“Not much, no.”
“I don’t think I could sneeze without everybody within the city limits offering me a Kleenex.”
“You’re in the spotlight, all right. What do you expect, going around asking to dig up a body?”
“You make it sound so whimsical.”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“Do you think I’d disturb my mother’s grave if I didn’t think it was a vital step toward solving her murder?” she asked heatedly. “My God, do you think it was easy for me to even voice the request? And why did the judge feel it necessary to consult you, you, of all people?”
“Why not me? Because I’m a suspect?”
“Yes!” she cried. “Discussing this case with you is highly unethical.”
“I’m the sheriff, remember?”
“I never forget it. That’s still no excuse for Judge Wallace to go behind my back. Why is he so nervous about having the body exhumed? Is he afraid a forensic investigation will reveal something he helped to cover up?”
“Your request presented him with a problem.”
“I’ll just bet it did! Who is he trying to protect by keeping that coffin sealed?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Celina’s body can’t be exhumed. She was cremated.”
Chapter 12
Reede couldn’t figure out why he had elected to go to the seediest tavern along the highway for a drink when he had a perfectly good bottle of whiskey at home. Maybe it was because his frame of mind matched the dark, murky atmosphere of the honky-tonk.
He felt like shit.
He signaled for the bartender to pour him another drink. The Last Chance Bar was the kind of place that refilled glasses; customers didn’t get a clean one with each round.
“Thanks,” Reede said, watching the whiskey splash into his glass.
“You staking us out undercover, or what?” the bartender quipped.
Without moving anything but his eyes, Reede looked up at him. “I’m having a drink. Is that all right with you?”
The silly grin collapsed. “Sure, Sheriff, sure.” The bartender backed away to the opposite end of the bar, where he’d been carrying on a conversation with two friendlier patrons.
Reede noticed that one booth across the room was occupied by women. Surrounding the pool table was a trio of guys whom he recognized as wild well controllers. They were usually a rowdy bunch who partied hard between each dangerous gig. For the time being, they were peaceable enough.
Pasty Hickam and Ruby Faye Turner were cuddled in another booth. Reede had heard in the B & B that morning that Angus had canned the old ranch hand. Pasty had made a damn stupid mistake, but Reede thought the punishment was severe. Apparently, Pasty was being consoled by his latest flame. Reede had doffed his hat in their general direction when he had come in. They gave every appearance of wanting to be ignored as much as he wanted to ignore them.
It was a slow night at the Last Chance, which suited the sheriff just fine for professional as well as personal reasons.
He had gulped his first drink, barely tasting it. This one he sipped because he needed it to last longer. Nursing it delayed going home. Being alone didn’t hold much appeal for Reede. Neither did passing time in the Last Chance, but it was better th
an the first option. At least, tonight it was.
The whiskey had started a slow fire in his belly. It had made the twinkling Christmas lights, strung year-round over the bar, seem brighter and prettier. The dinginess of the place wasn’t so obvious when viewed through whiskey fumes.
Since he was beginning to mellow, he decided this would be his last drink of the night, another reason to savor it. Reede never drank to the point of intoxication. Never. He’d had to clean up after his old man had puked up everything but his toenails too many times for him to think that getting shit-faced was fun.