Dangerous Refuge

by Elizabeth Lowell

“Huh,” Tanner said softly. “Looks like that mutt out of the Mad Max movies, only tawny instead of black.”

  “That was a Queensland Heeler in the movies,” Warren said. “Dingo is, ah, well, Dingo. Probably Aussie and Queensland mix mostly, with some bigger dog in his ancestry. I hear Lorne found him hiding under the porch some years back.”

  “He looks skinny,” Shaye said, her voice worried.

  “We had to intubate him and hit him with a light dose of ammonium chloride to clear the last of the poison. That’s hard on a system.”

  “Beats dying,” Tanner said.

  “So we assume. We’ll give Dingo a lot of rest and keep him under observation here for a couple days. Then . . .” The vet shrugged and looked at Tanner. “You’re paying the bills. You tell me what you want to do.”

  He blew out a breath. “My apartment has a no-pet rule.”

  “My condo doesn’t,” Shaye said instantly.

  Dr. Warren looked at her. “Dingo isn’t a condo dog, but maybe he can learn.”

  “Surely some rancher needs a good dog,” Tanner said.

  “I’ll check around, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “I’ll take him,” she said. “I couldn’t leave him to be put down because his owner died. It’s not the dog’s fault.”

  “Be sure to leave your contact information up front with Betty, then, Ms. Townsend. We’ll be in touch.”

  Tanner held his tongue until they were alone in the car again. “I doubt if Dingo will take to being shut up.”

  “He can come to work with me most of the time. I’m out on ranches more than I’m in meetings.” Her voice was like the set of her mouth. Stubborn.

  “Dr. Warren knows a lot of ranchers.”

  “So do I. None of them are looking for dogs.”

  “If Dingo is on his feet before I go back to L.A., I’ll take him back to the ranch he knows. We don’t have to decide things right now.”

  Before I go back to L.A.

  Shaye knew Tanner was going to leave, but hearing it said so casually put her on edge. “You do what you have to do. I’ll do the same.”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it. She was right, so why did he feel like arguing?

  “I’m doing the best I can,” he said after a few minutes.

  “So am I.”

  Neither of them said much over sandwiches at a place in South Tahoe. After lunch, Shaye settled back in the car and tried not to see Lorne every time she closed her eyes.

  And not to think about Tanner leaving.

  I’m crazy, she said to herself. The dog, Tanner . . . Crazy. At least the dog needs a home.

  The part that made her doubt her sanity was her growing belief that Tanner did, too.

  Fourteen

  Shaye didn’t shake off her edginess until Tanner turned onto the curving driveway up to Silver Lode Lodge. Instead of watching his hard-cut profile and gentle hands, she forced herself to look at the expanse of irrigated green grass and blue spruce.

  “People were taking bets on whether the spruce or the grass would die first,” she said, breaking the long silence. “They can live here, but they belong at different elevations.”

  “Who won?” Tanner asked. It beat thinking about Lorne’s death and Shaye’s tender smile. Or thinking about Dingo alone at the vet’s, and of himself alone in L.A.

  “Nobody. The trees don’t grow much and don’t quite die. The grass has been redone piecemeal after every winter. Lot of arguments over whether that constitutes ‘death,’ but no winners.”

  The lodge itself was old, made of logs and local rocks, a three-dimensional definition of rustic. There was nothing backcountry about the service, though. A valet appeared instantly and took Tanner’s wheezing car without a single disparaging look.

  “I don’t remember it like this,” he said as the valet drove the car away and parked it out of sight.

  “What’s different?” she asked as they walked up to the lodge entrance.

  “Everything from grass to trees to whole logs gleaming in the sun.”

  “Nothing has changed in the time I’ve been here,” she said, “except chunks of grass.”

  “It was well established back when I remember it.” His mouth curled up at one corner. “Only then it was called the Lucky Uncle. I still remember the look on my dad’s face when I asked him what went on in there.”

  “Your dad didn’t like gambling?”

  “He didn’t care one way or the other. It was the women in the back rooms that made him squirm to explain.”

