He swiveled away from me and hurried to her. “I’m here.” He spoke with great gentleness and caring.
She reached up and clutched his hand, drawing him down to her. She threw her arms around him, burying her face in his chest. “Josh, Josh, Josh.” The words deteriorated into a jumbled mass of syllables and sobs.
Not Chad, Chad, Chad.
6
Weak winter sunlight struggled through the sheers. I unfurled from the burrito I’d wound myself into during the night. I yanked my feet back up. The bottom of the bed felt like an ice rink. The two wool Pendleton blankets and down comforter had held in my body heat, but emerging from my cocoon would be painful.
After leaving Meredith Mills, I’d stopped to see that the tracks where the incident happened were clear and the area as empty as any at 3 A.M. in the middle of winter. I’d gone home to find a stack of birthday cards on the kitchen counter and a homemade banner crayoned by my nieces and nephews taped to the kitchen wall. Relief at missing the party mingled with dread of how Louise would make me pay.
I was surprised Dad hadn’t returned from work by then. I supposed there was a hullabaloo at the depot in Broken Butte. They probably didn’t have details, but they’d know about Chad’s death. I’m sure there had been some heavy coffee drinking going on in the crew room at the depot.
I would have liked to sleep later, but the minute I came to, I saw the gruesome details of last night. I blinked against the memory of the engine cab with Chad’s remains splattered and bloody. I snorted, trying to get the smell out of my nose. The butcher’s kill floor smell was probably my imagination, but it lingered.
I squinted at the doorway and the steep stairs beyond and wondered if I’d die of exposure before I jumped from the covers and catapulted myself downstairs. I burrowed deeper, building my courage for the undertaking.
One, two … THREE.
I threw back the covers, leapt from the bed, jumped to the stairs, and took them two at a time. Two leaps from the bottom I miscalculated, hit the step with half of my foot. My knee buckled and I tumbled. I might have yelped. I know I cursed. I bounced against the wall, hit my hip on the last stair, and landed in a heap in the dark living room.
I lay there for a second to make sure I hadn’t broken anything. It’s not like I hadn’t crashed down these stairs before. I remembered more than one instance when a good percentage of Foxes rushed down the stairs for warmth and one would trip, dominoing the rest of us in a tangle of limbs and tears, usually ending with someone throwing a fist.
I rolled over, pushed myself to my knees and, using the stair rail, levered myself to stand. The adrenaline of the fall stirred my blood enough I no longer risked freezing. Still, it wouldn’t take long for the floor to chill my feet. Dad’s grip lay by the front door with his steel-toe work boots in a heap. A pair of wool socks dribbled out the top where they’d fallen when he flicked them off. Since I needed to shower this morning anyway to wash away the odor of Chad’s death, I grabbed the socks and yanked them on.
With no hope of smoothing my bedhead and really not caring much, I followed the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. Along the way, I grabbed an old crocheted afghan from the couch and wrapped it around myself as I shuffled into the kitchen.
Dad stood at the stove in his canvas Dickies and flannel shirt. He stirred oatmeal, the smell flashing me back to countless chilly school mornings. With the herd of Foxes jockeying for bathroom time, parents’ signatures, fights about who owned what shirt, and last-minute homework help, oatmeal was the easiest and most affordable way to send us all out of the house with at least an attempt at a full belly. If you add to that mix a father who spent half the time away from home on a train and an artist mother who might forget she had children when in the throes of creation, it wasn’t unusual for oatmeal to be on the supper menu, as well.
I hate oatmeal.
I zeroed in on the healing potion dripping into the carafe on the counter under the window. Two inches of new snow ricocheted the sun into my eyes. I squinted to the blue sky, happy the early morning storm had dissipated and thankful there were no clouds to drop more snow. Three months until winter eased up.
Just last winter I’d had my own bedroom. In seven more months would I be standing in this same spot, grumpy because it was too hot to sleep upstairs and still missing my privacy?
“Have a nice trip?” Dad asked.
