Dead Man Talking (Dead Man Mysteries) by T. M. Simmons

Author:T. M. Simmons [Simmons, T. M.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2011-06-12T16:00:00+00:00

Before we stood, I said, “I need your help with Sir Gary more than Katy.”

“We’ll take care of both, don’t worry.”

In the parking lot, Twila said, “You lead, but keep your foot out of the carburetor.”

Chapter 20

I kept a cautious eye on the rearview mirror for the red T-bird. If it dropped back too far, I slowed down. Finally I set the cruise control on sixty-five, even though that meant every other car on the interstate, as well as the huge semis, zipped past us in the fast lane. We’d still get to the plantation well before dark. Or so I thought.

A traffic jam appeared over a rise in the roadway. I bumped the brake to disconnect the cruise and slowed, joining the crawl of vehicles, Twila’s rented T-bird right behind me.

“Must be a wreck ahead,” I said. Then I realized neither of my companions were riding with me and felt silly. It had to be a wreck, though. I hadn’t seen any construction signs since we left Tyler. A slight fender-bender can account for a huge backup on a Texas highway, with a gaggle of rubberneckers heading the opposite direction.

I turned the radio down. Why do we do that when we find ourselves lost or in heavy traffic? Instinct, maybe, so we can concentrate? I’d noticed Jack and other men perform the same operation, so it wasn’t just a woman thing. I spontaneously stretched my neck, like the drivers beside and ahead of me, as though we could see around the traffic. Not only were the lanes of traffic bumper to bumper, several semis pulling high trailers blocked the view.

Fingers tapping on the steering wheel, I tried to decide between the right or left lane. Didn’t matter. Neither lane seemed to be making much progress. We spent fifteen minutes in the tie-up before hitting a fairly flat stretch of highway. The sun was setting by now, but the Jefferson turnoff wasn’t that much farther. And I could see far enough to realize where the holdup was. Cars and semis were playing “you’re-next” at a blockade point, each occupant of the fast lane politely allowing a right-lane car or truck to edge over in front of it. Sometimes Texas drivers actually can be polite. Past that point, traffic sped off in a fast flow.

Ahead of me was a pickup, then a semi in front of it. To my left was a black SUV, ahead of it another SUV, pulling a trailer. I waited patiently for my turn at you’re-next as the SUV/trailer courteously allowed the semi in my lane to proceed. The SUV/trailer sped on, and I craned my neck again to see around the pickup in front of me.

OH! MY! GOD!

The SUV beside me allowed the pickup to go. Now nothing inhibited my view of Granny’s red and white Olds, stately motoring down the interstate, her hand flicking out the window to wave gaily at the people who blasted horns as they passed. I could see through the rear window of the Olds.

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