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“What can I get you?” He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five with buzz cut hair, freckles and an easy grin.
“Nothing . . . not now. I just wondered if Bronco’s been in?”
“Cravens?” he repeated, and shook his head. “Not lately. Not for a few days, at least not on my shift and this is about the time he usually shows up.” He glanced to his right, where a guy of about sixty, his gray hair braided into a long ponytail, a Braves cap mashed on his head, was seated. In jeans and a plaid shirt, his beer bottle and dish of Chex Mix in front of him, he watched the baseball action, his gaze glued to the TV mounted over shelves of liquors. “Hey, Joe,” the bartender yelled.
The client turned toward him, one graying eyebrow cocked.
“You seen Bronco lately?”
“Nah.” A gruff shake of his head.
“Know where he is?”
“Why would I?” Joe demanded, glancing from the bartender to Nikki in irritation.
“You two usually watch together.”
“Yeah, well, he’s been AWOL.”
“Do you know why?” Nikki asked, breaking into the conversation.
“Who’re you?” Joe wanted to know.
“Nikki Gillette. With the Sentinel.”
“A reporter? Oh, geez.” He scowled as the crowd at the bar let out a whoop, and Joe turned quickly to the screen to see a Braves runner slide into home. He shot to his feet. “What happened?” he asked just as the play was shown again. He waited until the next batter was up, then said, “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout Bronco. But he was spooked about what he found over at that big place, the old Beaumont house. Spooked him good. He used to play over there as a kid. His old man or grandpa or someone worked for that crazy old bat who used to live there.”
“He tell you anything about that?”
“He had stories.” Joe was nodding. “Wild stories about what went on over there.”
“Such as?”
He thought for a second. “Well, he said something about the crazy lady having some kind of secret stash—valuables, y’know, but that might’ve been a lie. Bronco, he does stretch the truth now and again and especially when he’s had a few.” He scratched the back of his head. “And he used to talk about the old days, y’know. When he was a kid. He swore he saw his friend’s old man getting it on with the nurse out in the stable.” He snorted at the thought.
“His friend?” she said.
“Yeah, Bronco’s friend. The rich kid. Tyler, no—Tyson. Yeah, Tyson. Anyway, Tyson’s dad and the nurse had a thing.”
“What nurse?” she asked, but she felt her pulse quicken at the information.
“The one who took care of the old lady who lived there.”
What had Tyson said about Margaret Duval when Nikki had found him fixing the gate at the estate?
“She was Nana Beulah’s nurse, so she was there a lot, even spent some nights at the house, I think.”
Margaret Duval and Baxter Beaumont?
Joe studied his glass for a second. “Again, don’t quote me. I’m just passin’ on info that Bronco told me. Is it true?” He rocked his thick hand in a maybe, maybe not gesture. “But as I said, Bronco’s tales tend to be pretty damned tall when he’s into his cups, so I never gave any of ’em much thought.”
Baxter Beaumont, Tyson’s father, and Margaret Duval were having an affair?
“When was the last time he was in?” she asked, and the bartender shrugged, shaking his head.
“A week ago?” Joe was thoughtful. “Yeah, whatever night it was that the Braves were playing the Marlins. I remember cuz they had a no-hitter going until the bottom of the eighth. That’s the last time I seen him. But I talked to him once on the phone and he was pretty jittery about those bodies been found up there.”
“And you’ve been here every night since?”
