A hopeless rodeo, p.1
A Hopeless Rodeo, page 1
A HOPELESS RODEO
A HOPE WALKER MYSTERY BOOK 12
DANIEL CARSON
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Newsletter Signup
Letter to the Reader
CHAPTER 1
The nightmare began the moment I woke up. Granny was hollering at me to get out of my room, and fast. This, of course, wouldn’t be strange if I was still a little girl living with her in the house Granny had called home for a million years. But I wasn’t a little girl. I was a grown woman, living on my own in the apartment above her bar. And when you live above a business that depends on people getting drunk and disorderly, you learn to keep your door locked. This was a rule I always followed, and so I was more than a little ticked off when I left the comfort of my bed and exited my room to find Granny waiting in the living room. I was about to give her a piece of my mind when the nightmare entered what we might call the inciting incident—I noticed that Granny was not wearing her royal blue Boise State Football sweatshirt.
For those who are not residents of Hopeless, Idaho, or who have never stopped for a beer and a cheeseburger at the Library, the bar Granny owns on Main Street with her best friend, Bess, you may not be aware that the woman who raised me always, and I mean always, wears a Boise State Football sweatshirt. Not only because she’s the world’s biggest Broncos fan—and yes, I am referring to the real Broncos, not those pretenders who play out in Denver—but as something of a living memorial to the great love of her life, my grandfather, Marshal Walker.
Marshal was a legend at Boise State and made a name for himself as the greatest tailback in school history. That’s where my grandmother really fell in love with him. And though she had always been fond of wearing Broncos gear, something changed when my grandfather died way too young. Since then, she had faithfully worn a Boise State sweatshirt every single day of her life in honor of her Marshal. With the exception of seeing her wear a black Boise State sweatshirt at a recent funeral, I had no memory of seeing her wear anything else. Not ever. Not when she lounged around the house, not when she went to bed, and not even when she and I would swim in the Moose River on the hottest of days. Not once. Not ever.
Until today, when she woke me up way too early and stood in my apartment wearing a gray bathrobe and holding a large shopping bag.
I threw up both my hands in the classic what-the-hell gesture and then proceeded to say “What the hell?” because honestly, what the hell? If I were British, I’d have said “What the bloody hell?”
“I need your help,” she said.
“You bet,” I snapped back. “The term you’re looking for is ‘breaking and entering.’ As in, my door was locked, so the logical thing to do was not entering my apartment as opposed to what you did, which was to enter my apartment against my wishes and while I was still trying to sleep.”
“Since we’re handing out English lessons, how about we expand on the word ‘my’? ‘My’ would insinuate ownership or at the very least, the paying of rent. None of which applies to you regarding the aforementioned apartment. In other words, it’s mine, and I’ll enter it whenever I want to. Now if you’re done being pissy, I really do need your help.”
“Let me guess. Your current supply of Boise State sweatshirts spontaneously combusted and you need me to go out and buy you some new ones.”
Granny glared at me, and I smiled back like a brat.
“And now I’m done being pissy—which, as you’d know from years of experience, is something I like to do on my own schedule. What’s up, and why on earth are you wearing a bathrobe?”
“Because of the trip.”
“What trip?”
She looked at me like I was an idiot. “The one Bess and I are going on.”
“You and Bess never go on trips.”
“Which is why it’s time we finally do.”
“Cool,” I said, relaxing a bit. “And good for you. Good for both of you. When are you going? Later this summer? This fall?”
She again looked at me like I was an idiot. “We’re leaving in a few hours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Me. Bess. Leaving.” She walked her fingers in midair. Not only was I an idiot, I was also in preschool. Then, really slowly as if I struggled to hear, “In. A. Few. Hours.”
“You never told me any of this.”
“I’m certain I did,” she said.
“I’m certain you didn’t, and since you’re much, much closer to a hundred than I am, I’m going to trust my brain on this one.”
She gave me a weird look, then rubbed her chin like she was thinking about something. Then suddenly, she smiled. “You’re messing with me, aren’t you? I remember, just the other day, going over all this with you. Bess wrote me a note with a list of to-do items before our trip, and one of those items was ‘talk to Hope.’”
She looked at me. I looked at her. Then her smile faded.
“Unless I forgot that item. Are you saying we really didn’t talk about this?”
“No, Granny, we did not.”
“Shoot. Well, I’m sorry about that. And if I forgot that item, there’s no telling what else I forgot. At this point, it can’t matter that much. So, let’s start this whole conversation over. Hello, Hope! It’s your grandmother, and . . . surprise! Bess and I are going on a trip.”
“In a few hours.”
“Exactly.”
“Wow. Well, okay. Like I said, good for you. For both of you. And although I wish I’d known before thirty seconds ago, I’m happy for you. If anyone deserves a vacation, it’s my two favorite women in the world.”
