Fool's Puzzle by Earlene Fowler (reading eggs books .TXT) 📕

should be open. I leaned against the glass wall of the phone booth and started dialing.

A little over an hour later, I had three possibilities—two Suzannes and a Susan. None of them with the last name Hart. But then, there was no guarantee that she was using that name. Susan was working now, but the two Suzannes worked the evening shift and wouldn’t be on until six o‘clock.

The Susan ended up being, as I expected, a washout. She’d lived in Salinas her whole life, had never been to San Celina and was married with twins, a Ford Explorer and a new guinea pig. All of this was told to me in less than five minutes. I would have known more if I hadn’t insisted that I had a pressing engagement across town in fifteen minutes.

The next six hours dragged like one of Garnet’s family stories. I walked for hours, stopping every so often for coffee or a Coke, too nervous to eat or sit anywhere for long. By the time I drove to the first bar, a long, narrow stucco building painted red and called the Short Branch Saloon, the caffeine had me as jumpy as a cat during an earthquake.

The Suzanne who worked there arrived a half hour late for her shift. I drank another Coke, fended off two cowboys wanting to two-step and tried to still my nervous foot. By the time she came in, I almost pounced on her. I followed her into the tiny, rose-scented bathroom and questioned her while she slipped into her short denim skirt and satiny Western shirt. In the dingy mirror she applied a thick layer of peach base on her pale, middle-aged face.

“I don’t think I’m the gal you’re looking for, hon.” She took a rat-tailed brush and teased the crown of her white-blond hair, then smoothed a thin layer of hair over it. I hadn’t seen anyone do that to their hair in twenty-five years. “I don’t know any Marla, and I sure as heck never worked in San Celina. Dated a guy from there once. Rodney Joe Barnett. Know him?”

“No,” I said, leaning against the sink, feeling like I wanted to throw up.

“You okay, hon?” She looked at me, concerned. “You look awful pale. You want some of my Max Factor here?” She held out the liquid makeup bottle.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I bent over and splashed cold water on my face. “Too much caffeine, I think.”

“We just can’t handle it like we used to, can we?” she said with a final jab to her hair.

My last chance was a large, splashy country-western bar called Aunt Sudie’s Goodtime Emporium and Drinking Establishment. The sign had enough neon in it to make the grade in Vegas. It attracted a crowd younger than most country-western bars and there was a six-dollar cover charge. I went up to the crowded horseshoeshaped bar in the middle and asked for Suzanne.

“Called in sick,” the thin, gauzy-haired bartender said, laying a red napkin down in front of me. “What’ll it be?”

My heart dropped into my stomach. I ordered a Coke and tried to think of what to do.

“If her real name is Suzanne Hart, I need to talk to her,” I blurted out when he set the drink in front of me. My voice sounded more desperate than I intended.

He gave me a curious but guarded look. “What about?”

“It’s personal.”

He looked at me and shrugged.

“Were you the guy I talked to earlier?”

“I don’t know. When was that?”

“I called earlier and asked if there was a Suzanne working here. You, or somebody, said yes. Was that you?”

“Could be.” He wiped the counter in front of me. I started to speak again, but he held up a finger and took an order from three giggling girls wearing almost identical outfits of short black denim skirts, fringed Western shirts and large Hopi-style silver earrings.

“What do you want her for?” He turned back to me, his pale green eyes mild and watchful.

“I have some information she might want,” I said.

“You tell me the information,” he said. “And maybe I’ll pass it on to her.”

“I told you. It’s personal.”

With an indifferent look he started mixing the drink orders of a tired-looking waitress in silver boots. The house band struck up “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys.” He hummed along with the song, his eyes shifting over to me every so often.

“What makes you think she’s the Suzanne you’re looking for?” he asked about ten minutes later. He folded his towel and hooked it to his belt.

“Tell her Marla’s dead, and we’ll see if she’s the right Suzanne.”

That got a reaction.

“I’ll be right back.”

He called the other bartender over, whispered in his ear and then headed for the back of the bar, skirting the large dance floor filled with two-stepping bodies. I contemplated following, afraid he might take off and spirit her away before I could talk with her, but he was gone before I could get out of my seat. I poked at my ice and prayed he wasn’t lying.

A few minutes later he came back, an angry look on his face.

“She’ll see you,” he said, coming back behind the bar. “But not without me there and I don’t get off until midnight.”

“But ...” I started.

“Take it or leave it.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll be waiting back there.” I pointed to a small round table as far away from the dance floor and band as possible. Even so, I fought off dance requests all night, my refusals becoming more irritable as the night dragged on and the rhinestone cowboys got more obnoxious. After five hours of the house band’s repertoire of twenty country songs, I could have played lead guitar on any of them.

“Brown Jeep’s mine,” the bartender said as we walked out into the clear, cold night shortly after midnight.

I followed him to a neighborhood of inexpensive tract homes a few miles away. He pulled up in the driveway behind a light-colored Dodge Charger and