Carnosaur Crimes by Christine Gentry Read Free Book Online Page B

developed a severe case of bloat. Digestive gases expanded their stomachs like balloons, and they all fell over on their sides, feet uphill.
    The entire town spent a night rolling over hundreds of distressed, glassy-eyed sheep so their feet faced downhill and they could stand by themselves, or in cutting a single hole in the beasts’ rumens so the gasses were artificially expelled. Luckily only a few sheep expired, and the associated town appellation of “Swollen” gracefully morphed into Swoln over time.
    Ansel followed Dorbandt’s scanty directions and cruised down Main Street. If she’d blinked, she’d have missed the whole downtown area. The only sign of civilization in the dark, rolling landscape was a row of dimly-lighted, two-story brick buildings on one side and a row of contemporary glass-front buildings on the other. The clay monstrosities looked like original town structures - a municipal building, bank, and feed store. As for the other canopied storefronts, Ansel figured that contemporary around here meant the1950s.
    Humpys Grill wasn’t hard to find. Every decrepit truck in town was hunkered in front of it. Only Dorbandt’s unmarked, white sedan spoiled the pickup conga line. A huge, blue neon sign over the soaped-over store windows flickered the restaurant’s name and the profile of a buffalo.
    Lovely, Ansel reflected, parking next to the cop car. She fussed with her form-fitting, scoop-necked T-shirt and fringed, brown suede vest before grabbing her purse. Out of the cab, she quickly placed her left palm on the sedan hood as she passed it. Aside from residual heat from a broiling hot day, the engine was relatively cool. Reid had arrived quite some time before her.
    She moved toward the entrance, hoping that her casual, sexy look would hold Dorbandt’s attention long enough to disarm his usually guarded interaction with her. It had worked before. A crude cardboard sign taped to the door read, “If you don’t pay, don’t bother to runs.
My
bullet is faster than
your
buns.”
    Ansel sighed and entered. The cloying smells of horseradish, smoke, and, dish-washing soap hit her nose as the door slowly closed behind her. She’d expected every dirty, grizzled sheepherder’s head to turn and leer at the sight of a Native American woman entering their lair, but it didn’t happen.
    Everybody was too busy eating. The tiny room was jam-packed with tables full of clean-shaven cowboys and rosy-cheeked women. The men wore dressy western shirts, boot-cut denims, and polished boots. The ladies wore brightly-colored gingham and calico dresses with puffed sleeves. An open mesquite grill crackled and smoked along the rear wall.
    Dorbandt, also wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, raised an arm. He was nursing a beer. She took the empty seat where a frosty mug also awaited her. “Hi, Reid. Who’s the crowd?”
    â€œThe Glory Stompers. Square dancing team from the Revelation Baptist Church. I ordered you an ale.”
    â€œThanks,” Ansel said, sipping the Moose Drool brew. She settled in and surveyed the ultra-rustic decor – U.S. license plates or horse blankets nailed to the cheap brown paneling as well as peeling red vinyl floor squares, and varnished, raw pine-board tables and chairs. “Nice ambiance.”
    Dorbandt shrugged. “You don’t come for the fencing. You come for the grass. The food is great.” He passed her a laminated paper with print on both sides. “I recommend the buffalo chili with a side of corn meal dumplings.”
    â€œAnd what are you having?”
    He smiled. “A buffalo tongue sandwich, of course. That’s why I’m here.”
    Ansel set down the menu. “That’s all? How did you ever find this place?”
    â€œA lot of smokies eat here. So how have you been, Ansel?”
    Well aware that he’d side-stepped her innuendo of duplicity, she replied, “Never a dull