“Two is fine.” That would give her all morning to make calls and spend a little more time going over the books. There was a lot she didn’t understand about running this business—way too much she needed to learn.
As a teenager, she’d spent hours after school and on weekends with Joe at the yard and she had picked up a lot. The summer of her eighteenth birthday, he had taught her to drive a big rig, which had been a thrill, though she had never left the field they pretended was a road.
Back then Joe had wanted her to work with him, maybe take over the business after he was gone. At the time she hadn’t been interested in staying in Iron Springs. But years had passed; things had changed.
The phone rang. Joe’s direct line. When she pressed the receiver against her ear, the voice of Emmett Howler, Sheriff of Howler County, came through the earpiece.
“Sheriff Howler, I appreciate your returning my call,” Carly said.
“No problem, little lady. I know you’re worried about catching the men who killed your employee. We all are.”
Little lady. The words grated on her feminist nerves. She didn’t mind thema’am,a respectful term used by half the South, butlittle ladywas pushing it, as far as Carly was concerned.
“So there’s still no sign of the men who murdered Miguel Hernandez?” she asked.
“No, missy, there sure ain’t. But the department’s on top of it. We’ll find ’em sooner or later.”
“What about the truck and trailer?” It was insured, of course, but there was a steep deductible, which at the moment she couldn’t afford to pay. There’d be one less big rig in the fleet for a while.
“No sign of it. Like I said, we’re on it. I’ll be sure to let you know if anything new turns up.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” Carly hung up the phone.If anything new turns up. So far the cops didn’t have squat, just a plausible theory based on a .45 caliber bullet wound at the back of Miguel’s head and the disappearance of the truck and semi-trailer it was hauling.
The door swung open again and Donna stuck her head in, her stick-straight, silver-streaked black hair tied neatly at the nape of her neck. “So what did the sheriff have to say?”
It wasn’t really Donna’s business. Carly definitely needed to set some rules—or what the hell, maybe not. Before he’d gotten sick, Joe had been extremely successful. He treated the company like one big family. She’d stick with his tried-and-true methods for awhile.
“So far, Howler has come up with a big fat zero. There’s not a lot of crime out here. I think he’s in over his head.”
“Too bad the murder happened in the county.” Which was the sheriff’s jurisdiction. “Oh, Gordy asked if he could have tomorrow off to take care of some personal business. What do you think?”
Her shop foreman had worked for Joe for twenty years; he was the man who helped her keep things moving along.
“He’s been a real trooper. A day off shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Okay, then.” Donna swung the door closed and went back to work.
Carly returned to scanning the computer screen. How had her grandfather lost track of his finances so badly? She began scrolling through old accounting files. She needed to go through every month of the past year. If she still didn’t have an answer, she’d keep going back month by month until she did.
With a sigh, she went back to work.
* * *
The pilot landed one of two Tex/Am Bell helicopters on the pad outside the main house at Blackland Ranch, Linc’s property north and east of Iron Springs. The rotors slowed, but didn’t completely stop spinning.
“Have a good weekend, Mr. C,” the pilot said.
Linc slid open the heavy door. “You, too, Dillon. I’ll see you nextweek.” Jumping out of the chopper onto the asphalt, Linc kept his head low as he ran toward the palatial mansion.
Fifteen thousand square feet constructed entirely of stone, the house stood more than two stories tall, with arched, paned windows and formally landscaped grounds broken only by the long ribbon of driveway leading up from the road.
Linc hated the place.
A monument to extravagant bad taste, the mansion had been designed by his ex-wife, the former Holly Springer, a Miss America beauty pageant finalist. Linc loved the ranch, had hoped that building Holly a house would convince her to spend more time at the 2,500-acre property that was his personal retreat.
The house had taken two and a half years to finish—just six months shy of their three-year, completely unsuccessful marriage.
Linc didn’t bother to go inside, just skirted the house to the seven-car garage, passing one of the gardeners in a floppy-brimmed straw hat along the way. Linc waved and Pedro waved back.
