Immediately the vineyard’s Web site popped up. It featured rolling land and rows and rows of thick grapevines stretching toward the setting sun on the horizon. Another picture showcased a group of smiling people, wineglasses in hand around a table. An older woman with long graying hair smiled and laughed with them
. The caption underneath read:
Bonneville Vineyard owner, Lydia Bonneville, greets guests at spring tasting.
Bragg clicked through more images, read some of the site’s blog entries, and on the events page news of an upcoming fund-raiser for the Crisis Center. Though he dug through the entire site he found no telling tidbit about the woman who’d offered his nephew a job today.
Sipping his coffee he searched Greer Templeton. No hits came up. On the Crisis Center site there was a mention of her six months ago when she’d joined the board. The blurb also mentioned she’d been volunteering at the center for the last decade. There was also a piece about a fund-raiser this Wednesday at the vineyard, but no picture of Greer Templeton.
None of this set well in his gut. None of it. The Templeton name was associated with a murder investigation and a Templeton meets Mitch. And Rory Edwards’s body had been found at a vineyard near Bonneville.
Coincidence did happen but not often by his way of thinking.
Shit.
Yeah, he’d be driving out to Bonneville Vineyards first thing in the morning.
Bragg glanced at the clock. It wasn’t ten yet and he had time to get by Rory’s room. Refilling his mug, he changed, retrieved his gun, badge, and hat. A quick check into Mitch’s room found him sleeping. He left as quickly as he could.
The drive to Rory’s took fifteen minutes, long enough to finish the coffee and summon a second bolt of energy. He was accustomed to going long stretches without sleep and tonight he’d get little. It didn’t take much time to spot the Mexican restaurant with the blue chili in the window.
Inside, he was greeted by a dimly lit interior and the blend of recorded guitar and trumpet music. Small round tables with patrons filled the room, and in the back a bartender poured shots of tequila. Colored lights draped the walls alongside pictures of Mexico.
Bragg stopped at the register where a short stocky man with thick black hair and mocha skin stared up at him. The man wore a brightly colored shirt and a silver chain around his neck.
“You here for dinner?”
“I’m with the Texas Rangers. I’m here to search Rory Edwards’s room.” He showed the man his badge. “I’ve been told he’s renting a room upstairs.”
The man glanced at the badge and back up at Bragg. “I don’t want trouble.”
“I don’t want any. Just want to have a look at his room.”
“Second door on the right.” He fumbled in his pocket for a ring of keys, slid one free, and handed it to Bragg. “I don’t want trouble.”
“Appreciate it.” Bragg took the key. “Rory get many visitors to his room?”
“I don’t know. I don’t ask. Long as they pay, I don’t ask.”
“No commotion. No trouble.”
“He paid his first week in cash and the second week wasn’t due until Wednesday. Good enough for me.”
Bragg followed the stairs behind the register up to a hallway lit by a single flickering bulb. There were four doors on the hallway. He unlocked the second on the right and flipped on the light.
The room was small, not more than eight by eight, and it was filthy. Soiled rumpled sheets covered the bed, and dozens of empty food cartons littered the floor. A mouse scurried under the bed.
A pile of dirty clothes was mounded at the foot of the bed beside a pair of expensive cowboy boots. The boots were nice but not as nice as the ones found on Rory’s body. Wherever Rory had thought he was going, he’d dressed up for the occasion.
In a small closet he found a couple of jackets and a muddy pair of boots. He was on the verge of closing the door when he spotted the box on the floor. He picked it up and opened it. Inside were dozens of pictures of a woman. At first glance he didn’t recognize her, but closer inspection identified her. Elizabeth Templeton.
All the photographs appeared to have been taken not twelve years ago but recently. Elizabeth standing on the front porch of a ranch house. Elizabeth surrounded by long rows of grapevines. Driving a red pickup truck. Leaving a store.
Rory had been keeping close tabs on Elizabeth.
Her face had leaned out in the last twelve years, and her hair had gone from blond to dark brown. But her figure was still slight. In most of the images she was frowning and he remembered what Mitch had said about the woman who’d hired him. Dark hair. Not nice.
Frowning, Bragg retrieved his phone and snapped pictures of the images before setting them aside to continue his search. He found a small careworn Bible and a stack of note cards with handwritten affirmations. Do it! One step at a time! Believe!
However, no strings to connect Rory to Elizabeth.
