Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2)(34)

“But,” he quickly adds, “the other council members supported me, so the study wasn’t necessary. It certainly isn’t something I would kill someone over. I liked Susan Snyder.”

By the time we’re finished with the interview, it’s almost noon. Carson offers to make us lunch back at his ranch house, but Ariana and I decline.

On the drive back through his property, she sits silent and sullen in the passenger seat.

“You’re disappointed in me for losing?” I say.

She takes a deep breath and says, “No. I wish you hadn’t been roped into their bullshit game to begin with.”

“You’re right,” I say. “Honestly, I was curious how good Gareth was.”

“Now you know,” she snaps, showing more emotion than she probably wants to. “He’s better than you.”

“He’s good,” I say. “I’ll give him that. If we’d been squaring off in the Wild West, we’d probably both be dead.”

As I say this, I can’t hide a roguish grin. She stares at me, her disappointment turning into admiration.

“You let him win, didn’t you?” she asks, unable to hide the pride on her face.

“Let me put it this way,” I say. “Afterward, did you see any sign of that pesky buzzing bee?”

Her mouth drops open. She stares at me. Dumbfounded.

“Are you saying you shot that bee out of the air?”

I shrug playfully and keep on driving.





Chapter 44



“HOW ABOUT ‘WAGON WHEEL’?” Walt asks, positioning his fiddle in the crook of his neck.

“Let’s give it a try,” Dale says.

We play the song that was made famous by Darius Rucker but was first recorded by the string band Old Crow Medicine Show. When we finish, our audience erupts with applause—our audience of two, that is. Tonight we’re sitting in lawn chairs at Tom and Jessica’s house. They let us play here on the condition that they get to listen.

With the flowers, vegetable plants, and berry bushes in Jessica’s garden, and the sun lighting up the clouds to the west, this is about as pleasant a place as I can imagine practicing music—much better than the porch of my old motel room. It’s especially nice because before we even started playing, Jessica brought us all a slice of pecan pie, and Tom brought out a six-pack of Fire Eagle IPA from Austin Beerworks.

As much as I enjoy playing with Dale and Walt, I had an ulterior motive for inviting them here tonight. Once Tom and Jessica call it a night, I plan to question Dale and Walt about Alex Hartley and Skip Barnes, the two guys who were seeing Susan Snyder.

When we got back to the police station that afternoon, Ariana checked with the town clerk, and it turns out that Alex Hartley, the football coach, was the one to complain about McCormack’s trucks driving through the open space. Ariana and I decided we need to bring him—and Skip Barnes—in for another round of questions, but we did some checking and found out Hartley’s in El Paso for a few days.

For now, I’m trying to enjoy the music we’re creating. But I’m having a difficult time. As we play, I notice an itching, burning sensation on the fingers of my right hand. I scratch my fingers between songs and try to keep going, but then I take a good look and notice tiny red bumps crawling from my fingertips up to my wrist. I’ve got some kind of rash that itches like the dickens.

I tell the guys I can keep singing but I can’t keep playing the guitar. Jessica takes a look and fetches a tube of cortisone anti-itch cream from inside the house.

“You’ve had an allergic reaction to something,” she says.

I explain that Ariana and I were in the woods on McCormack’s land.

“Try not to scratch it,” Jessica says. “You’ll only make it worse.”

“It’s on my right hand,” I say. “It’s going to be hard not to irritate it.”

With their own personal concert now over, Tom and Jessica head inside while I sit with Dale and Walt, finishing our beers. The night air is cool, and out in the desert hills we can hear a coyote yipping. I know now is the time.

“Are we friends?” I say to Walt and Dale.

“Hell yeah, we’re friends,” Dale says. “I’m trying to figure out how to convince you to move to Rio Lobo so we can keep the band together.”

“If we’re friends,” I say, “why are y’all holding out on me?”





Chapter 45



DALE AND WALT stare at me, surprised by my change in demeanor.

“The reason crimes go unsolved,” I say, “is because people who know something don’t speak up. I know you two know something about Alex or Skip or both of them.”

They exchange glances. Dale seems at a loss for words, which is unlike him (except when he’s near Ariana, that is).

“I don’t know nothing,” he says finally, “and I think you’re barking up the wrong tree looking at McCormack. The guy’s got an ego the size of the Gulf of Mexico, him and Gareth both, but I really don’t think they had anything to do with Susan Snyder’s death.”

“What about Skip?” I say.

“He ain’t the brightest bulb, but he sure as hell ain’t no killer.”