Sandy looked in time to catch a flash of red. “The red one?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I swear I’ve seen it five times in the last two days.”
Sandy frowned. “A lot of people around here drive red trucks.” She studied her friend, who appeared sincerely rattled. “Is this part of our minds running away with our thoughts?”
Bree’s laugh was feeble. “I think you’re right. I’ve been looking over my shoulder for a while now.”
“You’re not the only one,” admitted Sandy. “My neck is sore from looking behind me.” She stood and tossed her empty coffee cup in the garbage can at the end of their bench. “I think we need something stronger than coffee.”
“I’m with you.”
TEN
Ollie stepped through the door of the Dairy Queen and inhaled.
Grease. Sugar. Meat.
His mouth watered.
Burgers, fries, and ice cream were some of his favorite highlights of joining the outside world, and the run-down Dairy Queen provided them all. At first he’d visited the DQ a few times a week until he realized a large chunk of his hard-earned money from his new jobs was being eaten away. Literally. Now the DQ was a luxury he allowed himself once every other week. He told the woman behind the counter which burger he wanted and then paused as he struggled to decide on the ice cream. He’d tried every dessert available, but there was something about the combination of vanilla soft serve, hot fudge, and peanuts that kept calling his name.
“Tough decision?”
Ollie turned around. Behind him was a young woman with a sweet smile and purple stripes in her pale hair who stared right into his eyes. His stomach fluttered, and he swallowed hard, unable to form words.
“I like the dip cones myself.” She continued to smile, encouraging him to answer.
“Peanut Buster Parfait,” he blurted, unable to pull his gaze from perfect green eyes. She looked a little older than he, but that could be all the makeup. Since he’d lived with Truman, he’d learned he was a horrible judge of age.
“Is that what you want today, Ollie?” asked Gloria, the DQ employee patiently waiting for him to decide.
He spun back to the counter. “Yes. Parfait.” He counted out cash and handed it over.
“I haven’t had a Peanut Buster Parfait in years,” said the green-eyed goddess behind him.
He glanced back at her out of the corner of his eye as he shoved his wallet back in his pocket. Talk to her.
“It’s good.” Brilliant.
“Then it must be time for me to have one again.” Still smiling, she ordered and then joined him at the far end of the counter, where he’d moved to wait for his food. “Haven’t I seen you at the coffee place in town?” She looked expectantly at him.
“Probably.” How had he not noticed her?
“I’m new around here. Really haven’t met anyone.”
His mind raced for a witty reply. “It’s a nice town.”
“I really hate eating alone. Would you mind if I sat with you?”
“No . . . I mean, that’d be fine . . . It’d be great.”
Her pleased grin made his knees feel like soft serve.
“Here you go, Ollie.” Gloria pushed a tray across the counter to him and winked. A flush heated his face, and he wondered if it was noticeable. “Enjoy your lunch.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Where’s the ice cream?” he asked.
“Oh, whoops. Hang on.” Gloria grabbed two clear cups next to the soft serve machine and skillfully whipped up two parfaits. She set them together on the counter in front of Ollie and his new friend. “Here you go, you two. Have a great lunch.”
She’d never delivered his food with such enthusiasm. He moved one of the parfaits to his tray and followed the younger woman to a booth with orange seats. He sat, overwhelmed by the fact that this gorgeous, talkative creature wanted to eat with him.
Conversation topics.
“I’m Ollie.”
“Tabitha.” She took a huge bite of fudge and closed her eyes in ecstasy. “You’re a bad influence on me.”
Watching Tabitha eat hot fudge made him slightly dizzy. Unable to move, he stared until her eyes opened. She licked a spot of chocolate off her lip. “You eating?”
He’d forgotten his food. “Yeah.” He unwrapped his burger, unable to start his Peanut Buster Parfait. Is that how I look when I eat one? He took a big bite of greasy burger and chewed. No flavor. His taste buds had gone on strike.
