In a small closet he found a couple of jackets and a muddy pair of boots. He was on the verge of closing the door when he spotted the box on the floor. He picked it up and opened it. Inside were dozens of pictures of a woman. At first glance he didn’t recognize her, but closer inspection identified her. Elizabeth Templeton.
All the photographs appeared to have been taken not twelve years ago but recently. Elizabeth standing on the front porch of a ranch house. Elizabeth surrounded by long rows of grapevines. Driving a red pickup truck. Leaving a store.
Rory had been keeping close tabs on Elizabeth.
Her face had leaned out in the last twelve years, and her hair had gone from blond to dark brown. But her figure was still slight. In most of the images she was frowning and he remembered what Mitch had said about the woman who’d hired him. Dark hair. Not nice.
Frowning, Bragg retrieved his phone and snapped pictures of the images before setting them aside to continue his search. He found a small careworn Bible and a stack of note cards with handwritten affirmations. Do it! One step at a time! Believe!
However, no strings to connect Rory to Elizabeth.
Bragg descended the stairs and found the manager. He showed the man his phone sporting an image of Elizabeth. “You ever seen her here?”
“I don’t ask questions.”
“Yeah, I know, as long as they pay. Look real close, partner. Look real close because if I find out you’ve seen her you’re going to get some real trouble from me.”
The man glanced at the picture and shook his head. “Never seen her.”
“You sure?”
“Never seen her. ’Sides, she’s too pretty for Rory. He thought he was sober for good and better than everybody, but he hadn’t changed. No good. Barely had enough for a week’s rent. I was figuring he’d not show tomorrow with the rent, and I’d have to toss him out.”
“He have any visitors?”
“No. Kept to himself. Heard him on his cell phone once or twice, but I never made out what he was saying.”
There’d been no cell in Rory’s belongings. Bragg pulled a card from his front shirt pocket. “You call me if you hear anyone talking about Rory.”
“Where is he? Is he coming back?”
“No, sir, he is not coming back.”
The man muttered an oath in Spanish. “What about his room?”
“I’m calling a forensic team now to dust it for prints.” The man smoothed agitated fingers over oiled black hair. “Are you gonna stay here and wait for them?”
“Yes, sir, I am. That a problem?”
The man’s frown deepened. “You are bad for business.”
Bragg grinned. “I’ve been called worse.”
He returned to Rory’s room and called in a team. As he waited he sifted through each picture of Elizabeth. Beautiful. Striking. But stern and solemn. He sensed life hadn’t much eased the burden of her tragedy.
“What the hell was going on between you and Rory?”
Chapter Four
Tuesday, June 3, 6:30 A.M.
Bragg left Austin before the morning tangles on I-35 south. He also wanted to arrive early at Bonneville Vineyards not only to meet with the woman who’d offered Mitch a job, but the woman who owned the land near his crime scene. Even if she didn’t have a connection to the case he wanted to meet her and find out how she’d found Mitch.
Remembering yesterday’s route to the crime scene, he took the rural route exit off of the interstate and followed it another twenty miles before his GPS directed him over more back roads familiar to him. There were no directional signs to guide people to the vineyard, suggesting visitors weren’t welcome.
An unpaved gravel ribbon of road wandered alongside a barbed-wire fence corralling row after row of vines bursting with a thick canopy of green leaves sheltering plump grapes clinging to well-maintained trellises. In the distance, the sun rose above the horizon casting a warm glow over the hills.
The entire area was lush and green and all he could think about was what it cost the family in water bills. Drought had been a problem in central Texas the last couple of years and signs were the hard times weren’t letting up anytime soon.
Hard to believe Rory Edwards had been strung up right over the hill to his left.
Around the bend, a ranch house came into view. Complete with a wide front porch, its original windows and tin roof hinted of nineteenth-century cowboys. However, the ranch’s porch now sported potted lavender, rocking chairs, and a sign on the front porch read PRIVATE and directed visitors to a larger stone building where the road dead-ended. Near the house stood a small barn painted with fading chipped red paint and a small corral.
The larger one-story main building just beyond was made of stone and glass, and though it had the air of new construction was styled like a medieval European keep. But unlike a fortress, it didn’t dominate the land but hugged it as if the designer wanted a seamless connection between structure and terrain.
Small succulents floated in beds filled with earth-toned landscaping stones to add interest. However, it was the yellow and white wildflowers in brightly colored clay pots and a turquoise front door that rescued the place from being bland. To the right a stone patio outfitted with wrought-iron furniture overlooked vineyards that would catch the setting sun. Beyond the main building the land had been cleared for more construction.
Again, he gave credit to the site manager. He wasn’t a wine drinker but the place might have lured him in for a look if there’d been signs along the road to coax and welcome.
He pulled up behind an older dark truck with a bed filled with tables and chairs. Grabbing his white Stetson from the passenger seat, he settled it on his head and eased out of the Bronco. In the distance a dog barked. Resting his hand on the hip close to his gun, he surveyed the area.
As he approached the building, a woman pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance. She wasn’t tall, barely standing over five feet, but she held her shoulders back and her clear blue eyes cut. Not more than thirty, she had gently tanned smooth skin that accentuated a high slash of cheekbones. She wore her light brown hair in a braid that brushed slender shoulders, a white BONNEVILLE VINEYARDS T-shirt billowing over full breasts and tucked into faded work jeans hugging gently rounded hips. Her boots were dusty, well worn. “Can I help you?”
Her voice had a rusty, whiskey quality giving this wholesome farm girl a seductiveness enjoyed by older more sophisticated women.
Elizabeth Templeton.
She was a far cry from the girl in the old image or the pictures Rory had taken. The last dozen years had thinned her frame and face, adding maturity and an appealing naturalness. But Rory’s images had gotten her all wrong. What he’d taken for as anger and bitterness in the photos, in person, appeared to be a fascinating intensity. He suspected this woman did no job halfway.
“I’m with the Texas Rangers.”
Elizabeth cocked her head, studying him closely, as if sensing this place wasn’t his kind of place. However, even as her gaze catalogued his large frame and the scar on his face she showed no fear. “How can I help you?”
He managed a smile. “You Elizabeth Templeton?”
Mention of her name triggered waves of tension that straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes. Hesitation flickered as if she seemed to toy with a lie. “That’s right. But I go by my middle name now. Greer.”
Elizabeth Greer Templeton. Greer. The woman who’d offered his boy a job. “Sergeant Tec Bragg.”
She took an involuntary step back before stopping. “Bragg. You’re kin to Mitch Bragg?”
He nodded. “He’s my nephew.”
She drew in a breath as if bracing. “What can I do for you?”
“I hear you’ve offered Mitch a job.”
“I have.”
“Doing what?”
She held his gaze and took a step toward him. “General farmhand.”