Death on Heels (33 page)

“And people have nothing better to talk about,” he replied.

“Tucker drew me a map of where these other cabins are. One of them could have been the killer’s hideaway.”

“And you gave that to T-Rex?”

“Ha. Sure I did. After he mocked every word I said and called the amazing silver heel I found a bunch of baloney? You bet, I offered myself up for more humiliation.”

Vic sighed and leaned back in his chair. “So you kept that back.” He didn’t look happy.

“I didn’t tell him what I had for breakfast yesterday either. For the record, we had day-old bagels from Petrus’s Bakery. They were in the Jeep that Tucker
borrowed
. I should probably stop by the bakery and pay Tasso Petrus for them. And thank him for the use of the Jeep.”

“I wouldn’t worry. Petrus’ll probably dine out for the next year on that story. But tell me about that map. Where is it?”

“In my bag.”

“May I have it? Please.”

“I have to make a copy first.” She retrieved the map and her notebook and sketched out a rough map of her own. It struck her that Virgil Avery was far too interested in the location of the cabin where she and Tucker spent the night.

“Have you finished yet? It doesn’t have to be exactly high art.” Before Lacey could retort, Vic’s phone rang. He looked at the number. “It’s Brad Owens. Hold on to that map. I better take this.”

Lacey planned on listening in, but then her own cell phone rang. It was the voice of doom.

“Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

Ladies’ Night at Sagebrush’s semi-famous Red Rose Bar was the place to be on Wednesday evenings. This particular Ladies’ Night for Lacey meant sharing “quality time” with her mother and sister, after her plans for an evening with Vic fell through. After their pizza, Vic went to see the deputy DA and left Lacey defenseless against Rose and Cherise.

Nevertheless, the Red Rose suited her plans. Ally Newport had worked there, and it was likely all three victims had spent time there.
It’s been such a fun night already, how could I pass up the Red Rose?

For the first three hours of Ladies’ Night, the bar was women only: No men allowed. The tradition had begun back when Lacey was a reporter and the male-to-female ratio in town was considerably more lopsided, nearly ten to one. Single women in Sagebrush had felt like they were the prey in a big game hunt. Ladies’ Night gave them a half-price drink or a soda, a long-stemmed red rose at the door, and a little after-work conversation in a semi-civilized, testosterone-free zone: three precious hours.

It also allowed the Red Rose to corral the women for the predators when the men were finally let in, in a thundering herd of testosterone. Her first time at Ladies’ Night, Lacey and her girlfriends from
The Daily Press
were blissfully unaware of this secret plan. At nine o’clock, the floor began to vibrate and the room began to rumble. It sounded like a buffalo stampede set to
steel guitar. The doors flew open and suddenly, yee-hah, there were men everywhere, in their best snap-front shirts and cowboy boots and hats, pouring through the doors, mobbing the bar and the tables, dragging women onto the dance floor. After that, Lacey always made sure to leave early.

Sagebrush’s boom times had gone bust for the moment, but the Red Rose Ladies’ Night soldiered on. It had become a tradition. Women still arrived at six for the half-price drinks and the girl talk and the country band, featuring the only men allowed in early. The rest of the desperados still came at nine, hoping to get lucky.

“We won’t be bothered here, Mom. Not for another hour and a half.”

“Not even by that rude sheriff?” Rose asked.

“He’s had a long day,” Lacey said. “Trust me.”

“You mean there aren’t any men in here at all?” asked Cherise, still rosy cheeked from her day of skiing in Steamboat Springs with Ben Barton. The powder apparently had been
awesome
, and so had Ben. But the Smithsonian ladies were on their own for Ladies’ Night.

The décor at the Red Rose, on a scale of wretched to divine, fell somewhere between a Victorian madam’s bordello and a cowboy movie saloon. The red flocked wallpaper and red leatherette upholstered chairs, the chandeliers and fringed red velvet lampshades—it all would have worked in either setting. Old-fashioned movie posters of Western heroes and villains graced the walls, and the floor sagged from the weight of years of customers bellying up to the bar. The restrooms were labeled B
UCKAROOS
and C
OWGIRLS
. It was the classiest bar in Sagebrush.

“Oh, my Lord, would you look at this place,” Rose had said upon entering the bar. “Lacey, are you sure decent people come in here?”

“Nope, just us, Mom.”

“It looks like that place on East Colfax in Denver. The place where they have those exotic dancers?”

