Free The Town Council Meeting by J. R. Roberts Page A

bein’ my husband a long time ago,” she said.
    â€œThere were . . . difficulties between you?”
    â€œYou said it.”
    She had a lot of red hair, and it fell to her shoulders in waves. She was wearing a robe, Clint assumed over a nightgown. But she didn’t look as if he had awakened her—unless she had taken to sleeping with a drink in her hand.
    â€œIf you don’t mind me asking . . . what kind?”
    â€œWhat kind didn’t we have?” she asked, laughing. “For one thing we had separate bedrooms. He hasn’t touched me in years.”
    â€œWell . . . I’m going to assume by looking at you that your husband was much older than you.”
    â€œNot ‘much’ older,” she said, “but you’re sweet. Yes, he was older, but he had his other women—younger women—so he really hasn’t been a husband to me . . . oh, I don’t know. But it’s been years.”
    â€œHow long have you been married?”
    â€œAbout twelve years,” she said. “I was no spring chicken when he brought me here, but I soon learned he hadn’t brought me here for sex. He just wanted someone who would look good—respectable—on his arm.”
    â€œAnd have you—were you respectable?”
    â€œAre you asking me if I had other men?” she asked, making her eyes wide. He noticed they were a very pretty green.
    â€œWell—”
    â€œNo, that’s okay,” she said. “You can ask me. The answer is no, I did not have other men.” Then she frowned. “Or is the answer yes, I have been respectable?”
    â€œI think it’s pretty much the same either way, ma’am,” he said.
    â€œOh, don’t call me ‘ma’am,’ ” she said. “At least I know I’m not considerably older than you are.”
    â€œNo, ma—uh—”
    â€œMy name is Barbara.”
    â€œThat’s a lovely name.”
    She took another sip of her drink.
    â€œNo one’s said anything that nice to me in years,” she said. “You know, my husband was such a powerful man around here that men were afraid to talk to me, let alone sleep with me.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œSo am I,” she said. “I’ve become a dried-up old prune.”
    â€œIf I may so say, Barbara, you don’t look dried up, at all.”
    She studied him for a moment, her pretty lips pursed, then asked, “Would you like to come and sit with me and have a drink?”
    â€œWell—”
    â€œThere’s no one else on the whole ranch,” she assured him. “No one.”
    â€œAll right,” he said.
    â€œCome with me.”
    She led him out of the room.

TWENTY-THREE
    He followed her swaying ass down the hallway. There was certainly nothing dried up about her. She looked as if her full-bodied figure had been very well preserved.
    She took him into a sitting room and said, “Have a seat anywhere. I’m having whiskey. It’s my husband’s—late husband’s—very best.”
    â€œThat sounds fine,” he said.
    She poured him a drink, then topped off her own glass. She carried both drinks to the sofa he had seated himself on, sat next to him, and handed him one. He noticed she had given him the glass with the least liquid.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” she asked.
    This would be a good test.
    â€œClint Adams.”
    â€œI’m happy to meet you, Clint Adams,” she said, clinking glasses with him.
    He sipped the whiskey. It was, indeed, very good stuff.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Mr. Adams? Are you here to steal? Investigate? What?”
    â€œInvestigate, I suppose,” Clint said. “The town council has hired me to look into your husband’s murder.”
    â€œThat’s because they know the sheriff is incapable of finding out who killed him.”
    â€œBarbara, who do you think killed him?”
    â€œI