"I think you should come in, Monette," Jessie said firmly. "And, Trula, do not let that cat out of the truck, or Jack will eat that little dog like a wafer cookie."
"And then," Monette said, "Minna told me there could be a flash flood in the gully where I was dry camping, so I needed to move. She offered me a place to stay until I decided what to do." She gestured to the girl sitting cross-legged on the floor, petting Muggs. "Trula doesn't live here. She only comes to visit after school when Minna needs her. I've tried to help out some to pay for my room and board."
"And is the iPad on the table Amber's?" Jessie asked.
"No. It's mine. But I do have Amber's. I have all her things." She sniffled and blew her nose loudly into a tissue. "Well, not her phone. I don't have her phone. I have everything that wasn't on the motorcycle. But I . . . well . . . I couldn't decide whether to bring her things to the Sheriff's Department. It seemed so dangerous."
"Why did you think going to the police was dangerous?" Jessie asked. "Are you in trouble with the cops?"
"Of course not." The blonde shot Jessie an intense look. She picked up a sugar cookie but didn't bite into it.
Minna looked calm and relaxed in her recliner. The old woman had her head tilted toward the open window, a slight look of anticipation on her face.
"Better wrap it up girls," she said softly. "Rain's coming. And it's really going to be a gully washer. Jessie has to get on the road so she can beat it back to the highway. "But, Monette, she needs to hear your story. And I think you need to tell it."
Monette sat rigidly for a minute, a stubborn expression on her face. Finally, she heaved a sigh. "Okay," she said in a quavery voice. "I'm going to trust you because Minna does, and because it might help find out who hurt Amber." Her voice caught, and her gaze locked with the old woman's. "Amber was like my sister. But telling you means I'll have to . . . well, find somewhere new to stay. I don't want to keep hiding out like a criminal, but I'm afraid to go home. And, I don't want to hang out here and make it unsafe for Minna."
"Please tell me what happened. Everything you know," Jessie said.
Monette paused, still appearing nervous. Then in her little girl voice, she began, "The night Amber was hurt, I was exhausted. I'd pulled a couple all-nighters studying for a test I had the week we left for the trip. I fell asleep at the Bed and Breakfast, and Amber didn't wake me up to go with her to the O'Bourne place." Tears filled her eyes. "I didn't even know she was going that night. She'd said she'd make an appointment for the next day."
Minna offered encouragement. "Go on, dear."
"When I finally dragged myself out of bed, I called her and it went right to voicemail. I thought maybe I hadn't heard her come in, and she'd actually gone out before I even woke up. But all day—nothing. Then I noticed I had two missed calls. There were two voicemails from her the night before. The first message said she'd found something exciting and was on her way to O'Bournes," Monette said.
"Did she say what?" Jessie asked.
Monette shook her head. "No. The next time she called, she said she'd been practically run off the road by some crazy hick town cop. Then she laughed and said, 'You'll probably have to come bail me out in the morning, Web.' Then, 'Oh Christ, it's the same cop who—' and that's where the message ended." Her breath caught, and she gulped. "I can play it for you later."
"That would be great."
"And Amber never came back to the B&B! I never saw her again. I was afraid to go to the police. I figure it's got to be a cop who killed her."
Her delicate hands covered her face and she began to sob. Her tiny frame trembled.
Compassion surged through Jessie. "I'm so sorry about your friend, Monette. It was a truly awful thing that happened to her." Then Jessie continued in a steely voice. "And I'm sorry about Amber, but you're just going to have to cowgirl up and help find out who's responsible."
Surprise rounded the girl's eyes at Jessie's tone. It was the same look of incredulity Jessie had seen before on the faces of spoiled, lovely women used to getting their own way, and were shocked when their charms didn't work. That 'poor helpless little me' look probably worked ninety-nine percent of the time on the opposite sex.
"Surely you don't think I can go to the police, Jessie."
"Yeah, I do. Not to the Sheriff's Department, though. I have a good friend who's a cop. We're both going to have to trust him, Monette," Jessie said firmly. Then she thought of Grant. "Actually, I have two friends. One is FBI."