“Thank you, dear. That’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said to me. I have a list of all the times you’ve said something that wasn’t a wisecracker comment, and I think that’s number fourteen.”
“I assure you, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Granny winked at me. “You’re darn right it doesn’t.”
I clapped my hands together as if to wake up the parts of my brain that weren’t typically accustomed to firing this early in the morning. “So, where are you headed? Salt Lake? Coeur d’Alene? I know! Vegas!”
“Heck, no. If Bess and I are going on a trip, we’re doing it in style. We’re heading to Mexico!”
Thank God I didn’t have coffee in my mouth because I most certainly would have spit it out.
“Mexico?”
“Absolutely. One of them all-inclusive resort places right there on the ocean. White sandy beaches. Plenty of sun. And Mai Tais for days.”
“You. Bess. A Trip. To Mexico. Today?” I said in shocked bewilderment.
“Now who’s the one acting like she’s almost a hundred?” Granny said. “Snap out of it or Bess and I will never be able to leave.”
“But I have so many questions.”
She sighed. “I’ll do the best I can. Storks have nothing to do with how babies come into the world—I’ve got a good National Geographic documentary if you need more info. A number divided by zero is not zero. The answer is undefined. And no, I don’t understand why that is, so don’t ask. And finally, yes, dear, Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone gunman, but he most certainly did not act alone. It takes a pretty massive conspiracy to pull off something like that. And my personal opinion? Frank Sinatra was behind it. There’s something I never quite trusted about Old Blue Eyes. A bit shifty, if you ask me. But Dean Martin? Now, that man could make the backs of my knees get sweaty. That much I can tell you.”
“I sure wish you didn’t,” I said, suddenly feeling like I was drowning. “Can we just skip whatever that was and get to the part where you need my help?”
“Absolutely, but the more I think of it, that National Geographic documentary really could come in handy for you someday. I could dig it up before we leave. You’d have to use the old DVD player at my house, of course . . .”
“Granny!” I said in something very much resembling a scream. “What can I do to help?”
“Well, it turns out, I may be a little out of practice in . . .” Suddenly, she stopped talking, and something strange happened. The color of her face changed. Granny was embarrassed. Embarrassment was something that didn’t happen to Granny. I wasn’t sure she was even capable of it. But I was not only her granddaughter of thirty-two years—I was an experienced investigative reporter. I read people for a living. She was actually and genuinely embarrassed.
“A little out of practice in . . . what? Flying?”
She shook her head.
“Swimming?”
< br /> She shrugged. “Not exactly.”
That’s when I refocused on the gray bath robe. And on the large shopping bag next to her. Granny sighed.
“Turns out it’s been a while since yours truly has worn a bathing suit. So, I went out and bought myself a few different styles, and if you wouldn’t mind, I need some help . . . you know, woman to woman, figuring out which one looks best. So,” she said nervously, “you think you could help me out with something like that?”
“You . . . um . . . want me to help you pick out a bathing suit?”
“Aren’t you listening to me? I already picked out the bathing suits, and now I’m going to do one of them try-on hauls for you. I think that’s what the young folks are calling it. I saw it on YouTube. That’s what gave me the idea. So, can you help me or do I have to go posting videos of my half-nude body on the internet and let strangers decide on my behalf?”
“For the sake of the entire internet, let’s avoid that at all costs. No, Granny. I can definitely help you with this, and we don’t need the internet to figure it out. But I’m warning you right now, we are going to need some assistance.”
CHAPTER 2
As Granny went into the bathroom to start the swimsuit try-on haul, I texted my best friend, Katie.
Emergency. I repeat, EMERGENCY. I need you at my apartment five minutes ago.
Her reply came back almost instantly.
Emergency? We talking, my kid broke his arm and needs to go to the hospital sort of emergency, or we talking, you’ve got hot new pictures of Shirtless Alex kind of emergency?
Which one is more urgent?
This is me you’re talking to.
In that case, this is definitely a hot new pictures of Shirtless Alex kind of emergency. And for what it’s worth, I actually have hot new pictures of Shirtless Alex.
Be there in 90 seconds.
I’m not sure how she did it, but Katie arrived at my apartment ninety seconds later. Okay, maybe not exactly, but it sure felt like it. In fact, Granny still hadn’t come out of the bathroom when the door to my apartment flew open and Katie jogged in, then stopped, bent over, and looked like she might die.
“Katie Jo Rodgers, that might be the fastest you’ve ever done anything in your life. Are you okay?”
She held up a hand while she tried to catch her breath. “I am most certainly not okay. I feel like one of those super-hot CrossFit chicks after they do those insane workouts, except for the fact that I would never in a million years actually do one of those workouts.”
“Even if it was guaranteed to make you super-hot like them?”
She snapped her head up, put both hands on her hips, and raised an eyebrow. “What would be the purpose? Look at me.”