“How long have you lived here, Ollie?” she asked as she focused on her ice cream.
He swallowed. “About two months.”
“You’re a newbie like me.” Her eyes twinkled.
“I’ve only been in Eagle’s Nest two months,” he clarified. “I’ve always lived in Central Oregon . . . in a more remote area.” A pickle crunched in his mouth. He couldn’t taste it; he didn’t care. “Where are you from?” Composing a solid question pleased him.
“I live in Los Angeles. I’m just in town for a little while.”
Disappointment made his heart drop. She wasn’t staying. His fantasy of a girlfriend with purple hair burst like a balloon.
“I’d like to learn more about Eagle’s Nest before I have to leave,” she said encouragingly. “I bet you know some. We could hang out for a while.”
“Sounds good.” He tried to revive his enthusiasm. How long is a while?
She leaned across the table, making her breasts press against her shirt, and held his gaze. “I heard they found a murdered body not too far away.” Her voice was appropriately quiet, but fascination burned in her eyes.
Alarms rang in Ollie’s head.
“Do you know if that’s true?” Tabitha asked. “Or are people making stuff up?”
“It’s true,” he admitted.
Her eyes widened. “Oh! How scary . . . Did they catch who did it?”
“It happened a long time ago,” Ollie informed her, feeling a little guilty for talking about the dead. “It wasn’t really a body . . . Just a skeleton was left.” An image of the skull’s bullet hole flashed in his mind.
“Do they know who it was? Or how long ago it happened?” She took another bite, her gaze never leaving his as she hung on every word. Melted soft serve dripped on the table.
“Well . . . don’t tell anyone, but they think it’s related to a big robbery that happened in Portland a long time ago.”
“You’re not talking about the Gamble-Helmet Heist, are you?”
Ollie froze. “How’d you know?”
“Everyone knows about it.” She shrugged and looked at her parfait as she scooped up fudge and peanuts. “If it’s related to that, then whose skeleton is it?”
Ellis Mull. He’d heard Truman and Mercy discussing it yesterday, but something stopped him from saying it out loud. “Dunno.”
“Surely you’ve heard something.”
Is that what it looks like when someone bats their eyelashes? Ollie abruptly felt as if he’d been trapped. “Nothing.” He took another bite of his burger and studied the girl through fresh eyes. “What are you doing in Eagle’s Nest?”
She looked at her ice cream. “Work stuff.”
“What kind of work do you do?” Now that his brain was functioning, the world appeared crystal clear, and a murky cloud of suspicion clung to Tabitha.
“I just need to write up something. Say . . . is there a movie theater around here?” she asked with hope in her eyes.
“No. The closest theater is in Bend. What do you write?”
Her winning smile had lost some of its warmth. “Just little articles. Like what it’s like to live in a small town such as this one.”
“Usually it’s pretty great to live here. Do you have a business card?”
Now her smile vanished. “Why?”
“Because I’ve hinted several times that I want to know what you do.”
“Well, I haven’t pressured you to tell me what you do.” She thrust her chin
forward and stubbornly tilted her head.
“I work in the warehouse for Lake Ski and Sports, and I also detail cars at a dealership in Bend. I’m not in school, but I take online courses and plan to start at the community college for summer session. See? It’s not hard to be forthright.” He held her gaze as he took another bite of burger, thoroughly chewed, and then swallowed. “Why do I feel like you’re playing me? I’ve got nothing anyone could want.” Except access to the police chief and an FBI agent.
Tabitha slipped a card out of her purse and pushed it across the table.
TABITHA HUFF
STAFF WRITER
THE MIDNIGHT VOICE
“You write for a tabloid.” He’d scanned the headlines in stores as a kid, hungry for information. Any information.
“I don’t write anything that’s not true.”
“I recently saw a headline about the president having seven toes on one foot.”
“I didn’t write it.”
“You have higher standards?”
