“We’re looking for anyone who might know Cherelle’s whereabouts.”
Dread curled in my stomach. “Is she a suspect?”
For a second it appeared Dawson would hedge, but he nodded. “According to our sources on the rez, she hasn’t been at the house she shares with Victor since yesterday. We want to talk to her.”
If Cherelle hadn’t been at the house, then where had she called me from this morning? And why had she lied?
“Talk to her?” I asked.
“Better to talk to us than what’ll happen if Saro gets ahold of her first.”
I fiddled with the ram on the reloader. “Where is Saro?”
“Holed up in his house. Again, according to our source, Cherelle isn’t with him. Just his drug-running gophers.”
“So you’re thinking this could be a drug-related hit?”
“Possibly. Miz Dupris isn’t the only suspect we’ve got, but right now she’s the most important.”
Too bad if Dawson thought I was poking at him, but I had to ask. “Is Turnbull involved?”
Dawson’s mouth twisted with disdain. “Big fucking surprise. It’s only been a few hours since the body was found and we’re already being cut out of everything.”
“Not everything, if you’ve got inside info.”
“True. Wherever Cherelle has gone, she didn’t drive her car.”
“Do you think Cherelle ran?”
“I hope so. Going off the reservation is the only chance we’ll have of talking to her. Even if she didn’t kill Victor, we’re guessing she has an idea who did.”
Anna got up and grabbed another beer.
Dawson and I stared at each other in silence.
Had Kiki told Dawson I’d discovered Victor’s body? Was he waiting for me to be honest with him? If I didn’t, would he arrest me for obstruction of justice? How could I confess that if I hadn’t been running for his job I would’ve phoned everything in like a dutiful citizen?
Running for sheriff should make you more responsible to the truth, not less.
“Mercy?”
Lost in self-recriminations, I hadn’t realized Dawson had spoken to me. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”
“Turnbull doesn’t know I’m here. In fact, he’d blow a gasket if he found out. So if he happens to swing by…”
“He won’t. But I’ll keep my mouth shut.” It irked me Anna was here. Be nice to have one honest goddamn conversation with Dawson for a change. “But why are you telling me all this?” When you wouldn’t before went unsaid.
“Because as a candidate for public office, you should be informed on what’s going on in this county. I understand that now.”
That almost sounded like… a partial apology.
“Besides, I wouldn’t want you to make a rash decision on faulty intel.” He smiled and pointed at my reloading press. “I’ll let you get back to it.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow night at the debate.”
Dawson pushed off the door frame and rammed his hand through his hair. “About that. Are we keeping it civilized? Or are we going for the jugular?”
“Civilized. I wish this whole damn thing was over.”
“Me, too.” His gaze sought Anna’s. “Miz Rodriguez.”
She lifted her bottle in mock-salute. “Sheriff.”
As soon as the sound of tires on gravel faded, Anna said, “I hope you win the election, because that man is an idiot.”
No, he’s not.
I couldn’t defend him without raising Anna’s suspicions.
Why are you defending him anyway? Would your defense be on a professional level? Or on a personal one?
Although she’d been preoccupied since her arrival, and off doing her own thing 90 percent of the time, it seemed strange Anna hadn’t asked if I was involved with anyone. Then again, knowing Anna, she’d assume if I’d hooked up with a guy, I would’ve mentioned it to her.
“Well, it ain’t looking good for the home team, A-Rod.”
“No matter. You’ll bounce back, Gunny. You always do.” Anna tossed her beer bottle in the trash. “Is there any food?”
“Peanut butter and fruit.”
“You still eat like your choices are MREs,” she complained. “I’m hungry for real food. Like pizza.”
“No pizza joints around here. You can get pizzas at the bar or buy frozen ones at the grocery store.”
“Think I’ll head into town and pick one up. You need anything else while I’m there?”
“Nope.”
She spun her keys around her index finger. “Be back in a bit.”
I lined up the next ten cases and squirted lube on the pad. “No rush. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied.”
“One of these days, Gunny, you’re going to stop trying so damn hard to do it all.”
I smiled at her. “Don’t bet the farm on that.”
TWENTY-ONE
The table-and-chair configuration at the community center resembled a wedding dance, not a hall for a political debate. Red, white, and blue streamers floated overhead in an elaborate twist that originated at the stage.
The stage.
My belly jumped as I lingered by the main door. Did I really have the guts to stand up in front of all these people and make a spectacle of myself? Especially after I’d spent the last two decades striving to stay inconspicuous?
The Parker Brothers Band were tuning guitars, checking mics, repositioning amps and speakers for when they took the stage after the debate. If I listened closely, I could hear the impatient tapping of cowboy boots and the palpable anticipation of the crowd.
I didn’t delude myself that attendees were here to listen to Dawson and me argue the issues. The people running my campaign refused to accept that swaying voters was moot at this point. I bet 99.9 percent of voters had made up their minds before I’d filled Bill O’Neil’s slot on the ballot. This debate was an excuse to party, as it was the first large-scale community event after the long winter, calving season, and branding.
Andrew Parker spotted me. He grinned, and all six feet five inches, three hundred pounds barreled toward me.
I braced myself for Andrew’s standard greeting. He’d bind me in his massive arms, swing me in a circle, whooping and hollering as if we were still eight-year-old kids on the school playground.
“Lord have mercy, I feel my temperature rising,” he sang as he grabbed me and-yep-spun me around. Twice.
I closed my eyes and let him.
Once Andrew set me on my feet, he pushed his straw hat back on his bald head. “You’ll save me a dance? For old time’s sake? Please?” He waggled his eyebrows. “A slow one?”
“No way. Marcie will kick my ass.” I peered around him and looked for his petite wife. Marcie, a world-class barrel racer with the awards and belt buckles to prove it, was still the tough cowgirl who loved a good catfight. “Where is she?”
“Home. Her ankles puffed up like marshmallows. She didn’t feel like kickin’ up her heels with the baby kickin’ her bladder every five minutes.”
Hard to fathom my classmates were still having babies. Even harder to believe? Some of them were already grandparents. “When is she due?”
“Next month.”
As I debated on whether to ask more nosy questions, Andrew’s curious gaze burned into me. “What?”
“Just wondering if my favorite candidate is still singing?”
“Only in the shower and in the truck.”
He bumped me with his shoulder. “Come on, ’fess up, Mercy. You were too damn good to’ve given it up completely.”
“I did. Not a lot of singing gigs in the army.”
“Bet you still know all the words to every Patsy Cline song.”
“So?”
“So… get up on stage with us tonight and sing a couple.”
“No.”
“Not even for old time’s sake?”
“No.”
“Just one?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Bet it would get you more votes,” he said slyly.