Texas Gun Smoke. Joanna Wayne
him yourself.”
“No, I only have a minute, but if you’d just ask him to see what he can find on a Jaclyn Jones or a Margo Kite, both of New Orleans…” He spelled Jaclyn the way she’d spelled it for him in the hospital.
“Do you have social security numbers on them?”
“No. All I can tell you is that Jaclyn is in her early twenties. And the address for Margo was…” He tried to recall the information from the registration, but all he could remember was a street name. “Margo lives on St. Anne—or at least she did at one time.”
“That’s not much to go on, but I’ll give him a call for you.”
“I’d appreciate that. Tell him he can call me back on my cell phone if he learns anything.”
“You got it. I expect to hear the rest of this story when we both get a minute.”
The screen door squeaked open and Jaclyn joined Bart on the back porch. “Sure thing. Right now I’ve gotta run.” Bart broke the connection and returned the cell phone to his pocket.
“I thought you were making sandwiches,” Jaclyn said, looking at him suspiciously.
“I got a call from one of my brothers.”
“And I guess you had to tell him about rescuing the ditzy blonde.”
“Are you ditzy?”
“Only if it suits my purpose.”
She’d finally said something he believed.
“So are we going to eat or not?”
He followed her back through the screen door. In minutes they were seated at the old oak table, munching on sandwiches and chips. Bart had milk with his. Jaclyn had a diet soda. Bart tried to make conversation, but Jaclyn managed to sabotage every attempt with silent shrugs or one-word responses.
They’d finished the meal and rinsed the dishes and were walking back to the car when Aidan called back. It was quicker than Bart had anticipated.
Aidan got right to the meat of the matter. “The New Orleans PD took a missing-persons report on a Margo Kite, age twenty-three, on October seventh.”
Today was October twenty-third, so they were talking just over two weeks ago. “Who filed the report?”
“A woman named Jaclyn McGregor, who claimed to be a friend. She spelled her first name the same way as your Jaclyn Jones, for what that’s worth. The police took the report but virtually dismissed it, as Miss Kite had given up her apartment as of October fifteenth and told the landlady that she was leaving the area. She was reportedly unemployed.”
“That’s it?”
“There were two Jaclyn Joneses in New Orleans with police records—one for writing bad checks, the other for having a grand total of twenty parking tickets. One was age thirty-two, the other age forty-five.”
Wrong age to be the Jaclyn staring at him now and obviously listening to his conversation. But the Jaclyn McGregor who’d filed the missing-persons report on Margo Kite had possibilities. “I appreciate the help on that.”
“Want to say what this is about?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Okay, then hope that helps.”
“It could.” He brought the call to a quick end and grabbed Jaclyn’s arm so that she couldn’t walk away. “That was a bit of interesting information, Jaclyn McGregor.”
“Let go of me,” she ordered, but the look on her face and the depths of her eyes told him all he needed to know.
“Why did you lie about your last name?”
“I’m a chronic fibber. I’m a procrastinator, too. And I hog the covers. Now just drop me off at the bus station and forget you ever met me. Better yet, drop me off at the highway and I’ll thumb my way back to town.”
“Now that’s smart.”
She stiffened. “What do you want from me, Bart?”
“The truth.”
“So you can regale the family tonight with tales of the daring rescue of the mystery woman who’d been run off the road by a lunatic? Why don’t you just go out and get a life of your own?”
“I think you’re in trouble. I might be able to help.”
“Well, you can’t. So let it go.”
“Have you found Margo Kite?”
Her eyes shadowed and she trembled. “What do you know about Margo?”
“Only that you filed a missing-persons claim. Is that why you’re in Texas—to search for Margo Kite?”
Jaclyn paled. Her composure was wavering fast. “Maybe.”
“There was no boyfriend last night, was there?”
She turned away.
“Tell me about your friend’s disappearance, Jaclyn. I have lots of connections. I might be able to help. If not, you haven’t lost anything but a few minutes of your time.”
“You really don’t want to get involved in this, Bart Collingsworth. You don’t want to get involved with me.”
He let go of her arm. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
She didn’t answer, but when he took her right hand in his, she let him lead her back to the porch and to the swing that creaked in the slight breeze. “Tell me one good reason I should trust you, Bart Collingsworth.”
“Because from the looks of things, you don’t have anyone else to go to for help. And I’m offering.”
“You’re making a mistake, cowboy. A monumental mistake.”
Chapter Four
Jaclyn was quaking on the inside though trying desperately to keep up her facade of confidence. It was foolish to trust a man she barely knew when she’d never been able to trust anyone before, but he made a valid point, and right now it was the only one that mattered. She was desperate to find Margo, and he had the resources to help her do it.
Birds were chirping in the trees near the house, accompanied by the occasional mournful mooing of cows in the pasture beyond the pond. Jaclyn gathered her thoughts, then took a deep breath and blurted out the fact that haunted her every waking hour. “I did file a missing-persons report on my friend Margo two weeks ago. No one has seen or heard from her in over three weeks, and I know she’s in some kind of trouble—or in danger.”
Bart’s eyes narrowed. “Has she disappeared like this before?”
“No. We kept in touch almost daily by e-mail, and she called at least once a week. And she always responded immediately if I asked her something or left a message for her to call me back.”
“That seems a bit excessive for two grown women.”
“This from a man whose mother brings him flowers?” The wisecrack popped out before she thought. Sarcasm was a defense mechanism she’d taken up early on and couldn’t seem to break. “Look, I’ve had some hard times lately. Margo’s the kind of friend you can count on. So when she didn’t answer my SOS e-mails or phone messages to see what was up, I panicked and caught a ride to New Orleans with a coworker.”
“Had she said anything to make you think she could be in trouble?”
“Just the opposite. My last e-mail message from her was on September twenty-ninth. She wrote that things were going well and that she’d have big news for me soon.”
“That’s all she said.”
“Yes, but I took it to mean she had a promising job offer. She hasn’t worked since she was laid off from her job