by Nancy Bush
“Gil and I have done business for years,” Ira said stubbornly. “And he’s in Jackson. He can get here.”
Gil sold farm and ranching equipment. “Why did you invite Abby?”
“I don’t have to defend every name on the list,” Ira snapped. But Pilar cut in. “I invited Abby and her husband, Brent. You remember him?”
“Yeah …” Vaguely. What Delilah recalled was that Sabrina had dated Brent Bywater for a time.
“We’ve all been friends for years,” Pilar said. “I thought we were going over the list to see who needs to be told we’ve moved the ceremony, not make judgment calls on our friends.”
Ira waved a hand at them. “I’ll be in the den.”
“Okay,” Delilah said. It wasn’t for her to say. This was her father and Pilar’s wedding and that was all she wrote.
Half an hour later she was driving into town, familiarizing herself with the Cherokee. In L.A. she’d driven a Ford Edge to haul various equipment from job to job, so this wasn’t that much different. The lease on her car was about up, she realized. One more thing almost over in her previous life.
The rental shop had a buzzer at the door that announced her entry into a world of everything from tablecloths and vases to gardening equipment and jackhammers. The owner was a thin woman with a dry, prairie wind–scoured face and a sharp eye. “You the Dillinger that called about chairs?”
“That would be me,” Delilah said. “I think we need a hundred.” She’d told the woman seventy-five, thinking extra guests could stand in the back, but she’d upped the amount, thinking they could maybe … maybe … squeeze them in.
“Don’t know that I have that many. When do you need ’em?”
“Saturday.”
“We got other events, lady. You’re not the only ones havin’ a wedding over the holidays.”
“I’ll take as many as I can get,” Delilah said. She sensed a certain resentment, which she’d run across more than once, being a Dillinger. Ira had made loads of friends and loads of enemies in his quest to increase the family fortunes.
In the end she got the full hundred, putting down the deposit and signing the paperwork, working out a delivery time of noon as the wedding was at five.
She stepped back onto the street into a bright, cold day. Shading her eyes, she looked up and down the street, wondering if she should stop in at Carolina’s Table and make sure everything was copacetic there, too.
A woman holding a baby in a front pack was walking her way. She was heavyset in that way new mothers sometimes looked before they’d taken off the baby weight. Delilah’s eyes were on the baby, who was swaddled in a pink jacket and blanket, its head covered by a pink hood. Then her gaze traveled upward to meet the mother’s eyes and she got a succinct shock. Abby Flanders … Bywater.
“Oh, hey,” Delilah said, trying to hide her surprise. “Abby.”
“Delilah Dillinger! Don’t you look fabulous,” she said enviously. “Skinny. I swear. I’m going to have to take up running or something as soon as Marjory’s done nursing. I’m just a blubber-butt.”
Her openness disarmed Delilah. “You are not. You’ve just had a baby.”
“Yeah, and I can only use that excuse so long.”
“Her name’s Marjory?” Delilah asked.
“Yes, it is.” Abby turned the baby so that Delilah could get a look at her face. “She’s sleeping.”
The baby’s lashes lay against plump cheeks and her lips moved in and out in a sucking motion. Delilah was swept by emotion so intense it felt physical. My God. Twice in one day. First the colt, now the baby … She was going to have to get a grip on herself and fast. “She’s beautiful,” she said softly.
“Thanks. She’s the best,” Abby said. “I heard about the fire at your dad’s place last night. That’s terrible. What happened?”
Delilah shrugged.
“Was it arson? That’s what I heard.”
“Could be.”
“Hunter was there, right?”
Delilah felt a jab of discomfort. “Well … yes.”
“Strange how things circle around, isn’t it?” she mused.
“Hunter working for the fire department, after what everybody said about him.”
“About the homestead fire? Luckily you set the record straight,” Delilah said, wondering how to get out of this conversation.
She gave Delilah a searching look. “You mean, because I said he was with me at the time?” To her nod, she said, “I thought you of all people would know that was a lie just to stop the rumors. You really didn’t know?”
