The Bait

by Carol Ericson

  Even if Frankie hadn’t come decked out as Katniss, her presence would have stirred up talk, but Frankie had a right to be here. Seven years earlier, when Frankie had been barely twenty-one, she’d married Tanner Parkman, Millie’s brother, and even though they’d divorced only a year later, Frankie had given birth to Tanner Junior. Or Little T as people called him. Since there hadn’t been a provision in the Last Ride Society to remove divorcées or those who’d given birth to Parkmans, Frankie had remained in the Bowl o’ Names. Much to the disapproval of those, well, who disapproved of a lot of things.

  “Hey, this is a good turnout,” Frankie remarked. Her voice was like a perky dose of sunshine. Not the kind to give you heatstroke but the extra sunny kind that felt good after a long winter.

  “It is,” Millie agreed. Though it was the usual turnout as far as she could tell.

  There were about eighty people who fell into one of three categories. Those who truly wanted to honor their founder and ancestor, Hezzie Parkman. Those with too much time on their hands who came for Alma’s homemade snickerdoodles and any gossip they might have missed. And the final group was those who made time and came only out of a sense of duty.

  Millie was in that last batch.

  Since Hezzie had been her great-great grandmother, Millie had come every year since her twenty-first birthday to represent her father and brother who always had an excuse not to be here. Like tonight, her mother was always in the front row, in the aisle seat. Doing her duty while looking perfect. Laurie Jean wouldn’t be having a snickerdoodle, and she’d been one of the scowlers when Frankie had come in and announced herself as tribute.

  As for Frankie, she was all about honoring the founder, eating the snickerdoodles and apparently having fun while doing it. Then again, having fun pretty much defined Frankie’s attitude about life.

  Millie envied that attitude. That warm sunshine voice. Heck, she envied Frankie. But admitting that would only put her and her mom and dad under more scrutiny. Her folks didn’t need any scrutiny—as Laurie Jean so often told her.

  Plenty of times her mom dressed down Tanner. And Frankie. That’s because Tanner had a habit of doing whatever the heck pleased him and no longer feared Dial Antibacterial threats. Frankie owned a costume and party supply shop and also did tats and piercings on the side. While she was good at her chosen profession, it wasn’t a profession that met with Laurie Jean’s approval. Also, Frankie wasn’t a Parkman, or a Dayton like Royce, so DNA and career choices counted against her. In Laurie Jean’s mind, a lot of things counted against a lot of people.

  “Heard about what happened at the gallery,” Frankie muttered to Millie.

  Millie suspected—no, she knew—everyone in Last Ride had heard about what had gone on at Once Upon a Time, the antiques and art gallery that Millie’s grandmother had left her.

  “What a mess, huh?” Frankie remarked.

  “Yes,” Millie agreed. “Mess is definitely the right word for it.”

  Two very large macaws, Dorothy and Toto, had escaped from the pet store and had flown into Once Upon a Time when someone opened the door. Along with spilling Millie’s megaslurp of coffee and scattering her stash of cherry Jolly Ranchers on the floor, the birds had toppled tables, knocked down paintings from easels and pooped on a Victorian silver nut spoon before being caught.

  All the while babbling Ding-dong the witch is dead.

  After the pet store owner had finally gotten them out, it’d taken Millie and her two employees hours to right everything and get rid of the stench.

  The old clock in the front corner of the town hall finally clanged six times, and it got Alma Parkman scurrying up from her front-row seat to the podium. Yes, she scurried. Alma might be past the eighty mark, but she was spry, happy and didn’t care squat if people gossiped about her. That was probably why Alma had recently announced that she was retiring as the town’s librarian and pursuing a career as a stand-up comic.

  “How-dee,” Alma greeted. She wore a pink top and capris and had her silver-colored hair pulled up in a way that resembled a mini palm tree on top of her head. “Welcome, Parkmans. And Katniss.” She winked at Frankie.

