Читать книгу The Judge - Jan Hudson, Jan Hudson - Страница 8

Carrie couldn’t function without her morning jolt of caffeine, and there was no way of getting the can open short of chewing it off with her teeth. And she was tempted to try that. She spat out a few colorful phrases and threw the recalcitrant can opener across the room. The blasted thing didn’t work. All she’d managed to do was puncture the coffee can and let out a whoosh of aroma that ran her crazy.

Her frustration level was off the charts. In spite of stocking up on a few breakfast items the afternoon before, it looked like the City Grill for her. She hoped they opened early. After dressing quickly in jeans and a pullover, she grabbed her briefcase and tore off toward the square of the small town.

The café was doing a brisk business. Only two seats at the counter were available. She commandeered one of them and stowed her briefcase between her feet.

“What’ll it be, honey?” asked the pint-size waitress who held a steaming carafe.

“Coffee,” Carrie said. “Quick.”

The waitress laughed, and the web of lines around her eyes put her age closer to sixty than forty. “One of them mornings, huh? I’ve had a few of them myself.” She slipped a mug onto the counter and poured in one practiced motion. “Cream?”

“No. Black is fine.”

“I’ll be back when you’ve had time to rev your motor.” The waitress turned to an elderly man who’d taken the stool next to hers and poured a mug for him. “Morning, Mr. Murdock. Haven’t seen you around for a few days.”

“Good morning, Vera. I’ve been in Dallas. I returned last night.”

“Have you heard about Horace Pfannepatter?”

Carrie’s ears perked up, and she glanced toward the two.

The old man, who was wearing a suit and a red bow tie, nodded gravely. “Yes, I had a message on my machine. Sad business. And him in his prime. I’m sure Ida must be devastated. I plan to call on her this morning.”

“She’s pretty broke up. Them two was real close, and I don’t know what she’ll do without him.” Vera turned to Carrie. “Hon, have you decided what you’ll have to go along with that coffee?”

Carrie hadn’t given food any thought. Was that her Horace Pfannepatter they were talking about? “Uh, I’ll have a toasted bagel.”

Vera gave her a toothy grin. “You’re not likely to find any bagels around here—unless they carry some frozen ones over at Bullock’s Grocery. Closest thing I can offer you is a short stack.”

“That’s fine,” Carrie said, her mind still not on food. “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I heard you talking about Horace Pfannepatter. Is he the one who’s justice of the peace?”

“Vera!” a male voice called from a booth in the rear. “Could we have another round of coffee back here?”

“You and Frank keep your britches on, J.J. I’ll be there in a minute,” she blared, then she nodded to Carrie and said quietly, “The very one. Keeled over with a heart attack real sudden.”

“And died?”

“Deader ’n a doornail.” Vera topped Carrie’s coffee and took off at a fast clip, shouting as she strode, “Gimme a short stack, Lonnie, and a number three over easy.”

Carrie was too stunned to do anything but stare after the waitress. She couldn’t believe that the good-looking JP had died. He’d looked so…healthy when she saw him yesterday. She felt a sudden and aching loss—and she barely knew the man. The thought of pancakes made her stomach turn over. She drank her coffee quickly, slapped a bill on the counter and fled with her briefcase.

She decided to buy a new can opener, go back to her room and start the morning over. Horace stayed on her mind the entire time she searched Bullock’s aisles. His loss haunted her. Crazy, she told herself. She’d only seen the man once in her life…but somehow he’d made a powerful impression.

FORTIFIED WITH more coffee and a carton of peach yogurt, Carrie went downtown again and parked in front of the old stone courthouse that had probably been built a hundred or more years ago. Three stories tall, the handsome pillared structure was similar to a dozen or two original courthouses still in use in Texas—Texas Renaissance the style was called, a combination of architectural styles popular during the period. Carrie hadn’t been in all the 254 county courthouses in the state, but she’d visited a large number of them and she was always glad to see one of the old ones preserved.

The Naconiche courthouse showed community pride of the sort that was responsible for the original construction of the town’s heart. Several large trees shaded the grounds and well-tended flower beds flanked the walks. She looked forward to exploring the inside.

A variety of businesses occupied the buildings that faced the square. She noted a couple of antique stores that looked interesting, an ice-cream shop called the Double Dip that she wanted to try out later. Now she needed to familiarize herself with the courthouse, determine where the documents she needed were housed and how the town’s records were kept.

As a petroleum landman she first had to find out who owned the property and the mineral rights to the large area that her company wanted to lease. Locating the property owners wasn’t too difficult—the county tax roles could tell her that. But frequently the current owners didn’t own all the mineral rights. Former owners—sometimes two or three sales back—often retained a percentage of the mineral rights on their acreage, usually a half interest. That meant that she had to track down deeds and locate heirs as well as check on any existing leases.

