Mason pondered leaving Whiskey right where he was, taking a shower and driving into town for breakfast. ‘Serves him right,’ he thought to himself as he trudged back towards the kitchen.

But he went to the drawer that held the knives, grabbed what appeared to be the sharpest one, and slowly walked back down the hall of the guest wing.  As he set his coffee down on the nightstand, Mason reached over and cut through the rope that bound his friend to the headboard.  Whiskey opened his eyes, looked at Mason, and then closed them again.  His arms were numb.  “Really?” Mason asked him in a voice that belied his level of irritation.

“You had to be there,” Whiskey said, eyes still closed.

“I have been.”  Mason turned around, picked up his coffee cup and walked out of the room.

Twenty minutes later, a showered Whiskey made his way to the kitchen and poured his own cup of coffee before wandering out the big sliding glass doors to the backyard and joined Mason, already sitting at a poolside table.  The sun had been up long enough to make things warm, though the atmosphere at the table was still chilly.  There was a light wind.  Mason’s dog was asleep at his feet.  Mason’s head pounded; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been hung over two days in a row. Whiskey subconsciously rubbed his wrists which were sore, his arms still ached, their sockets felt like they’d been stretched to the limit.

Neither of them said anything for a long time.

Finally, “I suppose the Mark VI is still at the high school?” Mason inquired.

Whiskey nodded.  “You were way too drunk to drive.  We got you into Eileen’s Mercedes and I followed her out here to help get you inside.  The Continental is right where you left it last night.”

There was another long period of silence, the only sounds heard being the yellow lab changing positions attempting to get comfortable on the white Texas limestone patio that surrounded the pool.

“I’m going to go in and take a shower.  You can take me into town.  We’ll grab some breakfast at the Grounds for Divorce and then you can drop me off at the school to pick up my car,”   Mason said.  Whiskey thought there would be more to say, but figured the time wasn’t right.  He just nodded in agreement.

A half hour later they were in the ‘63 Ford F-100, windows down, a fine cloud of dust trailing the old green Ford as it headed into Fort Stockton.  Passing the sign that said SECOND BAPTIST CHURCH OF FORT STOCKTON WELCOMES YOU TO TOWN, Mason said, “Did I make a fool of myself?”

“You’ve always been a quiet drunk.”  Whiskey didn’t know how much information his friend really wanted.

“Was Dharma Drury there?”  Mason seemed like he was trying to piece the whole night together in his mind, like it was a movie he knew he’d seen but it had been a long time and he couldn’t remember the ending, or much of what came before it.

“She was there.  Hell, everybody was there,” Whiskey told him.  There was an absence of any reply.  “She was there with her husband.  I don’t think the man is long for this world.  It looks like the cancer has just about claimed him.”  Mason nodded.  “You didn’t say anything to either one of them, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Mason considered himself to be a man of principle, despite the fact that he and Dharma Drury had continued a relationship off and on over the years since they had lived across the hall from one another at The Alamo Arms.  Women were his downfall.  They always had been.  He felt bad about the situation with Dharma, her husband suffering through a debilitating disease while the two of them snuck away to dip the stinger in the honey.  But it was what it was.  He certainly didn’t want to make the situation worse by making any kind of a display about it in public.

They pulled into the parking lot of the Grounds for Divorce.  Mason was glad there weren’t many cars out front.  He didn’t want to see a lot of people.

The two of them went in and sat themselves in the booth at the front. Lucinda was there almost instantly with two cups and a fresh pot of Folgers from the Bunn-O-Matic. “Two mornings in a row in the front booth, looking like a hammered goat turd,” she said looking at Mason.  “You going for a new record?”

“Go easy on him,” Whiskey warned her.  “He’s havin’ a rough mornin’.”

“More like a rough week, I’d say,” she said.  Lucinda was never one to shower pity on someone who’d chosen to piss in their own Post Toasties.  “Delgado just pulled out a fresh pan of cat-head biscuits from the oven.  How ‘bout some biscuits and gravy?  Guaranteed to help the hangovers you must both be nursing.”

“Fine.”  Mason mumbled.  “And keep the coffee coming.”

“Always do.”  She headed towards the kitchen.

Five minutes later, there were two large platters on the table, one in front of each of them.  On each platter were two big buttermilk biscuits, each the size of a big cat’s head, smothered in sausage gravy.  Next to the biscuits were a couple eggs, scrambled up in yellow fluffy clouds covered in sharp cheddar cheese.  Three slabs of thickly cut applewood bacon lay beside the eggs.  Lucinda always knew what men needed.

The two friends ate without talking, punctuating their breakfast with gulps of hot Folgers.  No matter how much coffee they drank, neither of them ever saw the bottom of the cup.  Such were Lucinda’s talents in the table serving arts.  Full stomachs seemed to make it easier for the two men to communicate.

“I understand now why you never wanted to share details of your trips to California,” Whiskey said.  Mason looked up from his plate, surprised that would be the first thing Whiskey would say.  “I’m just sayin’.”  

