For a moment the sounds of the restaurant faded away, and there was only the thump, thump of his heart in his ears. His first thought was for Elizabeth Templeton, the woman in the picture. Templeton wasn’t a common name, but not so uncommon that he didn’t suspect a connection. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
Bragg kept his voice steady. “You know any facts about Greer Templeton?”
“Pretty, dark hair, kind of skinny. Not friendly.”
Dark hair not blond. He flicked the edge of the card with his index finger. “What else do you know about her?”
“She drives a truck. And she cuts to the chase.”
Habit sent the follow-up question back rapid-fire. “And she offered you the job as a favor?”
“That’s what she said.”
Bragg summoned another question but held back, as if Sue had laid a hand on his shoulder. The boy had said more in the last few minutes than in the last month. Go easy. He wanted to go easy. He did.
But he’d been a Ranger too long not to toy with his suspicions. The Templeton name had been attached to a murder investigation this morning. Though the girl in the picture did not match Mitch’s description it had been a dozen years and people changed a lot. He’d not had much time today to dig into Elizabeth Templeton’s accident, but it would be first on his agenda after dinner. Rory’s apartment would keep until morning.
Their waitress brought two more sodas and another basket stacked high with warm rolls. She told them that dinner would be right up before hurrying to another table.
Bragg drank his second soda. He didn’t want to discourage the boy but at the same time wanted him to understand the lay of the land.
Bragg eased back in his chair. “You thinking about taking the job?”
Mitch grabbed a roll, tore it, and watched the steam rise. “Don’t know.”
As frustrating as pulling teeth. “Did she talk about pay?”
“No.”
He reached for bread. “Had a murder investigation this morning. Don’t need to get into a lot of details, but an Elizabeth Templeton’s name came up.”
Mitch glanced up from his soda, his gaze showing a spark of interest. “She kill someone?”
“No. At least I don’t think so.” He wanted to tell him about the picture but hesitated. It was a detail in an active murder investigation. “Wanted you to know, seeing as a Templeton offered you a job.”
“Kind of a stretch, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. But it’s my job to connect dots no one else notices.”
Mitch nodded as if mulling what Bragg had told him. “Maybe I’ll ride out there tomorrow. See what she has to offer.”
Their waitress brought two large steaming plates, each sporting a T-bone and a baked potato with generous sides of butter and sour cream. No green vegetables because it was a shame to serve what neither would eat.
Bragg was about to ask him to wait on the job until he could poke around in the woman’s background when the boy glanced at his steak, picked up his fork and knife, and cut a large bite. He ate the piece and then another and then another. Strain banding Bragg’s lower back eased a notch. Whoever the hell Greer Templeton was, she had made an impact on this kid, which for now, appeared to be for the better. As much as he wanted to tell Mitch to stay clear, he held back.
Later he’d do a little digging.
Dinner ended with slices of apple pie with heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream. Mitch hadn’t said much more during dinner, but he’d eaten his entire meal and the pie. Some might view eating a meal as a baby step but as far as Bragg was concerned it was the first sign of life he’d seen in the boy since he’d returned home.
They arrived home right at nine. Mitch thanked him for the meal, another first, and headed straight to his room.
While a pot of coffee brewed, Bragg changed into jeans and a faded Texas A&M T-shirt. Then, coffee in hand, he settled in front of his laptop and clicked it on. He searched Bonneville Vineyards.
Immediately the vineyard’s Web site popped up. It featured rolling land and rows and rows of thick grapevines stretching toward the setting sun on the horizon. Another picture showcased a group of smiling people, wineglasses in hand around a table. An older woman with long graying hair smiled and laughed with them. The caption underneath read:
Bonneville Vineyard owner, Lydia Bonneville, greets guests at spring tasting.
Bragg clicked through more images, read some of the site’s blog entries, and on the events page news of an upcoming fund-raiser for the Crisis Center. Though he dug through the entire site he found no telling tidbit about the woman who’d offered his nephew a job today.
Sipping his coffee he searched Greer Templeton. No hits came up. On the Crisis Center site there was a mention of her six months ago when she’d joined the board. The blurb also mentioned she’d been volunteering at the center for the last decade. There was also a piece about a fund-raiser this Wednesday at the vineyard, but no picture of Greer Templeton.
None of this set well in his gut. None of it. The Templeton name was associated with a murder investigation and a Templeton meets Mitch. And Rory Edwards’s body had been found at a vineyard near Bonneville.
Coincidence did happen but not often by his way of thinking.
Shit.
Yeah, he’d be driving out to Bonneville Vineyards first thing in the morning.
Bragg glanced at the clock. It wasn’t ten yet and he had time to get by Rory’s room. Refilling his mug, he changed, retrieved his gun, badge, and hat. A quick check into Mitch’s room found him sleeping. He left as quickly as he could.
The drive to Rory’s took fifteen minutes, long enough to finish the coffee and summon a second bolt of energy. He was accustomed to going long stretches without sleep and tonight he’d get little. It didn’t take much time to spot the Mexican restaurant with the blue chili in the window.
Inside, he was greeted by a dimly lit interior and the blend of recorded guitar and trumpet music. Small round tables with patrons filled the room, and in the back a bartender poured shots of tequila. Colored lights draped the walls alongside pictures of Mexico.
Bragg stopped at the register where a short stocky man with thick black hair and mocha skin stared up at him. The man wore a brightly colored shirt and a silver chain around his neck.
“You here for dinner?”
“I’m with the Texas Rangers. I’m here to search Rory Edwards’s room.” He showed the man his badge. “I’ve been told he’s renting a room upstairs.”
The man glanced at the badge and back up at Bragg. “I don’t want trouble.”
“I don’t want any. Just want to have a look at his room.”
“Second door on the right.” He fumbled in his pocket for a ring of keys, slid one free, and handed it to Bragg. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Appreciate it.” Bragg took the key. “Rory get many visitors to his room?”
“I don’t know. I don’t ask. Long as they pay, I don’t ask.”
“No commotion. No trouble.”
“He paid his first week in cash and the second week wasn’t due until Wednesday. Good enough for me.”
Bragg followed the stairs behind the register up to a hallway lit by a single flickering bulb. There were four doors on the hallway. He unlocked the second on the right and flipped on the light.
The room was small, not more than eight by eight, and it was filthy. Soiled rumpled sheets covered the bed, and dozens of empty food cartons littered the floor. A mouse scurried under the bed.
A pile of dirty clothes was mounded at the foot of the bed beside a pair of expensive cowboy boots. The boots were nice but not as nice as the ones found on Rory’s body. Wherever Rory had thought he was going, he’d dressed up for the occasion.