After another round of muted unruffled explanations from the phone, Rose leapt to her feet, her chair tipping, nearly crashing to the floor. “Dental records? Are you telling me you think he might be—”
Zoe gave the person on the other end of the line credit. The voice stayed level despite Rose’s hysteria.
The frantic mom listened and slowly sat. “Yes. Yes, I understand.” More questions from across the miles. “Of course. Logan’s been staying with Manuel and Juanita Santiago.” Rose gave an address in Aztec, New Mexico. “Their daughter, Kayla, is his girlfriend.” Another question. Rose lowered her head and her voice. “No, I haven’t called her parents. I didn’t want to panic them. But I’ve tried Kayla’s phone, and it goes straight to voicemail.”
The person on the other end of the line spoke for a few moments more as Rose punctuating his words with an occasional “Uh-huh.” Then she thanked him. “Yes, please call me the minute you know something.” She touched the screen and set the phone on the table before burying her face in her hands. “Oh God.”
Zoe listened to her best friend’s ragged breathing and searched for some way to lighten the weight of Rose’s fear. “That’s it. I’m never having kids.”
Rose parted her fingers to glare at Zoe.
She reached across the table to touch Rose’s arm. “You know it’s entirely possible that Logan and his girlfriend are shacked up in a cheap motel somewhere.”
“You’re not helping.” But the acerbic grin on Rose’s face when she lowered her hands said otherwise.
Zoe pointed to the phone. “Who were you talking to?”
“A deputy at the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office. He said he’d get the information into the…” Rose squinted at a piece of paper on which she’d been making notes. “…the National Crime Information Center. But he also said the same thing you did. About Logan and Kayla.”
“Being shacked up?” Zoe nudged Rose under the table with her foot. “Remember what we were like at that age.”
“That’s what scares me.”
“Could be the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Shut up already.” But Rose managed a tired smile. “I hope that’s all it is.” She shook a finger at Zoe. “But I’m not ready to be a grandmother.”
A shocked Allison appeared from the hall. “What? Logan got Kayla pregnant?”
The look on the girl’s face sent Zoe into a choking fit of laughter.
“No, no, no.” Rose waved both hands as if flagging down a speeding car. “Don’t even think that. We were just—” She shook her head. “Never mind. How was your trail ride?”
Allison made a gagging noise and shuffled to the sink. “Didn’t Aunt Zoe tell you?”
The memory of Dale Springfield’s body stifled the laughter. “I didn’t get a chance,” she said.
“What happened?” Rose asked.
Allison filled a glass with water, and she and Zoe took turns telling of the riderless horse showing up at the barn and the subsequent search and recovery of County Commissioner Dale Springfield.
When they finished, Rose closed her eyes and shook her head.
“Oh dear God. Poor Hope.”
“How well do you know her?” Zoe asked.
“Only by reputation. I’ve heard Sylvia talk about Hope’s support of Dale’s fight against drilling for gas in Monongahela County.”
Rose’s mother-in-law, Sylvia Bassi, would know. Even before she’d become one of Vance Township’s three supervisors, she was the go-to person for local gossip.
“Dale and I only ever talked about horse stuff, but I’ve read news articles about the debate,” Zoe said. “Considering how drilling’s already happening in all the surrounding counties, I’d think fighting it’s a losing battle. Especially with all the starving farmers looking to become millionaires by leasing their acreage.”
“Maybe. The supervisors’ meeting should prove interesting. Everyone has taken sides. Money versus environment. Dale’s been a vocal opponent of fracking for years. It’s what got him elected county commissioner. He was supposed to speak at tomorrow’s township meeting. Having someone of his political stature coming here carried a lot of weight.” Rose shook her head. “This horseback riding accident sure comes at a convenient time for the pro-drilling faction.”
Zoe leaned back in her chair. The memory of Dale’s battered body lying in the woods this morning combined with the knowledge she’d never again laugh at one of his jokes tied a knot in her chest. But Rose’s choice of the word “convenient” set off a niggling voice in the core of her brain too low to be heard clearly. Somehow she sensed nothing was quite as simple—or as “convenient”—as it seemed.
Four
Parson’s Roadhouse sat at the intersection of a pair of lightly traveled two-lanes, sandwiched between almost four thousand acres of state game lands and the nearly defunct village of Hillmanton. At any given hour of the day, the number of Roadhouse patrons far exceeded the town’s population. However, when Pete arrived, the lunch and post-church crowds had already departed, leaving only a handful of pickup trucks in the gravel lot. He suspected he’d missed the anti-drilling meeting.
He stepped through the doors into the dimly lit interior and scanned the current clientele. The bartender was the regular guy. A trio of camo-clad men sipped brews and nodded at Pete. He nodded back.
A perky girl with blue streaks in her blond hair bustled toward him carrying a plastic-coated menu. “Hey, Chief. Your favorite booth is available.”
“Hello, Tiff.” He’d missed lunch, and the greasy aroma of meat charring on the grill made his stomach growl. “I’ll just sit at the bar. How about one of your cheeseburgers and a large order of fries.”
“You got it.”