"FBI?"
"Yes." Jessie stood. She glanced at Minna, who nodded her head slightly. "I am assuming Monette's motorcycle is in your back shed. Can she leave it there for a few days?"
When Minna nodded her assent, Jessie looked back at the tiny blonde. "Get your bag."
Shortly after the little red truck pulled out of Minna's driveway, the grumble and growl of distant thunder sounded and the plop of fat raindrops hitting the windshield and truck roof followed. Soon, the rain began to slough down like buckets of water tossed from a second story window.
Jessie silently cussed the weatherman.
That darn old Koot Lundgren. I'm gonna paint his portrait with him as an old bulldog holding an umbrella on a sunny day.
She gave a slow, easy press to the brake, to judge how slick the road had become. The truck's rear gave a slight fishtail, and Jessie pulled it back into the right lane. Bad. It was getting bad. Ten minutes later, the rural road had become as slick as ice.
"It's a dirt road," Monette said, "Why is it so slippery?"
"Well, there's dirt roads and there's gravel roads in rural Montana, and believe me, they are worlds apart when it comes to safe driving in wet weather. This road's just hard packed dirt."
"Why don't they fix it?"
"The reservation doesn't have enough money for good maintenance, so they haven't put much gravel on it. No gravel—no tire traction." Gaze centered on the road, she continued, "Rain doesn't absorb very fast into the clay surface, so instead of getting a muddy road, we get a slimy skating rink."
"It's scary."
"Yes. I hate driving on them when they're like this." Jessie clenched her jaw.
"Better you than me." Monette shuddered.
"Ooh," Jessie said, her voice oozing sarcasm "Thanks."
"I've never driven on a road quite like this. I'm so glad I'm not trying it on my motorcycle."
"Don't worry, we'll be fine," Jessie said with a confidence she didn't feel. I hate these snotty roads! Please Lord, please, please, let me get to the highway without a disaster.
Her hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, Jessie saw a cattle-truck coming from the other direction, and she groaned inwardly. As it approached, she instinctively steered the pickup slightly farther toward the right side of the wet road. Her right tires spun onto the slime-thick shoulder, and Monette squealed. Jack hissed.
Jessie held the little pickup straight, straddling the side of the road and edge of the barrow pit until she could slowly encourage it back onto the useless road.
She furrowed her brow as she tried to remember any washes or gullies between their present location and the beginning of the state highway. Water could fill those dips in the terrain with little or no warning in this area, the rain swelling and overflowing creek beds until flash floods whipped through the low spots like water directed into a gutter off a sloping roof. People who didn't respect the forces of nature had been swept away in their vehicles. Some had drowned.
With relief, Jessie realized she had already traversed the worst low spots, albeit with more fishtails than you'd find at Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. She forced herself to relax. Glancing to the side, she gave a reassuring smile to the tiny blonde buckled into the passenger seat. Monette was practically squeezing the life out of a complaining Jack.
"I think you'd better ease up a little on the cat. You're giving poor Jack a waistline."
Monette flushed and released her hold on the tom, who then settled without rancor onto her lap and began to
knead her thighs with his front paws.
"Sorry. It's been a tense week," she said in a tremulous voice.
"I imagine so," Jessie said, "We're lucky there aren't any cows on the road today. My dad says they know when a big storm is coming and head for higher ground. They have more smarts than folks give them credit for." She shrugged her shoulders. "Or maybe just good instincts."
"I'm so glad I didn't stay camped in the gully." Monette stared out the passenger window at the deluge. "It's probably flooding. I probably owe Minna my life."
"Could be. Now, help me keep an eye out for livestock. This is 'free-range'. That means the stock isn't confined by fences on the reservation. There's a giant of a bull roaming loose in the hills around here, too, a monster that I'd sure hate to run into. He'd flatten us like a tortilla."
Ten minutes later the rain had stopped and the truck pulled onto nice, solid asphalt. Jessie gratefully turned the little vehicle back toward Sage Bluff. She hadn't realized she'd actually been holding her breath until she let it out with a deep, relieved sigh.
