Home Deadly Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Having gotten nowhere, she broke for lunch. She chose a deli downtown that appeared to be popular. What she’d really like is to find some classmates of the two victims – and Grant. Just…chat. She wished she’d set up a firm time to have coffee with the guy she’d run into the other day. Rick…something. Would there be more than one plumbing business in town? She could track him down, tell him she was looking for quotes about Curt and Travis from people who’d known them.

  Her first stop this morning had been the library, where she’d perused high school yearbooks, which was one reason a couple of men in a booth caught her eye. One wore the dark blue uniform of a firefighter, the other a chambray shirt with a logo that she couldn’t make out. They were in the right age range, and the redhead…yes, she had no trouble pulling up a mental picture of him skinnier, his freckles more obvious. The other guy… She thought he’d been in the football team photograph.

  They were just unwrapping their sandwiches, so she decided she had time to order.

  Six inch sub and drink in hand, she went straight to their booth and smiled when both looked at her in surprise. “Hi, I’m Cassie Ward, currently managing editor of the Hayes County Courier.”

  The firefighter, with a thatch of sandy hair and a face that should have been homely but wasn’t, studied her. “I remember you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s the hair.” And now that she’d gotten a good look at him, she remembered their one, long-ago encounter, too. What she’d found flattering had been hideously embarrassing to a guy.

  “It’s always the hair,” the redhead agreed, with a grin. He slid over on his side of the booth. “Hey, you want to join us?”

  “Thanks.” She settled in next to him. “You look familiar to me. Except I think you must have been ahead of me in school.”

  “Ron Bravick,” he said, holding out his hand. They shook.

  The firefighter offered his name, too. Scott Mathison. They established that he was five years older than her. Grant’s age. Yes!

  “You were a football player.”

  “That’s right.” He grinned. “Ronnie here wanted to be, but Coach thought sure one of his bones would snap when he got hit.”

  Ron huffed in pretended offense. “I wasn’t that skinny. Anyway, turned out I was a hell of a pitcher. One of us had an athletic scholarship, and it wasn’t you.”

  Scott laughed good-naturedly. “Rub it in.” Then he turned to Cassie. “You must not have bragged to everyone about the older dude who hit on you. Man, if word had spread…” He shook his head, amusement showing in the crinkled skin beside his eyes.

  “Wait, what?” his friend said.

  “I was down at the creek.”

  “Desperate, huh?” his friend murmured, grinning.

  Desperation Creek had reputedly received its name even before the fort had been built. There were half a dozen stories explaining the name, from a settler whose son had drowned during the spring melt to folks who’d suffered through a brutal winter and tagged half the county with names like Tribulation, Cross to Bear – that one had been a sign on a bridge upstream of town, and the like. Most had disappeared in the mists of time. When Cassie was fourteen or fifteen, the county council mounted a campaign to rename the creek, but residents in general thought it was historic and made the area sound colorful.

  Ignoring Ron, Scott went on, “Must’ve been the summer after senior year. I spotted this hot redhead in a bikini, see, and sidled up. We made awkward conversation, and I finally worked my way up to asking her out. I just about died when she told me she was, um, only going into eighth grade. I’d have gotten hell from my friends if any of them had heard about that.”

  She smiled at him. “I think you ran faster than you ever did on the football field. Me, I went home feeling really good. This guy had thought I had to be at least sixteen. Plus, I’d never been asked out before.”

  He groaned and momentarily covered his face.

  They asked her a few questions about herself before she said, “I’m hoping you two can tell me what you remember about Curt Steagall and Travis Burke. You must have known them.”

  “Yeah.” Scott shook his head. “Man, that’s all anyone can talk about. I mean, two guys we grew up with, getting murdered? Shit like that doesn’t happen here.”

  Didn’t used to happen. But Cassie understood the shock. There was violence everywhere. Locally, people would shake their heads over tavern brawls that got out of hand or domestic violence that led to police interventions. But those were part of life anywhere. A sniper lying in wait for two local men and taking them out with head shots? It brought headlines from other parts of the country home.