“It’s a job. My pieces are factual and well written.”
“Why did you target me?” Does she know I found the body?
She stirred her fudge into the melting ice cream, watching it blend together. “I saw you leave the house where Agent Kilpatrick spent the night. She doesn’t live there, right?”
Ollie ignored her question. “You followed me? After you’d already followed Mercy to the house?” Dread crawled up his spine. Mercy and Truman were not going to like these facts.
“I didn’t get any information when I talked to the FBI agent, and I figured the police chief wouldn’t talk to me either, so I decided on a different approach when I spotted you.” She was all business now. The earlier flirtation was completely gone.
“How’d you find out about the remains?”
“I got a tip. Someone created a Twitter account just to tweet at me that they had a big story. I privately messaged them, and after hearing what they had to say, I decided it was worth a look.”
“What was in the tip?”
“That the notorious robbery case was about to blow open and reveal all the characters involved. He told me about the money bags and remains that had been found.”
“How could he have known that?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, but I had nothing to lose by poking around. I saw a chance at breaking a huge story. He said he wasn’t sharing it with any other media.”
Ollie frowned. “Why not? I’d go to the big-gun reporters, not a tabloid.”
She lifted one shoulder. “Anyway, I’ve been following you since early this morning.” She leaned forward, a sneaky gleam in her eye. “Are you following the woman in the silver truck?”
Dry bun stuck in Ollie’s throat, and he coughed. Crap. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He struggled to clear his throat, wishing he’d ordered a soda.
Tabitha rolled her eyes. “Do you have some sort of weird obsession with her? She’s old enough to be your mom.”
He snorted. “That’s sick. She’s a nice lady . . .”
Tabitha raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him as she waited for the rest of his explanation.
How did she turn the tables back on me?
“There’s been some weird vandalism at her place. I’m keeping an eye out for anything odd around her.”
Tabitha stared. “You’re pretending to be a secret protector? That’s still twisted.”
“It’s not like that.” Ollie fumbled for the right words to explain. “I’m good at watching people and blending into the background . . . I used to do it when I lived—well, where I lived before.”
“You don’t blend. I noticed right away.”
“Well, it was easier in the woods.” Truth. It was difficult to be discreet in his red truck. “I know the police can’t always watch out for her, so I help out when I have some time.”
“The police asked you to help?” Skepticism filled her tone.
“No . . . I’m just doing it.”
“Still creepy.” Tabitha pushed away her half-eaten parfait, leaned back in the booth, and crossed her arms.
“How old are you?” Ollie asked, curiosity taking over his tongue.
“Twenty-two. Why?”
“I’m only eighteen. Did you really think I’d fall for your lonely-single-woman routine?”
“You’re eating with me, aren’t you?” She raised one brow.
“What are you going to do next?” he asked, ignoring that she was correct. “I don’t think anyone in Eagle’s Nest will give you information for your story.”
A slow, wide smile answered him. “People always talk. I’ll figure out the right way to approach them.”
“You’ve struck out twice now.”
“Then I’ll have to keep swinging, won’t I? Don’t worry about me.” She batted the eyelashes again. “I always come out on top. By tomorrow, that FBI agent will wish she’d answered my questions.”
Ollie set down his last bite of burger, bile burning in his stomach. “Are you threatening Mercy?”
Her laugh was forced. “Of course not. I meant she’ll wish she’d been my source.”
Ollie took a long look at Tabitha. Under his stare, she blinked several times and tried unsuccessfully to smile. “That’s my family you’re talking about,” he stated quietly.
“I happen to know you’re not related,” she snapped.
“Family is more than bloodlines. It’s also the people you choose to be in your life. I chose them.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“All you need to understand is that if you do something to embarrass Mercy or Truman, you’ll be answering to me.”
Boredom crossed her face as she turned away. “Okay, little boy.”
But a moment of uncertainty had flickered in her eyes.