“She’s a unique woman,” Mason replied.  “We probably should just leave it at that.”

After another long period of silence Whiskey said, “She told me about traveling all the way to Indiana, after going back to St. Jo.  She said she wanted to look into the eyes of the killers when she interviewed them in prison.  They’d killed nearly a whole family.  She said looking into their eyes was the only way she could tell the whole story.”  

Mason continued to stare at his empty plate.

“I told her about my mother.  At the campsite. The look in her eyes that I had never seen before, and never saw again,” Whiskey said in a voice that was almost a whisper.  

Mason looked up.  It was the first time in years Whiskey had mentioned what took place with his mother, or what happened to his father next to the old Monterey wagon.  The fact that Whiskey had told Eileen about it shocked Mason, but also confirmed that the woman had a way of dragging information from people that was so subtle it could barely even be detected.  No wonder she was able to craft tales of mystery and murder, she had the talent of unlocking secrets men had planned on never sharing, and then making those secrets part of her own story however she wanted to twist them.

He was about to say something, although the thought hadn’t even fully formed in his mind,  when the glare coming off the windshield from a car that had just pulled up distracted him.  He glanced out and saw someone emerge from a piss-yellow Chrysler K-car that had to be a government-issued vehicle.  The driver unfolded himself from the cabin like a letter being freed from an envelope that was too small to contain it.  His suit, wrinkled from the seat and lap belt, was as cheap as it was ill fitting.  The guy obviously was not from Fort Stockton.  When he stepped into the cafe, he looked around like someone who’d just disembarked from a ship into a land where he was a stranger and wasn’t aware of the local customs.

“Can I help ya.”  Lucinda could see the stranger might be confused.

“I was told I might find Mason McCullough here,” the stranger admitted.  Lucinda nodded over in the direction of the front booth by the window.  “Thanks, ma’am.”  He headed over and stood at the end of the table where Mason and Whiskey sat.

“One of you gentlemen, Mason McCullough?” the tall, rumpled man asked.

“That’d be me.”  Mason was surprised, but it had been a morning of surprises, so he took it in stride.  “How can I help you?”

The man pulled out a wallet-like accessory and flipped it open, revealing an ID card and a badge. “Special Agent Ford.  Out of the Houston office.  I understand you may know some details surrounding Eileen Parker, better known to most as Parker McHale.”

Mason and Whiskey looked at each other, trying not to make it obvious that they were each just about to soil themselves.

“The whole town knows the details,” Mason said. “Yesterday was Parker McHale Day, for Pete’s sake.”

“So I understand.  The front desk at the Cattle Baron where she was registered said she didn’t return to her room last night.”  Special Agent Ford attempted to not let the smirk show up on his face, but not very hard.  “They said she may have spent the night out at your place.”

Lucinda seemed to be hovering in the background with a fresh pot of Folgers.  Mason was considering just what all to volunteer, wishing Franklin Danbury would walk through the door and sit down next to him in the booth before he said anything else.  Special Agent Ford glanced down at the red rope rash on Whiskey’s wrists.  “Did you hurt yourself, somehow?”

“Ropin’ calves.  Shoulda worn gloves.  Wasn’t thinkin’.” Whiskey sounded half believable, buy only half.

“We probably ought to start from the beginning, just so we’re singin’ from the same sheet of music,” Mason said.  “Why don’t you have a seat, let Lucinda here bring you a cup of coffee, and let’s have a visit.”

“I’ve been squeezed into that turdbox of a car for hours.  I need to stand up for a while to see if I can get the feeling back in my legs.”  Special Agent Ford glanced back at Lucinda, still hovering, “But a coffee would be great.”  She returned before anything else could be said, filled his cup, and topped off the other two.

“I’ve got some bad news for Ms. McHale, I’m afraid.”  Ford sipped the black coffee and then decided to go ahead and sit down.  “Her stepfather, Ratliff Walker.  He was found murdered in his own home.  Turns out he was responsible for the murder of someone else, too.  We’re still figuring out all the angles.  But we wanted to keep her in the loop.  Maybe see if she could fill in any blanks.  So she stayed at your place last night?”

“Yeah.  I was too drunk to drive home after the big celebration that she was here for.  She drove me home.  Got me to bed.  Stayed the night, I assume.  She and her car were gone when I woke up this morning.”  Mason didn’t feel the need to share every detail, at least at this point.  “What happened to her stepfather?”

“Walker?  He was found tied to the headboard of his own bed, strangled with a red scarf.”  Ford was looking at Lucinda walking back to the kitchen and didn’t see both men in the booth nearly choke.

“Any clues who did it?” Mason asked while Whiskey pulled his sleeves down to cover the rope marks on his wrist.

“Workin’ on it.  Got some leads.  It’s complicated.”  Lucinda brought him a menu in case he wanted some breakfast.  “He was responsible for the murder of some guy at a motel in Saint Joseph, Missouri.  Might have been revenge for that.  Still checking.”

