Sinister

by Nancy Bush

  “They can shitcan me, and I really like this job. At least, the fire part.”

  “Yeah.” There was something irresistible about fire. The way it captured the eye, the way it circled objects and swelled, roared or disappeared in a cloud of ash. Hunter knew that attraction. Half the guys on the rescue team probably felt that lure, but it didn’t make them any worse at their job. Hunter used to argue with his old man that it made him a better firefighter.

  And it did. To capture and kill the beast, you had to understand it.

  Sam hadn’t planned to drive out this way today; he trusted Dillinger and Rodriguez to handle the searches. But when Gary called with word of the old hunting shack on Kincaid land that looked like it had been recently occupied, Sam figured it would be worth his while to head out.

  The old cabin was brittle with cold and neglect. Two old camping chairs and an ancient Coleman stove were the only furnishings left behind. At first glance, it appeared to be a bum lead.

  Unless you knew what you were looking for.

  One of the camping chairs was stained, probably with body fluid, if the smell was any indication. The odor of rotting flesh was something Sam knew he would never forget.

  Deputy Gary Rodriguez stood over a brown stain on the floor marked with a card labeled #11. “Do you think this is blood, Sheriff?”

  Sam nodded and rubbed his chin, bristly since he hadn’t shaved for twenty-four hours. “And the blue fibers from a tarp … not to mention the empty bags. Those are good finds. It figures he’d want a tarp to move the body.”

  Rodriguez folded his arms. “Yeah, but leaving the bags behind? It seems a little obvious. Not too bright.”

  “Some criminals are not the sharpest pencils in the box,” Sam said. “And some of them enjoy leaving a trail. It’s like a tease.” The empty tarp wrappers had already been collected as evidence; Sam had grinned when he recognized the price label from the Handy Hardware store, right on Main Street in town. Soon as he could, he’d check with Phil Turner about the tarps.

  For now, Gary would wait here for the techs from Jackson. “Appreciate you sitting on this crime scene,” Sam told Gary. “We’ll know more once the guys from the lab comb through it.”

  Gary nodded. “You headed back to town?”

  “Nah.” Sam zipped his jacket and opened the flimsy plywood door. “I gotta stop over at the Kincaids. Last I heard, Georgina Kincaid’s holding the other search party back at gunpoint.”

  Rodriguez looked incredulous. “Seriously?”

  “That’s what I’m hearing.”

  Ten minutes later, he passed under the gate marking the Kincaids’ Double K Ranch and proceeded until he came up on the dark Suburban parked and waiting within sight of the ranch compound. He rolled down the window of his Jeep and faced Larry Park from the sheriff’s office in Lander. Two of his deputies were among the searchers in the back of the vehicle.

  “Where’s she aiming?” Sam asked.

  “Into the air … so far,” Larry answered.

  The tinted rear window of the Suburban rolled down, and Katrina Starr leaned out. “It’s Georgina doing the shooting, Sheriff. I tried calling on the home phone, like you said, but no one answered.”

  Sam said curtly, “I’ll go talk with her.”

  “I hope you got bulletproof glass in that vehicle,” Larry called as Sam pulled away.

  “I hope she recognizes that it’s me,” Sam muttered as he bumped along the drive, slowly approaching the two-story, dark brown ranch house that had been considered beautiful in its day. Now the brown trim was blistered and the stenciled double doors seemed dated. He rolled to a stop, put the Jeep in park and waited.

  Within a minute, the front door flew open. A woman stepped out, lifted a rifle to the sky and fired.

  The report rattled Sam’s Jeep as it echoed through the canyon.

  Sam quickly opened the door and stepped into a foot of snow. “Hold on there!”

  “Get off my land!” Georgina turned and swung the gun toward him.

  He ducked behind his Jeep, not taking any chances. “Dammit, Georgina. Hold your fire, or I’ll have to run you in!”

  “Sam?” she called. “That you?”

  “It is. Put that gun down so we can talk.”

  “Fine.”

  He peered around the hood of the vehicle and watched as she lowered the butt of the rifle to the ground and propped it up in the doorway.

  “I want those trespassers off my land!”

