An Unmarked Grave by Kent Conwell

at her, a puzzled
frown on my face. Through the window of the dayroom, I
spotted Frank Chester looking on. I forced a laugh. "I guess
you know we're being watched"
    "I know" She hesitated. "Can we meet later? Say ten
o'clock at the County Line Barbeque?"
    Holding my smile, I nodded. "You know the place, huh?"
    She nodded. "Surprised?"
    I chuckled. "It isn't exactly a hangout for the rich and famous "
    She blushed. "I'm not the rich and famous. So, will you?"
    "Sure"
    "And please," she added, her voice pleading, "be careful.
I think my sister has someone following me"
    I frowned. "Why?"
    She chewed on her bottom lip. "I'm not sure, but I think
that maybe my brother or sister might be the one who had
Justin murdered"

     

hoeeeee, boy," I muttered when I climbed into my
Silverado pickup. "What have you gotten yourself into now,
Tony?"
    In the hills west of Austin, the County Line Barbeque on
Bee Tree Road is a rustic establishment that unquestionably serves the most mouthwatering, juiciest barbeque in
all the South with the exception of that cooked by my Uncle Patric Thibodeaux over in Louisiana in the famed chest
freezer he converted to a pit.
    At first I was surprised that Tricia Chester had picked the
County Line. The ambiance of the place didn't fit in with
anyone's idea of haute cuisine or the grand atmosphere of
the Michelin Guide restaurants she likely patronized.
    She would be as out of place there as common sense is in
the hallowed halls of Congress.
    And then I realized that a venue like the County Line was the last place anyone would guess she had gone. As far
as her being followed, I'd find out soon enough.

    Esther Carman, the restaurant owner, and I have known
each other for years. Though she is a decade or so my senior, she doesn't look it. She wears western jeans and western
shirts, and I have yet to see one of those little barrel-racing
fillies on the circuit who does as much justice to her gaudy
outfit as she.
    After a few years, Esther gave me a parking spot out back.
I entered through the kitchen. I was such a familiar face, no
one paid me any attention.
    That night, I arrived an hour early and parked in my usual
spot. Esther frowned when I requested a table in the rear, the
lovers' section behind the fake shrubbery. "Client tonight,
Tony?"
    "I'm not sure. We just don't want to be disturbed."
    She grinned and winked at me.
    "Come on, Esther. Nothing like that"
    Nodding emphatically, she laughed. "I'll bet"
    I pulled my hand back playfully as if I were going to swat
her on her derriere. She wagged a finger at me. I laughed.
"I'll be outside. Have the waiter show her to my table"
    The smile faded from her face. "Serious business, huh?"
    "I hope not"
    Outside, I eased into the pine and cedar surrounding the
restaurant. The night air carried a chill. I pulled my tweed
jacket about me as I found a spot where I could view the
parking lot. If Tricia was indeed being followed, I wanted
to get a look at him-or her.

    Time dragged.
    A dozen more vehicles pulled in. One of them, a black
Ford Taurus, deliberately backed into a spot in the last lane
despite several empty slots closer to the restaurant entrance.
I waited for the driver to emerge from the vehicle, but he
remained inside.
    Fifteen minutes before the hour, a nondescript Honda
Accord pulled into the crowded lot, parking two lanes from
the door. A woman slipped out.
    As she passed under a security light, I saw she wore a
light Windbreaker over dark slacks. I didn't recognize her
until I caught her profile in the open doorway of the restaurant.
    I glanced back at the black Ford. The driver remained
behind the wheel.
    As soon as Tricia closed the door, a man bundled in a topcoat slipped out of the Ford Taurus. His hat was pulled down
over his eyes as he strode for the restaurant.
    Just as he passed under the security light, I gave a shrill
whistle. He froze and looked around.
    My jaw dropped open. It was Bulldog