by Lisa Jackson
“Okay, pumpkin.”
“That’s worse!” He looked around to see if anyone had overheard their conversation. “Give it a rest.”
She laughed and gave him a wink. “Just know I’ve got your back.” And with that she was out the door.
“I guess you all didn’t see the sign?” Edie Gardener said when she opened the door to find Alvarez and Pescoli on her sagging porch. She’d appeared in pajama bottoms and a faded sweatshirt while smoking a cigarette. They introduced themselves and flashed their badges, and she seemed positively bored. A small thing, probably not a hundred pounds, she oozed “I’m a badass” attitude despite her stature. Her brown hair was pulled onto her crown in a bun that was nearly the size of her head, and as she sized them up and down, she nodded to a big beware of dog sign that hung on a dilapidated fence between the carport and the mobile home. An old Buick sat on blocks under the carport, its roof sagging and covered with snow. More snow was falling, carried by a wind that was raw and gusting. “You’re just lucky Buster’s locked up.”
A low-pitched but frantic howl emitted from within the house, as if Buster had heard his name and was ready to charge out the door with his teeth bared, fangs dripping, his whole being intent on ripping them limb from limb. “See?” She cracked a smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Alvarez said. She looked down on the detectives as if collectively they were the scum of the earth. “I’m not an idiot. I know why you’re here, and I’m tellin’ you right out before you start askin’ all your stupid questions, I had nothin’ to do with what happened to the sheriff or that judge. That’s why you’re here, right? Because I was pissed at Grayson for lockin’ me up. Well, here’s a news flash”—she leaned forward a bit—“I didn’t kill Johnny way back when, and I sure as hell didn’t shoot the sheriff.” She turned her head to one side and yelled over her shoulder, “Hey, Art, will you tell these cops that I was with you when that dumbass sheriff got himself shot?”
“Just a sec,” a deep voice ordered.
“Now, Art! These ladies need answers.” Shivering a little, she wrapped one arm around her middle, but despite the cold, she smirked as she drew on her long, black cigarette. The sound of heavy tread approached and somewhere, farther within, the wild barks and growls increased in volume.
“Buster, hush!” the male voice ordered and the dog immediately did as he was bid just as Art, all six-feet-seven of him, appeared behind her. With a shock of dirty blond hair, he towered a foot and a half over Edie and looked like an ex-NBA center gone to seed.
“She’s right,” he said, his eyes puffy from sleep. A flannel shirt flapped open over a once-white T-shirt. “I read when the sheriff was shot. Christmas mornin’, right? We was together. Playin’ Santie Claus.” He smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth, pleased with himself for providing the alibi.
“Anyone else see you?” Alvarez asked.
“Yeah, we was at the pancake house—oh, what’s the name of it.”
Edie looked up at him. “Hot Stacks.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” he agreed, nodding. “Hot Stacks. There in Missoula. The one that’s open all day and night, every day.”
“The waitress who waited on us was Rose,” Edie said with a smirk. “Tall blonde with a tattoo climbing up her arm.” She indicated the inside of her left arm with the hand that held her cigarette. “A rose. Appropriate, don’t you think?”
“Your memory is pretty clear.” Pescoli wasn’t sure she was buying their story. It all seemed too pat. “What time were you there?”
“Nine,” Art said, looking at Edie. Double-checking. “Maybe ten.”
“The sheriff was shot earlier,” Alvarez said.
“We were together. Here. It took us a while to get there, but you check with Rose and some of the other people havin’ their Christmas breakfast there,” Edie said. “Because Art here finally gave me my wedding ring. About damned time too.” She stuck out her left hand to display a sparkling ring covered in diamond chips. “I squealed, loud enough that Saint Peter, up in heaven, heard it. You just ask Rose!”
“And anyone else in the place.” Art was beaming from one ear to the other, so damned proud of himself. So that’s what he meant by playing “Santie Claus.”
Pescoli cut in, “I hear you’re a pretty good shot.”
