by Ann Yost
She forced herself to look at the heads.
“Do you notice anything weird about this,” she asked Flynn.
“Apart from the fact that they’re dead?”
Suddenly she realized what it was. Instead of the traditional deer, elk, bear and moose the animals were exotic. Many of them had spiral horns and some had striped faces.
“These are all types of African antelope,” Moore explained. “Kudu, enyala, cape buffalo, gensbuck. There’s a cape buffalo and leopards, lions, hippos, a zebra.”
Lucy’s heart twisted at the sight of the lion and the zebra, She much preferred to see them in a zoo or, better yet, in a storybook.
“Rhinos are off limits these days,” Moore continued, “and that’s all you can bring home from an elephant.” He pointed to a pair of large Dumbo-like ears, tusks and a tail mounted on a board.
The room felt like the setting for a horror movie.
“Is this, is this a crocodile,” Flynn asked, his voice faint.
“That’s right. And here’s a white tiger.”
She felt tears prick the backs of her eyes. All this killing. All this death. If life were fair, Packer would have been shot by an avenging kudu.
“Did Mr. Packer shoot all these himself?”
“Every single one,” Moore said.
“With a rifle?”
The attorney shook his head. “Nate was more sporting than that. He shot them, believe it or not, with a bow and arrow.”
The breath caught in Lucy’s throat. Was there a message in that?
“Ironic, in its way,” Moore said.
“If he only hunted with a bow why all the other weapons,” Flynn asked. He indicated a wall full of antique weapons including long rifles, pistols, a Samurai sword, a rapier and a foil. There was a crossbow, too, as well as a quiver of arrows.
Moore shrugged his elegant shoulders.
“Nate liked weaponry but these are just collectibles. He hunted only with the bow as that made the effort more sporting. A bowman must get within thirty feet of his prey whereas a rifleman can hit a target from a distance of hundreds of feet. Bow hunting requires skill, finesse and courage.”
Pride in his late friend was evident in his voice.
Lucy had been born and raised in Maine and she knew that many in the state hunted for sport but also for food. The idea of pursuing these African creatures just to show off their dead faces felt cruel.
She noticed a section on the wall of photographs. They were all of one man, the same man, dressed in bush clothing, including an Ernest Hemingway-styled hat. The subject’s face was only partly visible because of the hat and a bushy beard but Lucy could see the massive grin and she had no doubt at all that it was Nate Packer. The Great White hunter.
Flynn leaned over her shoulder. “Who’s in the background of that picture?”
Lucy squinted at a figure so small she hadn’t noticed it at first. It was a second hunter dressed similarly.
Claude’s voice had a smile in it. “Believe it or not that’s Shirley. She always accompanied Nate on the trips.”
“She’s a hunter, too?”
“Oh, no. We were just his entourage.”
“You were there, too?” Somehow, Lucy hadn’t put that together.
“Who do you think shot the photos, Ms. Outlaw?” The attorney’s voice sounded amused.
“I hadn’t thought.”
Claude Moore had no way of knowing just how often Lucy had made that admission.
“I wasn’t just the photographer, of course. I have a pilot’s license. That’s how we traveled from one venue to the next. And, of course, I conveyed the kill to the taxidermist. Nate was a touch squeamish about that.”
It was hard to reconcile the grinning hunter in the photograph and the dozens of dead eyes with a man who was “squeamish.”
The trio really had been the Three Musketeers, their lives intertwined for thirty years until Paula showed up. Lucy just didn’t understand why Shirley and Claude had accepted the change so easily.
When they returned to the salon, it was empty and Lucy felt the now-familiar surge of jealousy. Had the other two gone up to the decadent master bedroom? Paula had seemed ready to throw down and consummate and Jake, well, Lucy knew very well how attractive he was. Suddenly, she wanted to get out of the mansion. She thanked Moore and tried not to mind when she saw the white Blazer still parked in the circular drive.
Thirty minutes later, the VW bus pulled up in front of a neat, tidy, clapboard home on Cherry Street on Bangor’s north side. Flynn pulled part way into a paved drive that led around back to a garage.
The Cape Cod topped with a widow’s walk was more of a bungalow than a house and it should have looked cozy with its protective eaves and stone walkway. Despite the curtains at the windows and the rhododendron bushes that flanked the path, the house appeared just a bit forlorn. It took Lucy a minute to figure out why. The entire house was gray, including the shutters. There was no white trim, no jaunty front door.
This time there was no dapper lawyer to greet them, just the first Mrs. Packer, slim and fit with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, a long nose and a narrow face whose lines were unsoftened by makeup. She dressed much like Lucy herself usually did, in a pair of worn blue jeans and a green-and-white checked blouse. There was a direct look in her faded blue eyes. She’d never been a beauty, Lucy decided, but she’d probably been a force of nature, one who had helped her husband to succeed. She seemed to be the antithesis of the Widow Packer and yet Nate had married them both.
How had it felt to be cast aside after thirty years?
“Ms. Outlaw?’ Shirley’s voice was polite, if not welcoming. “Please come in.”
After granting permission for photos, Shirley appeared to ignore Flynn as he moved around her small, shadowed living room snapping shots.
