Shall we get the bags?”
“You just pull your car into the slot beside number five,” Howard said, “and we’ll have you unloaded in a jiffy. I’ll go ahead and turn on the air conditioner. It won’t take but a minute to cool off the place. I swear you’d think that it ought to be cooler being the first of October. I guess it’s that global warming.”
In no time the men had everything unloaded and the room cooling. She was surprised at the accommodations. In her line of work, she’d stayed in some real dumps, but this room was bright and cheerful. The walls were a soft peach and the spread on the double bed was a muted plaid of peach, yellow and green that matched the draperies. Pleasant framed watercolors decorated the walls and an overstuffed green chair and ottoman looked quite comfy.
Howard put her laptop on the desk, which would be perfect for working. “Bathroom’s through there,” he said, indicating a back corner of the large room. “And over there,” he said, nodding to an alcove in the other corner, “is what we call the kitchenette. It has a microwave, a coffeepot and a little refrigerator. You can fix a bite of breakfast here in the mornings, or if you’ve a mind for something more substantial, the City Grill is the place to go. Everything you need to know about places to eat is in that little brochure on the desk.”
“There’s a map of town in there, too,” B.D. told her. “Not that you’re likely to get lost. Just stop and ask anybody for directions to where you want to go. Naconiche is a right friendly place.”
There was a rap on the open door, and an attractive blond woman with a tray came in. “Hi, Carrie. I’m Mary Beth Parker, owner of the Twilight Inn and Tearoom. I’ve brought you soup and a sandwich and some raspberry tea. I hope you like avocado.”
“I adore avocado,” Carrie said, smiling. “Thanks for rescuing a starving woman.”
“No problem.” Mary Beth set the tray on the small table near the microwave. “Welcome to Naconiche, Carrie. Curtis tells me that you’re going to be with us for several weeks.”
“She’s one of them genealogists,” B.D. said.
“How fascinating,” Mary Beth said. “I’d love to hear more about it sometime, but I’m sure you’d like to have your lunch and get settled in now. My daughter and I live in the apartment behind the office, so call if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks.”
“Come on, guys,” Mary Beth said, hustling the old men from the room, “let’s leave Carrie in peace.”
Carrie smiled as she closed the door behind them. She liked Mary Beth immediately. They were about the same age, and she suspected that given different circumstances, they might become friends. For sure, Mary Beth would be a valuable source of information.
From the time she’d rolled into the city limits, Carrie had felt good vibes in this little jerk-water town. Strange, since she was a city girl through and through. Maybe it was because she could smell oil hidden in the hills and hollows. Or maybe it was something else. In any case, she had a hunch—and her hunches were always dead-on—that this assignment was going to be different from all the others.
As she lifted the napkin from the food tray, her thoughts went briefly to Judge Horace P. Pfannepatter. Too bad he was married.
Chapter Two
Carrie couldn’t function without her morning jolt of caffeine, and there was no way of getting the can open short of chewing it off with her teeth. And she was tempted to try that. She spat out a few colorful phrases and threw the recalcitrant can opener across the room. The blasted thing didn’t work. All she’d managed to do was puncture the coffee can and let out a whoosh of aroma that ran her crazy.
Her frustration level was off the charts. In spite of stocking up on a few breakfast items the afternoon before, it looked like the City Grill for her. She hoped they opened early. After dressing quickly in jeans and a pullover, she grabbed her briefcase and tore off toward the square of the small town.
The café was doing a brisk business. Only two seats at the counter were available. She commandeered one of them and stowed her briefcase between her feet.
“What’ll it be, honey?” asked the pint-size waitress who held a steaming carafe.
“Coffee,” Carrie said. “Quick.”
The waitress laughed, and the web of lines around her eyes put her age closer to sixty than forty. “One of them mornings, huh? I’ve had a few of them myself.” She slipped a mug onto the counter and poured in one practiced motion. “Cream?”
“No. Black is fine.”
“I’ll be back when you’ve had time to rev your motor.” The waitress turned to an elderly man who’d taken the stool next to hers and poured a mug for him. “Morning, Mr. Murdock. Haven’t seen you around for a few days.”
