Dark Paradise

by Tami Hoag

  He rode the yellow mare to the edge of the water at a shallow spot and urged her to step in. She arched her neck and blew through her nostrils at the water rushing past. J.D. spoke to her and coaxed her, urging her forward with his legs. She lifted a foreleg and pawed at the water, splashing herself, then moved tentatively forward, her attitude telling J.D. she wasn't too sure about this idea, but she trusted him not to get her into trouble.

  When she was standing knee-deep in the water and had relaxed enough to bob her head around, checking out the scenery, he reached into the tubular boot he had strapped to his saddle and extracted the components of his fishing rod. The mare looked back at him with curiosity, but stood quietly as he assembled the rod.

  He had ridden her only a dozen times, but she was naturally sensible and bright. She would make the pharmacist's daughter a good, safe mount. She brought her head up the first time he cast, and danced a little as he reeled it in, her muscular body tense beneath him. But when she saw that this process was not so different from having a rope thrown from her back, she relaxed again. The true test would come when he hooked a trout.

  J.D. relaxed as well. He cleared his mind as he found his rhythm with the rod. The sun shone down, warm on his back. The water chuckled and hissed as it rushed on its way to the Yellowstone River. The air was sweet with the scent of the grass, sharp with the vaguely metallic undertone of the water. The cottonwood and aspen leaves quivered and chattered. The reel whined as he cast, clucked when he cranked the line back in to try again. A kestrel hovered over the far bank, beating its blue wings furiously as it waited for the perfect second to drop on its prey in the grass below.

  Nothing was biting. J.D. reeled in and waded the mare across to the opposite bank. She climbed out and they moved downstream sixty yards. This time when he asked her to step down into the stream, she didn't hesitate. He patted her and talked to her, then took up his rod and started fishing again. An hour passed this way. When he couldn't get a nibble in one spot, they would move down to another, crossing from bank to bank, sometimes walking downstream in the shallows. He had no desire to run into the owner of the Bronco, but the best spots happened to be downstream. J.D. figured he would try his luck until someone came along, then they would start back for home. The ranch was an hour's ride and the afternoon shadows were already growing long.

  As they moved closer, he recognized the truck. Miller Daggrepont's name and the titles he had bestowed on himself were emblazoned across the driver's side door in three lines of gold gay-nineties-style lettering: MILLER DAGGREPONT, ESQ., ATTORNEY AT LAW, DEALER IN ANTIQUITIES. Miller wouldn't hike up a mountain to hunt for mushrooms unless they were lined with gold. He was a fisherman, but there was no sign of him along the banks of the Little Snake.

  J.D. frowned, more at Miller's imposition on his thoughts than out of any concern for the lawyer's whereabouts. Thoughts of Daggrepont brought thoughts of the land Mary Lee had inherited, and, therefore, brought thoughts of Mary Lee. They were through. He should never have gotten tangled up with her in the first place.

  He cast his line, flicking it at the edge of a brackish spot in a bend of the creek. Here the bank had eroded away over the years, creating a marshy pool that filled with water every spring and during hard rains. Rushes and cattails grew in profusion. More than one lunker had been caught browsing at the border between the pool and the stream.

  J.D. snapped his wrist and swore as his fly went sailing into the tangle of growth. Thoughts of Mary Lee had broken his concentration. He jerked back on the line, hoping it would come free without a lot of trouble. It didn't. He tried reeling it in slowly, but succeeded only in tightening the line against whatever the fly had snagged. He waded the mare across to the other bank, let her climb ashore, and stepped down off her. Reins in one hand, rod in the other, he moved toward the marshy spot, wishing the mare were far enough along in her training to ground-tie reliably.

  He decided to take his chances as he reached the stand of cattails without freeing the damned line. If he had to wade out into the muck, he didn't want her with him. The bottom was soft and muddy, and she would likely become frightened as her footing sank beneath her. Fear could spoil a young horse as quickly as mistreatment. He dropped his reins and backed away from her, scowling at her as she started to follow. He took an aggressive step toward her. She stopped and tossed her head, ears pricked as she watched him turn back toward the bank.

