A Match Made in Texas (14 page)

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Gay?”

Bri blinked. “Umm, no.”

Twyla gave her the once-over. “Must be the name and the hair. But don’t you worry, honey.” She hooked her arm through Bri’s and tugged her down the street. “Twyla will fix you right up. Makeovers are my specialty.”

By the time they reached Twyla’s house, Bri had learned the woman’s life story. It seemed that Twyla’s preoccupation with weddings was more of an addiction. She had been married three times already and wouldn’t rest until she’d made it four.

“I don’t know what it is,” Twyla said. “I guess there’s just weddin’ bells in my blood. This way, honey.” She led her along a side path to a set of stairs that led down to a lower level door. On the door was a sign:
CENSATIONAL CREATIONS BY TWYLA
.

Bri pondered the misspelling and what the creations were until she stepped through the door. The basement had been converted into a beauty salon. Not a full-service salon like Bri went to in Austin. This salon had only one sink, one domed hair dryer, and one cutting station. Still, as she looked at all the hair products and appliances, she couldn’t help feeling like a kid in a candy store.

Growing up, Bri had loved fixing hair. She had started with her dolls and worked up to her mother and brothers. Her mother dyed her hair a different color every week so it was more convenient to let Bri do it than go into town. And her brothers didn’t like being guinea pigs for Old Man Johnson’s scissor-happy hands. So starting in middle school, Bri had set aside time for dye jobs, trims, and the occasional buzzed football number. She had actually gotten pretty good at it.

Of course, it was just a silly hobby. There was no way that the youngest daughter of the Cates dynasty could become a beautician.

“You sit right down, sweetie,” Twyla said as she closed the door behind her. “I happen to be runnin’ a special this week on haircuts, and your hair could sure use some help. Especially if you want to attract a man.”

Bri glanced at the cat clock on the wall and shrugged. “I guess I could use a trim—” The words were barely out before Twyla had her in the chair, cap off, and a cape snapped around her neck.

“You want a Faith Hill? Or a Reba? Personally, I think the Reba would look real cute with those big ol’ eyes of yours.” She had just picked up the pair of cutting shears, when the phone rang. “I’ll be right back, honey.” She hurried to the phone that hung on the wall, and Bri couldn’t help listening in. Especially when Twyla’s voice filled with sadness.

“You need to stop callin’ me, Kenny Gene… no, I’m not makin’ you potpies for supper. That’s not how a breakup works… because the reverend said we ain’t”—a tiny sob escaped—“soul mates.” She hung up the phone and, before Bri could offer any comfort, raced up the stairs.

Bri started to follow her and then decided that Twyla could probably use a few minutes alone to collect herself. Besides, Bri couldn’t wait to play beauty shop.

She tried out the sprayer on the shampoo bowl, looked through all the drawers at the cutting station, and had just started to curl a blond wig in Velcro rolls when a big-bellied man in biking shorts came in through the screened door.

“Hey, Twyla.” He took off his biking helmet and hung it on the hat rack. “I hate to bother you without an appointment, but the reverend thinks I’ll up my chances of becomin’ the governor by a good twenty-seven percent if I cut off—” He turned, and his handlebar mustache twitched. “Well, beg pardon. I thought you were Twyla.” He held out his hand. “Mayor Harley Sutter. You must be Twyla’s cousin. She mentioned that you were comin’ to visit. And I’d say you couldn’t have picked a better time.” He shook his head. “Poor thing has been a little out of sorts since she broke up with our new deputy.”

His biking shoes clicked on the floor as he walked over and picked up the plastic cape from the back of the chair and placed it around his shoulders. “I was thinkin’ about a George W. look, but then I thought it might be better to go for something that’s a little more widely appreciated.” He sat down in the chair and combed his fingers through his thinning hair. “Do you think with a little dye and some teasin’ you could make it look like the King’s?”

