Montana Connection

by B. J Daniels

  “Ready for dinner? You look like you could use a good meal.”

  Charity groaned. She could use a good meal and wished she’d conned Mitch into dinner at Betty’s. She’d kill for a cheeseburger, loaded, a side of fries and a piece of pie.

  “Don’t look so worried,” Florie said as she started down the stairs. “The cards will know what’s going on in your life.”

  Which was why Charity hated the cards and this whole prediction thing. She couldn’t stand the thought that her future was already written somewhere—especially if it didn’t read the way she wanted it to.

  “Where do you keep your cat food?” Florie called up from the kitchen. “I’ll feed your cat.”

  “I don’t have a cat,” she called back.

  “But I thought Mitch said—”

  “What does Mitch know?” Charity pulled on jeans and a sweater for dinner, muttering under her breath, “I’m perfectly safe. Or at least I would have been without my aunt. If I get up to go to the bathroom tonight, she’ll probably slug me with that damned bat.”

  She tried to convince herself that the thief had gotten what he’d broken in for at the newspaper. The negatives. But it still nagged at her that he’d taken the time to ransack her office. What had he been looking for? Something valuable to pawn?

  No, she thought with certainty. He’d been looking for something in her mail—just as he had at the post office earlier when he’d knocked her down.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mitch typed the partial license plate and description of the black pickup into the computer and crossed his fingers.

  The match came up in a matter of minutes. A pickup with a license plate ending with 4AKS and matching Charity’s description of the truck belonged to a Kyle L. Rogers Investigations of Portland.

  Mitch checked the listing for Kyle L. Rogers Investigations in Portland and dialed the number. An answering machine picked up the call and informed him that Mr. Rogers was out of the office until next week. Mitch didn’t leave a message. A private investigator?

  He closed up the office and drove to Charity’s.

  She rushed to open the door in a pair of yellow-and-black penguin-print flannel pajamas. Her skin looked freshly scrubbed, a little flushed. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail, the short curly hair at the nape of her neck still damp. And she smelled heavenly.

  She threw herself into his arms excitedly.

  It happened so fast he couldn’t even be sure he initiated the kiss. Fortunately he disengaged himself from her lips as quickly as possible.

  Her eyes were round as pie plates and she was smiling at him, that darned smile that said she’d get him to the altar yet.

  “Don’t just open the door to anyone who knocks,” he chastised her, irritated with himself for kissing her.

  She made a face. “Florie told me you were at the door.”

  “What did she do? Look in her crystal ball?” He knew why he was so annoyed. He was scared. Scared she was in danger. Scared she was getting to him.

  “I saw your patrol car pull up,” Florie said from upstairs.

  He groaned inwardly.

  “I have something important to tell you.”

  Charity looked as if she might pop. “You found the letter from Nina. I was right. The guy in the black pickup. That’s why he knocked me down at the post office. That’s why he broke into the newspaper and ransacked my office.”

  Mitch shook his head. “I did check your mailbox but there was no letter from Nina.”

  She looked disappointed but only for a moment. “But you have news. You found out who owns the pickup.”

  His expression must have given him away. Was Florie clairvoyant and was the “gift” in the Jenkins genes? It was a frightening thought.

  “Yes, I do have a match on the pickup that was following you.”

  She looked as pleased as if he’d just slain a dragon for her.

  “It’s registered to Kyle L. Rogers Investigations out of Portland. Know him?”

  She shook her head. “Should I?”

  “Know any reason someone would put a private investigator on you?”

  “No. You think someone up here hired him?”

  Mitch thought about Charity’s theory that Nina had not only written something down—she’d mailed it to Charity. Is that what Rogers was looking for? Then were was the letter?

  He didn’t know what to think. “Maybe. Maybe he’s up here looking for Bigfoot.”

  He hoped knowing that the driver of the pickup was a private investigator would relieve her mind some. It had his. He didn’t think this Rogers guy had come up here to harm Charity. Nor did he believe the P.I. was leaving her the presents. But he’d still be keeping a close eye on Charity tonight.