  She winced. News stories, not headlines. She couldn’t even call that a pun, given the connotations.

  “Why do you care what they were like when they were teenagers?” Ron asked. “That was twenty years ago.”

  Same thing Grant said.

  She definitely did not want to think about Grant right now.

  “I have in mind a follow-up. These were hometown boys. I grew up here, but I don’t know much about either of them. I want my article to be a gentle reminder of who Curt and Travis were as kids, that they were part of the championship football team, that they chose to build their adult lives here, too.” Although she wasn’t being entirely honest, Cassie realized the idea was a good one. Done right, those memories would resonate in a rural county where people tended to know each other. Her father had always sneered at human interest stories.

  She’d heard him say “We sell news, not greeting cards.” Pap was his favorite word to describe anything that appealed to the emotions.

  Well, Cassie thought he was wrong. She liked hard news, too, and editorials that shocked people and made them think. But she also believed a local paper like the Courier should bring some smiles, tweak memories, strengthen ties.

  Not that it mattered what she thought. On the other hand, if she didn’t let her father see the article until the layout was complete and it was too late to make a substitution, he could stew all he wanted.

  She whipped out a recorder, and the two men talked, almost forgetting about their lunches. They egged each other on, an anecdote one told triggering a memory from the other.

  Curt, she gathered, had been infamous for picking fights. She seemed to remember that Grant had said as much. Travis was better liked. In fact, he was all but a demi-god: the senior class president, the prom king, the wide receiver who caught Grant’s passes and scored winning touchdowns. Come spring, he was the shortstop on the baseball team.

  “The dude got all the girls,” Ron complained.

  “You mean, the ones Grant Holcomb didn’t already have.” Scott grinned. “But their golden glow spread over the rest of us, and there were more girls in our graduating class than boys.”

  She had to laugh.

  “Man, if you’d only been a couple of years older…” Scott suggested. “We all watched for hot freshman girls.”

  “I was not receptive to jocks. Never went to a football games.”

  “Baseball?” Ron said hopefully.

  “Afraid not.” Laughing again at their groans, she asked if they could suggest the names of other people she could talk to. “Friends who are still around, of course.”

  They looked at each other. “Well, Holcomb, of course.”

  “With both?”

  “He and Travis were tight.”

  Was Scott trying to say they hadn’t liked Curt? That wouldn’t be a surprise.

  “What position did Curt play?” she asked.

  “Defensive lineman.” He smiled. “I was a cornerback.”

  She had absolutely no idea what a cornerback did, but didn’t crush him by saying so.

  They named some people she might contact, men and women. “Shelby went with Curt for a couple of years. Lauren Jeffrey…no, she was Grant’s girlfriend senior year.”

  “Travis took Brooke Farrell to senior prom,” Ron put in.

  “Was she prom qu
een?”

  Ron rolled his eyes. “Yeah, who else?”

  “Were there students who didn’t like them? I mean, there’s always someone who’s jealous.”

  Suddenly, both looked cautious. Gee, maybe because she hadn’t exactly been subtle?

  “Sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t for the article. I’m just being nosy. I have this vague recollection of Grant and probably Travis strolling the halls at school like the crown prince and the duke’s heir.”

  They laughed again, but Scott glanced at his watch and said, “Oh, crap, I’ll be late,” which reminded Ron that he was pushing it, too, and she had to slide out to let him by. Sitting back down, she turned off her recorder, unwrapped her sandwich, and was glad Grant Holcomb hadn’t seen how fast she could clear the decks.

  Of course, she couldn’t forget the scene at the tavern. She sighed, then took a bite.

  *****

  Still steaming at Chief Seward’s insistence that one of his men do the canvassing, Grant had set out to talk to the Arrowhead Creek Ranch employees he’d failed to speak with yesterday.

