Blood Land by R. S. Guthrie Page B

baron who paid her a handsome alimony settlement each month. Unlikely she would have anything to do with fraud for profit.
    “City attorney’s office,” Delgado answered.
    “Shell, it’s James Pruett.”
    “Sheriff Pruett. How are you doing?”
    “I’m well. Doing fine. Listen, Shell, you have time for a lunch date?”
    “A date? Damn, Sheriff, you know how to talk to a lady.”
    “Just the two of us, if you know what I mean? Professional-like,” he said.
    “Sure, sweetie. Nothing Beulah needs to know about.”
    Shelly was bright. Pruett was counting on it.
    They met at Lyman’s Pub, a new bistro on the edge of town with a private patio.
    “Were you involved at all in the McIntyre estate settlement,” Pruett asked.
    “No,” Delgado replied. “Beulah does her side representation. We’re encouraged not to do the same ourselves.”
    “That seems fair,” the sheriff said and drank his iced tea.
    “Life, love, and war,” Shelly said.
    “You’ve never struck me as the type to cause yourself debits in order to gain upward mobility.”
    “I’m not a mover and a shaker, that what you are trying to say?”
    “Guess so,” Pruett said thinking how good a cold microbrew would taste.
    “I love the law,” she responded. “Always have. I figure as long as I am practicing, I’m doing what I was meant to be doing. I don’t need the moniker on the door.”
    “I think Beulah is dirty,” Pruett said, laying it there in the middle of them. “I can’t prove anything as definite yet, but there is a strange and befouled undercurrent running in your office.”
    Delgado said nothing.
    “That doesn’t draw outrage?” Pruett said. “No indignation even?”
    “We’re talking about my career now, Pruett,” she said slowly. “Right or wrong, I really don’t warm up to the idea of being unemployed. Not much lawyering going on in this little town, in case you hadn’t noticed. Mine is a pretty good gig for a small town girl.”
    “Not for one with a love of the law,” he said.
    “Maybe not,” Shelly said. “But we each make a sacrifice. Sometimes more than one.”
    “I have suspicions,” Pruett said. “I wanted to bring it to you first. If you have no interest in justice, then I’ll go to Jackson. Or anywhere else in the state. I could even go to the Feds. I wanted to give you the chance, if you were willing.”
    “You know what this will do for the defense, right?”
    Pruett knew. He also knew Delgado was right. Everyone makes sacrifices. To put Beulah Jorgensen under indictment in the very conspiracy that started the wheels of murder headed toward his wife would be to hand the defense the case. He could be freeing the man who murdered his beloved.
    “I know what it means,” Pruett said. “I also know what Bethy would have me do, were she able to say so.”
    “Beulah has a place where she keeps her personal files,” Delgado said. “I mean personal . As in, hidden. She’s an oaf. Thinks no one is the wiser. You tell me what you have and maybe I’ll have a looksee into that private stock of paperwork.”
     

    The next person to visit was J.W. Hanson. Pruett now knew of Ty’s intent to confess to the crime, and though he knew Hanson would try to talk the cowboy out of doing such a thing, Pruett figured the lawyer would be more motivated if he knew what train was barreling down the track. Pruett found Hanson at his hotel room, with Wendy.
    “A minute of your time,” Pruett said, touching the tip of his hat and smiling at his daughter.
    “Sure,” said Hanson. The two walked out into the parking lot of the Shady Day hotel.
    “I know what Ty’s planning tomorrow,” Pruett said.
    “He mentioned that he told you,” said Hanson. “Though I am sure that makes you a happy man, I am trying to convince him otherwise.”
    “I figured,” said Pruett. “Ty can be stubborn.”
    “On that much, we agree,” Hanson said.
    “I have some information that might make your argument a little more