"Now tell me again what brought you to the old Barrett place," he suggested in a would-be friendly tone.
"I told you. I got lost and I stopped to ask directions."
"All the way from Baltimore, Maryland. I'd say you were lost."
He was looking at her PI's license, which was on his desk along with her cell phone and every other piece of plastic from her wallet, even her Nordstrom credit card, a relatively new link in her identity chain. Jackie had convinced her to start wearing makeup this fall, taking her to the M.A.C. counter and buying her the darkest lipstick Tess had ever used. Paramount. She seldom applied it, but she liked knowing she had it in her purse, in case a lipstick emergency came up. This little black tube was also rolling across the sheriff's desk. Esskay was sleeping in the corner, unperturbed by the day's events, although the sheriff had threatened to take her to the nearest hospital and have her X-rayed. He had heard of people smuggling things in dogs, he had told Tess. She had countered that one would probably use a fatter dog for such an operation, as opposed to one on which you could count each rib.
"Theresa Mon-a-ghan," the sheriff said. He hit the G hard, but something in his smart-alecky smile told Tess he knew better. "What brings you down this way, Miss Mona-ghan?"
"Vacation."
"You must be doing well. Most folks who work for themselves don't get to take many vacations. I know. I used to be one of them."
Tess pretended the interest he obviously expected of her. Baltimore or Blanco, in a bar or behind bars, the one thing men wanted to do was talk about themselves. "Really? What did you do?"
"Started a software company, then sold it for a lot of money. I'm a millionaire, and not just on paper. I moved out here thinking I'd take it easy, got bored in about six weeks and ran for sheriff. I spent one hundred thousand dollars on my campaign, and the only reason I won was because the incumbent died the day before the general election. That was six years ago. They like me now. Returned me to office with sixty percent of the vote last time around."
He leaned across the desk toward Tess, hands clasped as if he were praying. "You see, they like me because I don't take shit from the outsiders who are moving here. Converts make the best adherents, you know. I hate outsiders more than any fourth-generation Hill Country type ever could."
Message received: She wasn't to treat him like some local yokel, nor should she contemplate filling out a change-of-address card anytime soon.
"So, let me rephrase my question. You sure you're here on vacation? Or is there something going on in my county I should know about, something that would bring a private investigator all this way? Something that has to do with that ripe ol' boy you found?"
Against her will, she once again saw the vivid image of the body in the shed, its face missing, along with most of the chest. If it was Crow, her job was done. That was the possibility that had first made her nauseated. She grabbed the metal trash can, just in case.
"I'd like an answer, Miss Monaghan."
But she knew in her heart that it wasn't Crow. Death and rot could do a lot to a body, but the frame she had seen in the shed wasn't his. The legs had been thicker, shorter, with the cuffs of the jeans rolled up over a pair of fairly new-looking cowboy boots. Even if Crow had gone Texan with a vengeance, he couldn't find a pair of jeans so long that he'd be forced to roll them up over a pair of cowboy boots. Besides, the boots had been tacky, overdone. Cowboy Crow would have preferred something more authentic.
"Miss Monaghan?" Sheriff Kolarik handed her a paper towel to wipe her face, but he was clearly out of patience with her. "You going to answer my question?"
Yet Crow had been there, she was sure of that. Surer still that the sheriff must not know.
"I'm on vacation. I was looking for a shortcut to the LBJ ranch when I got lost."
"You think that's going to butter me up, throwing around LBJ's name? Well, I'm a Republican," the sheriff said, as if everyone should know this fact. Software millionaire turned sheriff, he probably had been written up in some of the national papers. Tess couldn't help wondering if there was any corner of the world where oddity was allowed to flourish for its own sake, unchronicled and unknown.
"Look, if you don't trust me, call Martin Tull. He's a detective in Baltimore City's homicide division. He'll vouch for me."
"He'll say you were on vacation, will he, and looking for the LBJ ranch? He must know you pretty well, to have such a detailed itinerary."
"No, I mean-he'll tell you that I can be trusted. In fact-" She tried a winning smile, then realized it wasn't the most appropriate expression under the circumstances. "We met over a dead body, Martin and I."
Sheriff Kolarik opened up her M.A.C. lipstick. "Kinda dark," he commented. "This other body you found-was it on someone's private property almost a mile from the road? You see, trespassing is the issue here, ma'am, not homicide. Marianna Barrett Conyers doesn't get up here much from San Antonio, so we keep a close eye on her property. She's good people."
"I got lost and I stopped to ask for directions," Tess repeated. "After I realized no one was there, I wandered around the property, just because it was so pretty. As for the guy in the pool house-well, once I got downwind, it was hard to miss him."
"Hardly any breeze blowing today, Miss Monaghan. You sure you weren't looking for something else? Maybe a little souvenir to take home from your ‘vacation'?"
"He didn't need any breeze, he was, as you said, pretty ripe." She widened her eyes, hoping she looked innocent. "He must have been dead a real long time, don't you think?"
"You do know your dead bodies, Miss Monaghan."
She sensed a trap, despite the sheriff's bland intonations. "Not really. I just watch Homicide a lot." Then, as an inane afterthought. "It's filmed in Baltimore, right in my neighborhood."
"That show's no good. None of those cop shows are. Although I like Chuck Norris in that Texas Ranger one. They filmed a scene up in Kerrville once. He's a little-bitty fellow, but all those actors are." The sheriff held his thumb and forefinger apart, in an approximation of Chuck Norris's little-bittiness.
"I don't know," Tess said. "Some of the guys on Homicide are pretty tall." The conversation was stupid, but safe. Then again, every minute she spent here gave the chatty convenience clerk more opportunities to tell someone about the inquisitive Yankee who had come in looking for local candy and some dark-haired fellow, and left with directions to the old Barrett place.
The sheriff also seemed anxious to get back to business. "So anyway, you find this body, which you know, from the smell, has been dead a long time because you watch a lot of television, and you called 911 on your little cell phone. Why do you have one of those things, anyway? You running drugs through my county?"
"The Baltimore drug market doesn't have to look to Texas for its supplies."
"Yeah, everybody's on crack up there, right?"
A conscious self-mockery edged his every word. The sheriff was playing with his role, Tess realized, shifting in and out of the stereotype as it suited his purpose. He was joking now, and testing her to see if she got the joke.
"Just about. Although heroin's making a comeback. It's sort of like the rivalry between Coca-Cola and Pepsi."
He opened his desk drawer, rummaged around, and pulled out a pack of Dentyne, took his time unwrapping a piece. "But even though you had a cell phone, you said you went inside the house, right, to see if there was a phone connected there, right? Did you notice that pane of window cut out of the back door?"