  Not surprisingly, most weren’t home, probably because they were at work today. He’d have to go back out to the ranch this afternoon. He caught a few, though, and learned absolutely nothing. Travis walked on water. Alex and he were best friends. The closest thing to a fight out there in the past year was some disagreement over whether to sell a stud whose bloodlines had been key to the ranch’s success. He was still worth plenty of money, but Travis had backed down in the face of his foreman’s dismay, and taken the sentimental route. Camlo, whose registered name was considerably longer and more nonsensical, would enjoy his retirement at Arrowhead Creek. He’d still be bred for the time being, but only to outside mares. Travis had been excited about a new and very expensive stud that brought fresh genes to the ranch mares.

  No grounds for murder there. Grant had a little trouble believing all was sunshine and roses at an operation as big as the ranch, but he’d also spent enough time out there to know how well-liked Travis and Alex both were.

  While he ate a burger and fries, he worried. The newspaper would be at the printer today, distributed tomorrow. The killer would contact Cassie. And, damn, Grant wanted to hear that conversation. She had a good memory, but anybody filtered what was said through personal biases. Cassie had plenty of those.

  Besides, maybe he’d recognize the voice. Her refusal to admit that she might be enraging a dangerous man frustrated Grant. It was the scene in the tavern all over again, except he couldn’t intervene the same way.

  Had it occurred to her that the next application of pressure might not come in the form of a ‘gift’? Her father was an obvious vulnerability. She might not like him, but she did love him. She wouldn’t have dropped everything to come home otherwise. Then there was Susan or the weekend caretaker. Night still fell early here. They left for home in the dark. Easy to waylay one of them.

  Never mind Cassie herself, who probably instinctively stuck her thumb out whenever anyone swung a hammer. Had to be right in on the action, find out what it felt like.

  He gritted his teeth. Worrying about her pulled him from what had to be his focus: the investigation. He hated that she was part of it.

  Kissing her had been a really bad idea. Now he knew how delicately she was made, the fragility of her jaw bone, the sharp jut of her hip bone. Then there were the lush curves packed on that petite body. As much as he wanted to, he hadn’t cupped her breasts, but having them pressed against his chest had been its own pleasure. His hand still tingled from the memory of gripping her firm ass. Thinking about her taste, the small sounds she’d made, her explosive response, had kept him awake and aroused last night.

  The trouble was, he’d known it would be like that. Fierce and funny, with a firecracker temper and the soft heart he had no doubt she’d deny, Cassie Ward wouldn’t do anything without going full-throttle. What she’d be like once they got naked…

  Grant groaned. What had he thought, they’d have lots of sex and then pillow talk? They could be partners, the cynical lawman and the intrepid reporter?

  He hadn’t needed a pillow or the incentive of sex to share more than he should have with her already.

  It took an effort to wrench his thoughts from her.

  Next on the agenda was going back to the ranch, even if he already knew that, too, was a waste of time. Travis hadn’t been set up to die by anyone who worked out there. And nothing Grant had learned suggested that Travis or Alex shared Curt’s disdain for federal land policies. They all raised cattle for beef – but Grant had a hard time imagining an offended vegan blowing a man’s head off.

  Still, he had to go through the steps. Look at the possibility the killer had already been out at Arrowhead Creek because he worked there. Curt’s murder could have been committed for no reason but to divert investigators once Travis, the real target, was also killed.

  As Grant drove, he wondered whether the spacing of the two murders established a schedule. Would there be a victim a week? If so, he had four or five days to try to stop this asshole. Because Grant knew damn well he wasn’t done.

  And that circled him right back to thinking about Cassie, who would be the first to hear who and where.

  His thoughts strayed as he wondered what she’d been up to today. Gathering information about the high school jazz concert that was to take place Friday night? Planning a fiery article about the slow pace of the downtown repaving project? Writing a piece on the death of old Mr. Yost, the public librarian who had retired only last year after a career that had reputedly begun about the same time the logs had been peeled to build the fort?

