Drago #5 (#2b). Art Inc. Spinella
down names and phone numbers. They knew him, calling him by name. Clearly the chief also knew the three, using their names as he wrote. I could hear chatter on his police radio. By the tone, I gathered no one had caught sight of the black Ford.
The dining area was quiet. Someone had covered Clarise with a white tablecloth, but the red stain was seeping through the material. Sal and the two cowboys were standing in a group. The kitchen staff was behind a counter and the remaining customers had returned to their tables, sitting in stunned silence.
I joined Sal. “Anyone see anything?”
The big man shook his head. “All happened too fast.”
“Wound?”
“Through and through.” He walked to the counter that was in line with Clarise’s body and pointed at a hole in the edge of the thick wood top. “Went through her like she wasn’t even there.” Bending down to look inside the hole, “Maybe three inches in.” He stood, turned toward the window. “Glass, Clarise and Oak before it was spent. High powered. Won’t know any more until someone digs that slug out of there.”
Lightfoot came through the door and joined us, shaking his head. “Lost him. Don’t know how. There’s only so many places to hide in this town. Only so many roads to take.” He turned to Sal, “Thanks for covering for me in here.”
Sal just nodded, then showed the chief the hole in the counter’s edge. Lightfoot bent and peered in.
“Serious ammo,” he said. “You boys got some enemies I don’t know about?”
I slipped onto one of the stools next to the counter. “That wasn’t meant for anyone other than Clarise.”
Both Sal and the chief stared at me in silence.
“She was the target, not any of us or the other folks in here. That shot caught her directly in the heart. No multiple shots like a shooter would do if he missed on his first attempt. At that range, almost anyone could have taken you, Sal or me out. We were sitting in the damn window, for God’s sake.”
“Why would anyone want to kill Clarise?” Lightfoot asked.
“Beats the hell out of me. This is your town.”
Lightfoot tipped his Stetson back and scratched his head. “Ex-boyfriend, maybe. She kept mostly to herself. Never had any complaints against her. She dropped in on the local bars occasionally, but not a big drinker, far as I know. Worked here six days and some evenings, but most people hereabouts are pretty decent folks.”
“Has she lived in Holly long?”
“Grew up here, if I recollect. Folks were ranchers. When they died, left her the spread, but she sold it. Too much work, she would say. Went up to Denver a few years back to find work, but came back. Said she missed the small town atmosphere.”
“Any family?” Sal asked getting a quick shake of the head from Lightfoot. “Friends, then.”
“A few.”
The local doctor arrived in a dusty blue Chevy pickup. He was followed by a heavyset woman, gray hair and sharp beady eyes.
Lightfoot said, “Well, gotta help out the doc.” As he walked away, he stopped, turned back to us. “Your Chief Forte said you work for him on occasion. Mind giving me a hand on this one?’
Sal and I nodded.
“Can’t pay you, but I’d be happy to put you up at my place for a day or two.”
“Appreciate that, Chief.”
Lightfoot, the doctor and doughy woman crossed the dining area to Clarise’s body. The woman pulled the tablecloth down to her waist and the three entered into a somber discussion.
A little after 8 p.m.
Lightfoot’s ranch sat in the middle of a dusty 100 acres. The smell of parched dirt still hung in the air and the sun was closing in on night. It hadn’t cooled much, still hovering in the middle 80-degree range.
The Chief’s house was a rambling, freshly painted ranch. A long covered porch with a floor of planked pine held a few white-painted wood lounger chairs and a couple of rough-cut tables. A grill was parked at one end, a light coat of rust on its black steel barrel top and well-worn BBQ utensils hanging from a few hooks on its side. Three rib eyes sizzled under the hood, the smell of steak and Mesquite smoke drifting across the porch.
Lightfoot banged through the wood screen door carrying three long-necks in one hand and a platter topped with metal plates in the other. He dropped it all on the table in front of Sal and me.
“Got nothing green. Hope you don’t mind,” he said, keeping one of the Buds for himself and taking a long pull.
Sal just grinned. “’fraid Nick and I aren’t much into green food.”
Lightfoot chuckled. “My wife woulda killed me if I didn’t eat a salad every night. Now she’s gone and there’s no pressure.” He fell into one of the loungers. “You were right, Sal. High powered ammo. Something akin to what a military sniper might use. Full metal jacket. Clarise didn’t have a chance.”
We all went silent for a second. Being only a few feet away from someone’s life being snuffed out will do that to a person.
I pushed myself back into the chair. “Not something an angry ex-boyfriend would use. She was killed for some other reason.”
“Yeah, but what?” Sal asked.
“Has to do with us, I’m afraid.”
Lightfoot cocked his head. “With you? How so?”
“Every time we get involved with those gold balls and the Tree Man thing, someone gets hurt.” I took a long swig of Bud. “Clarise has been out in the open doing her life for more than a year since Littleton was in this neck of the woods. We show up and Clarise gets murdered. That could have happened anytime in the past 12, 18 months. No, it doesn’t happen till we show up.”
Lightfoot mulled it over. “Yeah, but who knew you were coming? Clearly the person who shot her hasn’t been hanging around Holly for a year or more. So he must have known you were here.”
“True.”
Sal chimed in. “Back home, the only people who knew where we were heading were Tatiana, Frankie, Cookie and Forte. I mean, yeah we filed a flight plan, but I can’t imagine anyone at the airport would say anything or care.”
“On this end,” I interrupted, “the only person who knew we were on the way was the Chief here.”
Lightfoot nodded. “And I didn’t tell anyone because there was no need and I wasn’t even sure why you were coming. I mean, my dispatcher knew I was heading out to the airport, but that’s all she knew. And Hank at the airport knew he was to expect a small airplane today that would need fuel and tie down. He had no idea where from and who you are or why you’re here.”
“We have to check out Clarise’s house tomorrow,” Sal said. The Chief and I nodded agreement. Lightfoot stood and walked to the grill. Swinging open the top, he took one of the utensils and forked the steaks over.
“Three more minutes, gents,” he said rolling the aluminum foil wrapped potatoes onto their sides. “Nick, in the fridge, there’s a tub of butter. Salt and pepper on the counter.”
Four minutes later, each of us had a rib eye on a plate and were cutting open the potato. The three of us must have used a pound of fresh butter. Sal even put a chunk on the beef.
The sky went dark and the only sound beside the crickets was that of three guys moaning their way through cold beer, sizzling meat and pure, lovely buttered potatoes.
One doesn’t associate a restaurant waitress with a Ponderosa-sized house. I was fully expecting a nice little bungalow in the heart of town. This wasn’t it.
“Holy crap,” I said