“Like I said, just a follow-up question. Did you happen to see Toni on the fifth of May?”
“I did. Right before I got the phone call from you, actually. She drew a mustache on my finger.”
“And that was the first time you met her, or saw her? You didn't see her anywhere else earlier that afternoon? For example, up at the lake where you're staying?”
Samantha shrugged. “Not that I noticed, but there are always people around, especially by the boat launch.” She turned to watch his expression as she asked, “What's going on? Is there something about her I should know?”
“Just that she's not quite what she appears to be. I'd keep your distance if I were you, at least until this whole thing blows over.”
“What thing? Is there an investigation?”
His green eyes widened. “Who said anything about an investigation? I'm just suggesting that if you meet with Toni Winters, you do so only in a public place.”
“Or what?”
He stopped walking and glanced around. Sunset was still hours away, but the riverside didn't seem as warm and sunny anymore.
He hadn't answered her question, but she pressed on with another one. “Is Toni a stripper? Is that why you don't want me hanging out with her?”
“That's not why.”
“Fine. Be mysterious. Can I ask you something about Warren Jameson? Was he struck by lightning?”
Robichaud's eyebrows rose in surprise. “Lightning? What makes you say that?”
“Was he?”
“No.” He shook his head. “No lightning. It was the fall that killed him. But that's all I can tell you.”
“Something's going on, I know it. You wouldn't be acting like this if it was just a normal accident.”
He gave her a pained expression, as though he had secrets that were pulling him apart. “Listen, Samantha. Keep your phone nearby. Give me a call if you ever need help.” He dug in his pocket and handed her a crumpled business card. She already had one from the night they met, but accepted it anyway.
“I'll add this to my collection,” she joked.
He said, “If you don't see me around town, you can always give me a jingle just to check in... or talk about stuff.”
“Sure,” she said with a sigh, growing tired of his guarded, cloak-and-dagger routine.
They parted ways, and this time he didn't run to catch up with her.
She picked up a few more groceries at the nearby store, including some fresh local seasonal produce—arugula, blueberries, snap peas, plus some luscious red early cherries—and drove back to the cabin.
* * *
Samantha poured a drink and took a seat in the rocking chair on the wrap-around veranda to wait for nightfall and the return of Warren. She nodded off and woke up to find him watching her from the foot of the stairs.
She clutched her hand to her pounding heart. “You scared the heck out of me!”
He gave her a sweet smile of apology, but didn't approach. He stayed where he was and looked down pointedly at the dirt.
She had so many questions that he wouldn't answer, but she could look at him more carefully. What could she learn about his death? Had he been struck by lightning? He didn't seem to have any signs of burns on his body. His hair didn't look singed. But then again, his head didn't look crushed from a fall, either. He looked perfect—no blood or bruising. What was he so fascinated with on the ground?
Groaning, she eased out of the wood rocker and down the front steps. There, in the dirt, was a woman's barrette with fake pearls affixed in three neat rows. She immediately recognized the barrette as belonging to Caitlyn, the pretty blonde community reporter.
Warren gave her a knowing look. Oh, he knew something, all right. But exactly what it was he knew, or was trying to tell her, she still had no clue.
They went inside the cabin, she poured drinks for both of them, drank hers, and then helped Warren with his. She made a joke about it that felt very practiced. He frowned, silent as always.
An hour later, she asked, “Are you jealous about me talking to that cop?”
He feigned indifference, but she knew better.
“You're one to talk,” she said. “Stringing along your little redhead stripper while you tried to woo the new girl in town.”
His expression gave away nothing. He might as well have not even been there, for all he was giving her to work with.
Later, when she was getting ready for bed, she said, “Maybe I'll call up Deputy Sheriff Robichaud. Daniel. Dan. Good ol' Danny Boy.” She took out both of his cards and arranged them on the bathroom counter.
Warren rolled his eyes and went to the bedroom, where he stretched out on his side of the bed.