His smile slid away. “Not ‘pretty good,’ I’m damned good. Ask anyone around.”
Pescoli assured him, “I will.”
“Oh, I get it,” Edie said. “You think I had him shoot the sheriff for me? Now, ain’t that somethin’?” She actually cackled. “How sweet. As if I needed someone to do my dirty work. That’s a good one. But listen, if Art here was the one aiming the rifle that put a bullet in Grayson, the sheriff would be six feet under right now instead of lingering at a damned hospital. You’re barking up the wrong tree, I tell you. No matter how much I hated Grayson, and I still do, I wouldn’t do nothin’ that would put me back in that prison. I’m thinkin’ everyone else he put away feels the same.”
She shivered again as a blast of wind slipped through the canyon. “I haven’t done nothin’ wrong. As far as I’m concerned, Grayson got what he deserved. I hope he dies. I just didn’t do it.” She took a final drag on her smoke, then tossed the cigarette into a snowbank to sizzle and die. “We’re done here.”
The sound of frantic claws scrambling toward the door caught her attention and a tiny dog that was obviously part Chihuahua shot through her legs. It barked and yapped, showing its nasty little teeth. “This is Buster?” Pescoli said as Edie picked up the tiny pooch.
“Oh, no, this here’s Fifi.” She held Pescoli’s gaze for a second. “Trust me, you really don’t want to meet Buster.”
At the sound of his name, the dog in the back started growling and barking wildly again, sounding as if he were big enough to eat Fifi in one bite.
“Really, it would be a very bad idea,” Edie said and slammed the door in their faces.
A father?
Cade could barely get his mind around the truth, if that’s what it was, and from the medical reports that Hattie had left with him, it seemed that her story was accurate. He’d watched her leave, hadn’t stopped her when she’d said, “Okay, that’s why I came here, to let you know that the girls are, at least biologically, yours. You have rights and . . . and I should have told you before, but I just couldn’t. So there’s not a whole lot more to say.” She’d looked at him with those damnably intelligent eyes and waited for him to say something, but he hadn’t. Didn’t even know where to start.
Her face had still been flushed from his comment about Bart. She’d nodded to his continued silence and turned away, and he’d watched her shove open the heavy shed door and disappear into the coming night. Only when he’d heard her engine turn over did he shake himself back to action. “Son of a bitch,” he’d whispered as he’d turned out the lights and, head swimming with thoughts of those two little imps who he’d let himself believe to be Bart’s, made his way up to the house. He hadn’t noticed that Zed’s Ford was missing, but the house was empty when he’d walked inside.
He was alone.
Which, all things considered, was a good thing. Though he was covered in grime and grease, he hadn’t bothered even cleaning up, just poured himself a healthy dose of whiskey and opened the envelope to spread its damning contents over the old plank table that had been in the house as long as he could remember.
Originally, when their mother was still alive, all four boys had always occupied their assigned seats. Ma and Pa had been situated at either end of the table, Zed and Dan in chairs on one side, Bart and Cade occupying the bench near the wall.
To this day, he took the seat on his end of the bench and now, he glanced down its scarred length to a spot where Bart had, after Ma had died, carved his initials into the wood.
God, that was a lifetime ago.
He looked across the table to the spot Dan had occupied, catty-corner fro
m him, and imagined his older brother looking back at him, silently offering him advice. Cade’s insides twisted when he realized he might lose the brother who had been his mentor all his life. “Damn it all to hell,” he said under his breath, then swirled his drink, looking into the amber depths, unable to imagine what the world would be without Dan Grayson. Certainly not a better place. If he could get his hands around the throat of the bastard who’d done this, he would gladly strangle him. He blinked, imagining Dan in his chair. It had been decades since he’d sat on the smooth wood seat on a daily basis.
Long before all their lives had been forever tangled in Hattie Dorsey’s seductive web.
Don’t blame her, Cade. She’s right. She didn’t do this on her own.
He reread the reports and saw that Bart’s sperm count was practically nonexistent, the likelihood of him fathering any children nil.