  Reeling in more line, he stepped off into water thigh-deep, flushing a blue-winged teal out of its cover. The duck flew up with an angry squawk, wings pummeling the air like a fighter shadow-boxing. Glancing back over his shoulder, J.D. checked to see that the mare hadn't spooked. She watched him with interest, and he maintained eye contact for just a second to let her know he hadn't forgotten her. As he waded forward, his left knee connected unexpectedly with something solid, and he lost his balance. His right foot slipped in the mud and he went down . . . landing squarely across the body of Miller Daggrepont.

  “Jesus, I've hauled dead cattle out of rivers easier than this.” Deputy Doug Bardwell sloshed through the reeds, waist-deep in water, trying to get a better hold on the body. “Hey, J.D., you wanna throw a rope around him and drag him out with that yellow mare?”

  Quinn brought his head up from examining the foot-prints in the soft ground of the bank and glowered at his deputy. “Peters, get in there with him and haul the body out the other side of the slough. I don't want any more tracks on this bank than we already got. Look at this mess,” he grumbled, turning back to his task. “God knows how many people been out here since it rained, tramping up and down.”

  J.D. was hunkered down beside him, frowning at the ground. “I reckon there's been a few, but see here in this area? Looks to me more like two people maybe scuffling around. Don't see these kind of tracks anywhere else along the bank.”

  “Still don't mean nothing,” Quinn said, tipping his hat back to scratch through his wheat-colored hair. “Could have been two people milling around, digging through their tackle boxes, for all we know. Besides,” he said, standing and stretching out his bad knee, “looks to me like ol' Miller had himself a heart attack and fell in. You see the way he was clutching his chest?”

  They walked around to the far side of the pool, where Bardwell and Peters were struggling with Daggrepont's lifeless body. Rigor mortis had yet to set in, and the lawyer's massive weight and rotund shape made their task as much fun as moving a stranded whale.

  “Jesus, Bardwell!” Quinn barked. “Don't be pulling on his arm that way! Get your legs under him and push!”

  Groaning with the effort, the deputies hauled the dead man onto the bank.

  “Man.” Bardwell heaved a sigh and sat himself down half a foot from the body. “My daddy always said the only good lawyer was a dead lawyer. Guess he never had to move one.”

  “See here?” Quinn said, crouching down by Daggrepont. He pointed to the right hand that was frozen in a death grip over the dead man's sternum, clutching a wad of his brown madras plaid western shirt and the ends of his bolo tie. “That's called a cadaveric spasm. Means he was hanging on that way when he died. Had a bum ticker, you know, Miller did.”

  “Ain't no wonder,” Peters commented. He had his face behind a 35mm camera and was clicking off photos of the corpse. “You ever see that man eat? I've had feeder cattle couldn't pack it away the way Miller could.”

  “He'd'a ate them too if he had a chance,” Bardwell said as he pulled his boots off and dumped the water out of them.

  J.D. let their banter roll off him. He knelt beside the body, studying every detail. A dark uneasiness had settled over him as he waited for Quinn to arrive after calling from Daggrepont's car phone. Daggrepont had been Lucy's lawyer. Mary Lee had it in her head that there was something fishy about Lucy's death. His own take on that scenario had been to let dead dogs lie. Bryce's pal had taken the blame, which was a hell of a lot better than Del taking the blame. But now Daggrepont was dead, and J.D.'s gut told him the
re was more to it than a bum ticker.

  He glanced up at the wooded slopes beyond the valley. Del knew those hills like the back of his hand.

  “Look here,” he said, pushing the half-formed questions from his mind. He pointed to splotches of discoloration that marred the folds of Daggrepont's fat neck. “Looks to me like somebody had him by the throat.”

  “I can think of only twenty or thirty people woulda liked to choke Miller,” Bardwell said. “You think of more than that, Pete?”

  “You countin' old ladies or just the men?”

  Quinn frowned as he turned the lawyer's head to the side. “Rigor's just starting to set in in the jaw,” he mumbled. “He hasn't been in here long.”

