might expect after a satisfying bout of sweaty sex, filled the room. “It is a sweet machine, with top of the line digital fish finder—”
“Which is all interesting,” I interrupted his almost orgasmic reverie, “but where’s Cindy Jo’s motive?”
Rich scratched the red stubble on his chin. “That’s what made Cindy Jo crazy. He didn’t use her money to buy it. I don’t know where JC scrounged up that kind of cash, but I have my suspicions. He figured since he’d paid for the boat, he didn’t have to answer to Cindy Jo ’bout how much time he spent fishing. And, JC wouldn’t even let her set foot on it.”
“How’d that go over?”
“Guess she was mad enough to spit nails.” He chortled at his own humor.
I bit back a smile. “So he up and went to Kansas City to prove he could be a pro fisherman without her blessing? Did you know he’d hooked a potential sponsor?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even know he had a sponsor. He would’ve shared the news with me, or asked me to ride along, but I knew nothing about it. I heard it all from Cindy Jo.”
Something didn’t fit. “Would JC have asked you to come with him if he’d been doing something illegal on his way to Kansas City?”
Rich blanched but didn’t answer, which in itself was the answer I needed.
“Could he be ‘running errands’?” ‘Running errands’ is slang for drug trafficking on I-90—the interstate that bisects South Dakota. I had it on good authority that the highway patrol zeros in on out-of-state license plates, leaving local drug runners somewhat safe. Especially when the locals are willing to rat out a competitor from another state. The SDHP gets a big drug bust and the locals get to carry on, business as usual. “JC was into something bad, wasn’t he?”
His morose nod made me feel as if I’d kicked a puppy, but I soldiered on. “Think about this. If he was running drugs, and if he double-crossed his new employers, his body may be moldering in the middle of a cornfield. And if that’s the case, I doubt anyone will find him until threshing time.”
His congenial tone disappeared and his eyes snapped with resentment. “That’s a possibility, but Cindy Jo is involved somehow, I just know it. She killed him. Even if she is a little bitty thing, she’s as mean as rattlesnake.”
That stopped me for a second, but his line of logic lacked a hook. I hate turning down business, but I felt compelled to point out, “Still don’t see the motive. She couldn’t have killed him for a life insurance policy, because you have to produce a body to make the claim.”
Rich picked at a hole in his ratty jeans, avoiding my gaze. Finally he glanced up at me with haunted, watery eyes. “Maybe I’m off base, but will you at least talk to Cindy Jo, even if it proves I’m the one that’s crazy?”
Poor man. I didn’t want to get his hopes up, but this whole situation smacked of a bad episode of Maury Povich . Luckily for him, I’d been born a sucker for a sad story with a rotten ending. “Sure. I’ll talk to her, see what else I can find out,” I said, withdrawing a blank contract from my desk, “but it’ll cost you.”
Red splotches appeared on his forehead, nearly matching the color of his hair. “How much?”
I immediately knocked off two hundred dollars from the standard retainer. “Three hundred to start. That’ll buy you a day or so of seeing what I can dig up. Beyond that, I’ll call you before you rack up any more charges. Will that work?”
He nodded.
I filled in the contract and handed him a pen. He nearly knocked off one of the glass statues on my desk as he maneuvered his arm around to sign the paperwork with his left hand.
After he’d signed on the dotted line, he stood, dug in the left front pocket of his skin-tight Wranglers, and tossed three crumpled sweaty Benjamins on top of the paperwork.
“One last question. Did JC take his boat with him to Kansas?”
“No. That’s
“Which is all interesting,” I interrupted his almost orgasmic reverie, “but where’s Cindy Jo’s motive?”
Rich scratched the red stubble on his chin. “That’s what made Cindy Jo crazy. He didn’t use her money to buy it. I don’t know where JC scrounged up that kind of cash, but I have my suspicions. He figured since he’d paid for the boat, he didn’t have to answer to Cindy Jo ’bout how much time he spent fishing. And, JC wouldn’t even let her set foot on it.”
“How’d that go over?”
“Guess she was mad enough to spit nails.” He chortled at his own humor.
I bit back a smile. “So he up and went to Kansas City to prove he could be a pro fisherman without her blessing? Did you know he’d hooked a potential sponsor?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even know he had a sponsor. He would’ve shared the news with me, or asked me to ride along, but I knew nothing about it. I heard it all from Cindy Jo.”
Something didn’t fit. “Would JC have asked you to come with him if he’d been doing something illegal on his way to Kansas City?”
Rich blanched but didn’t answer, which in itself was the answer I needed.
“Could he be ‘running errands’?” ‘Running errands’ is slang for drug trafficking on I-90—the interstate that bisects South Dakota. I had it on good authority that the highway patrol zeros in on out-of-state license plates, leaving local drug runners somewhat safe. Especially when the locals are willing to rat out a competitor from another state. The SDHP gets a big drug bust and the locals get to carry on, business as usual. “JC was into something bad, wasn’t he?”
His morose nod made me feel as if I’d kicked a puppy, but I soldiered on. “Think about this. If he was running drugs, and if he double-crossed his new employers, his body may be moldering in the middle of a cornfield. And if that’s the case, I doubt anyone will find him until threshing time.”
His congenial tone disappeared and his eyes snapped with resentment. “That’s a possibility, but Cindy Jo is involved somehow, I just know it. She killed him. Even if she is a little bitty thing, she’s as mean as rattlesnake.”
That stopped me for a second, but his line of logic lacked a hook. I hate turning down business, but I felt compelled to point out, “Still don’t see the motive. She couldn’t have killed him for a life insurance policy, because you have to produce a body to make the claim.”
Rich picked at a hole in his ratty jeans, avoiding my gaze. Finally he glanced up at me with haunted, watery eyes. “Maybe I’m off base, but will you at least talk to Cindy Jo, even if it proves I’m the one that’s crazy?”
Poor man. I didn’t want to get his hopes up, but this whole situation smacked of a bad episode of Maury Povich . Luckily for him, I’d been born a sucker for a sad story with a rotten ending. “Sure. I’ll talk to her, see what else I can find out,” I said, withdrawing a blank contract from my desk, “but it’ll cost you.”
Red splotches appeared on his forehead, nearly matching the color of his hair. “How much?”
I immediately knocked off two hundred dollars from the standard retainer. “Three hundred to start. That’ll buy you a day or so of seeing what I can dig up. Beyond that, I’ll call you before you rack up any more charges. Will that work?”
He nodded.
I filled in the contract and handed him a pen. He nearly knocked off one of the glass statues on my desk as he maneuvered his arm around to sign the paperwork with his left hand.
After he’d signed on the dotted line, he stood, dug in the left front pocket of his skin-tight Wranglers, and tossed three crumpled sweaty Benjamins on top of the paperwork.
“One last question. Did JC take his boat with him to Kansas?”
“No. That’s
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