He didn’t believe Hattie had been involved with anyone else; hell, the guilt she’d experienced by being with him about killed her, so he had to assume Mallory and McKenzie were his.
And really, what did it matter? Bart was dead, Dan still in a coma in the hospital, and Zed despised Hattie; always had, always would. So that left him to be the father figure to the girls he considered his nieces.
Was anything so different?
Hell, yeah! He was a father. A damned father. A role he’d never really considered playing, not that he didn’t love Hattie’s imps, he did, but a father?
Of course it had crossed his mind, but he’d put it aside, always telling himself that if there were a modicum of truth to his suspicions, someone would have told him.
Well, that someone did.
Today.
And ridiculously he was furious. Stung that it had taken her this long to come up with the truth.
“Shitfire,” he whispered to no one but the dog who, lying on the couch in the living area, didn’t seem to notice. “Apparently you’re as blind as I am,” he yelled across the room to Shad, who didn’t so much as lift his spotted head.
Daughters! Two daughters! A whole vista of dance lessons, cheerleading squads, softball games, and boys with hot cars, boys who couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants, randy teenagers just like he’d been, came to mind.
He shoved the faded reports aside and, carrying his drink, walked to the window to stare outside. Snow was falling, covering the woodpile, drifting against the stables and catching on the windowsills. Peaceful. Serene. In direct opposition to the storm of emotions roiling through his mind. He remembered all too clearly the night Hattie had come to him, breaking it off, sobbing that she was a horrible person for what she, what they’d, done to Bart.
Attempting to console her, he’d pulled her close and told her that it would be all right. He’d taken one whiff of the perfume lingering in her hair and kissed her cheek, tasting the salt of her tears, and she’d pushed him away, with such force he’d been surprised. “Never,” she said, blinking hard, her lips trembling, outrage and guilt burning in her wide, anguished eyes. “Never touch me again.”
And he hadn’t. Two hours later, he was on his bike and heading west, tearing down the road twenty miles over the speed limit, putting the dust of Grizzly Falls and the heartache and confusion that was Hattie Dorsey in his rearview. He’d intended to stay away forever but couldn’t resist the draw of the wedding when he’d shown up and made an ass of himself. He still cringed inside when he remembered that foolish show.
He’d been as randy and horny as the boys he foresaw trying to date his daughters.
A helluva thing.
Now, taking a swallow of whiskey he barely tasted, he noticed his reflection, pale and watery in the glass. “So now what’re you gonna do, you son of a bitch?” he asked the man with the streak of grease on his face. “Just what the hell are you gonna do?”
Chapter 23
“You think maybe Edie, in her twisted way, is right?”
Pescoli asked Alvarez as she drove into town, crossing the railroad tracks at the base of Boxer Bluff. Darkness had fallen and the snow was beginning to get serious, coming down steadily enough that Pescoli cranked up her wipers to the max.
Alvarez threw her a look. “I don’t think Edie Gardener’s right about anything.”
“She said we were barking up the wrong tree, and there’s a chance she’s got a point. It could be that whoever’s behind this is closer to home.”
“You mean like a love triangle, or someone wanting to inherit, or something?” Alvarez said. “We’ve looked into that, but the trouble is we now have one assassin. Why would he want both victims dead?”
“Unless Grayson is somehow connected to the judge on a personal level.”
“No proof of that,” Alvarez said. “At all.”
“I know, I know.” Pescoli let out a frustrated breath and felt as if she were missing something obvious as she followed the road that cut along the hillside and wound its way up the bluff to the newer part of Grizzly Falls. She’d called Sage Zoller and asked the junior detective to follow up on some leads, including trying to track down Rose at Hot Stacks, the pancake house in Montana, just to double-check on Edie and her goon of a new husband.
“We’ve already figured that Grayson’s ex-wives are out. They have no connection to Judge Samuels-Piquard,” Alvarez said.