  He wished, even knowing that one way or another, he’d find out what she’d stuck her nose into.

  After parking at the stables, he reached for his phone.

  Cassie answered on the fifth ring. “Sheriff?”

  His eyebrow rose. “Ms. Ward.”

  “Hold on a sec.”

  He heard her voice and someone else’s, muffled, then the sound of a door closing.

  “Grant? I was interviewing someone, but I stepped outside. Has anything happened?”

  “No. I wondered if you’d have dinner with me tonight.”

  Silence.

  It went on so long, he became aware of his heartbeat, of the chill now that the engine no longer ran to push hot air out the vents. Could she hear him breathing?

  “That such a tough question?” he asked finally.

  “It’s just—”

  Now he heard her breathing.

  “Okay,” she said at last. “Where shall we meet?”

  “Ralph’s Steakhouse?” There weren’t a lot of choices in town.

  She agreed. They set a time. Then she said, “I’m learning so much about you today. It’s really eye-opening.”

  He didn’t have to see her to know she was smirking. “What?”

  “Tonight.” She was gone.

  He discovered he was smiling, even as he wondered what she’d almost said. It’s just…what?

  And who had she been with?

  *****

  Grateful that Susan had answered the phone instead of Dad, Cassie explained that she’d be out this evening, but not late. “I’m sure Dad will be fine as long as you dish up dinner for him before you leave. He’s getting around pretty well these days.”

  “He took a tumble today.”

  Cassie closed her eyes. “Maybe I should cancel. Did he hurt himself?”

  The caretaker laughed. “To quote him, he’s a tough old bird. Break a hip? Not a chance.”

  “He’s still outraged that his body could betray him with the stroke.”

  “I’ll stay a little later than usual so you won’t have to worry,” Susan said placidly.

  She didn’t back down when Cassie argued. How could anybody be so darned nice? She probably thought Cassie would be working, when she was going out with a man for fun. Or something.

  No going home to change clothes, Cassie realized;
she’d face an inquisition from her father. Ralph’s wasn’t that fancy, anyway, she convinced herself. If only she owned a pair of cowboy boots, she’d fit right in.

  She beat Grant there and allowed herself to be seated, which gave her the chance to watch him cross the restaurant to their table without once looking away from her. She thought a few people greeted him, but he didn’t so much as turn his head.

  His intensity was one hundred percent focused on her. Instead of the arrogance she’d imagined on the rare occasions she caught a glimpse of him all those years ago, this was sheer force of personality. Glad she was sitting down, she had trouble pulling in enough oxygen. He was…not beautiful, but so male. Wide shoulders and chest tapered to lean hips and long, muscular legs. He walked purposefully, as he always did, relaxed but entirely in control.

  And no, he hadn’t gone home to change clothes, either, although apparently he hadn’t worn his uniform today. Like her, he must have left his parka on the rack when he came in. He had on dark olive cargo pants with a black, long-sleeved knit shirt. Black boots. His badge and gun were at his waist.

  When Grant reached the table and gazed down at her with those heavy-lidded eyes, she said, “You look like a bad ass. Trying to scare me?”

  He did a quick check of what he was wearing, and then a smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “Not possible.”

  “You’re right, it’s not.” Except he did scare her, if not in the way he meant.

  He sat across from her and picked up the menu. “Busy day?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  His eyebrow lifted at her tone, and she had an epiphany. When he smiled, his mouth always tipped up on the same side of his face, the left. She thought his eyelid drooped a bit more on the eye on the right side. Surely he hadn’t had a stroke.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Oh, I…” Lie? No. “I noticed that one side of your face is more mobile than the other. I mean, it’s not a significant effect. Just...” She almost groaned. Lying was sometimes a step up on plain old rudeness.

  Except he didn’t appear offended. Touching his right cheek, he said, “Had some nerve damage from a shell that landed too close. It’s not totally numb, but a little less responsive, I guess.”