Lucy explained again that she was trying to flesh out the characters in the murder.
“I want to show your ex-husband as a multi-dimensional human being, a normal man.” She was rather proud of her explanation.
“Except that,” Shirley said, dryly, “normal men do not get murdered with bows and arrows. But then, that makes it a better story, doesn’t it?”
Lucy ignored the undertone of sarcasm.
“Well, let’s just say it makes it a story. Do you think the weapon was significant? Do you think it could be related to your late husband’s passion for big game hunting?”
Shirley’s mouth twisted in what might be amusement. “I thought you were interested in the everyday Nate Packer, not the murder.”
“I’m interested in both,” Lucy admitted. “And I would imagine my readers are, too.”
Shirley nodded. “That’s honest. I can’t tell you why he was killed or who did it. Nate was sixty years old, wealthy and often ruthless. He was not overburdened with principles and he could rub people the wrong way. I believe your brother hated him.”
Lucy’s heart almost stopped. She’d almost forgotten about Cam’s involvement in all this.
“Hate is a strong word. I think Cam was disappointed in Mr. Packer, but only recently.”
“Coincidentally, the murder occurred recently, too.”
Lucy’s eyes narrowed on the other woman. “Are you accusing my brother of killing your ex-husband?”
“Not at all.”
Lucy blinked. “Because he didn’t, Mrs. Packer. Cam would never have killed another human being.”
Shirley surprised Lucy by agreeing.
“I don’t know your brother well but I would be surprised if he’d murdered Nate.”
“Were you surprised your ex-husband was murdered?”
She appeared to think about that.
“Yes and no. As I said, he had some enemies.”
“Was it true he was mixed up with the New Jersey mob?”
The late developer’s ex-wife waited an instant too long to answer.
“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been involved in the business for well over a year.”<
br />
Lucy nodded. “You seem to have adjusted to the change very well. It had to be upsetting to be, well, ousted from the company.”
“To say nothing of being ousted from the marriage,” Shirley said, without a smile. “It wasn’t flattering but I’m a realist, Ms. Outlaw. When something’s over, it’s over. Nate got a bee in his bonnet about what he called creating a dynasty. It was time for me to bow out.”
“That’s a very generous attitude.”
She shrugged. “I knew Nate very well. He was fun and outgoing and he could be great company but he was never much of one for delayed gratification. There wasn’t any point in being bitter.”
“Did Mr. Moore feel the same?”
The notch deepened between Shirley’s eyebrows.
“Claude was devoted to Nate. He’d never denied him anything and Nate kept him on, in a somewhat altered capacity.”
“Have you and Mr. Moore remained friends?”
Shirley held Lucy’s gaze long enough for the younger woman to recognize her own impertinence. Lucy tried to ignore the rush of heat. This was her job.
“We don’t see each other much. Our mutual interest was Nate.” She paused. “I can tell you’re confused. People are types, you know. Nate was charismatic, a whirlwind of energy and charm very attractive to us worker bees. The flip side of that temperament is often carelessness.”
“Could he have been killed because of his carelessness?”
“I would think so.”
“But you don’t know who killed him.”
“I know who didn’t kill him, Ms. Outlaw. I know it wasn’t me.”
“Do you think it could have been the current Mrs. Packer?”
The light eyes were knowing.
“This isn’t really a story about the man, is it? You’re hoping to build a career by finding a scandal.”
“I want to find the scandal if there is a scandal,” Lucy said, responding with a forthrightness of her own. “I definitely want the story about Nate Packer—his life and death.”
Shirley Packer looked mildly amused.
“Why did he suddenly want a child? I mean, at this late date?”
“Who knows? Maybe he really just wanted a younger, different woman and the child was the excuse.” She suddenly seemed to lose interest in the whole conversation.
“Do you think he loved Paula?”
It was a very impertinent question and Lucy knew it.
“I have no idea. I’m not sure Nate knew what love is. I’m not sure anybody knows what it is. ‘Love’ is a concept for the very young, you know.” Her smile was not unkind.
Lucy felt as if the former Mrs. Packer was trying to tell her something. Maybe if she could keep the conversation going she’d find out what.
“What about the business? Did you mind giving up your part in it?”
“It was necessary. I’d been in the captain’s chair for too long to accept a demotion. I got a reasonable settlement and I have what I need.”
She was very understanding, Lucy thought. Almost unbelievably so.
“Let me give you a piece of advice from an older woman to a younger one. You can’t force respect or affection. If you hang on to a man who doesn’t really want you, you will lose your self-respect in the long run.”
Lucy eyed her, grimly. She’d figured that out for herself.
Lost in thoughts about Jake, Lucy didn’t think of the last question until they’d reached the door.
“Do you know about the baby?”
Something flashed in the pale eyes but it was gone so quickly Lucy couldn’t identify the emotion.
“I knew it was in the works. So there is to be a baby, after all,” she said. “Nate must have been pleased.”