She started to turn away, but he caught her arm and gestured toward the dining room. “Is there a meeting going on back there by any chance?”
“Not now. It was packed around lunchtime though. A couple of bigger groups. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”
“Some local environmentalists.”
She caught her lip between her teeth for a moment. “Environmentalists? No.”
Pete had already questioned Hope Springfield’s word “environmentalist.” He tried another term. “They would have been discussing Marcellus Shale.”
The girl made a sour face. “Oh. Them. Lousy tippers. Yeah, they were here. Left about an hour ago.”
“Can you give me their names?”
She held up a finger. “Let me get your order in and check on my tables. Then I’ll come back and tell you what I can.”
Pete moved down the bar and settled onto a stool at the far end with his back to the wall. From there he had a clear view of the door. Without asking, the bartender set a cup of coffee in front of him. Snippets of conversation drifted his way from the three hunters. The discussion of tree stands and prime spots for whitetail deer never wavered. Pete smiled to himself. It was the conversations that fell quiet in his presence that sparked his interest. None of that here today.
Minutes later, the young waitress returned and set a stoneware plate holding a monster-sized burger and an equally monster-sized mound of fries on the bar in front of him. She dug a bundle of silverware wrapped in a paper napkin from her apron pocket and placed it next to the plate. “Now what do you need to know?”
He reached for the bottle of ketchup. “The drilling opponents. Who were they?”
Tiff again dug in her apron pocket, this time coming up with a neat stack of receipts. “I grabbed these for you. They’re the guys who used credit cards.” She spread the papers on the bar before scurrying off to tend to her customers.
Pete squirted some ketchup on his plate and replaced the bottle before digging out his notebook and his reading glasses.
He knew most of the names on the receipts. Local homeowners. A couple of
farmers, which surprised Pete. Anyone with acreage stood to gain big time by signing a gas lease. He’d heard of struggling landowners in neighboring counties becoming overnight millionaires.
A few names jumped out at him. Earl Kolter, Zoe’s partner on the ambulance service, although he’d been on medical leave for the past couple of months. Warren Froats, the township’s former chief of police and something of a loose cannon. Pete was surprised Froats had come out of his creek on a nice day long enough to attend a meeting. Since turning in his badge, the man seemed to prefer fishing to any kind of civic duty.
Then again, the man had to eat.
Township Supervisor Joe Mendez. Unlike Froats, Mendez was never one to avoid a public conflict. He had a long-standing reputation as a “squeaky wheel.” Pete had to admire him though. The man got things done.
Pete had drained two cups of coffee and wolfed down half of his burger and most of the fries by the time Tiff returned. “How you doin’?” she asked.
Mouth full, he nodded, but held up one finger before she could disappear once more. He chewed and swallowed hastily then asked, “Anyone pay cash?”
“Yeah. Two. Yancy for one.”
“Bruce Yancy?” Pete hadn’t seen the recently retired fire chief in weeks.
“Yep.”
Pete had been meaning to stop by and see how the old buzzard was recovering from the gunshot wound he’d received a couple months ago. Now he had a good excuse. “And the other?”
“Never saw him before. He came in late and just ordered a Coke.” She pointed to the scattered charge receipts. “You done with those?”
“For now. Did you happen to overhear his name?”
“Nope.” She scooped the slips of paper into a pile and tapped it on the bar to neaten them.
“What did he look like?”
Tiff tucked the receipts into her apron. “I’d guess early twenties. Definitely the youngest of the group. Medium height, maybe five foot ten. Light brown hair.” She blushed. “Really cute. Nice shoulders.”
Pete contained a smile. “And you didn’t get his name and number? Tiff, you’re slipping.”
The waitress held up her left hand sporting a minuscule diamond on the third finger. “Hey, I’m engaged, you know. But I’m not dead. I can still look.”
“Just not touch.”
“Exactly.”
Pete dragged a fry through his ketchup. “Thanks, Tiff. I’ll take my check now.”
“Comin’ right up.” She spun and bustled away.
He finished his meal while pondering his next move. None of the names he’d jotted in his notebook set off any alarms in his gut or his head. Hell, Commissioner Springfield might very well have died an accidental death, the victim of a fall from his horse. Perhaps tomorrow’s autopsy would provide a logical explanation for the body temperature discrepancy.
If it didn’t, at least he had a starting point.
And he kind of enjoyed the idea of working a case with Deputy Coroner Zoe Chambers.
For now though, he needed to switch gears and track down Shannon Vincenti’s friends.
Pete tasked his weekend officer, Nate Williamson, with the job of interviewing the Vincentis’ neighbors. Meanwhile, Pete headed to Philipsburg to speak with Courtney Dinsmore, the girl Mrs. Vincenti had named as Shannon’s best friend—the one she’d claimed to be with when she’d likely been doing drugs.
The Dinsmore family owned a red brick ranch-style house on one of the town’s quiet residential streets. Pete rang the doorbell and was greeted by a woman wearing a faded but clean sweatshirt and pants. She wore no makeup, her bloodshot eyes underlined with dark circles.
Pete removed his cap. “Mrs. Dinsmore?”