  He fingered the dead man's jowls, noting the way the discoloration remained when he applied pressure, indicating bruising rather than any strange kind of lividity. He hummed a little to himself, as if he were trying to come up with a list of viable suspects when he was really just wishing the whole damned mess away. Lucy MacAdam's lawyer was dead under suspicious circumstances. He'd have Marilee Jennings camped out on his doorstep, trying to sell him her conspiracy theory. Blasted outsiders. Nothing could ever be simple with them.

  “Well,” he said, rising and wiping his hands off on his pants, “we'll ship him up to Bozeman and have them take a look.”

  “Slice 'em and dice 'em,” Bardwell commented.

  Quinn scowled at him. “Bardwell, shut up and get the body bag.” He turned back to J.D. “Guess I'll have to go break the news to Inez that she's out a boss. He didn't have any family that I know of. Can you think of anyone else ought to know right away?”

  “Yeah,” J.D. said on a sigh. He started for his horse with anticipation and dread pushing against each other in his chest. “I'll tell her myself.”

  CHAPTER

  21

  DREW'S TRIO played from seven till one in the lounge at the Moose. Mari joined them, alternating two songs for every two played by the group. They offered the affluent crowd an eclectic mix of jazz, folk, country, and crossover rock. She drew heavily on her soft and bluesy repertoire, as always, her music reflecting her mood. She called on old favorites from Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt, and newer tunes from Rosanne Cash and Shawn Colvin, throwing in some of her own creations when the mood struck her. When the band members knew the song, they joined in and backed her up. It was one of those fine, rare instances where musicians' styles and instincts meshed immediately, resulting in magic.

  The audience, who had come into the lounge to socialize with friends, abandoned their conversations or toned them down to whispers as the music captivated them. The small dance floor was never empty. The applause was always enthusiastic.

  At the start of the first break, Mari slid onto the piano bench beside Drew. The other two members of the band waded out into the crowd in search of drinks and friends. The noise level of the conversations rose to compensate for the lack of music.

  “This is great,” she murmured, giving Drew a soft smile. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  “The pleasure is ours, luv. You've a rare talent.” He picked up his tonic and lime and took a slow sip, wincing a little as he reached to set the glass aside.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine,” he said absently, rolling his right shoulder back. “Strained a muscle, that's all. Clumsy of me.

  “You seem a bit subdued tonight,” he said. His gaze was speculative above freshly sun-kissed cheeks.

  Mari cringed. “God, do you think I'm depressing people?”

  “Not at all,” he said with a chuckle. “They're enraptured with you. It's just there's something awfully sad in those lovely blue eyes. Anything I can do to help?”

  She shook her head, making a rueful comic face. “Got myself into something I shouldn't have. Never fear. I'm a big girl; I can take it on the chin with the best of them.”

  He frowned and reached up to tuck a rumpled strand of silver-blond hair behind her ear. “What do you mean, something you shouldn't have gotten into? Does this have to do with Lucy?”

  “No, why? Do you know something I should know?”

  He glanced away, across the sea of faces in the crowd, wishing he hadn't said anything at all. “I know if there was trouble to be had, Lucy would sniff it out, that's all.”

  “The kind of trouble that might have gotten her killed?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  Mari leaned into him and tugged sharply on the full sleeve of his emerald silk shirt. “Dammit, Drew,” she whispered harshly. “If you know something, tell me. I don't think Lucy's death was an accident, but I haven't been able to find a soul who gives a damn.”

  Scowling, he turned his attention to the sheet music stacked against the piano's scrolled music desk, thumbing through the titles impatiently. “I resent the implication, thank you very much. I know that Lucy was involved with MacDonald Townsend in a way he wasn't entirely happy about, that's all.”

  “Was she blackmailing him?”

  “Perhaps,” he said evasively. “Certainly he was footing part of the bill for her lifestyle, but he couldn't have killed her.”

  “Couldn't he?”

  He dropped his hands to the keyboard and stared at her. “My God, Mari, the man's a judge!” he exclaimed under his breath. “Judges don't go about shooting women.”

  “And plastic surgeons do?”

  “It was an accident. Sheffield had no reason to want Lucy dead.”