Bragg descended the stairs and found the manager. He showed the man his phone sporting an image of Elizabeth. “You ever seen her here?”
“I don’t ask questions.”
“Yeah, I know, as long as they pay. Look real close, partner. Look real close because if I find out you’ve seen her you’re going to get some real trouble from me.”
The man glanced at the picture and shook his head. “Never seen her.”
“You sure?”
“Never seen her. ’Sides, she’s too pretty for Rory. He thought he was sober for good and better than everybody, but he hadn’t changed. No good. Barely had enough for a week’s rent. I was figuring he’d not show tomorrow with the rent, and I’d have to toss him out.”
“He have any visitors?”
“No. Kept to himself. Heard him on his cell phone once or twice, but I never made out what he was saying.”
There’d been no cell in Rory’s belongings. Bragg pulled a card from his front shirt pocket. “You call me if you hear anyone talking about Rory.”
“Where is he? Is he coming back?”
“No, sir, he is not coming back.”
The man muttered an oath in Spanish. “What about his room?”
“I’m calling a forensic team now to dust it for prints.” The man smoothed agitated fingers over oiled black hair. “Are you gonna stay here and wait for them?”
“Yes, sir, I am. That a problem?”
The man’s frown deepened. “You are bad for business.”
Bragg grinned. “I’ve been called worse.”
He returned to Rory’s room and called in a team. As he waited he sifted through each picture of Elizabeth. Beautiful. Striking. But stern and solemn. He sensed life hadn’t much eased the burden of her tragedy.
“What the hell was going on between you and Rory?”
Chapter Four
Tuesday, June 3, 6:30 A.M.
Bragg left Austin before the morning tangles on I-35 south. He also wanted to arrive early at Bonneville Vineyards not only to meet with the woman who’d offered Mitch a job, but the woman who owned the land near his crime scene. Even if she didn’t have a connection to the case he wanted to meet her and find out how she’d found Mitch.
Remembering yesterday’s route to the crime scene, he took the rural route exit off of the interstate and followed it another twenty miles before his GPS directed him over more back roads familiar to him. There were no directional signs to guide people to the vineyard, suggesting visitors weren’t welcome.
An unpaved gravel ribbon of road wandered alongside a barbed-wire fence corralling row after row of vines bursting with a thick canopy of green leaves sheltering plump grapes clinging to well-maintained trellises. In the distance, the sun rose above the horizon casting a warm glow over the hills.
The entire area was lush and green and all he could think about was what it cost the family in water bills. Drought had been a problem in central Texas the last couple of years and signs were the hard times weren’t letting up anytime soon.
Hard to believe Rory Edwards had been strung up right over the hill to his left.
Around the bend, a ranch house came into view. Complete with a wide front porch, its original windows and tin roof hinted of nineteenth-century cowboys. However, the ranch’s porch now sported potted lavender, rocking chairs, and a sign on the front porch
read PRIVATE and directed visitors to a larger stone building where the road dead-ended. Near the house stood a small barn painted with fading chipped red paint and a small corral.
The larger one-story main building just beyond was made of stone and glass, and though it had the air of new construction was styled like a medieval European keep. But unlike a fortress, it didn’t dominate the land but hugged it as if the designer wanted a seamless connection between structure and terrain.
Small succulents floated in beds filled with earth-toned landscaping stones to add interest. However, it was the yellow and white wildflowers in brightly colored clay pots and a turquoise front door that rescued the place from being bland. To the right a stone patio outfitted with wrought-iron furniture overlooked vineyards that would catch the setting sun. Beyond the main building the land had been cleared for more construction.
Again, he gave credit to the site manager. He wasn’t a wine drinker but the place might have lured him in for a look if there’d been signs along the road to coax and welcome.
He pulled up behind an older dark truck with a bed filled with tables and chairs. Grabbing his white Stetson from the passenger seat, he settled it on his head and eased out of the Bronco. In the distance a dog barked. Resting his hand on the hip close to his gun, he surveyed the area.
As he approached the building, a woman pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance. She wasn’t tall, barely standing over five feet, but she held her shoulders back and her clear blue eyes cut. Not more than thirty, she had gently tanned smooth skin that accentuated a high slash of cheekbones. She wore her light brown hair in a braid that brushed slender shoulders, a white BONNEVILLE VINEYARDS T-shirt billowing over full breasts and tucked into faded work jeans hugging gently rounded hips. Her boots were dusty, well worn. “Can I help you?”