  Tanner opened the wide lodge door.

  Shaye looked at him, surprised and a little horrified. “This was a . . .”

  A pair of kids about ten years old thundered past them.

  “Brothel,” Tanner finished when the kids lined up across the lobby in front of an elevator. “Wonder if the folks who stay here now complain that their rooms are a touch on the small side.”

  “I hope it was remodeled,” she said, looking at the place from a different angle now. “Thoroughly.”

  “I imagine it was. Most cribs aren’t any bigger than they have to be to get the job done.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  He looked amused. “Homicide detectives have a broad education. On the job, only, for me. Forget what you see in movies—real-life prostitutes are about as sexy as a public toilet.”

  “New topic, please.”

  He laughed and put his arm around her, pulling her against him. “You’re good to be with.”

  When she met the intense blue of his eyes, she let the last of her irritation slide away. He would leave and she would stay. Until then, she would enjoy.

  “But I’m not illegal,” she said.

  “Too bad. You’d look great in handcuffs . . . and nothing else.”

  She felt the flush climbing her cheeks and punched him lightly. “Stop.”

  “It’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.”

  She gave up and laughed. And tried not to wonder how he would look in her bed. Handcuffs optional.

  Tanner smiled at her like he knew what she was thinking.

  Shaye said the first thing that came to her mind. “Wonder where they got the marble.”

  He glanced around at the decor without real interest. There was a lot of light, sandy-colored wood and fine pink travertine shot through with veins of white and carmine.

  “Reminds me of blood spatter,” he said without thinking.

  “Lovely. You see a lot of interior decor in your line of work?” she asked.

  “Crime cuts across all classes.”

  “Cheery thought.”

  He shrugged. “Fact of life.”

  The fresh flower arrangements dotted around the room gave a softer edge to the efficiency of the layout. The only way a person could tell that this was Nevada rather than California was the come-hither gleam of slot machines set off in an alcove. A man stood unobtrusively nearby, making sure that kids didn’t sneak in and lose their allowance.

  The concierge could have been a showgirl with a really fine boob job. She watched with a professional smile and rather predatory eyes as Tanner walked up.

  “May I help you?” she asked, looking only at him.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Mason,” Shaye said.

  “Who should I say is asking for him?” the concierge asked, watching Tanner like he was the Second Coming.

  Shaye almost rolled her eyes. “Shaye Townsend and guest,” she said coolly.

  And no, you can’t have his telephone number. While he’s here, he’s mine.

  The thought startled her. She had never felt this territorial about a man before, including the one she had married.

  The concierge smoothed her long, dark hair away from her perfect face and scanned the computer. “You’re early, but I’ll tell him. He’s in a meeting. Please wait here.”

  “No problem.” Shaye’s voice was of the scorpion-killing variety.

  The con
cierge turned, opened a door behind her that led to a wing of offices, and walked quickly. Her stilettos clicked like cat claws across the hardwood floor.

  “Are you still angry about the dog?” Tanner asked, eyeing Shaye warily.

  “The showgirl can keep her hungry eyes to herself.”

  He looked at her. “That’s what put razor blades in your tone?”

  “I’m also peeved about wanting a man who has one foot out the door. I’ll get over it.”

  His eyes widened. Then he caught her face between his hands. “You’re honest.”

  “Rare in your line of work?” Shaye shot back.

  “Rare anywhere, anytime.” He touched her lower lip with his thumb. “I’ll be as honest as you are. When Lorne and my dad had their shouting match and my family left town, Refuge died for me. Lorne gave me a backhanded kind of ‘forgiveness’ when he came to my dad’s funeral and told me not to be as stupid as my dad had been. Let’s just say I didn’t fall into his arms with joy.”

  “So now you hate Lorne and everything about Refuge?”

  “No. I made my life somewhere else, that’s all. Yesterday I found out that Lorne hadn’t written me off entirely. Then all the questions about his death started digging at me.”

  “And when you answer all your questions here, you’ll go back to your life there. I get it. Until then, let the good times roll, right?”