She couldn’t afford to make any errors, and the tedious work took a lot of time. But actually, she kind of enjoyed doing the research. It was like working a crossword puzzle.

Inside the courthouse Carrie smelled the familiar mélange of aging papers, cleaning solutions and the lingering odor of old tobacco smoke. Even though there were No Smoking signs now, years of cigars and cigarettes had infused the walls with the faint distinctive scent common to so many of the courthouses she’d been in. After a tour of the fine old building with its polished marble and rich oak trim, she located the tax office on the second floor, just down the hall from the chambers of the judge of the County Court-at-Law.

Judge Frank J. Outlaw, the brass nameplate beside the door said. She smiled. Outlaw—a peculiar name for a judge.

With a few directions from a clerk, Carrie located the records she wanted to study, took out her minicomputer and a pad and got to work.

CARRIE’S STOMACH growled, and she glanced at her watch. Five of twelve. Her yogurt was a faded memory, and she was hungry. She couldn’t believe she’d been working all morning without a break, but as usual she’d gotten absorbed and time had flown by. Stretching, she loosened the kinks in her back, stiff from bending over the papers so long.

Her first thought was to go across the street to the City Grill for lunch, then she decided that the tearoom was a better choice. She packed her briefcase and left the tax office. Not a dozen steps away, her cell phone rang, and she dug through her shoulder bag to retrieve it.

While she was looking, she collided with someone. “Sorry,” she said, glancing up.

Her heart lurched, and she could feel the blood leave her face. It was Horace P. Pfannepatter.

“My God,” she said. “It can’t be. You’re dead!”

He smiled. “I don’t think so.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over and back. “Nope. I seem to have all my working parts. Your phone’s ringing.”

“But…but the waitress this morning said that you’d had a heart attack and died.”

He frowned. “Which waitress?”

“Vera at the café across the street.”

“I can’t imagine why she would have said that. I had breakfast there this morning with my brother. You’d better get that,” he said, pointing to her ringing purse.

Not taking her eyes from his face, she grabbed the phone, said, “I’ll call you back,” and crammed it back into her bag. “Maybe it was your father they were talking about. Do you have the same name?”

“Nope. My father’s name is John Wesley Hardin Outlaw, Wes for short.”

“Outlaw? Then…how…Aren’t you the JP?”

A slow smile spread over his face. “You thought I was Horace? No, I’m Frank Outlaw.” He stuck out his hand.

Bedarned if she didn’t feel herself blush as she took his hand. “Carrie Campbell. Sorry that…” She forgot what she was about to say. He had a million-dollar smile. And a kind of charisma that radiated from him and enveloped her in its magnetism.

“Have you had lunch?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“I was on my way to eat during the noon recess. Why don’t you join me, and I’ll explain about Horace.”

“At the City Grill?”

“I’m not too keen on their special today. I’d planned on the Twilight Tearoom. It’s not too far.”

“I know,” Carrie responded. “I’m staying at the motel.”

“Of course you are. I remember that Maureen mentioned that.”

She drew a blank. “Maureen?”

“The clerk at the JP office.”

“Oh, yes. I…uh…need to drop by my room for a minute. Why don’t I meet you there?” She suddenly realized that he was still holding her hand, and she withdrew it quickly and started for the stairs.

“Where are you parked?” he asked as they descended.

“By the south entrance.”

“And I’m by the north. I’ll go ahead and get a table before they’re all gone.”

“Is the Tearoom a popular place?”

“Very. They have the best food in town.”

At the foot of the stairs Carrie’s cell phone rang again. “Excuse me,” she said. “I suppose I should take this.”

He waved and turned down a hall while she answered. It was her uncle Tuck.

“How are things going in the boonies?”

“Going fine. I’m at the courthouse now. I’ve just stopped for lunch.” She continued out the door while she talked.

He asked for some figures from another job, and she promised to e-mail them to him that afternoon.

“Carrie, play this one extra close to your vest. I ran into Wyatt Hearn at the Petroleum Club last night, and he was sniffing around too close for comfort. I’d hate for him to get wind of things and steal this out from under us. You haven’t seen any of his boys around town have you?”

Wyatt Hearn was another independent oilman and a bitter rival of her uncle. “Nope. I haven’t seen anybody. I’ll keep an eye out. Think I should dye my hair and wear a fake nose?”

Uncle Tuck hooted with laughter. “I don’t think you have to go that far, darlin’. Just don’t let on to anybody why you’re there until you’re ready to get their names on the dotted line.”