  He moved toward the door. “If you see the truck again or need me…”

  She nodded and smiled as she followed him to the door. “Glad you stopped by.”

  “Sure you don’t want some vegetarian casserole?” Florie asked as she came downstairs.

  “No thanks.” He grimaced where only Charity could see.

  “I will get you for this,” she whispered, and then he was gone out the door as fast as he could go. As he drove away, he saw Florie signal from the doorway that all was well with a baseball bat. Great.

  As he drove down Main Street past the Timber Falls Courier office, he tried to concentrate, but he kept thinking about yellow-and-black penguin pajamas. And worrying that Charity wouldn’t be safe, maybe especially with her aunt and that baseball bat.

  He touched his tongue to his upper lip. He could still taste her, the feel of her mouth branded on his lips. What kind of fool was he to have kissed her? Not once, but twice today? It was the rainy season. It made people crazy.

  He vowed once again to keep her at arm’s length. Distance was the only thing that would save him. And even as he thought it, he wondered how the hell he’d ever be able to keep away from Charity—even if she’d let him.

  As he passed the Duck-In Bar, he spotted Sheryl Bend’s little blue car parked on the side. Earlier at the decoy plant he’d gotten the impression she’d wanted to talk, but feared retaliation from Wade.

  He swung the patrol car into the lot, still hoping he’d find Nina Monroe before midnight.

  As he pushed open the door, he wasn’t surprised to see Sheryl sitting on her usual stool alone, staring down into her glass of beer. A country song played on the jukebox as he moved through the smoky din.

  “Hey,” Hank Bridges said as he slid a napkin in front of him. “What’ll ya have, Sheriff?”

  Sheryl swung her gaze from her beer to Mitch. She smiled, her eyes shiny with alcohol and invitation.

  “A soda,” Mitch told Frank, and pulled up a stool beside Sheryl.

  “Haven’t seen you in here in ages,” she said, and took a sip of her beer, licking the foam from her lips.

  He glanced around the bar, noting the regulars and a few faces he didn’t recognize at several of the booths.

  Out-of-towners were rare this time of year. Except when there’d been a Bigfoot sighting.

  He turned back to the bar and Sheryl, glad he didn’t see his father among the clientele. In the mirror behind the bar he caught the reflection of two people on the dance floor, both married, but not to each other.

  That was another thing about the rainy season. It often led to affairs—and consequently divorces come spring. Former sheriff Hudson used to joke that Timber Falls held a roundup each spring to swap back wives and divide up the children.

  “I wanted to talk to you,” Mitch said to Sheryl after Hank slid an icy glass of cola in front of him and left. Mitch took a sip. He steered clear of alcohol. His father had drunk enough for both of them in his lifetime.

  “Let me guess. You wanna talk about Nina,” Sheryl said, sounding disappointed. “How come you never ask me out? How come you never take me up on dinner at my place?”

  He smiled as he shook his head. He often wondered the same thing. But it seemed they bo
th knew the answer.

  “It’s that damned Charity Jenkins, isn’t it,” she said.

  He couldn’t deny it. But he hadn’t come here to talk about his love life. His nonexistent love life. “I got the feeling this morning talking to you that there was something you wanted to tell me about Nina but were maybe afraid to say anything with Wade up there…watching.”

  Sheryl sipped her beer, her eyes narrowing as she looked in the mirror over the back bar. “Nina was a back-stabbing bitch.”

  Mitch raised a brow. “Is that the beer talking?”

  She swung her gaze to him. “That’s the truth talking. The woman didn’t care who she walked on to get what she wanted.”

  He took a wild guess. “She walked on you.”

  “She befriended me—just long enough to steal some of my duck designs, which she passed off as her own.”

  Mitch knew a little about painters at the plant getting royalties for new designs. “What did you do about it?”

  “I went to Wade.” She drained her glass and set it down a little too hard on the bar. Hank came over at once and twisted off the cap on another bottle of beer for her, sliding her a new frosted glass onto a fresh cocktail napkin before disappearing again down the bar.

