Traggedy Ann

1 SEX ON A RANCH IS OFTEN TAKEN FOR granted. At any given point something is usually screwing something else. So I really don't have to look farther than my yard to find my dogs in a rousing game of Hump Dog. If Petunia, the potbellied pig is involved, it becomes a bit kinkier. In the pond in the summer, Colorado River toads make love, leaving long threads of eggs attached to one another looking like strings of black pearls, while mallard drakes dart lustfully after fast-swimming hens. What happens underwater is anybody's guess. At night the roar of mating cats--both domestic, and if we get really lucky, the mountain lions up in the hills--can be heard. Out in the pastures of the Vaca Grande Ranch, the bulls kick up dust and challenge one another over girlfriends. In the desert, the rattlesnakes make love for hours on end with one of their two penises. Seems like an excess to me, but it's sort of a spare tire thing, I guess. Not long ago, when Cori Elena, my foreman Mart'n's squeeze was here, there was actually some people sex going on too. But then that got out of hand when she had a fling with the brand inspector and ended up moving off the ranch and in with him. So not too many people are fooling around at the Vaca Grande these days. Hell, I haven't had a date for months. Neither has Mart'n. His daughter, Quinta, broke up with a guy a few weeks ago, and if Mart'n's dad, Juan, at eighty-one is getting any, he's wisely keeping his mouth shut. Guess he probably doesn't want to turn us green with envy. But sex was on my mind tonight. I guess because of my cousin Bea. Bea's a news anchor for Channel 4 TV and she has no problem, no problem at all in the Sex Department. She's always got some guy hanging around, his tongue dragging on the floor, happy to be in her shadow if she'll just give him the time of day. Unfortunately Bea's pretty quiet about the intricacies of these affairs, so even my vicarious sex life is shot to hell. Still, when I'm at her townhouse I get a kick out of opening up her freezer and checking the number of glass vials stored there. In each is a single piece of paper, frozen in water with the name of a past enamorata in it. Gone, but not forgotten. Bea's gorgeous face was now filling my television screen during the ten o'clock news. Some people say we look alike with our dark eyes and hair and somewhat exotic looks--courtesy of our half-Apache mother--but Bea's a lot more glamorous than I could ever hope to be. If she's Cosmo, I'm Field & Stream. I'm not a television lover, but I turned the volume up on the set. At least a couple of times a week I try to catch Bea's evening newscasts. Sitting next to my cousin was Terez Montiel, one of the weekend anchors who was filling in for Michael Boyd. Bea had just handed the broadcast over to Montiel, who was talking. "And in an interesting development in the Cordelia Jones murder investigation today, detectives indicate that the young woman may have been involved in some sort of sex cult here in Tucson." Mrs. Fierce, my cockaschnauz, whined at my feet and licked my hand. "I know." I reached down and petted her. "A sex cult. Some girls have all the luck." The dog put her head back down on the Saltillo tile floor and farted. I turned up the volume and muttered, "The cops always get the good ones." I'm a private eye, but I've never had anything as titillating as a sex case. "Early Tuesday morning, Cordelia Jones's body was found in a west-side neighborhood. What appeared to be a random act of violence may now have its roots in the occult." Terez's face was replaced by a photograph of Cordelia Jones, a tall, pale, plain-Jane brunette in a long flowing black robe with some kind of purple triangle thing on it. She did look a little spooky. "Channel 4 News has learned that Jones may have bBrowning, Sinclair is the author of 'Traggedy Ann', published 2003 under ISBN 9780553586398 and ISBN 0553586394.