  Before Tanner could decide how to answer that and the tangle his life had become—here and in L.A.—the concierge returned, stiletto heels announcing her presence.

  Just as well, he thought. I’m no damn good with people. Corpses? I’m the best thing that ever happened to them. Living, breathing, warm women? Not so much.

  A man was following the concierge.

  “This time,” Shaye said to Tanner in a low voice, “try not to be a quarrelsome son of a bitch.”

  “I’ll take my cue from him, just like I did from the deputies,” he said in an equally soft tone. Hard, too.

  “Am I interrupting?” Mason asked, dismissing the concierge with a motion.

  “Not at all,” Shaye said. “Thank you for making time for us.”

  “It’s good to see you, always,” Mason said. “Especially when it isn’t strictly Conservancy business. You’re a breath of fresh air.”

  Smiling politely, Shaye stepped away before he could kiss her cheek. She had never been into the social kissing game. Or any other kind of casual kissing.

  “Berne Mason, Tanner Davis, Lorne’s nephew,” she said.

  “I thought you were going to say grandson,” Mason said.

  “You wouldn’t be the first,” Tanner answered, holding out his hand.

  Without seeming to, Tanner cataloged details about the other man. Mason’s salt-and-pepper hair was swept back from a tanned face. He didn’t have the tan of a workingman, the kind with pale creases from squinting at the sun and a white stripe across the forehead from wearing a hat in the sun. It wasn’t a tennis tan, or a skiing tan. It looked like Mason spent most of his time indoors with side trips to a tanning oven for the color. His clothes were tailor-made. He looked fit and didn’t walk like a man whose feet hurt.

  The watch on his wrist would have cost Tanner a year’s rent.

  Bet he started out as a pit boss, Tanner thought. He has eyes like a cop—and some crook thrown in to keep things lively.

  “Terrible tragedy,” Mason said. “We’ll miss Lorne around the poker table, though I’m sure there are some players who will be relieved.” He leaned in confidentially. “Lorne could read about half of them like a road map. He was one of the few men I’ve played poker with that didn’t have any ‘tells.’ Never knew what he had until he laid down his cards.”

  “You’d know more about that than I would,” Tanner said. “I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. That’s why Shaye brought me here. Said you knew him as well as anybody. I feel like I missed a lot of his life.”

  “Lorne was one of a kind. Come on back to my office. I’m expecting some Norwegian investors soon. Very punctual people, so I don’t want to keep them waiting. But until then, I’m all yours.”

  “I appreciate it,” Tanner said. “Very kind of you.”

  As Mason led the way across the lobby, Tanner took Shaye’s elbow like a good city gentleman.

  “Would the aliens who took the old Tanner please keep him?” she muttered.

  He gave her a smile that was all teeth.

  They walked past an early crowd of hotel guests coming in from the pool, heading up to their rooms to dress for dinner, dancing, and some low-key, laid-back gambling.

  Tanner walked with a pleasant smile and eyes that never stopped looking around. Card rooms opened up on either side of a wide aisle. The main casino was nearby, judging from the hustle and hum that came through a wide archway. In the casino, there would be hidden catwalks and cameras patrolling for cheats. The card rooms were low-ceilinged, quiet, under camera surveillance, and mostly empty. A few players threw in their cards or raked in modest piles of chips.

  “So Lorne was a regular here?” Tanner asked.

  “Yes,” Mason said. “Lucky room number seven is where we meet. The group he played cards with is taking the next session off in his honor.”

  “Sounds like you take poker seriously,” Tanner said. “If I could have their names, I’d like to talk to them, thank them personally.”

  “I’ll have my concierge send them to Shaye’s e-mail, if that will be all right?”

  She nodded. “Thank you. The Conservancy is doing everything we can to help Lorne’s nephew enjoy Refuge.”

  “Do you play poker?” Mason asked Tanner.

  “Not seriously.”

  Mason laughed. “Weather, cows, land, and cards. We take them all serious around here.”

  “High stakes?” Tanner asked.