  “That son of a bitch Wade got mad at me. Said I was trying to take credit for Nina’s work and warned me if there was any more trouble I’d be put on notice.” She narrowed her eyes at Mitch. “Do you believe that? I’ve been there ten years. Ten friggin’ years. And that…bitch was there, what? A month?”

  “How’d she get so close to Wade so quickly?” Mitch asked. Even if they had been romantically involved, it seemed damned sudden. Not to mention the age difference between the two.

  Sheryl was shaking her head. “It was like maybe he’d known her before. I mean, he hired her just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “Treated her like—” she waved a hand “—like he had to walk on eggshells around her. She had him by the you-know-whats.” Sheryl sounded close to tears.

  “Did Nina tell you anything about her past during the time you were friendly with each other?”

  Sheryl shrugged and took a drink of her beer. “It wasn’t for long, but she did mention an aunt once. Auntie Em. I swear to God that’s what she called her. Like in The Wizard of Oz. She said she never knew her parents and couldn’t stand her aunt.”

  “Sounds like she might have had a tough life,” he said. The story could fit, if Nina Monroe was Angela Dennison—or wanted people to think she was.

  “Probably every word of it was a lie.” Sheryl took another long swallow of beer, licked the foam off her lips and stared down at the amber liquid miserably. “She still missing?”

  “Yep.”

  “I hope to hell she stays that way.”

  Mitch had himself another suspect if Nina really had met with foul play, he thought as finished his soda. Now he hoped to leave before his father or Dennison Ducks production manager Bud Farnsworth showed up.

  Unfortunately he was too late. Bud pushed through the door and they exchanged a look. Bud strode on past to the other end of the bar. That man was guilty of something, Mitch thought as he left.

  In the patrol car again, Mitch cruised slowly by Charity’s. All the lights were on, and through the thin curtains, he could see two figures sitting at the kitchen table. Just the thought of Charity eating tofu-zucchini-eggplant casserole brightened his mood.

  He drove around town, making a loop by Florie’s. Still no red compact parked in front of the Aries bungalow. He’d held out some hope that Nina had just bagged work and driven to Eugene for a day of shopping. If that was the case, then she had yet to return home. But it didn’t explain the ransacked bungalow. Or Wade’s anxiety.

  The Ho Hum’s No Vacancy light blinked bright red above the cars parked in front of the seven motel units. No black pickup. No compact. He wondered where Rogers might be staying. Probably down in Oakridge, twenty miles south.

  At the Courier office, he checked the locks and windows. No one seemed to have come back. The town was quiet except for an occasional note or two drifting down from the jukebox at the Duck-In. Sheryl’s car was still parked out front. So was Bud’s pickup. Betty’s Café was closed. Only the neon still glowed at the gas station.

  Restless, Mitch drove out of town, not even realizing where he was going until he’d pulled the patrol car over to the side of the road and turned off his headlights.

  The old place sat back from the road, the roof etched black against the trees. A light glowed inside, but he saw no movement. His father had probably taken off on foot through the woods to the Duck-In for his nightly drinking binge.

  Just the sight of the house where Mitch had grown up made him aware of the painful void within him. He closed his eyes, trying to remember his mother’s face, her voice, her touch, the part of his life he thought of as good, above reproach. Anything that would fill that awful hollow part of him.

  But there was nothing of her left in him. It was spoiled by his bitterness toward his father.

  Mitch opened his eyes and started to pull way. He shouldn’t have come out here. Normally he avoided it at all costs.

  But as his hand touched the gearshift, he saw him. A large dark silhouette against the light inside the house. His father stood at the edge of the covered porch, his huge hands gripping the rail, his head turned in Mitch’s direction as if waiting.

  Mitch shifted into first, snapped on the headlights, and got the patrol car moving. When he glanced back as he drove past, he saw that his father was still standing there, watching him run away just as he had watched Mitch’s mother run away. Calling neither of them back.