“Even exotic dancers deserve a Ladies’ Night out,” said Cherise.

“Of course they do, sweetheart,” Rose said. “But that
wallpaper. And the lighting. The feng shui is wrong, simply all wrong.”

“It’s Sagebrush, Mom,” Lacey said. “They think feng shui is something you eat with chopsticks.”

“I could never get the hang of chopsticks,” Rose said. “But I’m here with my two girls, and you’re both still alive and beautiful, so I’ve done my job. Of course, when I get back home, I’m planning a weekend yoga retreat to get my center back.”

“Where did it go?” Lacey laughed.

“It went AWOL the second I heard you were kidnapped by your lunatic ex-boyfriend.”

“It was intense, Lace,” Cherise added. “I had to leave work and go home before Mom had a panic attack. And before you know it, she had me in the station wagon heading for Sagebrush.”

“I talked to your father. He’s in, um, wherever he is. He knows nothing. I’ll fill him in when he gets back,” Rose said. “The abridged version.”

“I owe you, Mom,” Lacey said. Smithsonian women always banded together to protect Even Steven from unhappy news. “You’re sure there weren’t any pictures of the whole courthouse drama on TV?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Cherise said, no doubt thinking about the YouTube video memorializing for all time her infamous cheerleader kick. “I would have given a lot for that.”

“Cherise, don’t tease your sister.”

“Who’s teasing? I’m serious.”

“No, there were no photos of you,” Rose said. “Just one of the getaway car Tucker stole. The antlers on the grille. Nice touch, Lacey. Classy.”

“Yeah, I begged him to take that one, thinking how cool it would look on the front page. You’re still wishing I’d taken that reporting job in Glenwood Springs, aren’t you?”

“If this had happened in Glenwood, I’d be swimming in the hot springs pool right now.”

A soak in a hot springs sounded good to all three Smithsonian women. They found a table near the dance
floor and Lacey waved to a waitress. Rose was deep in an imagined redecorating scheme for the Red Rose bar, mentally ripping down the wallpaper and installing new chandeliers. Lacey spied at the bar a pink angora sweater that was too tight for polite company and jeans that fit like wallpaper.
Uh-oh.

“Hey, isn’t that, um—?” Cherise paused, hunting for a name.

“It sure is.” Lacey stared at the overprocessed platinum blonde. “Montana McCandless Donovan Schmidt.”

“Vic’s ex?”

“Not ex enough for me.”
What is it about certain blondes that make men lose their minds?

Montana was drinking at the bar with another cotton-candy blonde in a supertight, baby blue sweater.

“
What
is she wearing? Looks like a bandage. Do they shop in the children’s section?” Cherise whispered. Lacey smiled. Sometimes family solidarity could be a comfort.

“What’s going on?” Rose shifted her attention from the décor to the blondes. “What’s that woman doing here?”

“I’ve got your back,” Cherise said. “And my badass blue boots.”

“Don’t move. I just need to say hello. I’ll call if I need you.” It was time to face her fears. Lacey tugged off her leather jacket and tossed it to her sister. She squared her shoulders and marched over to the bar.

“Hello, Montana.”

“Well, look what the cat just dropped off. On a horse, no less,” Montana said. “You got more lives than a cat, don’t you?”

“Gee, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

Montana’s sister in blondness eyed her. “Is she the one? With your Vic?”

“She’s the one.”

The friend gave Lacey a quick once-over and exchanged a look with Montana.

“It’s mutual,” Lacey replied. “Shouldn’t you be out with your new boyfriend?”

“Brad’s with Vic, trying to decide what to do about
the mess you made with Tucker. They’re, um, meeting Cindy and me here later.”

“You and Cindy?”

“That’s right. I think Brad will like Cindy.”

“He’s cute,” Cindy said.

“And Vic?” Lacey was sure Montana had plans for Vic.

“He’s mine.”

“Really? What was that divorce all about, then?”

“Haven’t you heard? Divorce isn’t forever anymore.”

“In your case, it is.”

Montana narrowed her eyes. “When Tucker carried you out of the courthouse, I thought it was my lucky day.”

Sometimes it’s good to get the enemy on the record.
“And you’d be there to comfort Vic, wouldn’t you? That was the plan, wasn’t it?”

“Who better than me? Believe me, I know how to comfort Vic. Tell me, Lacey. How’d
you
get so lucky? First, you rope Cole Tucker, the hottest cowboy this side of the Divide.” Montana pouted. “And then you snare my husband.”

