Dead Broke in Jarrett Creek: A Samuel Craddock Mystery (Samuel Craddock Mysteries) by Terry Shames Page A

noticed how much Rodell had let it run down. There’s a bank of file cabinets against one wall, but there appear to be more files stacked on top of the cabinets than inside. The desks are metal and should have stood up to the wear better than they have. They could use a good scrubbing—or maybe they could use replacing. Except the city is bankrupt, and I bet new desks for the police station is pretty far down the list of necessities. I lock up and head for the Walmart, twenty minutes away, on the outskirts of Bobtail. That’s as good a place as any to find a cell phone.

Angel Bright, Slate McClusky’s wife, answers the door when I stop by at seven thirty. When Slate married Angel she was a country-and-western singer of some success. She kept her stage name when she married. I suspect it’s a made-up name, but you never know.
    “Hey, Samuel, what a nice surprise.” She hasn’t lost the flat, nasal accent of a west Texas gal. And she hasn’t changed her looks from when she was on stage. She’s wearing tight jeans and a rose-colored Western shirt with pearl snaps. Her long mane of fluffy hair brushes the tops of her breasts. “Come on in. It’s time for a cocktail, and you look like you could use one.”
    “I could have a glass of something. Is Slate around?”
    “He should be home any time now. He called me when he left the resort an hour ago.” McClusky owns a resort west of here, in the hill country, that stocks exotic game and puts up hunters in fancy surroundings. They say he gets a lot of clients from all over the country willing to pay his prices.
    I follow Angel into the living room, aware of the way she swivels her hips as she sashays across the room. I catch myself staring and make a conscious effort to look elsewhere.
    There is a fire going in the huge fireplace, and hanging above it is a painting that immediately draws my attention. I move close and see that it’s a Frederic Remington. I assume it’s real because it’s got a substantial frame and a little light shining on it. Even though I long ago turned my interest to modern art, I still like the Western painters. This is a good example of Remington, with the horses and cattle and riders all looking like they could step out of the picture and ride into the sunset.
    “You like that picture?” she says.
    “I do. Remington has such a good touch with the brush that he makes it look effortless. And he has a keen eye for a scene. Gives you a real feel for the Old West.”
    She looks surprised and inspects the picture as if it never occurred to her that someone actually painted it. “I like it too. I don’t know anything about art, but Slate told me that picture is worth a pretty penny.”
    I’ve never been to the McCluskys’ house before. The room looks like a decorator’s idea of a Western home—two big puffy sofas covered in a fabric with a cactus theme sit on either side of the fireplace. A coffee table as big as a car, set on wagon wheels, separates the two sofas. Angel goes over to a massive piece of furniture that, when she opens the door, turns out to be a bar. “I’m having Scotch,” she says. I tell her I’ll take a little bourbon. “Just two fingers. I’m not much of a drinker.”
    “Me neither. It’s bad for the voice.” I don’t know why she’d care since as far as I know she hasn’t sung in several years. She pours both of us a lot more than two fingers and reaches into a little refrigerator inside the cabinet and adds ice to the drinks.
    She hands me my glass and then clinks hers to mine. “Let’s sit down and get to know one another better while we wait for Slate.”
    I like women and usually don’t have any trouble talking to them, but for some reason I feel awkward with Angel. She has a sort of sly way of looking at me, with a lazy, knowing smile that unsettles me.
    We sit down across from each other on either side of the fireplace. She tucks her legs up next to her, thrusts her chest out, and tosses her hair