“Good morning, Vera. I’ve been in Dallas. I returned last night.”
“Have you heard about Horace Pfannepatter?”
Carrie’s ears perked up, and she glanced toward the two.
The old man, who was wearing a suit and a red bow tie, nodded gravely. “Yes, I had a message on my machine. Sad business. And him in his prime. I’m sure Ida must be devastated. I plan to call on her this morning.”
“She’s pretty broke up. Them two was real close, and I don’t know what she’ll do without him.” Vera turned to Carrie. “Hon, have you decided what you’ll have to go along with that coffee?”
Carrie hadn’t given food any thought. Was that her Horace Pfannepatter they were talking about? “Uh, I’ll have a toasted bagel.”
Vera gave her a toothy grin. “You’re not likely to find any bagels around here—unless they carry some frozen ones over at Bullock’s Grocery. Closest thing I can offer you is a short stack.”
“That’s fine,” Carrie said, her mind still not on food. “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I heard you talking about Horace Pfannepatter. Is he the one who’s justice of the peace?”
“Vera!” a male voice called from a booth in the rear. “Could we have another round of coffee back here?”
“You and Frank keep your britches on, J.J. I’ll be there in a minute,” she blared, then she nodded to Carrie and said quietly, “The very one. Keeled over with a heart attack real sudden.”
“And died?”
“Deader ’n a doornail.” Vera topped Carrie’s coffee and took off at a fast clip, shouting as she strode, “Gimme a short stack, Lonnie, and a number three over easy.”
Carrie was too stunned to do anything but stare after the waitress. She couldn’t believe that the good-looking JP had died. He’d looked so…healthy when she saw him yesterday. She felt a sudden and aching loss—and she barely knew the man. The thought of pancakes made her stomach turn over. She drank her coffee quickly, slapped a bill on the counter and fled with her briefcase.
She decided to buy a new can opener, go back to her room and start the morning over. Horace stayed on her mind the entire time she searched Bullock’s aisles. His loss haunted her. Crazy, she told herself. She’d only seen the man once in her life…but somehow he’d made a powerful impression.
FORTIFIED WITH more coffee and a carton of peach yogurt, Carrie went downtown again and parked in front of the old stone courthouse that had probably been built a hundred or more years ago. Three stories tall, the handsome pillared structure was similar to a dozen or two original courthouses still in use in Texas—Texas Renaissance the style was called, a combination of architectural styles popular during the period. Carrie hadn’t been in all the 254 county courthouses in the state, but she’d visited a large number of them and she was always glad to see one of the old ones preserved.
The Naconiche courthouse showed community pride of the sort that was responsible for the original construction of the town’s heart. Several large trees shaded the grounds and well-tended flower beds flanked the walks. She looked forward to exploring the inside.
A variety of businesses occupied the buildings that faced the square. She noted a couple of antique stores that looked interesting, an ice-cream shop called the Double Dip that she wanted to try out later. Now she needed to familiarize herself with the courthouse, determine where the documents she needed were housed and how the town’s records were kept.
As a petroleum landman she first had to find out who owned the property and the mineral rights to the large area that her company wanted to lease. Locating the property owners wasn’t too difficult—the county tax roles could tell her that. But frequently the current owners didn’t own all the mineral rights. Former owners—sometimes two or three sales back—often retained a percentage of the mineral rights on their acreage, usually a half interest. That meant that she had to track down deeds and locate heirs as well as check on any existing leases.
She couldn’t afford to make any errors, and the tedious work took a lot of time. But actually, she kind of enjoyed doing the research. It was like working a crossword puzzle.
Inside the courthouse Carrie smelled the familiar mélange of aging papers, cleaning solutions and the lingering odor of old tobacco smoke. Even though there were No Smoking signs now, years of cigars and cigarettes had infused the walls with the faint distinctive scent common to so many of the courthouses she’d been in. After a tour of the fine old building with its polished marble and rich oak trim, she located the tax office on the second floor, just down the hall from the chambers of the judge of the County Court-at-Law.
Judge Frank J. Outlaw, the brass nameplate beside the door said. She smiled. Outlaw—a peculiar name for a judge.