  Now that she wasn’t armed, he closed the distance between them. “Those trespassers are law enforcement, Georgina,” he said tightly. “A search party. We’ve had two homicides in Prairie Creek. We have reason to believe the killer has been hiding out on or near Kincaid land.”

  “We’re not harboring a criminal here, Sheriff. So take your people and go.”

  “This is a killer we’re talking about, and we’ve already found evidence that he’s been holing up in that hunting shed. The one on Horseshoe Ridge.”

  “What?” For the first time her demeanor changed and she looked toward the hills with concern.

  “We need to search the area. This is one bad dude. Not someone you want hiding out on your property.”

  “I got my rifle here, and the Major’s still a crack shot when he feels inspired.”

  Sam put his hands on his hips and stared at the woman, half-annoyed, half-amused, though he would never show it. An aging beauty in her sixties, Georgina Kincaid had always been known for her eccentricities—Wyoming tough but well pampered. Even so, she’d never been this foolish.

  “Did Hunter tell you about the fire at the church?”

  “He did. Burnt to the ground, he said. It’s a shame, what with the big Dillinger wedding supposed to go off next weekend.” Her eyes glimmered. She didn’t look all that dismayed. The feud might be simmering on low, but it ran deep. “Still, doesn’t feel right, letting intruders roam on Kincaid land.”

  Sam wanted to point out that they’d built half a dozen rental cabins to bring “intruders” in for an “authentic ranch experience.” In the past few years, the Kincaids had delved into a number of offshoot businesses—all half-baked efforts to make a profit off their failing sheep ranch.

  “As sheriff, I can’t turn my back on this one, Georgina. I’ll get a court order to search your land if I have to, only I don’t think you want the town to go to that expense, and in the time it takes, this guy might burn down those cabins you built for your retreat.”

  She let out a sigh. “Well, that would be just awful, though they might be damaged already. The Major has been too sick to drive out there anymore, and frankly I haven’t had the time.”

  “If you like, I’ll check on the cabins when I’m out that way. Give you a report. And that search party out there? Think of them as family. Except you don’t have to feed them dinner.”

  She sent him a dark look, but said, “Just get them off our land before the sun sets, or this gun won’t be for show.”

  He knew her bark was worse than her bite. Hell, the old bird wasn’t even able to ride out and check on the back acres anymore. He walked toward his Jeep, then turned back. “Give the Major my best, and from now on, point your rifle at wild elk not deputies.”

  “I’ll do what I can, Sheriff,” Georgina said in a tone that made Sam doubt she was seriously listening to him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the moment, Delilah Dillinger wished she were anywhere but here in this stuffy Santa Monica studio, shooting a commercial on a beautiful afternoon.

  “Too much orange. Get me some different lighting gels,” demanded the director.

  “Light Amber? Spring Yellow? Oklahoma Yellow?” Delilah Dillinger handed the gels over to the photographer and receded into the background, not wanting to distract anyone from the mission of setting up lights and cameras for the shoot. Today they were filming a commercial for Fun! Fun!—an energy drink sold on the Japanese market—and since the director was Franco Denazi, a gorgeous metrosexu
al Delilah had once dated, she knew the day was not going to be fun-fun at all.

  The gels were changed and everyone held their breath as Franco considered the effect. “No, no, it’s all wrong.” He raked his hair back and paced into the shot, where a giant toy plane sat in front of a backdrop of clouds. “Am I the only one who gets it? Can’t you see what I’m looking for here?”

  Apparently not, Delilah thought, sinking farther back into the shadows. As Franco continued his tirade, she lapsed into speculation over what had attracted her to him. Desperation, maybe? She’d had her ups and downs during her years in Hollywood, first trying to make it as an actress, but circumstances had shut that down just as she’d felt she’d been about to score a decent role. She’d made an income in production ever since—behind the camera instead of in front of it—and though she didn’t mind the work, it hadn’t really been part of her plan. And nowhere in all of these years had she found a soul mate, a lover or even a close male friend.