The sun had stayed behind the clouds most of the day but now, in the late afternoon, it was strong enough to cast shadows on the snow-covered lawns. Lucy started down the front path but stopped in her tracks when she spotted the white Blazer that had pulled in behind the van, corralling it the way a sheepdog would have herded an escaped lamb. Flynn was standing on the sidewalk arguing with an equally tall, much broader figure. Jake’s hat was pulled down low over his eyes. With his feet apart and his hands on his hips he looked like a gunslinger facing down an enemy at high noon. He glanced over at Lucy and his green eyes flashed.
Lucy’s stomach flipped.
“Get into the Blazer,” he growled.
She glared at him. How dare he order her around? “Flynn’s taking me home.”
“Flynn won’t be able to get out of the driveway unless you cooperate.”
She searched his face. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened in the past few days and there was a new vertical line running down each of his lean cheeks. Jake Langley looked like a man at the end of his rope. She decided to cut him a break.
“Flynn,” she said, “I’ll ride back with Jake.”
The photographer nodded. “No worries. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
****
Jake drove with singular concentration until they reached the interstate. He didn’t bother to try to analyze why he was so angry. He knew why. He’d lost control of the investigation and he’d lost control of his life.
He blamed both of the losses on the woman in the seat next to him.
Dammit. He knew he was making excuses. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault he wanted her. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault she was too young. It wasn’t even her fault that she wanted to interview the two Mrs. Packers for her story but it had made him furious to find her in Bangor—with another guy.
Worst of all, he found himself halfway hoping she’d turn up pregnant so she’d have to marry him soon.
Hell.
She sat beside him looking out the window.
“You have nothing to say?”
She turned to face him. “You’re the one who insisted I ride with you, Jake.”
He glanced at the wide sky-blue eyes. She was right.
“What’s tomorrow?”
“Thursday.”
“I mean,” he said, with exaggerated patience, “why are you seeing that photographer tomorrow?”
“Flynn? We’re going out to the casino site so he can shoot some photos.”
“Not alone.”
“Not alone. With Flynn.”
Jake felt a surge of temper. “You tell camera-boy if he messes up the crime scene I’ll have his job. And yours.”
Her blue eyes opened wide. When had he turned into such an ass?
“Listen,” she said, “I know this is a frustrating time for you but you’ll catch whoever killed Nate Packer.”
“Yeah.”
“Or, I’ll catch him. Or her.”
Fury coursed through his veins.
“You need to stay out of this.”
“I’m a reporter, Jake.”
“Your job is to find out from me what’s going on in the investigation. It is not to gather evidence or witness statements.” He thrust his fingers through his short, biscuit-blond hair. “You could compromise the case, Lucy. Do you understand that?”
“I’m just talking to the people involved. I’m not trying to gather evidence or build a case. We’re on the same side.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.”
Lucy laughed and the tension eased. They rode in silence for a few minutes. It felt almost companionable.
“You know what, Jake? I think Nate Packer may have deserved what he got.”
He glanced at her flushed cheeks and the clear blue eyes. The words surprised him. Lucy might be young and impulsive but she wasn’t judgmental.
“What makes you say that?” He really wanted to know.
“He may have been a sociopath. At the least he was a self-centered jerk. He used Shirley and Moore and I don’t think he ever did much for Paula, either.”
“He made her pregnant.”
“A good example of what I’m talking about. Who does that designer baby business? Megalomaniacs.”
“Why shouldn’t people g
et to choose the gender of their children?”
She laughed. “There speaks a man who ended up with a boy and a girl with one toss of the dice.” Then she sobered up. “There’s just something creepy about fertilizing an egg and then rejecting it because it has no ‘Y’ chromosomes.”
There was another silence and Jake knew they were both thinking about their failure to use birth control at the cabin.
“Lucy,” he said, finally.
She interrupted with a question of her own. “What do you think about Paula?”
She didn’t want to discuss it now. All right, he’d wait.
“Paula?”
“As a suspect, I mean.”
“You think Paula murdered her husband?”
“She’s the only beneficiary. This way she gets the fortune and the baby and she doesn’t have to put up with Nate.”
“I think we can rule her out. I’ve shot a bow and arrow before and I’m not sure she has the right, uh, physique to be an effective archer. Too many obstacles in the way.”
Lucy giggled. “There is that.”
“Anyway, she’s got an airtight alibi.”
“She’s a bombshell,” Lucy pointed out. “She’d have been able to get a guy to do it for her.”
“Like who? Moore?”
Lucy appeared to consider that.
“He’s too fastidious and not a sportsman. Besides, by all accounts he was totally attached to Packer. But there have to be men in Paula’s past.”
“Scads of them, I’d guess.”
Lucy sat up a little straighter, her spine stuff.
“She may even have a partner who’s expecting to get half of the Packer estate.”
“Like Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Why not?”
“It seems a little melodramatic.”
Lucy shrugged. “Paula Packer’s not exactly the queen of subtlety. Think about the timing. She has to provide an heir if she’s going to inherit and she’s barely pregnant when he’s killed.”
He cast her a look.
“You think I’m right, don’t you?”
“I think there’s no such thing as ‘barely pregnant.’ Once that train’s out of the station it’s on its way. There’s no stopping it.”
She was quiet a moment. He’d have bet a month’s wages she was trying to figure out how to change the subject.