“I don’t really—”

“No,” the mayor said, “you’re probably right. I don’t want to seem like a follower. Of course, the reverend wasn’t worried so much about the hair as he was about the mustache.” He reverently touched the curled, waxed tips. “And I guess if it’s all for the future of Texas…”

Chapter Fourteen

D
USTY HAD HOPED
to arrive at the Tates’ house after the luncheon, but when he stepped up on the porch, it sounded like the party was in full swing. If a party is what you could call it. The voice that drifted out the open window sounded more like a tent revival.

“… and I say onto you, Sisters of the Lord,” a deep voice boomed, “it is up to you to keep your husbands on the straight and narrow.”

A chorus of “amen” followed.

“Up to you to lead them down the path of righteousness.”

“Amen, Reverend!”

“Up to you to find the strength to douse their carnal needs beneath the purity of your holiness—”

Having heard enough, Dusty pressed the doorbell. There was a mumble of female voices before Wilma Tate, who looked like she’d just experienced an hour of great sex, answered the door. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were twinkling, and her lipstick was smudged.

“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” she said, “but I don’t have time for socializin’. Reverend Jessup is almost done with his sermon, and I promised him that I’d play ‘Bringin’ in the Sheep’ on my organ.”

Dusty took off his hat. “You mean ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’?”

Her eyes scrunched. “Sheaves? Well, that doesn’t make any sense. What in the world is a sheave and why would you want to bring it in if you don’t know what it is?”

Dusty could feel a headache coming on. Something that happened a lot when dealing with the people of Bramble. “I’m not here to socialize, Miz Tate. I’m here on business.”

Her eyes got even scrunchier. “It’s Elmer, isn’t it? He’s drunk again and in jail.” She shook her head, causing the fake bird on her hat to dip like it was pecking her forehead. “I swear I’ve had it with that man. He was supposed to stay here so the reverend could lay hands on him—”

“No, it’s not Elmer. I’m here to talk with Reverend Jessup.”

“Why?”

“That’s between me and the reverend.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said. “Sheriff Winslow sent you to bust up the luncheon because Myra’s all upset because it moved to my house. But I’m not about to let you do it.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at Dusty. “You march right back to the sheriff and tell him—”

“What seems to be the problem?” The Elvis impersonator appeared behind Wilma, looking much like he did when he drove past in his Cadillac. Except on closer examination, he didn’t look like Elvis as much as a used car salesman in a really bad Halloween costume.

“Reverend Jessup?” Dusty asked.

“That would be me.” The man gave him a practiced smile. “And you’re the sheriff that apprehended the criminal that was driving down the wrong side of the road.”

“What criminal?” Wilma said. “You ran into a criminal in Bramble, Reverend Jessup?” She glanced back at Dusty, causing the bird on her hat to bob. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. We have all kinds of hooligans livin’ here.”

“Could I have a word with you in private, Reverend?” Dusty asked, although it wasn’t really a question.

“Of course.” He moved around Wilma, giving her a quick pat on the shoulder. “I won’t be but a moment, Sister Tate. Why don’t you entertain the crowd with your lovely organ playing?”

She gave the reverend a starstruck look before her eyes narrowed on Dusty. “You better watch your p’s and q’s, Sheriff. Reverend Jessup is a man of God, which means you’re dealin’ with somethin’ much bigger than the law.” She whirled around and disappeared into the house.

The reverend chuckled as he closed the door. “I do love a crusader for the Lord. Now what can I do for you, Sheriff? If this has something to do with that crazy driver, I can assure you that I don’t even know the woman.” His eyes grew thoughtful. “Although she does look familiar.”

“And I’m sure you had nothing to do with her being on the wrong side of the road, either.” Dusty pinned him with a hard stare.

The reverend’s smile didn’t even waver. “So is that why you’re here? She claimed I was responsible for her reckless driving?”

Dusty shook his head. “Actually, I heard you were there when Sheriff Winslow was shot. I figured you could shed some light on the incident.”

“I wish I could help you out, but I wasn’t in the same room with the sheriff when the injury occurred.”

“But you had something to do with the bullet being in the gun.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“Possibly because every strange thing that’s happening in Bramble has your name attached to it.”

“And what kind of strange things are we talking about, Sheriff?”