“Ex-husband. The ex-husband before your current ex-husband.”
The Las Vegas drive-through wedding-mill, doesn’t-really-count ex-husband, you man-eater, you.

“How do you do it? Keep roping other women’s men?”

“I don’t know, Montana. How do you keep losing husbands?”

Montana did a boil, momentarily at a loss for words. Her friend Cindy stood up and announced, “Ladies’ room! Now.” Montana swallowed her beer and followed her friend, grabbing her jacket.

“Now why’d you have to go and ruin their little pity party?” the bartender cracked.

“I have a certain talent for it,” Lacey said with a smile. She watched as Cindy and Montana veered away from the ladies’ room and headed for the front door.

“You ought to teach a course in it. Now, something I can get you?” She appeared to be in her mid-forties. She
had black hair and eyes with crow’s feet, indicating that she smiled a lot.

“Please.” Lacey grabbed a barstool and ordered a virgin Bloody Mary. “And do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“You’re that D.C. reporter? Writing a story?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d think you’d be all done in, after that wild ride with Cole Younger Tucker. But go ahead. Name’s Effie, just spell it right.” She produced a copy of
The Daily Press
with the photo of Lacey mounted on Buttercup. “You mind signing this for me?”

“As long as I can send you a copy of the story I’m writing.” Lacey signed her name above the photo.

“Deal.” Effie grabbed the autographed paper and set it aside. “I never even heard of
The Eye Street Observer
, but I found it online. I’d love a copy. Now shoot.”

“Okay. Did Ally Newport have a steady boyfriend?”

“Sure, every couple of weeks. Steady like clockwork. That girl was an eternal optimist. Always looking for Mr. Right.”

“What happened to all the Mr. Wrongs?”

“This and that. She had a list of requirements. They never quite measured up. Didn’t slow her down though.” Effie pursed her lips. “Never figured she’d wind up dead the way she did.”

“And barefoot,” Lacey offered.

“Wasn’t that a curious thing,” Effie said. “Ally’d hate that. Mean thing that, taking those boots from her. She set great store by her boots.”

“How many pairs do you think she had?”

“Six, seven maybe, but she was no cowgirl.”

Same thing Aggie Maycomb had said. “What did men see in her?”

“A good time. Ally was just a good-time girl. Until she wasn’t anymore.” Effie fixed Lacey’s drink as she talked.

“So she was a party girl? Or just playing the field?”

“Ally wanted to get married,” Effie said, with a wave
of her hand. “Her clock was ticking. Like a time bomb. But her good-time reputation kind of got in the way.”

“Wasn’t there anyone special, different?”

The bartender laughed. “She thought she had one hooked, but he just got rid of one ex-wife, he wasn’t about to get hooked again. Dodd didn’t like her demands.”

“Dodd Muldoon?”

“Thought that would get your attention. He loved the way she looked in those little skirts she wore and those pretty boots. I heard his line of manure at the bar. To be honest I hadn’t thought about that before I read your article online, about finding the heel of Rae’s boot.”

“What do you think about that?”

“I think we got a monster in this town. And you might want to talk to
her
before you go.” Effie indicated a young woman in her early twenties at the far side of the bar. “Name’s Vonda McKay. She thinks her friend’s in trouble.”

Lacey followed Effie’s glance. “Will do. Anything else?”

“Ally might not have been the best bartender around. But no one deserves what happened to her or those other poor kids.” Effie turned her attention to a group of happy, thirsty Ladies’ Night ladies.

Lacey tucked her notebook away and scooted down the bar. Vonda McKay had spiky, bright yellow hair, dyed at home and possibly cut with a lawn mower, and eyes ringed in black liner. Her miniskirt over black tights, red sweater, and cowboy boots completed her cowpunk look. But despite the tough-little-cowgirl camouflage, she looked like a good girl in bad girl’s clothing.

“Hi, I’m Lacey Smithsonian. Mind if I sit here, and talk?”

The woman’s eyes grew wide. “Oh, it’s you! I read about you in the paper. I’m Vonda. Okay if we move? Bar gets so packed here.”

Lacey sent her mother and sister an I’m-working-don’t-bother-me look. She followed Vonda to a small table in the corner.

“Don’t believe everything you read in Muldoon’s newspaper,” Lacey began.

“I read that Cole Tucker didn’t hurt you and you think he didn’t hurt anyone.”