  Yes, there were many things she loved about Southern California, but the men were not among them. She missed real men, the kind with calluses on their palms and muscles born of moving hay bales and riding a horse for ten hours a day instead of pumping iron at the local mirrored fitness center during a lunch break. There was something to be said for a cowboy who could pick you up and hold you as if you were light as a feather. A real man who wouldn’t be caught dead wearing pink or sporting jewelry. A real man responded with hunger to a woman’s touch.

  Trying to tune out Franco’s artistic tirade, she turned to the kitchenette of the studio and eyed the bagels and croissants reserved for the talent. There was a bowl of Jolly Rancher candies for everyone, but she sensed that the noise of unwrapping would put Franco over the edge right now. She was famished, but she would have to delay gratification, the story of her life these days.

  Her boss, Martha, motioned to her, and Delilah snapped to. “The talent needs coffee,” Martha said, motioning to the actors waiting behind a partition at the back of the studio.

  Delilah nodded. Once upon a time she’d been the talent, and though she used to feel twinges of envy watching the actors run through their lines, now she wasn’t sure she felt much of anything except a sense of time slipping by. Or, maybe that was her biological clock ticking … loudly.

  She headed out to pick up the drinks. Her duties usually didn’t include coffee runs, but they were short-handed and she’d been demoted on this commercial, thanks to Franco’s power play. Whatever. She had started out in this business doing the scut work, and her ego could survive a few coffee runs. Now, she took orders from the Japanese talent whose sparse English somehow included the term “caramel macchiato,” and headed out.

  The exterior staircase of the Santa Monica building plunged her into sunshine, and she smiled to see that the marine layer had lifted so that she could see the ocean, a glimmering patch of blue in the distance. It was warm, even for Southern California. Like summer in December.

  As she made her way down the stairs she took her cell off silent mode and saw half a dozen text messages from her siblings. Nell, Ricki and Colt had been bombarding her, with Ricki demanding that she come be the new wedding planner and Colt saying he’d buckled under so she should, too. Nell had chimed in, too, expounding on what fun it would be to have a sibling reunion. Only her younger brother, Tyler, and his wife, Jen, had left her alone.

  Wedding planner. She supposed she could do it. She certainly possessed organizational skills. But she wasn’t all that keen on helping out Pilar, who was a piece of work and always had been. And then there were the murders in Prairie Creek, and what appeared to be an arsonist who’d set fire to the Pioneer Church. Crazy.

  In the coffee shop, Delilah placed her order, then set up a text to all of them, saying: If we’re having a reunion, let’s find a place without Pilar. Without a killer on the loose. Without snow. Sunny and 78 in SoCal!

  Colt responded: It’s always about you, Del.

  She smiled and texted back: You got that right.

  And then the phone rang. Ricki.

  “Did you make your reservation yet?” her sister asked as soon as Delilah answered.

  “Fat chance. I’m not a wedding planner. I got a job here, y’know, and I’m in the middle of a shoot.”

  “Those would be dangerous words if you were in my line of work. Which is part of my news. I’m now a deputy with the sheriff’s office.”

  “Really. So you’re definitely staying?”

  “Looks like it. But here’s the deal: you may not be a wedding planner, but you could do it in your sleep. You’re made that way.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence, I think.”

  “There is no hope for this wedding without you. Pilar’s floundering for a new venue, and she’s convinced the whole thing needs to be postponed.”

  “And this is bad, why?”

  “Dad doesn’t want to wait. He wants Pilar, period. We’re not going to stop him, so what the hell. I gotta go now, but we need you, girl. You’re the best party planner I know. You can help Pilar pull this off.”

  “Pilar was a classmate, not a friend. And to help her marry my father? The ick factor is pretty high.” The barista called out that her drinks were ready, and she popped on her headset and put the phone in her pocket.

  “Dad wants her for his wife and you know how he is,” Ricki added.

  Oh, she knew. All the Dillingers seemed to have that bulldog trait, herself included.

  “Look, I gotta get back to work,” Ricki said again. “Call me later. I’ll even meet you at the airport.”

  “Don’t plan on it. I’m totally tied in here.” She paused at the bottom of the stairs to shift the drink carrier in her arms. “We’ll talk later.”