Dusty knew when he was being taken down the path, but he decided to play along. “Rachel Dean quitting. Mayor Sutter deciding to run for governor. And Sam having bullets in his gun.”

The reverend smiled. “Funny, but those things don’t sound crazy to me at all. Waitresses quit all the time, mayors jump into gubernatorial races, and where I come from, sheriffs are supposed to carry loaded guns.” He cocked his head. “Are you telling me that yours isn’t loaded, either?”

A blast of organ music came out the window that sounded nothing like “Bringing in the Sheaves.” It sounded more like Emmie beating on her toy piano. The reverend cringed, but Dusty stayed focus.

“I hope you never have to find out, Reverend.” He put his hat back on. “Now I don’t mind a little friendly preachin’, but when it starts to cause problems for a bunch of kindhearted folks who wouldn’t hurt a soul, then that’s a different story.” He paused. “I think you’ve worn out your welcome in Bramble.”

Reverend Jessup’s smiled wilted. “Are you kicking me out of town?”

“Nope. Just making a friendly suggestion.”

“And if I don’t choose to take it?”

Dusty shrugged. “Of course, that’s totally up to you.” He pulled his citation pad out of his pocket and started filling it out. “King One, right?” Before the reverend could answer, he tore off the citation and handed it to him. He nodded out at the Cadillac parked in front. “I believe if we measured, you parked within fifteen feet of that fire hydrant. That’s a hundred-dollar fine.”

Reverend Jessup stared down at the ticket for only a second. “Why, you—”

“Careful, Reverend.” Dusty cut him off. “I’d hate to have to show you the inside of my jail. Of course, if you continue to cause trouble, that’s exactly where you’ll end up.”

“You’re messing with the wrong person,” Reverend Jessup hissed. “I am a powerful man who won’t have any problem calling in favors to get your badge.”

Dusty tipped his hat. “Well, you just do what you have to do, Reverend… and I’ll do the same.” He headed down the porch steps, and when he reached his car and glanced back, the reverend was still standing on the porch watching him with a look that was anything but Christian.

“Reverend, my ass,” Dusty said as he got into his car. Once he made a U-turn and was heading back toward town, he radioed in to Cora Lee and asked her to pull up whatever she could find on Reverend Jessup. He had just ended their conversation, when Kenny came zipping up behind him with flashing lights and blaring siren. Dusty heaved a sigh and pulled over in front of Sutter’s Pharmacy.

“Hey, brother in arms!” Kenny greeted him as soon as Dusty opened his door. “I thought you should know that I’m workin’ overtime to clean up Bramble.” He hitched up his belt, which was loaded down with every piece of law enforcement equipment known to man—and a few that had nothing to do with law enforcement. Like the Scooby-Doo flashlight. “I’ve already handed out fifty-two tickets and had to pull out my gun at least ten times.”

Holy shit
.

Dusty’s head began to throb in earnest. He took a deep breath before speaking. “I thought Mayor Sutter and I both told you not to be using your gun?”

Kenny’s eyes skittered away. “Well, I didn’t exactly use it. I just pulled it out.”

“And accidentally shot dead Jimmy Jenkin’s front tire,” Moses Tate said from his spot on the bench.

Dusty barely glanced at the old man before he held out his hand to Kenny. “Hand it over.”

“But it was an accident,” Kenny whined. “And Jimmy Jenkin’s tire was almost bald to begin with.” When Dusty’s hand remained, Kenny’s shoulders slumped. “Fine! But I’m keepin’ the Taser.” He pulled out his gun and slapped it in Dusty’s palm.

“This isn’t a game, Kenny.” Dusty tucked the gun in the back of his belt. “And if you can’t figure that out, I’ll have the mayor hire someone who takes the responsibilities of this job seriously. You’re not tasering anyone, and before you write out another ticket, I want you checking with me. Got it?”

Kenny nodded. “Yeah. I got it. But if I can’t hand out tickets and practice with my gun, what else is there to do?”

An idea popped into Dusty’s head. One that was pretty damned good if he did say so himself.