All she’d managed to do was puncture the coffee can and let out a whoosh of aroma that ran her crazy.
Her frustration level was off the charts. In spite of stocking up on a few breakfast items the afternoon before, it looked like the City Grill for her. She hoped they opened early. After dressing quickly in jeans and a pullover, she grabbed her briefcase and tore off toward the square of the small town.
The café was doing a brisk business. Only two seats at the counter were available. She commandeered one of them and stowed her briefcase between her feet.
“What’ll it be, honey?” asked the pint-size waitress who held a steaming carafe.
“Coffee,” Carrie said. “Quick.”
The waitress laughed, and the web of lines around her eyes put her age closer to sixty than forty. “One of them mornings, huh? I’ve had a few of them myself.” She slipped a mug onto the counter and poured in one practiced motion. “Cream?”
“No. Black is fine.”
“I’ll be back when you’ve had time to rev your motor.” The waitress turned to an elderly man who’d taken the stool next to hers and poured a mug for him. “Morning, Mr. Murdock. Haven’t seen you around for a few days.”
“Good morning, Vera. I’ve been in Dallas. I returned last night.”
“Have you heard about Horace Pfannepatter?”
Carrie’s ears perked up, and she glanced toward the two.
The old man, who was wearing a suit and a red bow tie, nodded gravely. “Yes, I had a message on my machine. Sad business. And him in his prime. I’m sure Ida must be devastated. I plan to call on her this morning.”
“She’s pretty broke up. Them two was real close, and I don’t know what she’ll do without him.” Vera turned to Carrie. “Hon, have you decided what you’ll have to go along with that coffee?”
Carrie hadn’t given food any thought. Was that her Horace Pfannepatter they were talking about? “Uh, I’ll have a toasted bagel.”
Vera gave her a toothy grin. “You’re not likely to find any bagels around here—unless they carry some frozen ones over at Bullock’s Grocery. Closest thing I can offer you is a short stack.”
“That’s fine,” Carrie said, her mind still not on food. “Excuse me for eavesdropping, but I heard you talking about Horace Pfannepatter. Is he the one who’s justice of the peace?”
“Vera!” a male voice called from a booth in the rear. “Could we have another round of coffee back here?”
“You and Frank keep your britches on, J.J. I’ll be there in a minute,” she blared, then she nodded to Carrie and said quietly, “The very one. Keeled over with a heart attack real sudden.”
“And died?”
“Deader ’n a doornail.” Vera topped Carrie’s coffee and took off at a fast clip, shouting as she strode, “Gimme a short stack, Lonnie, and a number three over easy.”
Carrie was too stunned to do anything but stare after the waitress. She couldn’t believe that the good-looking JP had died. He’d looked so…healthy when she saw him yesterday. She felt a sudden and aching loss—and she barely knew the man. The thought of pancakes made her stomach turn over. She drank her coffee quickly, slapped a bill on the counter and fled with her briefcase.
She decided to buy a new can opener, go back to her room and start the morning over. Horace stayed on her mind the entire time she searched Bullock’s aisles. His loss haunted her. Crazy, she told herself. She’d only seen the man once in her life…but somehow he’d made a powerful impression.
FORTIFIED WITH more coffee and a carton of peach yogurt, Carrie went downtown again and parked in front of the old stone courthouse that had probably been built a hundred or more years ago. Three stories tall, the handsome pillared structure was similar to a dozen or two original courthouses still in use in Texas—Texas Renaissance the style was called, a combination of architectural styles popular during the period. Carrie hadn’t been in all the 254 county courthouses in the state, but she’d visited a large number of them and she was always glad to see one of the old ones preserved.
The Naconiche courthouse showed community pride of the sort that was responsible for the original construction of the town’s heart. Several large trees shaded the grounds and well-tended flower beds flanked the walks. She looked forward to exploring the inside.
A variety of businesses occupied the buildings that faced the square. She noted a couple of antique stores that looked interesting, an ice-cream shop called the Double Dip that she wanted to try out later. Now she needed to familiarize herself with the courthouse, determine where the documents she needed were housed and how the town’s records were kept.
As a petroleum landman she first had to find out who owned the property and the mineral rights to the large area that her company wanted to lease. Locating the property owners wasn’t too difficult—the county tax roles could tell her that. But frequently the current owners didn’t own all the mineral rights. Former owners—sometimes two or three sales back—often retained a percentage of the mineral rights on their acreage, usually a half interest. That meant that she had to track down deeds and locate heirs as well as check on any existing leases.
She couldn’t afford to make any errors, and the tedious work took a lot of time. But actually, she kind of enjoyed doing the research. It was like working a crossword puzzle.
Inside the courthouse Carrie smelled the familiar mélange of aging papers, cleaning solutions and the lingering odor of old tobacco smoke. Even though there were No Smoking signs now, years of cigars and cigarettes had infused the walls with the faint distinctive scent common to so many of the courthouses she’d been in. After a tour of the fine old building with its polished marble and rich oak trim, she located the tax office on the second floor, just down the hall from the chambers of the judge of the County Court-at-Law.
Judge Frank J. Outlaw, the brass nameplate beside the door said. She smiled. Outlaw—a peculiar name for a judge.
With a few directions from a clerk, Carrie located the records she wanted to study, took out her minicomputer and a pad and got to work.
CARRIE’S STOMACH growled, and she glanced at her watch. Five of twelve. Her yogurt was a faded memory, and she was hungry. She couldn’t believe she’d been working all morning without a break, but as usual she’d gotten absorbed and time had flown by. Stretching, she loosened the kinks in her back, stiff from bending over the papers so long.
Her first thought was to go across the street to the City Grill for lunch, then she decided that the tearoom was a better choice. She packed her briefcase and left the tax office. Not a dozen steps away, her cell phone rang, and she dug through her shoulder bag to retrieve it.
While she was looking, she collided with someone. “Sorry,” she said, glancing up.
Her heart lurched, and she could feel the blood leave her face. It was Horace P. Pfannepatter.
“My God,” she said. “It can’t be. You’re dead!”
He smiled. “I don’t think so.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over and back. “Nope. I seem to have all my working parts. Your phone’s