Ollie stood and moved his uneaten fries and parfait back to his serving tray, his hunger long gone. “Nice meeting you.” He dumped the contents of the tray in the garbage bin behind their booth and headed for the door. He briefly regretted the loss of the parfait but realized he’d never taste one again without remembering this meal. Nausea swirled at the thought of fudge and peanuts.
No more parfaits for me.
He glanced back and saw her tapping on her cell phone.
What’s she planning to do?
ELEVEN
The guard from the armored car company had agreed to talk to the FBI but insisted that Art accompany Mercy. Mercy didn’t mind, and Art seemed pleased he was wanted. During the two-and-a-half-hour sunny drive from Bend to The Dalles, they caught up on each other’s lives.
“You look good, Mercy,” he said during a break in the conversation. “This rural part of the state must agree with you.”
“You know I grew up here, right?”
“I don’t think I did. Getting you to talk about yourself was nearly impossible.” He shot her a serious look.
“Yeah. I still don’t. Well . . . I’m a little better than I used to be. I tried to keep a thick wall between work and my personal life.”
“You didn’t have a personal life,” he stated. “Shocked the hell out of me that you agreed to have dinner that one time.”
Mercy chuckled. “Shocked me too. But it was impossible to say no to you.” She took a deep breath. “You were very kind to me back then, Art, and I appreciate it. I know I avoided interactions with most people.”
“You were a challenge,” he admitted. “Rumors flew around about you, you know.”
“What?” Mercy clenched the steering wheel in surprise. “What rumors? Who spread rumors about me?” Her heart sped up.
“Calm down. Nothing earth-shattering. Private people always drive other people crazy with curiosity. They don’t understand why private people don’t share every crumb of their lives.”
“You still haven’t told me what they said.”
He turned his attention out the windshield of her Tahoe. “That you had a secret boyfriend . . . that you left
town on the weekends . . . Some people were convinced you had a whole other life.”
“Trust me, I had no life. I spent my weekends . . . working on my home. I just didn’t like socializing.”
“I enjoyed our dinner,” he added, a question in his tone.
Here it is. “I did too.”
“Remind me why there wasn’t there a second?”
“I told you . . . friendship fitted us better.” She gave him a quick glance. “I wasn’t in a mental or emotional place to start something,” she said. “I can’t explain it better than that.”
“It appears you’re in a better place now. Congratulations.”
His sincerity was unmistakable. “Thank you. I’m very happy. I’ve changed a lot since I moved here—and all of it is for the better.” She pulled the Tahoe to the curb in front of a house. “Would you believe that my teenage niece lives with me?”
“A teenager?” His response was appropriately aghast, and his eyes crinkled with humor.
“I’ll fill you in after we talk to Gary Chandler.”
Gary Chandler lived in a tiny house. Mercy and Art carefully followed the broken concrete walkway to the front door. Tiny was a generous description of Gary’s home; it was a dollhouse. The lush green grass was in dire need of a mow, and the warped siding needed paint. More than likely the siding needed full replacement. The glorious day showed every sagging detail of the neglected home. An old minivan was parked under the carport, a faded JOHN KERRY FOR PRESIDENT 2004 bumper sticker peeling from its rear window.
“That might be a collector’s item,” stated Art, pointing at the bumper sticker.
Mercy doubted it. “Gary’s wife will be here, right?” she asked.
“He said she would be. Naomi.” Art knocked firmly on the door. Paint flaked off and fluttered down to the welcome mat that read GO AWAY.
“Not very welcoming,” Mercy commented.
“Gary’s not a fan of guests, but I think it’s supposed to be funny.”
The joke fell flat for Mercy.
The door opened inward, and a large woman blocked the entrance as she sized them up. She wore a shapeless housedress, and her graying hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her penetrating stare rivaled that of a starchy schoolteacher, and Mercy couldn’t pull her gaze away from the small turtle tucked under one arm.
A Merciful Fate Page 9