Delilah slowly shook her head.
“They were all looking for a scapegoat and Hunter wouldn’t defend himself, so I gave him the alibi. He was there to meet you, right? He just wouldn’t tell anybody. But anybody with half a brain coulda figured it out, if they’d known.”
“You lied for him?”
“He sure wasn’t about to protect his own ass. I thought he was an idiot and I told him so.”
“He should’ve spoken up,” Delilah said. “People still believed he had something to do with the fire, even with your alibi.”
“Some did,” Abby allowed. “People love to believe the worst, don’t they? And it wasn’t even the right rumor about him.”
“About Hunter?”
Abby opened her mouth to answer, thought a moment, then glanced away from Delilah and then down at her little girl. “What am I doing? I really should be going. Marjory’s like a time bomb ready to go off if I get her off schedule. Don’t let anyone ever tell you nursing’s easy. It’s its own little hell.”
“What did you mean about Hunter?” Delilah pressed.
“I was just blabbing away. People talk, that’s all.” She hesitated, then looked at Delilah directly. “I just thought that’s why you broke up. Because of the rumor.”
“What rumor? About the fire?” Delilah asked, baffled.
“Look, I really need to get going. Say hi to Ira for me. Dad’s sorry he can’t make the wedding. It’s so crazy. Those two are like twins; neither one of ’em wants to slow down.”
She left in a hurry, as if she didn’t want Delilah asking any further questions. It was a revelation learning that Hunter hadn’t been with Abby the night of the homestead fire, and it was gratifying that it was as she’d originally thought: he’d been there to meet her. But why had he never told anyone the truth and let himself be crucified by public opinion? To protect her reputation because she was a Dillinger and he was a Kincaid? To the extent that he would let people keep thinking he set the fire?
And what rumor had Abby meant about Hunter? Something that she felt was the real reason they’d broken up?
“What the hell?” Delilah muttered, lost in thought as she headed back to the Jeep. Maybe she should just ask Hunter what Abby meant.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was afternoon before Mariah Kincaid deigned to call Ricki back. When her cell rang, Ricki was seriously thinking about heading home for an hour or two and catching some sleep. Though she wouldn’t give back a moment of her night with Sam, she was fast losing energy. A nap, if she could scare up a bed at the lodge, and a check on Brook, and maybe something to eat, she was thinking. She almost didn’t pick up the call she was so weary, but she’d been placing calls all morning, waiting for responses, so she swept up the phone and answered, “Deputy Ricki Dillinger,” with as much power as she could muster.
“Deputy Ricki Dillinger,” a cool female voice responded. “Ms. Mariah Kincaid-Drammeur returning your call.”
“Hello, Mariah,” Ricki said, coming awake as if she’d been shot with adrenaline. “Thanks for returning my call.”
“I told that girl who called me from the sheriff’s department earlier everything I knew. She had the receipts. She knew I was there long before that poor girl who was killed.”
“I know. But we really need to find this guy, so we’re calling everyone again.”
“I see,” she said in a voice that said Ricki
was wasting her time. “I thought you got married, Ricki. Still going by Dillinger?”
“Divorced.”
“Ah, yes, I did that, too,” Mariah said. “Kept the name, though. Couldn’t get it wiped off the business, otherwise I might have done the same.”
“There was a man in a black Stetson sitting at the bar the night Amber was kidnapped, who struck up a conversation with her. I know you left before Amber arrived, but maybe he was there earlier?”
“If he was, I didn’t notice. Like I told the girl who called, I was with Blair and we were having our own discussion about our family. I don’t know if you’ve seen the Major lately. Mom takes him out now and again, but he’s on borrowed time. At Thanksgiving, we learned that he probably wouldn’t make it to Christmas. So, no, I wasn’t looking at anyone but Blair. We were having a drink in the Major’s name before we split and headed home.”