  No wink for Millie though when Alma’s attention landed on her. The pity practically gushed right out of Alma, causing Millie to dole out her customary response. A polite smile followed by the poker face. Millie had gotten good at plastering it on.

  “All righty, then.” Alma put on her thick reading glasses before picking up the gavel. “I’m calling to order this meeting of the Last Ride Society.” She banged the gavel three times. “We’ll start with a reading of the rules.” Alma looked down at the paper she’d brought to the podium with her and gave an exaggerated frown. “Hey, who scribbled that the first rule of Last Ride Society is there are no rules?”

  Frankie and Alma giggled like loons, but many just looked confused. Probably because they didn’t get the Fight Club reference. Others because they didn’t approve of having a lick of fun.

  “I confess, I’m the scribbler,” Alma continued, still snickering. “Just trying out some of my new routine. But here I go for real.” Her expression grew serious. “Our illustrious town founder, Hezzie Parkman, created the Last Ride Society shortly before her death in 1950, and each and every one of you honor Hezzie by being here this evening. Honor, tradition, family. Those are the cornerstones that make Last Ride our home.”

  Even though it was a short speech that Alma gave every quarter, Millie saw a few people dab tears from their eyes.

  Alma held up one finger to indicate the first rule. “A drawing will take place quarterly on the first day of February, May, August and November in the Last Ride town hall. The winner of the previous quarter will draw the name of his or her successor.”

  Nearly everyone glanced at Ruby Chaney, last quarter’s winner. She definitely fell into the category of gobbling up this particular duty. She gave everyone a wave, obviously enjoying the last couple of minutes of her “celebrity” status.

  “Second rule,” Alma said, lifting another finger. “The winner must research the person whose tombstone he or she draws. A handout will be given to the winner to better spell out what needs to be done, but research should be conducted at least once weekly as to compile a thorough report on the deceased. The report will be added to the Last Ride Society Library.”

  Since the library occupied the large back room of Once Upon a Time, Millie often caught glimpses of the reports that had started more than half a century ago. Some had been bound professionally and were several inches thick. Others were handwritten and obviously hastily done. Ruby’s recent addition was over five hundred pages on a spinster who’d died back in the late 1800s.

  “Final rule,” Alma went on. “On the completion of the research by the winner, five thousand dollars from the Hezzie Parkman trust will be donated to the winner’s chosen town charity.”

  “I’m hoping it’s me this year,” Frankie muttered. “The baseball field needs fixing up.”

  Millie was hoping it was Frankie, too. Not only because the woman wanted it but because Frankie was right about the baseball field needing a face-lift. Millie made a mental note to set up a donation drive for just that.

  “And now to the drawing.” Alma used the gavel to drum out her obvious excitement. “Ruby, come on up to the Bowl o’ Names and get to drawing.”

  Ruby waved again and smiled at the applause. What she didn’t do was hurry. Not one little bit. Still obviously trying to hang on to her moment, Ruby crept to the table and hovered her hand over the bowl. Probably to boost excitement. Many probably hoped she’d just hurry so they could spoil their dinners with those snickerdoodles.

  Ruby finally reached into the bowl, swirling around the slivers of paper, paused, swirled some more. Only when people started to groan and grumble did she finally pluck one.

  Ruby beamed and looked directly at her. “Millie Parkman,”
the woman announced.

  Oh, man. What kind of crap-ery was this? Suddenly all eyes were on her. Exactly where Millie didn’t want them to be.

  “Congrats, Millie,” Alma muttered.

  There were no congrats whatsoever in Alma’s tone or expression. No doubt because she, and everyone else in the room, were considering that Millie digging into that Bowl o’ Tombstones would maybe bring back the memories and grief over losing Royce. But Millie didn’t have to dig into a bowl to recall that memory. Everything brought it back.

  Everything.