“Yeah, I know. It must be someone they both put away,” Pescoli agreed and felt the heartburn that had been with her all day kick up again. “Would you check the glove box? I think there’s a bottle of antacids in there. I could use some.” As Alvarez rummaged inside the box, Pescoli once more attempted to come up with some personal connection between Grayson and Samuels-Piquard. She’d tried to find some way Cara Grayson Banks or Akina Grayson Bellows wanted to harm Dan Grayson, but it was apparent neither of Dan’s exes had opportunity. For Cara Banks, there was plenty of motive, but her alibi was rock solid and she appeared not to want anything to do with the Grayson family or money. Nolan Banks, from all outward appearances, was on the wealthy side of the economic seesaw. And Akina was into her own thing. The same could be said of Winston Piquard, though the judge’s brother, Vincent Samuels, hadn’t yet surfaced.
“So we’re back to the beginning,” Alvarez said as Pescoli slowed for a light and a semi, making the turn in front of them, nearly rolled up on the sidewalk before chugging down the hill. As the light changed, Pescoli stepped on it. Traffic was relatively light. Alvarez found the near-empty bottle of chewable antacids and, after they pulled into the lot, handed it to Pescoli, who downed four tablets.
“We still don’t know who cleaned the judge’s house, right?” Pescoli asked.
“Still working on it,” Alvarez said. “There’s a chance she could shed some light on the judge’s personal life or any threats she may have gotten.”
“And what happened to the threatening letters that her son swears she got?”
Alvarez glanced out the window to the day beyond. “Her house and office have been searched and so far, nothing.”
“You think the maid would know anything about that?”
“Possibly.”
“Then let’s find her.” As she cut the engine and stepped outside, Pescoli’s cell phone went off and she glanced down at the screen. Unknown number. God, she hated that. She answered, “Regan Pescoli.”
“Detective!” She recognized the voice even before he said, “Manny Douglas, here. Mountain Reporter.”
Damn! She shouldn’t have answered. “I know where you work, Manny.”
“I thought you’d like to see what I got in the mail today.”
“What?” she asked, as the connection was a little dicey, the traffic noise and wind making it hard to hear.
“Better I show you in person. I’m just down the street getting coffee. I can be at the station in less than ten.”
“I’m busy,” she said automatically, assuming he was just bluffing while intending on weaseling his way into the station so he could go on another information fishing expedition.
&nb
sp; “Trust me, you won’t be too busy for this,” he said, and there was an oily smugness in his voice that bugged the hell out of her. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and she gave herself a swift mental kick for not meeting with him outside of the station. Once inside the doors of the department, there was a chance it would take a gigantic backhoe and light-years to get him out again.
“Problems?” Alvarez asked as they walked into the station.
Sighing, she shouldered open the door, then repeated the conversation. “I’m going to need fortification for this.” She made her way to the lunchroom and eyed the coffeepot, then thought better of it. No reason to get the heartburn going again.
Making her way to her desk, she stripped off her jacket and sidearm, and looked up Claudia Dubois’s, the judge’s neighbor’s, number. Whether she was a little dingy or not, she was there on the street. She placed the call and as the phone rang, Pescoli remembered Claudia’s insistence that someone evil had been watching the Samuels-Piquard residence from the park.
Real?
Imagined?
Who knew?
Claudia answered on the fourth ring. “Doctor Dubois’s residence,” she announced curtly while Pescoli identified herself.
“Oh, yes, Detective! I’m so glad you called.” She sounded absolutely delighted.
“I was wondering,” Pescoli said, double-checking as she knew Claudia’s memory faded in and out, “if you remember Donna’s last name, the maid for Judge Samuels-Piquard.”
“Donna Goodwin,” she said clearly. “I told you that when you asked the other day. She lives outside of Missoula and cleans for Kathryn, well . . . did and for Velma next door.”
“Velma Miller?”
“Yes.” There was a perturbed tone to her voice, as if Pescoli were a cretin.
“Are the Millers home?”
“Of course they are. Their skiing trip only lasts a few days, just over Christmas. They’re always back before New Year’s.”