  “Which makes him a very convenient fall guy, don't you think?” Mari pressed on doggedly. “No motive, no murder indictment. He pleads guilty to making a boo-boo with a high-powered rifle and gets a slap on the hand. Ben Lucas is Sheffield's lawyer. Lucas and Townsend are old pals. They all hang out together at Bryce's little hacienda. . . .”

  Drew shook his head, exasperated. “You're grasping at straws.”

  Mari spread her hands and shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. You think Townsend is above reproach? District court judges aren't supposed to snort coke either, but I saw him nosing up to a line in Bryce's billiard room. Makes me wonder what other nasty habits he has.”

  “I'd rather you didn't find out.”

  He turned back to the music. Mari didn't think he was even looking at the titles as he pretended to sort through them. He was merely using it as an excuse not to meet her eyes. She sat there for a while, trying to probe his brain like a psychic, trying to deduce by Holmesian logic what secrets he knew. Her efforts met nothing but a stony expression and a mind closed like a steel strongbox.

  “What else do you know, Drew?” she asked at last.

  “I can't shed any light on Lucy's death,” he said, his voice low and impatient. “I don't know that I would if I could. Sometimes it's best to let sleeping dogs lie.”

  He wasn't the first to express that point of view; still, it made Mari furious. She was well aware Lucy hadn't been a model citizen in life, but did that mean she didn't deserve justice in death? Did her flaws make her life any less valuable? Did no one but Mari remember that she had possessed good qualities alongside the bad?

  “Do these dogs have names?” she asked tightly.

  He hissed a long sigh out through his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. “Marilee . . .”

  “Fabulous music!”

  Bryce's voice snapped the tension and took it to a different level. Mari swiveled around on the piano bench to face him, manufacturing a polite smile. “Thanks.”

  He stood with a bottle of Pellegrino dangling from his bony hand, a thousand-watt smile cutting across his tan face. Mari wondered uncharitably if the look was really just a grimace of pain with the corners tucked up: his jeans looked tight enough to raise his blood pressure into the danger zone. His arm was draped casually across the shoulders of Samantha Rafferty.

  The girl looked uncomfortable with the situation, her dark eyes darting toward Drew and away, as if she were contemplating bolting from the room. Disapproval rolled off Drew in waves. Mari wondered if Samantha had heard about Will's
accident. The question was on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. Hadn't she taken enough lumps for butting into Rafferty business as it was?

  “It's really too bad you didn't bring your guitar to the party the other night,” Bryce said, tilting his head and giving her a look of censure. “Rob Gold from Columbia would have loved you. Now he's gone back to L.A.”

  Mari shrugged, her excitement at the prospect of meeting a record exec tempered by the source of the information. “Some other time, maybe.”

  “Maybe, nothing,” Bryce declared. “You ought to hop a plane and go to him. I can make a couple of phone calls if you like—”

  And get me out of Montana. “Thanks anyway, but I don't think this is the right time for me to jump into anything.”

  “Opportunities don't happen along every day.”

  “No, well, I don't have friends killed every day either. I'd like a little time to recover.”

  He gave her his patronizing fatherly look, tipping his small chin down almost to the puff of chest hair billowing out the open placket of his white oxford shirt. “You're loyal to a fault, sweetheart. Lucy's probably looking down at you, snickering. She would have pounced on a plum like this. Lucy was never one to miss a chance to get ahead—was she, Drew?”

  Their gazes locked for an instant. Mari watched them, a fist of tension clenching in her chest. Drew rose gracefully from the piano bench and took Samantha by the arm.

  “Samantha luv, may I have a word?”

  Samantha's eyes went wide. “I'm off tonight, Mr. Van Dellen.”

  “Yes, darling, I'm well aware,” he countered smoothly, drawing her away from Bryce and toward the side exit to the veranda.

  Bryce let her go without a hint of objection. He dropped down on the bench in the spot Drew had vacated and took a long pull on his Pellegrino. His Adam's apple bobbed like a cork in his throat. Pressing his lips together and blotting the residual moisture with the heel of his hand, he adjusted his position a quarter turn toward Mari and pretended to be gravely concerned.