  Millie forced herself to stand, and she got moving toward the front. She silently cursed the macaws because she could have used both the caffeine and sugar fix to get her through this. Unlike Ruby, she didn’t dawdle, didn’t make a production of it. Millie simply went to the Bowl o’ Tombstones and snagged the first one her fingers touched. She unfolded the paper.

  Her heart went to her knees.

  And she blurted out the really bad word.

  “The name is Ella McCann,” Millie managed to say when she got her mouth unfrozen.

  The room went tombstone-silent, but Millie figured there was already some mental gossip going on.

  Frankie jumped to her feet. “I volunteer as tribute,” she repeated.

  Millie considered taking her up on the offer. Considered shirking the duty that had been drummed into her since childhood. Parkman duty. Parkman pride. But it was more than that. It was spine. It would probably come as a surprise to many, but she did indeed have one. And Millie was about to prove that.

  To them.

  To herself.

  Even if Ella McCann deserved each and every f-bomb that Millie would ever mutter, she’d do this. She’d research the “other” woman. She’d dig into the life of the woman who’d died in the arms of Millie’s husband.

  Copyright © 2021 by Delores Fossen

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Conard County: Traces of Murder by Rachel Lee.

  Conard County: Traces of Murder

  by Rachel Lee

  Chapter One

  On a gray day, Hillary Kristiansen stood on a windswept hill in Conard County, Wyoming. She faced a gravestone, holding yellow roses in her hand.

  Brigid L. Mannerly, United States Army

  Bravely served

  Bravely died for her country.

  “Brigid,” she murmured, grief welling up in her. She hadn’t known Brigid for all that long, but from the moment Hillary had met her, they had bonded like sisters. Brigid’s death had carved a deep, dark hole in Hillary’s heart.

  It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d made promises to visit one another at home when they both got leave at the same time. Now this was the only way Hillary could keep her promise. Standing beside a cold grave.

  Blinking back salty tears, Hillary squatted and laid the roses on Brigid’s grave. A small token of a friendship that should have spanned decades.

  The chilly autumn wind bit her cheeks, a harbinger of the coming winter, but Hillary scarcely noticed. She was accustomed to a far frostier climate.

  Closing her eyes, she thought of Norwegian mountains, covered with snow, tipped with glaciers. Thought of how she had promised that she would take Brigid cross-country skiing, teasing her about how slowly she would move at first, how she wouldn’t be able to keep up. How Brigid had gamely replied that she’d give Hillary a run for her money. They’d both known that wouldn’t be possible, but it had stolen none of the fun from their teasing.

  So many possibilities buried beneath a blanket of dirt sodded over with brown grass. It wasn’t the first time Hillary had suffered such a loss, but this one was somehow worse. Her friend, her sister.

  A small American flag tipped near the gravestone, and Hillary reached out to straighten it and plant it more firmly. Brigid had earned every bit of that respect.

  KIA. Killed in action. Every soldier knew it was possible, but few thought about it until those left behind faced the reality of each new empty place in a unit. Gone. Never to return. Then necessity required them to shrug it off. To believe they were somehow immune.

  Until the nightmares began.

  Gradually Hillary became aware of someone standing at the next gravesite. She wanted to ignore the stranger, didn’t want his intrusion into her private grief.

  Then he spoke. “You knew Brigid?”

  That brought her to her feet, and she pivoted to see a tall man, his build bespeaking steel, his face bearing the scar of a single knife slash. Recognition awoke deep within. He was a soldier, too.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Afghanistan.” She looked at Brigid’s grave again. Some rose petals had loosened and wafted away on the wind. Apropos. Fly away, Brigid.

  She spoke again. “Do you know her husband? I was thinking about calling, if he wouldn’t mind.”

  A pause. Then a gut punch in the form of taut words. “Allan is dead, too.”

  He pointed to the gravestone next to Brigid’s. “Two months ago. They say it was suicide.”

  Hillary’s heart clenched as she absorbed the shock, as she sensed that this man didn’t believe it was suicide at all.