“Gotcha. I’ll report in at the end of the week.”

At her car, she tossed her bag and her briefcase onto the seat and climbed in. If she hurried she’d have time to freshen up a bit before lunch. It wasn’t often these days that she got to have lunch with a good-looking guy.

Remember that he’s married, she told herself.

She sighed. For a few minutes she’d forgotten. Wouldn’t you know—the first guy who turned her on in ages, and he was taken. Just as well, she told herself. She had work to do and didn’t need the distraction.

AS HE DROVE to the tearoom, Frank felt as nervous as a kid on his first date. But it wasn’t a date, he told himself. It was a simple shared meal. Still, he wondered why in the world he had opened his big mouth and invited her to the tearoom of all places. His brother was bound to be there—along with some of the biggest gossips in Naconiche. His mother and half the town would know that he was eating with a beautiful woman before they finished dessert.

God, what a mess he’d gotten himself into—and all because of an innocent invitation. He didn’t like what everybody would be thinking, but one look into those incredible eyes of hers had short-circuited his brain.

He made it to the tearoom just in time to get the last available table. Unfortunately it was in the middle of the room. He sat facing the door so that he could see when Carrie arrived.

“I’ll have iced tea for now,” he told the young waitress. “Make that two teas. I’m waiting on somebody. It should be just a couple of minutes.” He turned to study the menu on the chalkboard over the bar.

“Hey, big brother,” a familiar voice said as a chair scraped the floor.

Damn. It was J.J. “What are you doing here?”

J.J. chuckled as he sat down. “What am I doing here? Hell, I eat lunch here almost every day. Half of the time with you. What do you think I’m doing here? Hey, Lori,” he said to the waitress who served the tea along with a basket of bread. “I’ll have the chicken spaghetti special. What are you having, Frank?”

“I haven’t ordered yet.”

“Why not?” J.J. picked up one of the tea glasses and took a big swig.

“I’m…waiting on someone. Lori, would you bring another tea?”

“Sure thing, Judge. Be right back.”

J.J. frowned and set down the glass he held. “Whoops, have I stepped in a cow patty? Do I need to move?”

“No, no. Stay where you are. It’s just somebody I ran into at the courthouse.” Carrie came through the door just then, and Frank stood to get her attention.

She smiled and walked to the table. If she was surprised to see J.J. sitting there, she didn’t let on. J.J. was the one who looked surprised. Frank quickly introduced the two of them and, feeling awkward as the devil, helped seat her.

“A sheriff and a judge named Outlaw,” Carrie said. “That is strange.”

“We’ve taken some ribbing from time to time,” J.J. said, “especially since my whole name is Jesse James Outlaw.”

“And mine is Frank James Outlaw,” Frank said to her. To J.J.. he said, “I met Carrie yesterday when she stopped by the JP’s office. I went over to pack up Horace’s personal things for Ida.” He turned to Carrie and explained. “Horace died over the weekend. Ida is his wife and a second cousin to our father.”

“We’re kin to ’bout everybody in the county,” J.J. told her.

Carrie grinned and said to Frank, “It’s a relief to know that you’re not a ghost.”

“A ghost?” J.J. said, frowning.

“I saw him in the justice of the peace’s office, and I assumed that he was Horace Pfannepatter.”

J.J. hooted with laughter. “Naw, old Horace was bald as buckshot and had thirty years and a hundred pounds on Frank. Are you new in town?”

Carrie shook her head. “Just visiting. I’m here doing research.”

“What kind of research?” J.J. asked.

Lori returned just then with another glass of tea and J.J.’s plate. “You folks ready to order?”

“The menu is on the blackboard,” Frank told Carrie. While she read it, he ordered the spaghetti special.

“Make that two,” Carrie said, glancing at J.J.’s plate. “That looks delicious.”

“It is. Mary Beth makes the best chicken spaghetti in town. I’m not marrying her for her cooking, but it’s a nice bonus.”

“Oh,” Carrie said, “are you and Mary Beth engaged?”

“Yep,” J.J. said. “I’m a lucky man. What kind of research did you say you were doing?”

“Some old county records, deeds and such.” She took a sip of her tea. “This is fabulous. Raspberry, isn’t it?”

Frank nodded. “House specialty.”

“You looking to buy some property?” J.J. asked.

What was it with J.J.? Frank wondered. He sounded like he was grilling a suspect.

Carrie chuckled. “Me? Heavens no. Please eat, J.J. Your food will get cold if you wait on us.”

“Nope. Here yours is.”

The waitress served plates to Carrie and Frank and added another basket of bread to the table.