A moment later, she turned off the lights and joined him, trying to believe he was real.
Chapter 7
Samantha dreamed of Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud that night, and the next night. They were walking along the river together, holding hands, surrounded by glowing figures. In the last one, Robichaud had been pushing a stroller, and the child inside was brand new and yet very old, an ancient soul who'd walked the earth a thousand years ago as Samantha's distant ancestor. That soul had known hers, and Robichaud's, in another land, another time.
She woke up at dawn Wednesday morning in a cold sweat. The dreams had felt so intimate. The lingering feelings of love and acceptance made her feel incredibly guilty, as though she'd been cheating on someone, breaking a vow.
That morning, she puttered around the cabin until ten o'clock, then drove into town for food and supplies. Because the unincorporated village of Owl Bend was, in Samantha's grandfather's words, “barely bigger than a drop of bug spit,” she wore a hat and sunglasses to keep from being spotted by Robichaud. She wasn't avoiding him, exactly, but she preferred to... delay their next interaction as long as possible.
She was in the store, browsing aimlessly and trying to avoid looking like an alcoholic, when the bartender from the Watering Hole walked up and said hello. He was either going to or coming from a workout. He wore a sporty orange shirt that was so bright she'd briefly wondered if he had a day job directing traffic around construction sites.
“Hey, you,” she said in greeting. “Fancy meeting you here, outside of your natural habitat.” What the heck was his name? It was Italian, or Irish, or something. “I'm Samantha,” she said.
“Finn Bruno,” he said, raising his eyebrows knowingly.
“Right,” she said, nodding. “Finn Bruno. Irish and Italian.” At least her bad memory hadn't stopped working completely.
“Samantha, do you need some help picking out a bottle of wine for dinner?” He grinned, which made his face look less like a top-heavy triangle. She gave him a more careful look than she had during their interactions at the bar. Maybe his jaw wasn't so narrow after all—it just looked relatively skinny above his wide, muscular shoulders.
“You're too late,” she said of the wine, and she proceeded to fib about how she'd already selected two nice bottles from local Colorado wineries. The bartender complimented her on her excellent taste, made a joke or two about the marketing of wine, and then took her on an informal tour of the store's liquor selection. She'd planned to simply grab her two bottles of gin and leave, but she found herself enjoying the company of Finn Bruno. He was just as easy to chat with when he wasn't behind the bar.
He amiably helped her finish her shopping, and followed her through the checkout, where she had to buy the wine she had no intention of drinking. Finn purchased some sports drinks, trail mix, and gourmet cookies, which he immediately opened to offer her one.
“But you only have six cookies in there,” she protested.
“Take one,” he insisted. “It's bad enough I'm going to eat the other five on my drive to the cog rail.”
“The what? Cog rail?” She followed him out of the store and over to a bench. They sat in the shade of the awning, where she ate not just one, but two of the fancy cookies from the white bag. Finn explained to her that he
was heading up to a rack-and-pinion rail, also known as a cog rail, in Manitou Springs, near Colorado Springs. It was a special kind of rail line for steep mountain grades, where the trains are fitted with cog wheels or pinions that mesh with the rack rail.
“Like the gears in a clock,” Samantha said excitedly. “That sounds so cool. Does it make a scary noise?”
Finn gave her a sly look. “Why don't you come with me and find out? I'm heading there now, and the drive's not much more than an hour.” He gave her a boyish smile. “My truck's right across the street, and I'm ready to go now. You're welcome to come with me, assuming you don't have other exciting plans for a Wednesday afternoon.”
Samantha thought about her not-so-exciting plans of sneaking back into the store to buy gin and return the wine. A warm breezed played with her hair. It really was a beautiful day. Suddenly, the idea of sightseeing felt like a much more appealing option.
She said to Finn, “I'd love to, but there's just one problem.” She reached into her grocery bag and pulled out the box of ice cream sandwiches that were already melting.
“Those will go great with the cookies,” he said, and then he laughed, which sealed the deal.