  “Herregud,” she whispered. “Good God.”

  His face hardened. “I came here to visit them both. We were friends since childhood.”

  She met his gaze, seeing eyes as gray as the sky overhead. “That is a shame.”

  He gave a sharp nod. “Definitely.” Then he paused. “You sound British.”

  “My mother.”

  He looked down at the stones again. “Let me buy you a coffee. We’re going to freeze out here.”

  She doubted she’d freeze, but the invitation was welcome. They could talk about Brigid, about Allan. About all that had happened. She needed that, and she suspected he did, too.

  He held out his hand. “Apologies. I’m Trace Mullen.”

  “Hillary Kristiansen,” she answered as she returned his shake.

  They walked side by side to the parking lot, she in her dark wool slack suit and a light jacket, he in jeans with an open peacoat. His bare head displayed short dark hair, almost black. Around here, she thought, her own tightly cropped, pale blond hair probably stood out, flying in the face of her training. She wished for a watch cap.

  In her rental, Hillary followed him into town, a small, quaint place she liked instantly. Brigid had spoken warmly of Conard City, of Conard County. Her heart had been here, and not just because of Allan.

  Trace led the way to a small diner labeled the City Café. Inside, the booths and tables announced their age, red vinyl seats repaired in places with matching tape. A few older men had ensconced themselves in a far corner, having drawn tables together.

  The two of them chose a table as far away as they could get. Some semblance of privacy.

  A heavyset woman with a grumpy attitude took their coffee orders. “You’ll be wanting some pie or cobbler,” she said before stalking away.

  Trace spoke. “That’s Maude. She’s a fixture, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile.”

  “If the coffee is good...” Hillary tried to summon a smile.

  “Oh, it is. So is everything she cooks and bakes here. She’s still giving Melinda’s bakery a run for her money.”

  Casual conversation about nothing, a slow feeling out of one another.

  “So,” Trace said after the coffee arrived with a thud, “you’re half British? You’re in the British Army?”

  “No. My father is Norwegian. I am Jegertroppen.” The all-female unit of Special Operations.

  He stared at her, raising his brows. “The Hunters. The Valkyries.”

  “So we are called.”

  “Good God. The BBC called you the toughest women in the world.”

  She didn’t know how to answer that, especially since she wasn’t feeling all that tough r
ight then. She switched tack. “And you? Army?” It seemed a likely conclusion, given that Brigid and her husband had both been in the Army.

  “One hundred and first Airborne.”

  She wasn’t surprised. She’d sensed something about him at the cemetery, something more than soldier. And Brigid had mentioned her husband’s unit. She spoke, using a phrase she had heard applied to the Airborne. “Death from the skies.”

  At that he smiled faintly. “I never had the pleasure of working with anyone from Jegertroppen.”

  “Just as well. I doubt it would have been an enjoyable situation.” She waved generally toward the window. “Brigid talked about the mountains here.”

  “Probably not what you’re used to.”

  “Depends on where you are. We have some flatlands, too. However, we did have a reason to invent the cambered ski. Long winters and a need to get around in those mountains.” Surprising them both, pieces of fruit pie landed in front of them. Before they could express their gratitude, Maude had stormed off.

  Trace spoke. “I guess we were offending her natural order of things.”

  They were also avoiding their primary concern. Hillary wondered how to divert them back to it but couldn’t see a polite way. She decided to eat some berry pie and wait. Not that she felt very hungry. Her usual strenuous life had given her a healthy appetite, but grief changed everything. She pecked at the pie.

  Trace didn’t seem much more interested. “I heard you train with the US Navy SEALs?”

  “Sometimes.” Hillary shrugged it off. “For certain kinds of operations. I don’t want to talk about me. Right now I’d prefer to leave that part behind. I’m here for Brigid.”

  “I know.” He frowned slightly. “You’d better eat at least half that pie, or Maude will be insulted. Life with an insulted Maude could become complicated when you’re hungry.”