The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(15)

The redhead's eyes were set at a diagonal, mirroring the V of her nose and chin. The faint dusting of redbrown freckles matched her hair.

"I do mind," she decided. "I like your arms full, until you explain what you're doing in my husband's house."

"You're Ruby."

"And you're Garrett's little brother, obviously. You still owe me an answer."

"Obviously?"

To my knowledge, no one had ever pegged Garrett and me as brothers simply by looking at us. It was a point of pride.

The corner of Ruby's mouth crept up. "You've got the same eyes. Don't you think so, Clyde? Same eyes?"

The ladder creaked under Clyde's weight. He got halfway down, jumped the last five rungs. He pointed his gun lazily in my direction.

"Pictured him younger," he mused. "More like a snotnosed kid."

"You've been spending time with Garrett," I guessed. "Bandidos MC?"

"Fuck no, man. Diablos."

"Your last name's Simms. Went on that Florida trip with Garrett last year."

Clyde grunted.

"Well," Ruby said. "Now that we've all made cordial, how about you tell us why you're here, Tres?"

"I'm moving in for a few weeks."

She arched the eyebrow a centimetre higher. "On whose invitation?"

I set my groceries on the floor.

"I told you—" she started.

I stepped in, grabbed her wrist, spun her so she was facing Clyde. Clyde raised his Bizon2 just in time to point it at Ruby's throat.

I applied a little pressure to her wrist. She dropped the Taurus.

"Bastard," she murmured.

Clyde shifted his weight.

"We're all friends," I suggested. "Lose the bazooka."

He hesitated.

"Come on. You want to explain to Garrett why you had to shoot his little brother?"

The line was a gamble. Clyde might've thought he could earn brownie points by shooting me. But he tossed the machine pistol onto the sofa.

I let Ruby go.

She smoothed her white pantsuit, glared at me. "You think I wouldn't have shot you? "

I picked up the Taurus, ejected the empty clip.

I'd known it wasn't loaded, but I checked the chamber anyway. There was a bullet in it.

I looked at Ruby.

She smiled.

The master detective accepts the Golden Oops Award.

I emptied the chamber, put the bullet and the gun next to Robert Johnson. "Where's your car?"

"We're on a lake," Clyde said. "There's a boat dock. Figure it out."

"You've been searching the house. What for?"

"How about we call 911?" Ruby suggested. "I can explain it to the police."

"Mr. Simms have that weapon registered?" I asked. "Be a toss up which of us the cops kick out."

Her face acquired a new hardness, a onemillimetrethick mask. "Clyde, why don't you wait outside?"

"Should've killed the bastard months ago," Clyde complained. "You and Garrett listened to me—"

Ruby put a finger lightly to his lips. "That's enough, Clyde. Thanks."

He flexed his paws impotently, snatched his Bizon2 from the sofa, and lumbered toward the front door—the frustrated berserker, going home to Mama.

On the counter, Robert Johnson nudged the Taurus lovingly. "Mrr?"

Ruby reached over, stroked his fur. Typical. I get guns pointed at me. The cat gets petted.

A gold and diamond wedding set sparkled on Ruby's ring finger. I tried to imagine Jimmy Doebler picking it out—standing in some chic jewellery salon in his blue jeans and tattered polo shirt, his face speckled with dried red clay. I tried to imagine him married to this woman, her designer ensembles hung up in the same closet with Jimmy's work clothes.

"Clyde's a bit overprotective," Ruby apologized. "He runs the marina repair shop for me. He's quite good with boat engines."

"I bet. They break, he shoots them."

"Which brings us back to the point," she said. "You shouldn't be here."

"You have claim to the property?"

"I— No. This was always Jimmy's place. I live on my boat."

"Then what were you looking for?"

Her eyes traced the curve of the ceiling. "Now that Jimmy's dead, your brother and I have to make some decisions. I wanted to get the company paperwork—documents we might need."

Her voice was as thin as drum skin. She was lying.

"Matthew Pena," I said. "He's been pressuring you to sell?"

"If Matthew Pena were harassing me, it would be bullshit. I'd ignore it."

"I didn't say harassing."

I could almost see her mental effort—reinforcing the facade, like a wall of loose blocks.

"There's nothing to tell. Nothing . . . provable."

"Pena offered to buy you out once before. You refused."

"You can thank your brother and Jimmy for that."

"The security problems started shortly thereafter. Your potential worth took a nosedive. Pena's made a second offer—a substantially reduced offer—and when you hesitated, Jimmy died."