The sky was phenomenal, dusky blues and stormy grey swirling into a maelstrom of color. Her fingers itched for a canvas and brushes, but she forced her mind away from the distraction and kept her eyes on the road. By the time she pulled the Ford pickup into O'Bourne's barn and folded the seat forward to help Monette retrieve her bag and the leather satchel, the satchel that held Amber's iPad and extra research, the sky was beginning to clear.
Monette and Jack walked out of the barn and waited as Jessie grabbed the new padlock from a hook near the open doorway. She stepped through, slid the barn door shut and pushed it hard, until the heavy duty hasp could be slipped over the U-shaped connection. Slipping the padlock on, she snicked it closed and yanked, making sure it had locked.
They walked to the house with Jack padding behind, the odor of rain-soaked earth and the sweet smell of sage redolent in the air.
Chapter 51
Sage Bluff Sheriff's Office, present day
Arvid sat behind his oversized oak desk. After leaving Jessie's, he'd hit the speed dial for Russell and asked him to meet him at the station. He had walked to his office with a heavy heart, went directly to his filing cabinet and pulled the folder he'd kept that covered Kevin O'Bourne's accident. He opened it and looked at the photos. Then, without hesitation, he pulled his pistol, thumbed the safety off, sat, and placed it on his lap out of sight.
Russell walked in and Arvid motioned for the younger man to sit.
"What the heck? You've been out running around all day when we're trying to solve this Cassy Adams case, and now here you are sitting in the office on your big behind." Russell was only half joking. Then the grave look on his partner's face registered. Russell dropped into the extra chair. "You were going out to Jessie's this morning. Is she—"
"Jessie's fine."
"K.D.?"
"Everybody's fine."
"Then what's up?"
Arvid slid the folder across the desk. Russell opened it. "Kevin? I'm certain that Chief Phillips closed that case and—"
"So let's talk hypothetically, Russell. Let's go back a few years and revisit that barn out at O'Bourne's. You see, I learned a few new things about Kevin O'Bourne this week. The first is that he left a son behind. One that has a smile just like his sister Jessie's."
"But—"
"Let me talk. The most important thing I learned was something I found out just today."
"Just spit it out, then," Russell said angrily.
"Kevin was right handed, but he shot like a southpaw."
Russell sat perfectly still. The anger vanished from his face. Then he jumped to his feet, his face ashen. "No, that can't be!" Then he froze.
Arvid had the semi-automatic pistol leveled at his chest.
"You know, you've been like a son to me. But you're going to sit down again. We're going to have us a confab. And until I'm satisfied with what you have to say, you ought to sit very still and make no sudden moves. In fact, take your gun belt off carefully, put it on the floor and slide it slowly under the desk with your foot."
Russell did so, then eased back into the seat.
"I didn't hurt him. And that just can't be. Kevin—"
"Ask Jessie. She told me once when we were just gabbing, that target shooting was the one thing Dan O'Bourne never taught you. You must've learned it all during your police training."
"Yeah." Russell said huskily, then cleared his throat. "Yes, that's true."
"And today, Jess O'Bourne sat across from me at the table and we were talking target shooting, and she says to me, 'My brother was right-handed, but with anything involving guns, he was a southpaw'."
Russell looked dumbstruck. "Good Lord. Cross-eye dominant. He must have been cross-eye dominant."
"Yep. That is correct. Now, let's talk. Do you need to look at the photos from Kevin's 'accident'? To refresh your memory? The photos that show Kevin shot in his right temple, the gun flung from his right hand, as though he'd fallen and shot himself, accidental like? "
Russell covered his face with his hands. "Oh, God."
"We can make it hypothetical if you want. Hypothetically, if someone wanted murder to look like an accident, of course, it would be smart to place the weapon by the correct hand."
Behind his hands, Russell made a gagging sound.
"Now," Arvid went on, "The photos of Kevin show that he could have shot himself, if he had just been a right-handed shooter. But nope. He wasn't. So, hypothetically, what do you think?
Russell sat still as stone. Then he lowered his hands and shuddered. He took a deep breath and then heaved a sigh.