“Did you and Blair leave at the same time? We haven’t been able to get hold of him.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve got a better number for him. The phone he actually answers. Blair doesn’t want to talk to the family, so he gave Mom, Hunter, Emma and Alexandra a different one that he rarely checks. He’ll be pissed I gave it to you.”
She told Ricki the number, then said, “Mom called and said there was a fire at your place. The foreman’s cottage. You think it’s this same guy? The one who left the girl in the church and burned it down?”
“Looks like they’re both arson,” Ricki said carefully. She didn’t want to give too much away.
“So, it is the same guy?”
“Don’t have the answer to that. If you think of anything else, just happen to recall something from that night, please call back.”
“I told you, I won’t remember anything because there’s nothing to remember. I paid the bill on my credit card, said good-bye to my brother and left. There were people there, but I didn’t look at them.”
Ricki thanked her, ended the call and stretched in her chair. Sam had gone over to fire and rescue to talk to Chief Raintree directly, hoping to catch up with Hunter, too. She’d gone down the list of names, hit and miss in reconnecting with the patrons, and had learned precious little so far. Getting up from her chair, she cruised toward the vending machines in the break room and bought herself a Diet Coke. Maybe a hit of caffeine would keep her going.
Back at her desk she punched in the number Mariah had given her for Blair. To her immense surprise he answered on the second ring, saying, “Hello?” in a suspicious voice. Probably didn’t recognize the number on caller ID.
“Blair, it’s Ricki Dillinger. I got your number from Mariah.”
“Well, that was ballsy of her. She knows better.”
The youngest Kincaid son was nothing like his older brother, Ricki thought. Whereas Hunter had always been decent, if somewhat hard to read, Blair was as wild as a roaming mustang, and he always seemed ready for battle of some kind. The youngest sister, Alexandra, had been party to some of Blair’s wilder schemes when she was a kid, but then had apparently grown out of them. It was like a division could be made between Hunter and Emma, and Mariah, Alexandra and Blair. The first two favored the Major in temperament, the last three Georgina.
Though it had been years since Ricki had lived in Prairie Creek, from talking to both Mariah and Blair, it didn’t appear much had changed.
Before Blair could come up with a reason to hang up on her, Ricki told him why she was calling, finishing with, “… think this guy at the bar is the killer and we really need to find him, so that’s why we’re checking with everyone who was at the Buffalo Lounge that night.”
“Can’t help you,” Blair said. “I don’t remember anything. We were talkin’ about the Major and glad we could get the hell out of Prairie Creek. Holidays are always fuckin’ disasters.”
“Doesn’t sound like you plan to come home for Christmas.”
“Hell, no. Is Mariah? She said she wasn’t.”
“I didn’t ask her. On that Saturday night, Mariah said she paid the bill and left. Did you leave at the same time?”
“Yeah … well … there was a guy there with a couple of his friends. Used to bronc ride and knew Colton. I remember bein’ in the stands the time he got his teeth knocked out. Got tossed into the fence by one nasty piece of horsemeat. So at Big Bart’s I went over to the guy, told him I was there that day. He’s got some fake teeth he can push in and out with his tongue, so he did that and bought me a couple of beers. Then I left.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Not really a friend. McKewan. Ed McKewan. But he can’t be your guy. He’s like five foot six and kind of a dumbass. Never was much of a rider.” Blair huffed out a laugh. “Was an idiot to even think he could be.”
“His name’s on our list. I called him earlier today,” Ricki said. “He said he doesn’t recall anyone at Bart’s, either. He didn’t mention you.”
“He was shitfaced. Barely could remember his own name. But he remembered that ride.”
“You didn’t see a taller man in a black Stetson, maybe hanging by the bar?”
“There are always guys around in black Stetsons. You live here. You know.”
“Yeah. Anything else you can recall?”
“Wish I could help you. I really do. I heard what that bastard did with a knife to that girl and then Mia Collins …”
“Do you remember what time you left?” Ricki asked.
