THIRTY-THREE

Hornsby pulled onto a gravel road. Janie slowed down. She decided to drive straight ahead and do a flip a half mile down. Off to the right across the field she spotted his taillights as his wheels kicked up some of the road dust. She did a three-point turn, headed back and turned onto the gravel path, keeping an eye on the red pinpoints far ahead. The dash now displayed eight thirty-five. They’d be rolling sixes by now. She’d missed the whole evening.

She texted Ethel. Sorry I got delayed. I’m fine. Hope you bunco’d lots. Next, she copied the message to send to Betsy Ann, who’d texted her twice. But before she hit send again, she noticed something. His automobile pulled next to a building, actually no bigger than a shack. Janie’s curiosity got the best of her. She eased over to the side of the road and killed her engine. She stuffed her keys in her pocket and flicked off the vehicle’s overhead light so it wouldn’t turn on when she opened the door.

As quietly as possible, Janie eased out and closed the car door slowly with both hands pressed against the metal. Squatting, she edged around the front and let her eyes adjust to the enveloping darkness. The rising moonlight made it easier for her to discern the lay of the land. As she approached the cabin, she detected a man tapping on the door. Had to be Hornsby. But, why? No lights were on inside.

She crouched behind a cluster of prickly pear cactus at the edge of the drive and craned her head. The door opened a wedge and a silhouette of another man appeared, backlit by a soft glow. Hmm, he had lights on inside. So why didn’t any seep through the windows? Weird.

Janie waited until the two men went inside and closed the door. She stepped as flat-footed as possible up the rutted path, sticking to the grassy center to avoid any telltale crunch of gravel that might announce her arrival. As she neared the structure, it became clear the place had been boarded up. Most likely abandoned. Why on earth did Hornsby meet someone here out in the middle of nowhere, almost an hour away from Alamoville? She wasn’t privy to all the current cases, but still...

Men’s voices sounded from inside, but murmured to where she couldn’t detect any words. She crept up to the front window, hand on the sill. Ow. A splinter snagged her. She sucked the sliver from her fingertip and drew her ear closer to the wood to listen.

“Why are we meeting again? I thought we agreed not to.”

One of them scoffed. “You idiot. Do you think they’ll assume the bum you torched in the wreck in Austin is Joe?”

“I planted enough of his stuff on him. And left the note in that hotel room. Besides, I scraped Joe’s fingerprints clean before I dumped him in the river.”

The first man snickered, but not in an amused way. “Did you ever hear of dental records?”

“Sure, which is why I smashed out all of his teeth.”

“The bum’s dental records, detective.”

Detective? Neither voice resembled Hornsby’s. In fact, one of the men almost sounded like...

Suddenly a hand covered her mouth and yanked her away.

~*~

Ethel shifted her focus to Betsy Ann, whose eyelids had suddenly become red-rimmed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’ve texted her twice and left a message. Not a peep.” Betsy Ann sniffled. “Ethel, I’m worried.”

Ethel took her phone out of her pocket. “I’ll see if she texted me. Oh, darn. Batteries are dead.”

Josephine’s voice boomed. “Oh, my. These peanut butter cookies are wonderful. Who made them? They melt in your mouth.”

“I did.” Babs wiggled her fingers in the air. “I add a touch of almond extract to the batter.”

“They take me back to my grandmother’s kitchen.”

As the ladies began to chat about their childhood memories, Ethel pulled Betsy Ann aside. “Do you think we should phone someone else?”

“I don’t know. Blake and Mel and the kids are at the coast, a good three hours away.”

“Hmmm. How about Detective Hornsby?”

Betsy Ann’s face lit. “Oh, great idea. Do you have his number?”

“Yes, in my purse. Blake gave it to me. But I’ll need to call on yours.”

“Here. Take it.”

She went to the bedroom to grab her clutch bag. As she walked back down the hallway to the living room with Betsy Ann’s phone to her ear, she frowned.

“What is it?”

“He’s not answering. It went to voice mail.”

“Maybe he’s busy.”

“He’s head detective in Blake’s absence. It’s protocol to answer every call.” Her eyes widened. “You don’t possibly think...?”

“No, surely not again. She said she went to see Jonathan Gates, not Mitch Hornsby.”

“True. So why are neither of them answering?”

“Call Gates.”

Ethel gazed at her notepad in one hand and keyed in the number with her other. After five rings, the voicemail kicked in.

Betsy Ann gulped. “Now I’m really worried.”

Ethel bobbed her short curls. “Me, too. I’m calling 9-1-1.”