With a few directions from a clerk, Carrie located the records she wanted to study, took out her minicomputer and a pad and got to work.
CARRIE’S STOMACH growled, and she glanced at her watch. Five of twelve. Her yogurt was a faded memory, and she was hungry. She couldn’t believe she’d been working all morning without a break, but as usual she’d gotten absorbed and time had flown by. Stretching, she loosened the kinks in her back, stiff from bending over the papers so long.
Her first thought was to go across the street to the City Grill for lunch, then she decided that the tearoom was a better choice. She packed her briefcase and left the tax office. Not a dozen steps away, her cell phone rang, and she dug through her shoulder bag to retrieve it.
While she was looking, she collided with someone. “Sorry,” she said, glancing up.
Her heart lurched, and she could feel the blood leave her face. It was Horace P. Pfannepatter.
“My God,” she said. “It can’t be. You’re dead!”
He smiled. “I don’t think so.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over and back. “Nope. I seem to have all my working parts. Your phone’s ringing.”
“But…but the waitress this morning said that you’d had a heart attack and died.”
He frowned. “Which waitress?”
“Vera at the café across the street.”
“I can’t imagine why she would have said that. I had breakfast there this morning with my brother. You’d better get that,” he said, pointing to her ringing purse.
Not taking her eyes from his face, she grabbed the phone, said, “I’ll call you back,” and crammed it back into her bag. “Maybe it was your father they were talking about. Do you have the same name?”
“Nope. My father’s name is John Wesley Hardin Outlaw, Wes for short.”
“Outlaw? Then…how…Aren’t you the JP?”
A slow smile spread over his face. “You thought I was Horace? No, I’m Frank Outlaw.” He stuck out his hand.
Bedarned if she didn’t feel herself blush as she took his hand. “Carrie Campbell. Sorry that…” She forgot what she was about to say. He had a million-dollar smile. And a kind of charisma that radiated from him and enveloped her in its magnetism.
“Have you had lunch?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“I was on my way to eat during the noon recess. Why don’t you join me, and I’ll explain about Horace.”
“At the City Grill?”
“I’m not too keen on their special today. I’d planned on the Twilight Tearoom. It’s not too far.”
“I know,” Carrie responded. “I’m staying at the motel.”
“Of course you are. I remember that Maureen mentioned that.”
She drew a blank. “Maureen?”
“The clerk at the JP office.”
“Oh, yes. I…uh…need to drop by my room for a minute. Why don’t I meet you there?” She suddenly realized that he was still holding her hand, and she withdrew it quickly and started for the stairs.
“Where are you parked?” he asked as they descended.
“By the south entrance.”
“And I’m by the north. I’ll go ahead and get a table before they’re all gone.”
“Is the Tearoom a popular place?”
“Very. They have the best food in town.”
At the foot of the stairs Carrie’s cell phone rang again. “Excuse me,” she said. “I suppose I should take this.”
He waved and turned down a hall while she answered. It was her uncle Tuck.
“How are things going in the boonies?”
“Going fine. I’m at the courthouse now. I’ve just stopped for lunch.” She continued out the door while she talked.
He asked for some figures from another job, and she promised to e-mail them to him that afternoon.
“Carrie, play this one extra close to your vest. I ran into Wyatt Hearn at the Petroleum Club last night, and he was sniffing around too close for comfort. I’d hate for him to get wind of things and steal this out from under us. You haven’t seen any of his boys around town have you?”
Wyatt Hearn was another independent oilman and a bitter rival of her uncle. “Nope. I haven’t seen anybody. I’ll keep an eye out. Think I should dye my hair and wear a fake nose?”
Uncle Tuck hooted with laughter. “I don’t think you have to go that far, darlin’. Just don’t let on to anybody why you’re there until you’re ready to get their names on the dotted line.”
“Gotcha. I’ll report in at the end of the week.”
At her car, she tossed her bag and her briefcase onto the seat and climbed in. If she hurried she’d have time to freshen up a bit before lunch. It wasn’t often these days that she got to have lunch with a good-looking guy.
