"After the last few mornings I've had in the studio," she said, "you've got to have a sense of humour."
"Hard to get the sound right. The engineers were saying something about the microphones."
Miranda stretched out her legs. She looked at her feet, then kicked her Jellies off with her big toes. "It's not the microphone's fault. But that ain't what you're in here to talk about, is it? I'm supposed to ask you about the gun."
I offered her a chocolate croissant. She seemed to think about it for a minute, then swung her legs onto the floor and sat up. She shook her head so her tangly black hair readjusted itself around her shoulders. She moistened her lips. Then she bypassed the chocolate croissant I was holding and went straight for the only ham and cheese.
Damn. A woman with taste.
She nudged the .22 with her finger. Country girl. Not somebody who was nervous around guns. "Well, sir?"
"It's the gun somebody used to shoot at John Crea. I found it in the thirdfloor garbage bin at the parking lot next door."
Miranda tore a corner off her croissant. "Somebody just left it there? And the police didn't—"
"Hard to underestimate the stupidity of perps," I said. "Cops know perps are stupid and they try to investigate accordingly, but sometimes they still underestimate. They overlook possibilities nobody with any sense would try, like using a .22 Montgomery Ward pistol for a hundred yard shot and dropping the gun in the garbage on their way to the elevator. Police are thinking the shooter must've used a rifle and carried it away with him and ditched it somewhere else. That's what a smart person would do. Most people who get away with crimes, they don't do it smart. They do it stupid enough to baffle the police."
"So—you taking the gun to the police?"
"Probably. Eventually."
"Eventually? After what happened to poor Julie Kearnes, shot the exact same way—"
I shook my head. "Poor Julie was killed by a professional. Whoever left this was an amateur. Similar incidents, both people connected to you, but they weren't done by the same person. That's what I don't get."
"If I could help—"
"I think you can. You know Sheckly a lot better than I do."
Her expression hardened. "I don't know him that well. And no, he wouldn't have anything to do with this."
"Somebody's trying to make things difficult for you since you started courting Century Records. You have any theory?"
Miranda took a bite of my ham and cheese croissant. She nodded her head while she chewed. After she swallowed she said, "You want me to admit Tilden Sheckly is a hard customer. Yes, sir. He is. He's got a bad temper."
"But—"
She shook her head. "But Sheck wouldn't do those things. He's known Willis, shoot—he's known all the families in Avalon County for a million years. I know what people think, but Sheck's always been a gentleman with me."
She looked up at me a little tentatively, like she was afraid I might contradict her, might ask her to prove it.
"If he's such a great guy," I said, "why did you sign with Les SaintPierre?"
Miranda pressed her lips together, like she'd just put on lipstick.
"You heard of that lady who played out at the Paintbrush a few nights ago, Tammy Vaughn?"
"I saw her."
Miranda raised her eyebrows. Apparently she hadn't figured me for a country music fan. I liked her for that.
"A year ago," Miranda continued, "Tammy Vaughn was where I am. She played mostly local gigs—South Texas, Austin. Mostly dance halls. Then she got a good agent and signed with Century Records. They're the only major label with a Texas office, did you know that? They've started paying attention to the talent down here, picking out the best, and sending them on to Nashville. Now Tammy's playing for fifteen thousand a night. She opened for LeAnne Rimes in Houston. She's got a house in Nashville and one in Dallas."
"And Sheckly can't do that for you."
"My dad's barely paid the mortgage on his ranch for as long as I can remember. He does contracting all day and music all night and he won't ever be able to retire. We won't even talk about Brent. The idea of being able to help them out..."
"You're telling me it was just the promise of money?"
She thought about that, apparently decided to be honest. "No. You're right. I signed with Les because of the way he talked, that first time we met. Something about Les SaintPierre—you can't just tell a fella like that no. Besides, Sheck or not—sometimes you have to make choices for your career. You don't always get to make everybody happy."
"Allison," I said.
Miranda frowned at me. "Pardon?"
"That's an Allison SaintPierre line, isn't it?"
Miranda looked uncomfortable. She put the croissant down halfeaten and brushed her fingers. She stared at the .22.
"What about Cam Compton?" I asked.
Miranda took her eyes from the gun. Slowly she worked up a smile. "Does he have it in for me? No, sir. Cam—I know you ain't going to believe this after last night, but Cam is basically harmless. You know how they say, dogs always look like their masters?"
"Uhhuh."
"I'm serious now. Cam's nothing but the poodle version of Tilden Sheckly. He tries awful hard to look wicked and dangerous and like he's got all this violent side ready to let loose, but comes right down to it, he wouldn't do nothing if Sheck didn't say 'sic 'em.'
Even then he wouldn't have the brains to do it right."
"You think so. Even after last night."
"I know. Cam's got himself a little music store down in S.A., bought it after he got this one hit record over in Europe somewhere, about ten years ago. Cam'll go back to that, go back to working the house band at the Paintbrush. Two weeks from now he'll forget all about Miranda Daniels. He's got nothing riding on my chances one way or the other."
Sounding pleased, like she'd just reconvinced herself, Miranda stretched back out on her cot and examined the ceiling. "You know Jimmie Rodgers recorded his last ses
sion two days before he died? The tuberculosis was eating up his lungs so bad he had to lay down in a cot in the studio between songs, just like this here. I keep thinking about that."
"Should I put the gun away?"
She smiled nicely. "No, sir. It's just that Jimmie Rodgers' last sessions sound so good.
It's depressing."
"You're not doing too badly."
She didn't look encouraged.
"Your family supportive about your career?" I asked. "Your mom?"
She studied seven or eight ceiling tiles. "She's dead. A long time ago. Milo didn't tell you that?"
I shook my head. "Sorry."
"I* guess there's no reason he should have. I don't think about it much."
She moved her lips a little more, like she still couldn't get them aligned quite right. "But that wasn't your question again. Yes, Dad is real supportive. He's amazing, how he keeps going. You can say what you please about Tilden Sheckly, Mr. Navarre, but Sheck encouraged Dad to stay with me when we put the band together, to play at any gig he could, and that's been my biggest comfort. We got a standin bassist for him when we do bigger gigs, but still—he's an old workhorse. If it hadn't been for his music when I was growing up, all the Ernest Tubb records and the Bob Wills—that and my mother singing in the kitchen—"
She drifted off. I concentrated on my croissant and let her mind work around to wherever it wanted to go for a few moments.
"What about Brent?"
Miranda's eyes became clearer and cooler. "He's supportive."