I did. Katie was beautiful. Always had been. She also was the very definition of curvy. Short and curvy, and bringing three kids into the world had only accentuated her beauty. Katie didn’t always love the way she looked, but I sure did.
“Why go to all of that trouble to be super-hot when you can already be extremely hot like me, and all you have to do is chase after three sweet and tender hooligans all day?”
“You make an excellent point.”
“Now, where are these Shirtless Alex pictures? I don’t have much time. Chris said he has to leave in an hour to run an important errand.”
“What kind of important errand?”
“He wouldn’t say, which annoyed me to no end. He was very mysterious about the whole thing.”
“I think I know what it is.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “You know about Chris’s important errand?”
I nodded confidently. “I think I do. You know how Gemima’s been missing in action ever since her abrupt fall from grace?”
The Gemima in question was, of course, none other than Gemima Clark, our enemy from childhood. And Gemima was not your everyday garden-variety enemy. Nope, she was the real McCoy. The same way that King Kong had Godzilla, Katie and I had Gemima. And yet, ever since she’d been so rudely displaced as the mayor of our fine town, we hadn’t seen her anywhere. Hadn’t heard about her doing anything. The only proof of her continued existence was the sign plastered on the front door of the coffee shop she owned stating that she refused to serve me and Katie in some of the most descriptive and colorful language you can imagine.
“What does Chris’s errand have to do with Gemima?” Katie asked.
“Simple,” I said. “And I can’t believe you didn’t put two and two together by now. Chris Rodgers might act like a kind and gentle husband, father, and craft beer aficionado, but in reality, he’s a man harboring a dark secret. He has a second family. With none other than Gemima Clark.”
Katie shot me a bratty look then punched me in the shoulder. “For your information, Chris is only allowed to cheat on me with one person.”
I stood up a little straighter.
“We already talked about it and worked out all the details. When the time comes for me to have my torrid affair with Ryan Reynolds . . .”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “You’re going to have an affair with Ryan Reynolds?”
“Not just an affair, Hope. A torrid affair. And yes, it’s all been decided.”
“Is Ryan aware of this?”
She laughed. “I mean, it’s not like we have any sort of legal contract or anything, but sure, there’s an understanding. Anyway, when the day comes for that torrid affair to happen, Chris will be allowed his hall pass, so to speak.”
“You mean he gets to have a torrid affair too?”
“Heavens, no,” Katie said.
“Why not?”
“First of all, I would never allow it, obviously. Secondly, torrid affairs aren’t his thing. Remember, he’s the stable solid citizen part of our band. I’m the sizzling-hot, can’t-be-trusted trophy wife. No, Chris will be allowed a kiss. Not a hot kiss, mind you. A very sweet and tepid kiss. And only with one person. Lauren Graham.”
“From Gilmore Girls?”
“The one and only.”
“Chris has a thing for Lauren Graham?”
“Do you blame him? She’s beautiful. Talented. And she seems nice. Like, not fake Hollywood nice, but actual real-person nice. Plus, she can talk like a million words a minute. She’s the total package. And therefore, Chris gets to kiss her one time. And not even on the lips.”
“While you have your torrid affair with Ryan Reynolds.”
“Precisely. Nope, my Chris is definitely not having an affair. He’s probably garage saling in Boise hoping to find some doohickey that will get him one step closer to making the perfect craft beer. Now, can we please stop talking about my husband and instead start looking at these scandalous pictures of your boyfriend?”
“I’ve got something even better than pictures of Alex,” I said.
She leaned in as if she didn’t quite believe me.
“Better? For real? Or are you messing with me?”
“I am most definitely not messing with you.”
Katie waved a hand in front of her face as if she might faint. “I think I need to sit down.”
I grabbed her by the hand. “I think we both need to sit down.”
I guided her to the couch and hollered in the direction of the bathroom. “You can come out now, and don’t be shy. We’re ready for you.”
Katie’s nervousness turned into terror. “Seriously, Hope, what is going on?”
“Would you believe that Ryan Reynolds is about to walk out of that bathroom in his bathing suit?”
“I most certainly would not.”
“Then you’ll just have to believe that it’s the next best thing. Close your eyes and trust me. When have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Are you kidding me? The number is sixty-three. You’ve steered me wrong sixty-three different times. I keep a list at home.”
First Granny and now Katie. What was with the people in my life keeping lists?
The bathroom door clicked open, and I covered her eyes with my hands. “I want it to be a surprise, and don’t bother trying to fight me on this or I’ll pin your arms behind your back and tickle you to death.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You know me better than that. Now, stop your wiggling and promise you won’t embarrass yourself.”
I kept my hand over Katie’s eyes and felt a minor pang of guilt for what I was doing to her, but very minor. She had done far worse to me on many different occasions. I know this because I happen to keep lists of my own.
