Part 10 (2/2)
”That's right,” Nick agreed. ”I'm more interested in your rifle collection than this whole Weston business. Did you happen to go out hunting yesterday?”
” 'Course I did-at least 'til it started raining. I told you 'bout my arthritis. But I don't let it stop me. That's what fall is all about: hunting. Isn't it, d.i.c.k?”
”Nick. Did you get any bear?”
”Nope. Didn't hit a thing.”
”Really? I thought you were a good shot.”
”I am, but even good shots can have an off day.”
”So you didn't shoot anything? Not even accidentally?”
”Now look here, d.i.c.k. I did not shoot Allen Weston. Am I glad that he's dead? h.e.l.l, yes. He was a perfect example of what's wrong with America today. Greedy, liberal slimeball. Good riddance, I say. Good riddance!”
Seeing their cue to exit, Stella rose from the loveseat. ”I'm sure d.i.c.k-”
”Nick.”
”-didn't mean anything by his comment. He was simply trying to scare up a good hunting story.”
”Well, if that's the case, why didn't you just say so? I have tons of stories.”
”Oh, and I know he'd just love to hear them. Unfortunately, however, we're out of time for today. Thank you for a lovely visit, Mr. Reid-um, Hank.”
Reid, having previously struggled to rise to his feet, was out of his chair like a shot. ”Oh, you're going? So soon?”
”I'm afraid so.”
”Yeah, we have some things to take care of.” Nick stood up and extended his hand.
”But you didn't see the den or my war pictures,” Reid whined as he shook the younger man's hand.
”How about a rain check?” Stella suggested with a brilliant smile.
”You got a date. Oh hey, just one more thing. If you two are trying to play detective, you'd best be careful. I'm a p.u.s.s.ycat, but not everyone in town is as nice as me. I'm also not the only one who might have gained from Weston being six feet under.”
Stella struggled to hide her surprise at Reid's use of the word p.u.s.s.ycat. ”Um, really?”
”Yep. The kid, Middleton-as much as I like him, I bet it'll be hard to make those charges stick now that Weston's gone. And Jake Brunelle? He had to close shop all winter because Weston was taking away all his business.”
”Hmmm. We'll be certain to check that out,” Stella a.s.sured him as she inched closer to the front door.
”Hmph,” Reid grunted in approval. ”You do that. And watch yourselves. This might be a small town, but it's chock-full of nuts.”
CHAPTER.
9.
THE WINDSOR BAR and Grill was housed in a circa 1700 tavern set back from the main road just on the edge of town. Its generic white clapboard exterior, faded carved wooden sign, and unpaved parking lot presented a forbidding facade to pa.s.sing tourists, but the locals knew that inside they would be met with cozy stone fireplaces, coffered ceilings, and some of the best comfort food in town.
”My money's on d.i.c.k Cheney,” Nick a.s.serted as he slid into a corner booth.
”Who?” Stella asked from across the table.
”Hank Reid and that whole shooting accident story? He practically told us how he did it and how he plans to get away with it.”
”By saying he mistook Weston for a turkey? Even if he shot Weston, I doubt he'd use that old story again.”
”I don't know,” Nick said. ”If he can shoot a friend and lie his way out of getting caught, he could easily do the same with Weston.”
”It wasn't his friend. It was the boyfriend of the girl he wanted to date. Guys that age do some pretty stupid things to impress a girl.”
”Yeah, but shooting someone?”
”You're right. It does sound a bit extreme, doesn't it?”
”A bit?”
”Okay, so Reid's a loose cannon,” Stella admitted, ”but you're forgetting something: it was damp and cool when Weston was killed. Would Reid have been able to pull off an accurate shot, what with his arthritis acting up?”
”Oh, come on. You don't actually believe that whole rheumatism tripe, do you? Did you see him when we told him we were leaving? He couldn't have moved any faster if we had told him there was an all-you-can-eat buffet down the road.”
”You're terrible, you know that?” she chided with a suppressed grin.
”I'm not terrible, I'm honest. I don't buy the feeble old man routine for a second. If Reid's arthritis is as bad as he claims, he wouldn't have been out hunting in the cold and damp yesterday. He would have been at home in his 1950s Barcalounger, sucking back a six-pack of Schlitz or Rheingold or whatever they drank back then and fantasizing about Laura Petrie in capri pants. I don't think Hank Reid's as frail as he makes himself out to be. He shot his wife's ex-boyfriend. He was in Korea for two years. He has antlers mounted in his den and a collection of firearms that rivals that of Walker, Texas Ranger. The dude's hard-core.”
”That's just the generation, Nick. They're tougher than we are.”
”There's tough and then there's trigger-happy. Look at my dad. He's only a few years younger than Reid, and you don't hear him rambling on about slimeb.a.l.l.s who deserve to be shot-then again, maybe he did say something like that once. But it was years ago, on Christmas Eve, after a couple of Tom and Jerrys. And, to be honest, Uncle Dan always was kinda sleazy.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a brunette waitress dressed in a light blue Windsor Bar and Grill T-s.h.i.+rt, a faded pair of jeans, and a black half-ap.r.o.n. ”You here for the burger special?”
”Yes,” Nick replied.
”How you want them done?”
”Medium rare, please.”
”Medium,” Stella ordered.
”You want cheese? It's an extra fifty cents.”
<script>