The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,92

hoped to find a way to avoid Tyson Beaumont’s cameras and visit the Beaumont mansion, the scene of the crime.

First things first: talking to Bronco, finding out what he knew, why he was at the house in the basement that day.

Nikki had learned that until recently, Bronco had worked at Lamont Construction, but she’d checked with the company and found he’d been let go; though, of course, she didn’t know why. Not that it mattered, probably. Since she had to drive through town anyway, she headed toward campus, parked a block away from the Red Knuckle and made her way inside the crowded bar.

The darkened interior was noisy, a din of conversation, clinking glasses, rattling ice cubes and click of billiard balls over the throb of some crossover country and pop song she couldn’t identify. Most of the crowd was on the younger side, college students who were just starting a new semester.

All of the stools at the bar were filled, people laughing and talking, drinking and flirting, some watching the televisions mounted on the wall, all tuned to various sporting events. Currently, the Braves were down two runs to the Red Sox on one screen, a golf match on another and three husky suited men at a desk discussing college football on a third.

Bronco wasn’t seated at the bar.

Nikki scanned the tables scattered over the darkened floorboards in the center of the room, then skirting two pool tables, slowly checked out the occupied booths. No Bronco. She nearly ran into a waitress balancing a tray of drinks as she headed to a screen door that opened to a back patio, where some of the patrons nursed drinks and smoked at umbrella tables.

But Bronco hadn’t landed outside, either.

Maybe it was too early for him to show up. Or too late.

Back inside, she made her way to the bar. “Hey,” she said to the bartender, and offered a smile.

“What can I get you?” He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five with buzz cut hair, freckles and an easy grin.

“Nothing . . . not now. I just wondered if Bronco’s been in?”

“Cravens?” he repeated, and shook his head. “Not lately. Not for a few days, at least not on my shift and this is about the time he usually shows up.” He glanced to his right, where a guy of about sixty, his gray hair braided into a long ponytail, a Braves cap mashed on his head, was seated. In jeans and a plaid shirt, his beer bottle and dish of Chex Mix in front of him, he watched the baseball action, his gaze glued to the TV mounted over shelves of liquors. “Hey, Joe,” the bartender yelled.

The client turned toward him, one graying eyebrow cocked.

“You seen Bronco lately?”

“Nah.” A gruff shake of his head.

“Know where he is?”

“Why would I?” Joe demanded, glancing from the bartender to Nikki in irritation.

“You two usually watch together.”

“Yeah, well, he’s been AWOL.”

“Do you know why?” Nikki asked, breaking into the conversation.

“Who’re you?” Joe wanted to know.

“Nikki Gillette. With the Sentinel.”

“A reporter? Oh, geez.” He scowled as the crowd at the bar let out a whoop, and Joe turned quickly to the screen to see a Braves runner slide into home. He shot to his feet. “What happened?” he asked just as the play was shown again. He waited until the next batter was up, then said, “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout Bronco. But he was spooked about what he found over at that big place, the old Beaumont house. Spooked him good. He used to play over there as a kid. His old man or grandpa or someone worked for that crazy old bat who used to live there.”

“He tell you anything about that?”

“He had stories.” Joe was nodding. “Wild stories about what went on over there.”

“Such as?”

He thought for a second. “Well, he said something about the crazy lady having some kind of secret stash—valuables, y’know, but that might’ve been a lie. Bronco, he does stretch the truth now and again and especially when he’s had a few.” He scratched the back of his head. “And he used to talk about the old days, y’know. When he was a kid. He swore he saw his friend’s old man getting it on with the nurse out in the stable.” He snorted at the thought.

“His friend?” she said.

“Yeah, Bronco’s friend. The rich kid. Tyler, no—Tyson. Yeah, Tyson. Anyway, Tyson’s dad and the nurse had a thing.”

“What nurse?” she asked, but she felt her pulse quicken at the