Rode Hard, Put Away Dead

Book 3: Trade Ellis

by Sinclair Browning

Genres: Private Investigators; Female Sleuths; Suspense

Synopsis

Dying to earn her spurs...

Even in sweltering June, there's plenty of work for Trade Ellis on her Arizona ranch, but right now her part-time P.I. practice is as dry as the desert -- until bull rider J. B. Calendar marries a candy heiress who's crazy to turn cowgirl.

Abigail Van Thiessen, nipped and tucked into great shape, has thirty-two years -- and a few hundred million dollars -- on her husband. So when she meets her untimely death on a romantic horseback trip with her newlywed stud, the cops suspect foul play. And J.B. hires Trade to prove him innocent.

While plenty of people stood to gain from Abby's death -- the ex-football-star preacher she bankrolled, a half brother with his own millions, and a topless dancer with a grudge, just for starters -- no suspect looks better than J.B., a boozing tomcatter who's lucky with the ladies. Until Trade learns about another murder in town the same night Abby died ... a development that may bring the investigation -- and Trade -- to the very deadest of ends.

Release date: June 10, 2009

Publisher: Crimeline

Print pages: 382

Sample

1
 
Abigail Van Thiessen had been lifted, stitched, tucked, stretched, molded, nipped, sucked, mudded and sweated and she still didn’t ride worth a damn. Not that all of that remodeling should have turned her into a cowgirl, but the thousands of dollars she’d spent on horseback riding lessons could have accounted for something.
 
Still, with all the Choco-Willie Candy fortune behind her, I supposed she wasn’t too worried about her money being flushed down the toilet.
 
Martín, my ranch foreman, and I sat on our horses high on the mesa watching the circus down below. We were gathering cattle and Abby and her husband of six months, J.B. Calendar, were trying to flush a Brahma bull out of the brush. By my own count, Abby had almost fallen off her horse three times in the last five minutes. But then almost only counts in horseshoes.
 
“J.B.’s got his hands full,” Martín offered.
 
I nodded. “So does she.”
 
Less than a year earlier J.B. Calendar rode into Abigail Van Thiessen’s heart on a two-thousand-pound bucking, twisting, torqueing Brahma bull and never left. The wiry Arizona bull rider had been a part of the rodeo show the Rancho Los Reales entertained their corporate guests with, and that particular night had included executives from Choco-Willie. Abigail Van Thiessen and her brother, Peter, sole owners of the candy dynasty, had been in the audience.
 
To keep everyone glued to the performance and in their seats—just as in the real rodeos—the Los Reales crew had saved the bull riding until last. There was always something in this man-against-beast pairing that thrilled spectators. The only difference between this sport and the Christians against the lions was that today’s spectators liked to see their heroes walk away from the wreck. Usually that happened. But sometimes in bull riding the good guys didn’t get up.
 
World champion Lane Frost was one who didn’t. Although he’d been killed a few years earlier, Los Reales had a spectacular finale where J.B. Calendar would ride a bull, not for the required eight seconds, but for a full sixteen—eight for himself and eight for Lane Frost. The fact that he had never known Frost, for J.B. was a second-class bull rider at best, or that national champion Tuff Hedeman had been the first to offer this tribute, never seemed to bother the Los Reales champ.
 
Double Indemnity, the ancient Brahma who was the class part of the act, always made J.B. look good. The two of them had perfected Calendar’s dismount to the point where he’d tumble into the dirt with Double Indemnity spinning into the dust beside him.
 
J.B. would lie, like a broken, busted doll, face down in the arena, listening to the crowd gasp, and then become strangely silent. In the best John Barrymore tradition, Calendar would begin to twitch, first one finger, then a hand, a shudder of a shoulder and then a leg quiver, and finally slowly rise from the earth like Lazarus from the dead.
 
That first encounter was one that Abigail Van Thiessen often related in the ensuing months. “Like a Remington bronze come to life,” she’d said. “I’d never seen anything like it.”
 
In the time it took Abby to push through the crowd eager to congratulate the dusty cowboy on his spectacular ride, J.B. had already figured out who she was.
 
The fact that the Choco-Willie mistress had thirty-two years on him didn’t hobble his courtship.
 
And now the happy honeymoon couple was down in the canyon below me trying to coax a recalcitrant Brahma from the brush. Watching Abby bounce on the seat of her saddle, I briefly wondered if I could be sued for someone falling off her horse on my land.
 
J.B. was doing a valiant job trying to chouse the bull out from under a mesquite tree, but he might as well have been working alone for all the help his bride was giving him. At least he rode. Unlike ropers and bronc riders, a lot of bull riders are city boys, and not all that comfortable riding horses. At the National Finals Rodeo every year a lot of them hate the grand entry where they either ride or face a $250 fine.
 
“Chiquita, they’re never gonna get Freight Train out of there,” Martín offered.
 
I wasn’t surprised that even at this distance my foreman knew the beast in the brush, for Freight Train was the largest bull on the ranch.
 