  “No, but bragging rights on winning are real important.” He winked at Shaye. “Drives the wives crazy.”

  She smiled politely.

  “No bad feelings among losers?” Tanner asked, watching Mason while not seeming to.

  “It wasn’t that kind of poker,” Mason said. “Lorne and the boys come here to shoot the bull and have a few drinks. Man-cave time, my wife used to call it. Guess I spent too much time that way. She left me years ago.”

  “Good reason to stay single,” Shaye said neutrally. “Never can tell who will turn into a poker nut.”

  “Must have been an unusual group of men, never to lose their temper,” Tanner said.

  “If someone got too tight in the collar, I’d make sure they took a break from cards for a week or two, tell them to spend time with their wives or mistresses or kids. Whatever. Didn’t have to do that more than a few times.”

  “Lorne ever step over the friendly line?” Tanner asked.

  “Not once. He could be an abrupt, abrasive man, but it wasn’t personal. Just his way. The men he played cards with were used to it. A lot of them were as hard-shouldered as he was.”

  Mason opened his office door, looked in, and motioned Shaye and Tanner to go first. The room was small for the desk parked in its middle, but not crowded. The desktop was a cross section from a single, huge pine log. The concentric growth rings looked like amber water rippling out to the still-intact bark.

  “How did you get this inside?” Shaye said with wonder.

  “That’s right, you’ve never seen my office before,” Mason said. “When we did the renovations, I basically had the room built around my desk.”

  “And changed the name of the lodge,” Tanner added.

  “Oh, you know the history of this place?”

  “Despite my mother’s best efforts, Lorne told me about the ‘cathouse up the hill’ before I was ten.”

  Mason laughed. “That’s Lorne. He never appreciated much beyond the basics. Too bad. There are many profitable uses for land. Cows often aren’t one of them, but men keep raising them anyway. Good thing, too. Steak is a beautiful thing.”

  “Sure is. I remember
Lorne always used to eat a big, rare slab of it on Saturday, chicken on Sunday. Tuesday was poker, which meant he ate out.”

  “He never changed that routine, so far as I know.”

  “Anything else change in Lorne’s life? How did he seem at the last game?” Tanner asked.

  Mason frowned at his desktop. “I got in late, but Lorne was later. We had several tables of players that night, with some left over to hold down the bar. Don’t think he took cards, though. Went straight to the bar and started jawing at his lawyer.”

  “Was that usual?” Shaye asked.

  “No. Stan Millerton only plays now and again. I assumed that Lorne had been drinking,” Mason said with a shrug. “It happens.”

  “Did Lorne drink a lot?” Tanner asked.

  “A fair amount, especially if his knee was hurting or he was pissed off about something, which usually amounted to the same thing.”

  “So he was angry,” Tanner said.

  Mason waved them into chairs near his desk. “Hard to tell with Lorne. Even when he wasn’t playing cards, he kept things close to the vest. Could have been as simple as he was late and the tables were full and he didn’t like waiting, so he bent his attorney’s ear instead.”

  “You hear what Lorne was saying?” Tanner asked casually.

  “I wasn’t part of the conversation,” Mason said. His phone buzzed. “Excuse me.” He listened, tapped a clean fingernail on the wooden desktop, and hung up. “The Norwegians are early. Sorry, but I really must cut this short. Can you find your way out or should I call the concierge?”

  “We’re good,” Tanner said, coming to his feet. “Don’t want to keep people from their business. Thank you for seeing us.”

  “Call if I can help you,” Mason invited, shaking hands. “Lorne was a good man. Shaye, always a pleasure to see you. You should drop in more often.”

  “Thanks for talking to us,” she said. “I know how busy you are.”

  “For you, anytime.”

  With that, Mason hurried from the room, straightening his coat and tie as he went.

  Shaye looked at Tanner in silent question.

  He shrugged. Nothing about Mason had tickled his cop meter. At least, nothing to do with Lorne’s death. Mason wasn’t nearly as civilized as he looked. But you could say that about a lot of men.