“About half an hour after Mariah. Maybe a bit longer. I went out the back and had a smoke, clearin’ my head a little before I got in the truck and headed back here.”
“That’s about the time Amber drove in,” Ricki said.
“Didn’t see her.”
“Okay. She drove a blue Honda Civic that we think he disabled. He flattened one of her tires.”
“A blue Civic?”
“That’s right.”
“I think I saw that car,” he said suddenly, sounding surprised himself.
“At Bart’s?” Ricki asked quickly.
“Yeah, in the lot. There was a guy there. I thought the car was his, cuz he was hangin’ by it. But maybe it was hers, and shit, yeah, he was wearin’ a Stetson. Black one.”
“Can you describe him?” Ricki asked eagerly.
“Mmmm … tall. Face shadowed. It was dark.”
Ricki waited. She could tell he was thinking hard. Come on, come on …
“Clean shaven. Black gloves. It was cold. A blizzard was comin’ in.” Another hesitation, and then he said, “That’s about all I got.”
“You didn’t see him inside the place?”
“Just on my way out. But if he was at the bar, I wouldn’t have seen him. Mariah and I were over by the fireplace.”
“He was sitting at the opposite end of the bar from Barstow,” Ricki said. Grady Chisum, the bartender, had established that. She needed to talk to him again, too, face-to-face, now that they’d zeroed in on Black Hat.
“Like I said, we were drinkin’ to the Major. That’s about all I was thinkin’ about.”
“All right. Thanks, Blair.”
“No problem.”
Hanging up, she stared into space for a moment, then she grabbed her coat and headed out to her truck.
It was afternoon by the time Hunter could get over to the Kincaid ranch and have a powwow with his mother. He’d met with Sam Featherstone and Raintree about the fires and they’d all pretty much concluded the same thing: there were two arsonists. They’d gone over all the evidence from both fires and had distilled their conclusions into two theories: one, the Pioneer Church fire was done as a distraction for the killer to get to Mia, and two, the Dillinger fire was an attack on the Dillinger family. With Mia being connected to the Dillinger family through Kit, there was concern for Kit’s safety as well as every other Dillinger. They’d all come home for Ira’s wedding and that meant they were all in Prairie Creek. Maybe that’s why the fires had started happening now.
Or maybe it meant nothing at all. But there
was a reason, a motivation in there somewhere, and Hunter was betting it had something to do with the Dillingers.
Georgina was sitting at the kitchen table, going over accounts, when Hunter entered. Seeing him, she swept the books to one side, trying to appear casual as she said, “You could let me know before you just waltz in.”
“Want me to call ahead?” Hunter asked evenly. He’d always had a tough relationship with his mother, but this was the first time she’d made a fuss about him coming unannounced.
“The Major’s napping,” she said. “He could use some quiet.”
As if he’d heard her, Hunter’s father called out from the TV room, “Who is it?”
“Napping?” Hunter repeated.
Georgina’s lips tightened. “I thought he was asleep.”
She was lying. He knew her well enough to recognize the signs. Georgina was a tough nut to crack and she’d seesawed from being overprotective to damn near bordering on neglect when it came to raising her children. Hunter said, “I just learned you’re going into the oil business with Century Petroleum and Ira Dillinger.”
She stilled, as if she felt movement might give her away. “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
“It’s none of your damn business, Hunter.”
“You’ve been looking for a moneymaker for a while. That’s what those cabins were supposed to be about, but that didn’t work out.”
His mother flushed red with fury. “Last I checked, this is my ranch, not yours.”
“Maybe you should tell the Major that, because he wants me involved more. Not that I want to be. But if you’re planning something with Ira Dillinger, I’m pretty sure he’s going to want to know why. Unless you’ve told him …” He inclined his head in the direction of the TV room.
“It’s all just in the talking phase. But Ira knows oil,” she snapped back.
“And ranching, and how to make a deal in his favor.” Hunter wondered what the hell was really going on in his mother’s manipulative head. “You don’t like any of the Dillingers, especially Ira.”