“Ratliff Walker killed the motel owner?”  Mason’s head was spinning for a whole different reason than it had been ten minutes earlier.

“Not directly.  He supplied the murder weapon and paid the cash to whoever actually pulled the trigger.”  Lucinda was right behind him.  He glanced up and said, “I’ll have the special.  Eggs over easy.”  Mason was completely confused, Whiskey was beginning to sweat.  Lucinda didn’t want to turn the order into Delgado in the kitchen for fear of what she might miss.

“How do you know that?” Mason asked.

“The gun was registered to Walker’s wife.  Well, his wife’s first husband, anyway.  That’s how we tracked it down.  The killer was a damn fool to leave it in the dumpster with the motel owner.  Made it easy to track down.”  Ford was giving a lot more information than he was getting. But he felt like the two were impressed with his detective skills.  He went on, “I understand you are the owner of the property now.  The home Walker built for him and his wife.  And his stepdaughter.”

“Yeah.  My attorney and I own it in a partnership.  It’s a Bed & Breakfast now.”  Mason said as he realized why they never found Ratliff Walker buried in the back yard, nor the gun hidden in the attic.  “How do you know Walker paid for the murder?”

“We traced the money.  The killer left it at a rest stop in Kansas.  An anonymous tip called it into our Kansas City office.”  Lucinda brought out his breakfast and sat it down in front of him.  As he unwrapped the silverware from the tight white napkin, he went on, “the money was traced back to small banks all over southwest Texas.  Cash that had been in safe deposit boxes for twenty years, apparently.  There were no bills newer than 1960.”

“Just where did Ratliff Walker live?  When he was still alive?” Mason asked.

“Springfield, Illinois.  ‘Bout two thirds of the distance between St. Jo, Missouri and Hollandsburg, Indiana.”  Ford didn’t seem to draw any connection to those two places.  But then, the Parker McHale movie hadn’t come out about the quadruple murder in Hollandsburg.  He darn sure didn’t know that Eileen had spent time in both places just about the same time her long lost stepfather and the lover who’d “given her the best sex of her life” both reached their expiration dates.

“I feel bad for Ms. McHale.  Poor thing lost her stepfather and her boyfriend in such a short period of time,” Ford said as he wolfed down Delgado’s eggs.  “These are the best damn eggs I’ve ever had!”

“They’re our specialty,” Lucinda said, right behind him.

“What was the boyfriend part?” Mason asked, not understanding what Ford had just said.

“The young guy she’d been living with, out there in Hollywood.  Died in her pool.  Figured you’d heard about that.  Hell, it was in PEOPLE magazine.”  Ford sopped up what was left of his eggs with what was left of his cat-head biscuit.  “She wasn’t there at the time, but the poor bastard was apparently poisoned, didn’t know it, and went for a swim.  Everything pointed to the maid in that one.  The LA office figured he was doing the maid when Ms. McHale was out of town.  The maid got jealous.  Poisoned the booze bottle and encouraged him to go in for a midnight swim.  Hard to say for sure, though.  She was an illegal and got back across the border before she could be brought in for questioning.”

Whiskey was rubbing his wrists under the table.  Lucinda was listening from her spot right next to the Bunn-O-Matic.  Mason felt his throat tightening.  Special Agent Ford was wishing he’d ordered a pancake on the side.

“Anyway,” Ford said, “did she say where she was headed when she left your place this morning?  I need whatever you can tell me for my report.”

“She left before I got up,” Mason replied.  “I was still pretty hung over. She slept in the guest bedroom and must have left pretty early.  I never heard a thing.”  Mason leaned back in the booth and went over everything he’d learned in the last twenty minutes.  And then compared it to everything he thought he knew before the yellow Dodge Aries pulled up in front of the Grounds for Divorce.  “Did you get any good information from the Saint Jo police about the motel murder? Any motive.”

“Yeah.  No.  They never could determine a motive for Walker having the guy killed.  Ratliff Walker was shady.  Was into a lot of different stuff. Lived under the radar for a long time.  No telling what drew him and Rusk Hamilton together.”  Special Agent Ford stood up and dropped a ten dollar bill on the table.  He glanced out the window at the Dodge Aires, hating the thought of getting back in it.  “Apparently Rusk Hamilton, the motel guy, was a bit of a hound dog.  May have been a woman involved.  There usually is.  Probably never know the full story.”

Special Agent Ford got up, straightened his cheap tie and wiped the little bits of gravy off the jacket of his suit.  “Sure ‘preciate the help.  You boys take care.”  A minute later he was stuffing his frame into the Aires and attempting to shut the door.

Whiskey looked around, stared Mason directly in the eye, and lowered his voice.  “The last thing I remember before I passed out last night?  It was the look in Eileen’s eye.  It was the exact same look my mother had.”

Lucinda came over, stood at the end of the table and the three of them watched Special Agent Ford back out of the parking lot.  “You know how I always say, ‘Women are stupid and men are no damn good’?”  Mason and Whiskey both nodded their heads up and down.

“It’s just the opposite in this case.”  Not much else was said.

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