B.D., one of the old guys who played dominoes and helped run the motel, passed by with a tray of food just then. B.D. greeted them all with a “hi-dee” and said, “Miss Carrie, you had a chance to talk to Millie yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Millie?” J.J. asked.

“Millie down at the library,” B.D. said. “Miss Carrie’s one of them genealogists, don’t ya know? Well, I’d better get this grub over to the office. The boys are waiting.”

“You’re a genealogist?” J.J. said.

Carrie laughed. “You make it sound like a disease.”

“I think what J.J. is trying to say is that you don’t look like the typical genealogist,” Frank offered, trying to steer away from the interrogation. The minute the words were out of his mouth, he wanted to kick himself. Oh, hell. Had he really said that?

J.J. grinned like a possum in a persimmon tree. Frank turned his attention to his plate, hoping she’d ignore his gaffe. She didn’t.

“And exactly what does the typical genealogist look like?” she asked, looking amused. “Have you known many?”

“Now that I think about it, I don’t think I know any genealogists. You’re the first.”

“There’s Millie,” J.J. said. “She’s the local expert. She’s even written a book.”

“I’ll have to buy a copy.”

She smiled, and Frank almost missed his mouth with his fork. He tried to think of something to say and drew a blank.

“What family are you researching?” J.J. asked between bites.

“I’m really not at liberty to say much about my business. Clients like to keep some things private.”

J.J. laughed. “Must be a horse thief or two in the clan.”

She smiled again, and the room seemed to grow brighter. “I have a couple of my own ancestors who were on the shady side. They’ve been expunged from the family bible. Speaking of shady characters, why in the world are you Outlaws named after outlaws?”

“It was my grandfather’s idea,” Frank said, relieved that finally he could contribute to the conversation. “He was a judge, too. He thought that having a memorable name would be an asset in both business and politics, so he named our father John Wesley Hardin and our uncle Butch Cassidy. I guess his idea worked. Our dad was undefeated for sheriff until he retired, and Uncle Butch was a state senator when he died.”

“And now the two of you are sheriff and judge. Undefeated?”

“So far,” J.J. said.

After Frank’s tongue got untangled, they talked about the history of the town and the old courthouse while they ate. Carrie seemed interested and asked all kinds of questions about the town and the county. He found himself growing very comfortable talking with her.

J.J. asked, “Where’s home for you, Carrie?”

“Houston.”

“Our oldest brother lives in Houston,” Frank told her. “He’s in homicide with H.P.D.”

“And his name is…”

“Cole Younger Outlaw,” J.J. supplied. “And our other brother is a Texas Ranger. Sam Bass Outlaw.”

“And our baby sister is with the FBI,” Frank said. “Belle Starr Outlaw.”

“Quite an impressive family,” Carrie said.

“We try.” J.J. polished off the last bite on his plate. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going into the kitchen to kiss the cook. Nice meeting you, Carrie.” He stood, bowed slightly and left.

She smiled. “I like your brother.”

“He’s a good guy. Do you like his brother, too?” Frank nearly groaned. Had he really said that?

“Of course. I’m glad you didn’t die.”

Her attention seemed to be on his hands, and he looked down to find that he was twirling his wedding ring round and round on his finger. “Me, too. My wife did, though.” God, that was awkward.

Carrie looked puzzled. “Did what?”

“Died. My wife was killed in a car wreck.”

She reached across the table and touched his hand. “I’m so sorry. When was this?”

“It’s been almost two years.” He shook his head to keep the memories from intruding. “How about dessert? Mary Beth makes a mean apple tart.”

“Sounds tempting, but if I eat another bite, I’ll nod off over the records this afternoon. I need to scoot.”

She took her wallet from her bag, but Frank waved her off. “My invitation, my treat.”

“Thanks. I’ll get the check next time.”

“It’s a deal.” He stood as she said her goodbyes, then watched her walk out the door. He liked Carrie Campbell. She was warm, open and easy to talk to. Plus she was a beautiful woman.

Behind him J.J. said, “Beautiful woman.”

“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.”

J.J. hooted. “You’re lying and your feet stink!”

Frank tried to suppress a grin. “She is easy on the eyes. But don’t make more out of this than it is.”

“Me? I’m not making anything out of it? When are you going to see her again?”

“I don’t know. Want some dessert?”

“You buying?” J.J. asked.

“I bought breakfast, you mooch.”

“Say, Mary Beth and I are going over to Travis Lake Saturday night to see a musical that the college is putting on. Why don’t you ask Carrie, and go with us?”

“I doubt that she’ll even be here then.”

“Sure she will. Mary Beth said her reservation is for several weeks. Ask her. Get out and enjoy yourself, Frank. It’s time.”

He took a deep breath and blew it out. “I’ll think about it.”