She crossed the street with Finn, climbed into the passenger side of his truck, and immediately sent a text message to Hilda letting her know where she was going and with whom. Just in case.
Hilda sent a funny reply, prompting Samantha to ask Finn, “Promise you aren't kidnapping me for ransom?”
He snorted a laugh. “Just hand over the ice cream and nobody needs to get hurt.”
* * *
They reached the parking lot for Pikes Peak Cog Railway just in time to board the next train heading up the mountain. Finn paid for their tickets and the parking, with the promise he'd let Samantha buy the donuts when they reached the peak.
They boarded the Swiss-built rail car and began the ascent. Much to Samantha's amusement, Finn Bruno turned out to be an expert on the subject of cog trains, animatedly explaining how the diesel-electric engines powered the traction motors for the ascent, and how the engines would be shut off for the descent, when the traction motors worked as generators, harnessing the kinetic energy for the next trip.
Finn grew quiet once the conductor began his own commentary, using a microphone to be heard over the whirring engine and cog noise. The conductor entertained the nearly full car with a light patter about the scenery and what funny things the surrounding sedimentary formations might resemble.
They reached the summit of Pike's Peak, at an elevation of 14,110 feet, right on time for lunch. As promised, Samantha bought the donuts. Finn ate two, and groaned about needing to fit in an extra workout later that week. “At least it's my cheat day,” he said.
“Cookies, ice cream, and donuts,” she said. “If I see you eat one more sweet, I might have to arrange an intervention.”
He shrugged and held out his hands. “We all have our vices. How about you?”
“These donuts,” she said, reaching for another one.
They finished lunch and walked outside, joining the other tourists. Half of them seemed more interested in the trains than the landscape.
The air at that elevation was thin on oxygen, and Samantha found it unsettling to have to breathe harder just to take a stroll.
Finn and Samantha silently enjoyed the Colorado view and took some candid photos before boarding the railcar once more. On the trip down, the landscape reversed, turning back from red rocks to green trees. The whole trip was completed in just over three hours, including an adequate forty minutes at the peak.
Back in the truck again with Finn, Samantha was quiet. Truth be told, the two had run out of casual conversational fodder back at the peak, and the date had been—literally and figuratively—coasting downhill since then.
They drove back in silence. About thirty minutes from Owl Bend, Samantha glanced around the truck for a tool she might use to get into one of the bottles of wine sitting in her grocery bags at her feet. Finn had a metal box on the seat beside him. She reached over casually and started to flip open the latch, but Finn noticed and snatched the box away.
“I guess you're really bored by me,” he said, teasingly but with a touch of bitterness. “Did your new friend Toni tell you I'm boring?”
Samantha was taken aback and a little alarmed by his sudden shift into acrimony. She stammered an apology and explained, “I was just wondering if you had a screwdriver or maybe an awl in there that I could use to get us some of that wine.”
He stared straight ahead at the road. The metal box was on his lap. “Thanks for the offer, but I can't have an open bottle of liquor in my vehicle.”
She apologized again and pulled out her phone to check in with Hilda. She texted their approximate location and the estimate she should be back home within an hour.
Finn broke the silence. “Samantha, I'm the one who should apologize. You're a lovely woman, and I'm the one with the problems.”
“Oh?” She didn't want to know, but she'd been raised to be polite and let people talk about their problems. Her mother had laid out the rules time and again. The point of having friends wasn't to burden them with your problems. Friends and family were a gift, because they gave you someone else to think about, someone to care about besides yourself. Being a good listener kept the ego from getting out of control. Other people didn't know this secret, though, so you had to be patient with them, allow the unburdening, and let the pain pass through you. Pain was a wild animal, not to be held in a fenced yard, or a house, or a shoe box, or a heart, where it would only do damage.