“Very funny.” With the afghan draped over my shoulders, I reached for a mug. “I might have broken bones, and you’d still be in here stirring your oatmeal.”
He turned off the gas flame and put a lid on the pot. “From the level of cursing, I figured you weren’t hurt too bad.”
The cheery red decor of the kitchen clashed with my mood. Meredith Mills’s morning would start bleak and cold, if she’d even slept at all last night. The first day of a lifetime without her husband. A sheriff had to learn how to absorb the unimaginable bits of other peoples’ lives and still keep going. Maybe running for sheriff hadn’t been a smart move.
This kind of introspection called for a shot of cream for my coffee. I stepped back and reached out for the refrigerator door handle and nearly jumped out of my highly attractive socks.
Josh Stevens sat on the bench of the picnic table that served as the Fox family meeting place, resting his head against the wall. He watched me without expression.
“Oh.” That’s always a great conversation starter. “I didn’t know you were here.” Now I figured out how I knew Josh Stevens’s name. He worked on the BNSF with Dad.
Not that I wanted to impress a stranger, or an almost stranger, sitting unannounced in my father’s kitchen, but I don’t think I could have appeared more unimpressive if I’d worked at it.
Dad opened a cabinet and rattled dishes to pull out two thick ceramic bowls. One benefit of a sculptress mother is having useful artwork. Despite nine kids who broke anything breakable and some things that weren’t, the cupboards were full of Mom’s unique pieces.
“Chad’s accident has everyone upset,” Dad said. He dished oatmeal into bowls. “Josh came by to, you know, talk about it.”
I poured a dollop of cream into my cup and didn’t offer my opinion about the accuracy of the term “accident.”
Dad walked the oatmeal to the table and placed one bowl in front of Josh and the other on the opposite side of the table. He reached for the cream I’d set on the counter. “I guess we’d like to know any details you might have.” He made a circuit by the butcher block and wrenched open a drawer for spoons and closed it with his hip.
Josh lifted his head from the wall. His face and neck seemed more stone than flesh. “What happened to him?”
I avoided his question. “How’s Meredith?”
He winced as if I’d shot an arrow at him. “She’s not doing too good. Her sister got here a bit ago, and she had some pills. Maybe she’ll be better after she rests some.”
I poured my coffee and wrapped the afghan tighter around me, leaving my hands free. Like a T. rex, I reached for my cup and leaned my butt on the counter, wrapping my fingers around the mug and drawing it close. “You and Chad were good friends?”
Josh’s eyes traveled to the corner of the ceiling, and his jaw tightened while I waited a beat. He nodded. “We used to be. Since fourth grade.”
Trooper Trey Ridnoir would probably squawk at me for asking questions, but it wasn’t a formal interview. And I’d be sure and share the information with him. “Why ‘used to be’?”
Dad deposited his loot on the table, pushed the sugar bowl shaped like a giant strawberry toward Josh, and lowered himself into a chair.
A muffled telephone ring perked my ears. I clacked my cup onto the butcher block and leapt for my sheriff’s coat on the hook by the door. By the second ring I held it to my ear.
“Kate? Vicki. What can you tell me about the train wreck and Chad Mills? Make it fast. I’ve got to send the copy to the printer in an hour for this week’s edition.” Vicki Snyder, Grand County Tribune’s
proprietor, reporter, sales force, editor in chief, and all-around annoying person.
“You’ll have to talk to BNSF for any information.”
Dad raised an amused eyebrow at me. We all know the road foreman or Clete, the trainmaster, are instructed to turn the media over to the official BNSF spokesperson, who, if you can find one, won’t pass along anything meaningful. Asset protection. No comment.
“Come on, Kate. A quote from the sheriff—” I punched off.
Dad looked serious. “What’s going on?”
I picked up my cup and lowered my face to my mug to let the steam defrost my cheeks. “I’m not too involved in it. Trey Ridnoir, the state trooper, is handling it.”
My phone rang again. “Morning, Kate.” It was Aileen Carson. “Jack and me just heard about Chad, and Jack wanted me to ask you what happened.”