  * * *

  AT FIRST IT WAS just part of the dream. The creak of a floorboard, the soft rustle of fabric, movement, then a deadly cold silence. It was the silence that dragged her up from dreamy sleep to wake to the terrifying knowledge that she was no longer alone.

  Charity’s eyes flew open. The blackness was complete—outside and in. No light anywhere. But she knew. Someone was standing just past the end of her bed. Realization stole the air from her lungs and sent her heart hammering.

  She tried to convince herself it was just Aunt Florie. But the shape was too large, too solid. Too male. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him, hear him breathing, feel his gaze on her. How long had he been standing there watching her? The thought whizzed past in an instant of realization and horror, in the time it took her to breathe—and scream.

  She lunged for the bedside table drawer where she kept her Derringer and pepper spray. The dark shadow at the end of her bed sprang to life. She thought he’d lunge at her, stop her before her hand could grasp the Derringer, swing and fire.

  Her hand closed over the weapon. She swung. She hadn’t heard his retreating footfalls over the percussion of her heart—or her scream. But she knew he was gone even before she heard the front door slam.

  A light came on in the hallway. Her aunt appeared silhouetted in the doorway in a long flannel nightgown gripping the baseball bat.

  * * *

  IT WAS NOT LONG after two, after the Duck-In had closed and Timber Falls resembled a ghost town, when Mitch went home. He’d driven around for hours and finally given up any hope of finding Nina or her car.

  He heated himself a can of tomato soup and fell asleep fully clothed on the couch after making sure that everything next door seemed normal.

  As usual, he dreamed of Charity. At first the scream was part of the dream.

  He came awake with a jerk, knowing even before his feet hit the floor where the sound had come from. Diving out the door, he sprinted next door, weapon drawn.

  When he reached the front steps, though, he froze at the sight of Florie with a baseball bat in her hands and Charity holding what looked like a gun. Both women were standing on the porch, looking scared—and scary.

  “There was a man in the house!” Charity cried.

  “Did you see which way he went?”

  They both po
inted across the street toward town.

  “Get back inside. Lock the door. And put that gun away.”

  The street was empty. He took off running in the direction the women had indicated down a narrow alley. He hadn’t gone far when he spotted a dark figure walking ahead of him. Not running. Just walking in long strides toward Main Street.

  “Freeze!” Mitch leveled his weapon at the retreating back.

  The man stopped but didn’t turn around. He was tall, about Mitch’s height, and strong-looking. He wore a biker’s black leather jacket, jeans and biker boots.

  Mitch moved quickly down the alley, keeping the weapon leveled at the man’s back. “Put your hands behind your head.” The light from a street lamp at the other end of the alley barely reached down here, so he still couldn’t see who the man was.

  Slowly, almost contemptuously, the man raised his hands, elbows out as he locked his fingers behind his head in a stance that was obviously familiar to him.

  His hair was dark, long and pulled back into a ponytail. An earring glittered in his left lobe, and he wore a ring of thick gold on his right hand. It reflected the dim light as Mitch advanced.

  But it was his stance that put Mitch on guard. He was used to bikers occasionally coming through town in the summer. Most were doctors or lawyers or computer whizzes, the kind of people who could afford a big motorcycle and the leather clothing that went with it, so there was never much trouble.

  Seldom did Mitch see a biker this time of year. And this guy was no doctor or lawyer. Worse, there was something familiar about the way he moved.

  “Turn around. Slowly,” Mitch ordered, weapon still trained on him.

  The man emitted a deep chuckle, then turned very, very slowly, grinning as he did. In the dim light, Mitch saw that his face was tanned and lean, his features strong. A woman, any woman, would have found him damned handsome. Many had. “Evenin’, Sheriff.”

  Mitch had been right about one thing. This was no doctor. No lawyer. And certainly no computer whiz kid. Mitch shook his head and lowered his weapon. “Jesse.”

  “Hey, bro,” Jesse Tanner said, dropping his arms and holding out his hand.