  “When you show up in Prairie Creek.”

  “Maybe,” was all Delilah allowed.

  Inside the studio, they had just finished a take and Franco was sending the talent off-set while the fake airplane was sprayed to reduce the glare of the lights on its high-gloss patina. Delilah distributed the drinks and sipped the skinny latte she’d bought for herself. If she had half a brain, she would have picked up a yogurt or an energy bar, but she’d been too engrossed in conversation with her sister.

  The Dillinger guilt was almost as bad as the Dillinger denial, and now her mind was stuck on Prairie Creek. She didn’t think much of Pilar, but the fact that the Pioneer Church had burned to the ground was frightening. And with everything else that was going on, it was as if Alice had slipped through the looking glass again. Murders in Prairie Creek while she was safe here in Los Angeles?

  Sipping her coffee, she pinged a fake poinsettia dangling from a garland someone had strung over the kitchenette area of the studio. Dust went flying. At home, the lodge would be lit up like a box of gems. She could see the lights, glowing on the pristine snow. Maybe they’d even hook up the horses and go out for a sleigh ride, in honor of Mom.

  They finished another take, and Franco called for a ten-minute break. She smelled his approach before she saw him, his cologne a mixture of orange, cinnamon and jasmine. Not terrible, but not the way a real man should smell.

  “I hear we have a dinner date,” he said.

  “We do?”

  “Oh, Delilah, I meant to tell you.” Martha squeezed her arm. “Franco needs you to accompany him to the Commercial Critics’ Awards tonight. I told him you would drive.”

  “We’ll leave from here, as soon as we wrap,” Franco said. “Let’s swing by my place first, so I can change.”

  A few dates did not make Delilah his piece of property. She stared at the sickly garland and fought back a surge of injustice. But it wasn’t Franco’s fault. He was who he was and she’d always known that. If it was anyone’s fault, it was her own.

  “There’s been a change of plans,” she heard herself say, as surprised as anyone that she’d spoken aloud. Disillusionment had been with her a long time. Too long, she realized.

  “What?” Franco’s voice
revealed his annoyance.

  Across the room, heads turned as the production crew listened. No one defied the director on a shoot. At least, no one who wanted to continue working in the biz. “I’ve got to get to the airport. My family back in Wyoming … there’s been a sudden death.”

  Now the room went silent. Details! Their faces begged. Give us details!

  She handed Franco her half-sipped latte, patted his shoulder and walked out of there, following one of the basic rules of the entertainment industry. Always leave them wanting more.

  Ricki sat down at the wide pine table—the dinner table of her youth—and plotted her escape. After hours of searching in the snow, a family dinner by the roaring fire seemed just the thing. But Pilar was cranky, and Ricki had a million and one things to go over with Sam—things she couldn’t really cover over the phone. Mrs. Mac had put out a nice spread with lamb chops and baked potatoes, but Ricki’s mind was elsewhere. She kept thinking about the caves they had discovered; Kit Dillinger and her refusal to come to dinner as Babylon was in the final stages of her pregnancy and would probably foal tonight or tomorrow; and lastly, their doer, who may or may not have set fire to the Pioneer Church. The case was building, and though Sam said he could wait until after dinner, Ricki was impatient.

  From his spot at the table Rourke was pouting but seemed to have moved to Colt’s side, which she could tell amused her brother but pissed off Pilar no end. Good.

  “I have an announcement to make.” Pilar put her crystal goblet down with all the pomp and circumstance of a queen. “The wedding is off.”

  “That’s not what we decided a few hours ago,” Ira growled, his patience thin.

  “Our church has burned to the ground!” Pilar pressed a napkin to her mouth as her eyes flooded with tears. “The wedding’s coming right up and there’s nowhere to have it.”

  Ira slugged back some wine and grumbled, “We’ll figure it out. There are a hell of a lot worse problems around here than this, Pilar.”

  Go, Dad. Ricki could see that her father was on edge, but the reaction around the dinner table was barely a ripple. Rourke shot his mom killing looks, Colton chewed steadily, Brook tore apart a roll and Sabrina was cutting her meat. No one wanted to get in on the fight.