Before I could tell Aileen that I didn’t have any information, another call came in. I hung up and saw three missed calls, all going to the official voice mail, which would direct them if they had an emergency to hang up and call 911. It rang again, and I punched the call off, turned the ringer to vibrate, and monitored the caller ID.
Josh sprinkled sugar on his oatmeal. “There must be some reason for you not to have turned it over to NTSB and the BNSF safety board.”
I considered him. “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Chad?” Really, I should be letting Trey question Josh.
Dad dumped in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar and flooded it all with cream. He scooped the sloppy mixture into his mouth and watched me with interest.
Josh left the sugar to melt on top of the cooling lump. He placed his spoon into his oatmeal, not disturbing the rubbery surface except where the edge of the spoon cut through. His brown eyes looked so deep that only a major disruption could cause a ripple, like an isolated lake surrounded by the protection of towering mountains. “Everyone liked Chad.”
Might as well jump into it. “Why did you come by here this morning?”
Dad swallowed. “Katie. That’s not hospitable. Our house is open to everyone, you know that.”
“Everyone” usually meant the Fox kids, spouses, offspring, all their friends and relations. And although it might include a railroader from time to time, I’d never seen Josh Stevens, a man closer to my age than Dad’s, eating oatmeal here first thing in the morning.
Dad swallowed another sloppy bite. “Josh is helping Meredith out. He’s trying to find out answers to the tragedy. I’d like you to tell him what you know.”
At some point I might be called to choose between being a daughter and serving as sheriff when it came to confidential information, but not this time. I pulled the afghan around me and sipped my coffee. “I don’t know much more than Vicki Snyder at this point. The state patrol wants to take the lead, and I’m playing border collie and trying to get everyone heading the same direction.”
Josh studied his oatmeal but didn’t touch it.
Dad whipped his spoon around his mush and might as well have been stirring my stomach. “So you suspect Chad was murdered.”
“I didn’t say that.”
Dad didn’t look up from his bowl. “And neither will we.”
When I considered running for sheriff I drew a t graph and listed pros and cons. On the pro side, I needed a paying gig, and sheriffing was mostly a light work assignment. I’d have time to moonlight with day labor on ranches. More importantly, I’d have time to scout out full-time hired man positions.
But there were cons to the job. Among them, being on call and being forced to get tough with my friends and relatives in the event they wandered close to legal lines. Even good people get in trouble. I didn’t relish serving papers to any of my kin.
I’d gone back and forth and finally decided I could deal with the cons. But in all my planning I’d never imagined conducting a murder investigation.
That was pure undersight on my part, since last spring Eldon Edwards was murdered and Ted was shot. That’s the night my niece Carly went missing. You’d think I’d learned the sheriff job could be trouble.
I refilled my cup, even though I’d only downed a few sips. I’d leave Dad and Josh to their gossip concerning their fallen comrade. “I need to call Robert and Sarah. I was supposed to help them preg check today.”
Dad swallowed another bite. “They’ll figure it out without you.”
Probably. But I’d rather be out with the cows, even in this cold, than trying to track a killer.
Josh hadn’t moved and looked like he didn’t intend to eat his oatmeal. Good call.
The kitchen door opened, and Louise burst in, as only my always-righteous older sister can. Like all of us, she was named for the Academy Award Best Actor or Actress for the year of her birth. In her case, it was Louise Fletcher who won for Nurse Ratched in One Flew Over the Cuckoos’ Nest. Did she grow into the character, or was it an unfortunate coincidence she had some of the same traits?
Her commanding voice filled the kitchen before she fully entered and closed the door in a whoosh of frigid air. The smell of warm bread and savory meat beat out the cold. “You get a free pass for last night, I guess, but we’ll have to reschedule your party. They’re saying Chad Mills was killed last night. What happened?”
Man, I got off easy on that one. “Party?” I sounded overly surprised and delighted. “What party?”
“Oh don’t give me that. I know Sarah—” She glanced up and her eyes stopped on Josh. Her mouth dropped open. Silent for one of the only times I could remember.