“Looks like work for you, Blue.” At the sound of her name, the Australian cattle dog jumped up from under the mesquite tree where she’d been resting. Mrs. Fierce, my cock-a-schnauz, had been left back at the ranch headquarters. While she would have preferred to come along on the roundup, she also took her job as head of ranch security very seriously, and I had left her with that important assignment.
 
As I rode down the mesa, the hot June sun flooded my face in spite of my cowboy hat. Dream, my bay Arabian, had his evaporative cooler already working as his neck and shoulders gleamed with sweat. I was glad we started early. While the ice had already broken on the Santa Cruz—a local euphemism for the first day of the year that hits 100 degrees—the weatherman had sworn last night that we’d only hover in the high 90s. So far, he was right.
 
But that’s how June in the desert around Tucson is, hot and dry. While my ranch, the Vaca Grande, is thirty miles north of town and cooler than Tucson, when you’re talking those kinds of degrees, it’s not much help. The desert was suffering, not only with the heat, but also with the prolonged drought we’d been having.
 
In spite of the temperature, I was happy to be out gathering cattle this morning. It gave me a good chance to clear the cobwebs in my head, and took me away from my other job as a private investigator. All in all, I’m one of the lucky ones, for I love the ranch life and I love my work, and in both I’m self-employed, which means I can set my own hours, wear what I please and screw off when I want to.
 
As Martín and I rode up, Freight Train decided to amble out from under the tree. With a stern shake of his massive head and an impressive snort, he stamped one huge cloven foot at Abby’s horse and started throwing dirt over his shoulder. Blue was boldly nipping at his heels in an effort to dislodge him.
 
“Move!” J.B. yelled.
 
His timing was just off, for Abby’s seasoned horse knew not to get in the way of the irritated bull and the horse spun out from underneath her, depositing her at the feet of the huge Brahma. Her cowboy hat landed a few feet away.
 
Freight Train looked as startled as the rest of us and, thankfully, instead of charging this godsend from heaven, he stomped on her dislocated straw hat and took off in the direction of the cows.
 
Abby rolled on her back and gulped air.
 
J.B. did a quick dismount, dropped his reins on the ground and rushed to his wife before Martín and I could even get close. Abby’s horse browsed nearby.
 
“Oh, hon.” He leaned over her, brushing her blond hair away from her face. “Don’t move, just take it easy.” One of his hands was on her thigh, the other holding her hand as he watched her gasp. “Are you okay?”
 
His bride didn’t answer. She couldn’t, for all of her energy was concentrated on catching her breath. J.B. looked close to tears.
 
Finally, Abigail Van Thiessen said, “I’m fine, sweetie,” as she sat up slowly and rubbed her hip.
 
I was now on the ground, kneeling in the dust, beside J.B. “Don’t get up too quickly, Abby,” I cautioned. “Take a few deep breaths and take inventory.”
 
The Choco-Willie heiress gave me a blurry look. “Are you part Apache?”
 
“What?” I said.
 
“J.B. said you’re part Apache, is that true?”
 
Calendar gave me an embarrassed look.
 
“My grandmother is an Apache.” What in the hell did this have to do with her getting dumped? Did she have a concussion?
 
“Who am I?” Her husband of six months asked, obviously considering the same diagnosis.
 
She gave him a sly grin.
 
“Stud Muffin McGillicutty.”
 
“Abby, what day is it?” I asked.
 
She fluffed the dirt out of her blond, once perfectly coiffed hair, and as she pushed it back from her face I could see faint surgical scars, the result, no doubt, of her many rumored plastic surgeries. Even at sixty-eight, she was a strikingly good-looking woman. Her doctors had done a good job, for she lacked much of the stretched, numb look that so many face-lifted women wear. I suspected that her lips had not escaped attention either, for they were suspiciously full. Collagen injections, no doubt. She batted her crystal blue eyes at me. “Monday. It’s Monday.”
 
She was right.
 
“What’s your name?” J.B. asked.
 
“Abigail Van Thiessen,” she paused. “Calendar.”
 
Martín, convinced that we were not looking at a medevac case, rode off after Freight Train.
 
“I don’t think we need to bother with asking who the president is,” I said.
 
“I’m not going there.” Abby grinned. Her teeth were flawless and unnaturally white.
 
J.B. helped her to her feet and then retrieved her wide-brimmed straw cowboy hat. She was quite a bit shorter than her groom, and rail thin. At five foot seven and 125 pounds I felt like a giant standing next to her.
 
“It’s a little the worse for wear,” J.B. said apologetically, dusting her hat off against his Wrangler’s. From my vantage point I could see that it was a good one—a $100 Thievin’ Vaqueros. He took the tips of his fingers and gently wiped the dust from her nose. “How’s my girl?”
 
She patted his face. “I’m fine, sweetie. Really.”
 
He gave her a light kiss on the lips and replaced the cowboy hat on her head. Then he retrieved her horse and held it for her as she struggled to get on.