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CHAPTER17
The Purple Door Saloon had a red front door. Either, Sherwin-Williams had been out of purple paint or the exterior decorator had smoked a joint before slipping into his coveralls. Whatever the reason, I had to quit procrastinating and go see what Jeff Wymonds wanted to talk to me about—alone. My palms clammy, my heart pitter-pattering, I pulled open the door.
Across a shadowy, tin-ceilinged room filled with clusters of square tables, I saw Jeff’s furry head bent over a mug of beer. The Cowboy Junkies’ haunting version of “Sweet Jane” echoed from the jukebox in the back of the bar, next to the two empty pool tables. Wisps of cigarette smoke eddied around me as my boots clomped across the well-worn, plank floor. A bald bartender watched me with narrowed eyes, his tight-lipped stare reminding me that I was not yet a tried and truelocal.
“Hello, Jeff.” I hesitated next to the table, wondering how offended he’d be if I sat on the other side of the room.
He raised his head out of his beer, his eyes red-rimmed and glossy. “Violet Parker, you came.”
Marvelous. I was lunching with a drunken Mr. Hyde. “How long have you been here?”
“Since I called you.” He kicked out the chair opposite him. His version of chivalry, I guessed. “Let me buy you a drink.”
I eased onto the edge of the seat, ready to sprint back outside if necessary. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I insist.” There was no slur in his voice, nor did he act tipsy or wobbly as he pushed to his feet. Either he held his liquor well, or the red eyes represented something else. What that was, I’d probably find out soon enough. “What’ll you have, Violet Parker?”
I hesitated, craving a rum and Coke, but knowing I might need my wits about me to make it through this lunch with all four limbs still attached. “Just a Diet Coke, please.”
As Jeff shuffled to the bar, I glanced around the room, counting seven other customers—one leaning over the jukebox, and three couples scattered throughout the tables. A brunette waitress weaved between the chairs with a tray of burgers and fries in yellow baskets.
“Here you go, Violet Parker,” Jeff placed a glass brimming with brown foam in front of me and then sank into his chair. “If that’s your real name.”
Huh? What was that supposed to mean? I decided not to bite on that hook and sipped on my fizzy drink instead, the spritz of Diet Coke tickling my nose. I searched for a neutral subject. “How’s Kelly doing?”
Jeff shrugged with his whole upper body. “Kelly is—” He paused and nailed me with a hard stare. “Why? Did she say something last weekend?”
His question caught me off guard. I’d thought we were just going to trade small talk while we waited for the waitress. “About what?”
“About things going on at home? Anything odd?”
Besides the bit about how to kill a snake, the girl hadn’t said more than a teacup full of words to me during her stay. However, Jeff didn’t need to know that.
I swirled my drink, buying a few seconds, trying to figure out how to use this ace card to my advantage. “She did mention something about you being in Spearfish a lot lately.”
“For a weekend job.” He sat forward, his tone defensive.
Right, and it just so happened that Sherry Dobbler’s attempted kidnapping was also a weekend job.
The bald bartender sidled up to our table. “What do you want to eat?”
The frost in his steel-gray eyes almost made me shiver. I got the feeling I’d done something to piss him off and I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet. That had to be a new record for me.
“I’ll have my usual,” Jeff said.
His usual? My hackles raised. I’d thought I was meeting Jeff on neutral ground. Turns out this little chicken had strutted into the fox’s den.
The bartender crossed his arms over his chest and cranked up his glare from piercing to blaring. “What about you?”
I hadn’t even had a chance to peruse a menu. “Ummm, I’ll have some chicken strips.” I had poultry on the brain.
He snorted and stormed off.
“Don’t mind him,” Jeff told me, nodding at the bartender’s back. “He hates women these days—especially blondes.”
Lucky me. I sipped my drink. Movement over Jeff’s shoulder caught my attention. Back by the pool tables, Doc stood chalking up a pool stick cue, frowning at me.
I inhaled Diet Coke.