Fascinated by Louise’s reaction to Josh, I continued to hold up the kitchen counter.
Color drained from her face, and her mouth stayed slack as her gaze flicked from Josh to Dad to me and back.
Silence grew so that I started to feel bad for Louise. “Josh, this is my sister, Louise Merrihew. Louise, this is Josh Stevens. He works with Dad.”
Louise found the ability to shut her mouth, but her eyes stayed wide, like a cornered skunk.
Josh dipped his head. “Morning, Louise.”
Dad watched them with the same expression as when he supervised our family football games, like he knew something would break, just not when or what. He was both curious and ready to make repairs, or rush one of us to the ER.
Louise dropped her eyes and swallowed. She seemed to remember she held something and set a foil-wrapped plate on the counter. Her voice sounded like hooves on rough sand. “I brought you runzas.”
She reached behind her and felt for the doorknob. The door squeaked open and she eased out as if reluctant to turn her back on us. The door clicked closed, and I watched through the window above the sink. Scuttling like a beetle, Louise rushed across the thin layer of snow and jettisoned herself into her faded maroon Suburban.
When I turned back to the kitchen, Dad scraped his spoon on the bottom of his oatmeal bowl, and Josh was back to staring at his as if it contained the meaning of life.
The tail of the black kitty-clock ticked back and forth. Why was Josh Stevens here this early to question me? Because he suspected Chad’s death wasn’t an accident. Did he know something?
I glanced at a new vibration on my phone, and my heart jumped to my throat. “Excuse me.” I shuffled toward the living room and answered. “Ted.”
I pictured him in the sunlit kitchen at Frog Creek. “Hi, Kate.”
Weird to be talking to my ex-husband as if we were friends. “Shouldn’t you be feeding cows?”
He hesitated, and I figured I’d irritated him. Good. “I’m on my way. Hey, I heard about the train wreck last night.”
Roxy said something in the background in her hysterical voice, and I waited.
“This is a major situation, and I think you ought to let Trey handle it.”
Right. “It’s a Grand County matter.”
“Ted!” Roxy sounded alarmed. But then, high drama being her calling, it probably was nothing important.
“Wait.” Ted pulled the phone from his face and said something I couldn�
��t make out, then to me, “Kate, I’m worried about you.”
Worrying about me was no more his job than being sheriff. “How did you even know about the wreck?”
He sounded distracted. “Trey called. He asked me if I knew Chad.”
Instant indignation. “Really.”
“I have to go,” he said. “Just turn it over to the state patrol.”
Not likely, Teddy.
7
Damn Ted and his Irish Spring. I needed that pine tree air freshener. At least the cruiser had a good heater, and in less time than it took me to drive across the tracks and through Hodgekiss, she’d toasted up the inside.
I watched the low clouds on my way east and pulled off at the intersection of County Road 67. I bumped off the road to stop at the underpass. I zipped my old barn coat and pulled on my unflattering but warm ski hat. It draped low over my forehead and covered my ears with flaps that ended in bright red wool braids. Because I imagined my uniform smelled like the bloody train cab, I’d thrown it in the washer and asked Dad to transfer it to the dryer. I wore a flannel shirt and Wranglers.
When the good citizens of Grand County elected me, I’m sure no one expected me to conduct a murder investigation. I may not have eight years of experience, like Ted did, and I may be way out of my depth, but there was nothing to do for it. Except back down and turn it over to Trey. And a Fox just didn’t do that.
I hauled myself from the heated Charger into the raw midday winter and trotted to the underpass for daylight photos. Because of the below-zero temps, the snow had little moisture and was easily tossed by the slight breeze. Most of the ground was now bare, with the only accumulation in small drifts.
A pulley with a severed cable dangled from the I-beams underneath the bridge. The killer had attached another pulley to the tie. A simple block and tackle. It looked like he’d attached wires to the tie and then pulled the tie back with a rope so it would be suspended out of sight. When he wanted to release it, he’d cut the rope that held it back and let it hang at just the right height to slam lengthwise through the windshield. A complicated, well-engineered get-up.
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