"Hypothetically, maybe a good friend, maybe even a cop who thought of Kevin as a brother, could have found him dead in the barn. It looked like an obvious suicide. Maybe that cop could have altered the scene. Made it look accidental. An accident is a tragedy, but suicide . . . now, suicide is something altogether different. It's not only heart wrenching, but a parent and sibling always wonder if they failed that person."
"Of course, tampering with evidence would be illegal," Arvid said. "It would ruin that person's career if it was ever found out."
"Hypothetically, maybe that person put Hannah and Dan and, yes, Jessie O'Bourne before that career. And that cop made a mistake fixing it to look like an accident, because he found the gun in the wrong hand and didn't know Kevin shot like a southpaw." Russell gulped.
"No, son. You're not quite following my train of thought here. If that weapon was already placed by the wrong side of Kevin's body, it was originally a murder made to look like a suicide.
Russell gaped at him. "No, Arvid. Oh, no. Murder?"
"Yeah. So by moving the weapon yet again, the murder was made to look like an accident," Arvid said. "And now the trail is colder than an Eskimo's bare behind on a snowy day. But at least that hypothetical cop isn't a murderer."
Russell stared at him in mute misery.
Arvid heaved a deep sigh, stood, put the safety on and holstered his gun. "But why? Why did you think Kevin capable of suicide?"
"He was depressed because of Trish and Hannah. It was the only reason I could think of."
"Hannah?"
"Drugs. Kevin had just found out Trish was hooked on prescription drugs and so was Hannah. Oxycodone. Kevin blamed himself because it was his girlfriend who got his mother hooked on the drug, supplying it for her long after Hannah's doctor refused to write a prescription. Hannah broke her collarbone and injured her rotator cuff the year before. She'd been on pain pills and was finding it hard to get off of them. Harder and harder, she told me." He paused. "I took a pill from her prescription bottle once and took it in to the pharmacist. I asked him what the dose was."
"And?"
"God, Arvid. It was twice what was listed on the pill bottle. Hannah denied that she knew. She said that dosage couldn't possibly be correct. She told Kevin that Trish had picked up her last few prescriptions for her."
"Ah, hell."
"When Kevin heard Trish been supplying his mother with the Oxycodone, he went ballistic. He swung by and picked me up and we went right to Trish and confronted her. She wouldn't tell us who gave her the drugs, but she admitted that she hadn't gotten them from a pharmacy. Her own drug supplier threatened to cut her off if she didn't follow orders, and her orders were to keep getting Hannah her filled bottles of Oxy. Kevin and I asked her why. And Trish said we'd never understand. It was someone unbalanced who hated Kevin's mother."
Arvid scowled, but motioned for Russell to continue.
"We had a huge fight over getting them both, Hannah and Trish, into rehab. Kevin was more upset than I'd ever seen him. Later, he told me that when he talked to Trish in private, she said something that made him think whoever gave her the drugs set out to specifically make Hannah an addict. Even after that, Kevin blamed himself." Russell stared at Arvid, his eyes full of sorrow.
"Go on, Russell."
"When I found him, I was horrified. It looked like suicide. I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't let Dan and Hannah . . . I couldn't let Jess . . ." He put his face in his hands. "Six years. Because of me, someone got away with murder for six years. "
Arvid stood, picking up the folder from the desk. He stared at it, slapping it into his hand a couple times, chewing his lip as he did so.
"What are you going to do?"
"It was just a hypothetical conversation, like I said. After all, the case is closed." He pulled open the drawer of the filing cabinet and shoved the paperwork in. Then he bent down, pulled Russell's gun belt from under the desk and handed it to him.
Russell looked at the big Norwegian, a hopeful expression on his face.
"But just because it's closed, don't mean that person ain't still out there. Something to solve, whether the case is hypothetical or not," Arvid growled.
Russell's voice was raspy. "You aren't turning me in?"
"I think you acted like a damn fool. But I don't think you could afford K.D.'s drawing paper if I turned you in. So no. I don't guess so. I'm going to trust my gut on this one. I always tell Esther that what's legal isn't always ethical and what's ethical ain't always legal. I got to say that in your case, that seems to fit."
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