Finn was silent for a moment, eyes on the road as he flexed first one bicep then the other in rhythm, the thick muscles pulsing under the tight orange shirt. Finally, he said, “Toni and I used to date.” He flicked his eyes over briefly. “I guess I haven't gotten over her. I was hoping maybe you'd put in a good word for me.”
“Sure,” Samantha said quickly, agreeing almost before he'd finished making the request. “But I don't know Toni that well. We've only seen each other a couple times at the bar, and then we had lunch and a hike.”
“A hike?” He sounded incredulous. “Since when does Toni go for a hike? She must really like you to agree to hiking.”
“Oh, it was all her idea. She wanted to go up to where her boyfriend had the accident.” Samantha's throat closed up and she was unable to elaborate. It had hurt to refer to Warren as Toni's boyfriend, and it was likely just as painful for Finn to hear. Her mind jumped immediately to a darker thought. Was Finn jealous? Was it possible he took action to hurt Warren?
Finn snorted. “I wouldn't exactly call him her boyfriend. She didn't even go to his funeral. I was there, and I didn't see her.”
“They were sort of on again, off again?” As she waited for a reply, her eyes moved down to the metal box on his lap. What was in there?
Finn pressed the steering-column lever to spray washer fluid on the windshield, and switched on the wipers to clear the bug splatters. The tiny carcasses quickly wiped away.
“Enough about the past,” he said with an air of finality. “Looking forward is so much better.”
“Sure,” she said cheerfully, eager to change the topic. “Where do you see yourself in five years?”
He chuckled at the question, which had been her intention.
“Hopefully, I'll be in business for myself,” he said. “I'm talking to some people right now.” His voice took on the fake enthusiasm of a salesman. “I was thinking of buying into one of those locked-room franchises, but the outfit I talked to first wants too much of the long-term earnings. Do you know what I'm talking about? It's a room where you lock people in and they have to solve a puzzle to get out.”
“I'm familiar with the concept,” she said, smiling. She'd been to a locked-room event once, covering it for the blog. She'd been disappointed to find it was just a series of logic puzzles done under a time constraint. She'd expected it to be as much fun as a murder mystery dinner party, but how
could it be, without any costumes or funny characters?
“Yeah, well, they're profit machines,” he said. “Thirty bucks a person, ten people at a time, that's three hundred bucks. And the costs are very low.”
She laughed. “Plus you get to lock people in a dungeon. Who doesn't love that?”
He turned his attention from the road to give her a pained look. “But they want you to lock them up,” he said. “They're asking for it.”
She held her hands up. “It was just a joke,” she said.
He abruptly hit the brakes and cranked the wheel to the right. She squealed and reached for a handhold.
“Gas station,” he said. “It's always a few cents cheaper here than in the Bend.” He pulled up to the pumps. “I'm going into the store for some water. Do you want anything?”
She shook her head, no. What she wanted was to stay in the truck and get a look inside the metal box, which she would do as soon as Finn was out of sight.
Chapter 8
As soon as Finn Bruno was inside the gas station's store, Samantha reached over and opened the metal box he'd been keeping away from her.
She didn't know what she'd expected to find, but it wasn't a bunch of plastic G.I. Joe men. She took a handful of the little guys out and gave them a closer look. They weren't army men, but knights and elves and goblins. Some were cast metal and others were plastic. Most were painted. Mixed in with the figures were multisided dice, pens and pencils, what appeared to be graph paper, and two coiled measuring tapes. She stuffed the figures back in and closed the lid.
A minute later, Finn emerged from the store in his glowing orange shirt, and climbed into the truck. He looked at the metal box on the bench seat between them, raised an eyebrow, and started the truck. “Okay, so I'm a giant nerd,” he said. “I know you saw my gaming kit.”
She gave him a tight smile. “I may have snuck a peek.”
“I don't play Dungeons and Dragons anymore. I was using that stuff to map out my own designs for escape rooms.”
Date with a Ghost in Colorado (Cozy Mystery Thriller) (Ghost Mysteries of the Southwest Book 1) Page 5