“Yes.” She glanced toward his badge and nametag. “If you’re here to tell us about Shannon, we already know. Bonnie called about an hour ago.”
“Do you mind if I come in? I’d like to talk to your daughter.”
Mrs. Dinsmore stepped aside. “Courtney’s devastated, as you surely must know. She and Shannon have been as close as sisters since they were three.” The woman closed the door behind Pete. “At least they were. Until Shannon got in with a bad crowd.”
“Can you give me any names of the others in that ‘bad crowd’?”
She shook her head. “I don’t really know. I think they were from Pittsburgh, not local.”
Pete looked around the house. Comfortable, lived-in furniture in shades of brown and blue filled the living room. The sound of a football game drifted from somewhere else in the house, but he didn’t see anyone. And the woman hadn’t made any move to fetch her daughter.
“It would help me a lot if I could speak with Courtney.”
“Of course. She’s in her room. I’ll get her. And my husband. He’s watching the Steelers.”
“No need to bother your husband. I’d rather talk to Courtney alone.”
Mrs. Dinsmore stiffened. “Oh. I don’t know about that, Chief. I’d be more comfortable if we were both there too.”
Typical parental response. But a typical teen response would be to resist divulging any information that might get them in hot water with the folks. “How old is your daughter?”
“Eighteen.”
Legal. Good. “I realize you want to protect her, Mrs. Dinsmore, but kids tend to be more forthcoming when their parents aren’t around.”
She glared at him. “My daughter isn’t into drugs. Or anything else like that.”
Pete gave her a comforting smile. “I’m sure she’s not.” He waited, giving the woman time to study him.
She must have decided he didn’t want to haul her baby off to jail. “Okay.” She gestured toward an easy chair. “Make yourself comfortable.”
A few minutes later, Mrs. Dinsmore returned, her protective arm around a dark-haired girl with a round, tear-streaked face. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me,” the woman said, giving her daughter’s shoulders a squeeze.
With the mom out of the room and the daughter perched on the edge of the couch, Pete opened his notebook. “I’m sorry about the loss of your friend.”
She sniffled and looked down at her knees. “Thanks. I wish I could say I was surprised, but I wasn’t. I’d kinda been expecting it. You know?”
“So you knew she was using again?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“When do you think she got back on drugs?”
“Which time?” Courtney lifted her tortured gaze to meet Pete’s.
“Shannon’s mom and dad tell me she’d been in rehab and was doing well until three weeks ago. Is that right?”
The girl made a skeptical face. “Kinda. Yeah, she was doing pretty good after rehab this last time. But it’s been more than three weeks. She was just able to keep it hidden for a while.”
“So how long do you think she’s been using again?”
Courtney tugged a tissue from a box on the end table next to her and dabbed her nose. “I’d say more like five weeks. Maybe even six. She started seeing a guy.”
“Do you know his name?”
“At first I thought she was seeing Nick again, but she insisted she wasn’t.”
“Nick?”
“Yeah, Nicholas…Green…something. Greenfield maybe? She used to meet him in Brunswick, but I think he was from Pittsburgh.”
Pete jotted the name down with a question mark. “But you think it was someone else this time?”
“She said it was a new guy. And she was all starry-eyed at first. You know. Like she was in love. I don’t think she’d be that way around Nick anymore.”
“And this Nick Green-something supplied her with drugs?”
Courtney’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. I tried to get her to break up with him, but she didn’t. Not until her folks put her in that latest rehab place.”
“Can you tell me anythi
ng about the new guy? Did she mention a name? Where he was from? Where they met?”
Courtney shook her head through the string of questions. “All she ever called him was Wolf Man or Wolfie.” The girl rolled her eyes. “Stupid, huh? At first I thought it was because of Halloween, but apparently not.”
Pete made another note with another question mark.
“Can you think of anything else that might help me track him down?”
“Sorry.”
He paused. Met and held her gaze. “Did she ever mention the kinds of drugs she was on?”
“Heroin. That’s all I know.” Courtney managed a sad smile. “Everyone teases me about being too straight-laced.” She lowered her voice. “I was at a party once and the others were all smoking marijuana. They passed the joint around. Right past me. Never even offered it to me. They knew I’d say no.”
Pete reached over and squeezed her hand. “Good girl. Courtney, could you give me a list of Shannon’s other friends?”
“I don’t really know the names of her friends who were into drugs. Other than those two guys, I mean.”
“What about friends from school?”
She wrung the tissue. “Most of our old friends, the ones who don’t use, had given up on her and didn’t have much to do with her anymore. I can give you a few of their names, but I doubt they can tell you much.”
“Thanks.” Pete flipped to a blank page in his notebook and handed it and his pen to her. “Just one more question. Did you ever hear her mention anything about meth?”
Courtney looked puzzled. “Meth? No. Like I said, no one ever talked to me about that stuff. But I thought—I mean I’ve heard—meth isn’t real big around here.”
“That’s true,” he said.
Or at least it used to be.
Five
“You’re early.” Monongahela County Coroner Franklin Marshall tucked his chin toward his chest to peer at Zoe over the glasses perched on his hawk-like nose. “That never happens.”
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