No Way Home

by Annette Dashofy

  Froats and Yancy were already nursing cups of coffee when Pete, wearing jeans and a Steelers jersey, slid into the booth in the back room at Parson’s Roadhouse. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me here early.”

  Froats grunted. “Are you kidding? I’d have camped out overnight if it meant having the chance to bust that blowhard punk. I told you he was the one.” He turned to Yancy. “Didn’t I tell him?”

  “Yeah, you told him.” Yancy’s voice hinted that he either wasn’t convinced or wasn’t impressed. Or both.

  “I never said we were going to bust Moore,” Pete told his predecessor. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to him yet. This seemed like a good opportunity to see him in action and ask a few questions.”

  Froats seemed to be enjoying himself way too much. “Whatever you say, Chief. But I’ll trip him if he makes a run for it.”

  “You do that.”

  Tiffany appeared at the booth, pad and pen in hand. This time, her hair was streaked with pink. “You gents wanna order or are you waiting for the rest of the group?”

  “We best eat now in case we have to haul someone off to jail later,” Froats said. “Steak salad for me.” With a pleased grin, he patted his impressive girth. “Sally Jo’s been after me to eat healthier.”

  Although they all knew Parson’s steak salad came topped with not only steak, but fries and cheese, no one bothered to argue with the man.

  Pete and Yancy went with cheeseburgers.

  Their meals arrived at the same time as Joe Mendez, wearing a gray suit and tie. He eyed Pete. “I just came from church. Same place I was last Sunday morning. In case I need another alibi.”

  “Not as far as I know,” Pete told him.

  Before they could make room for the new arrival, a younger man breezed in with Tiffany in tow. He gestured at the six empty tables in the middle of the room. “I need all these. Combined with the booths, we might be okay, although a few extra chairs would be good.”

  The young man shrugged out of an expensive-looking wool coat under which he wore a tweed sports jacket and dress trousers. Even without the fluorescent hooded sweatshirt, Pete recognized Jake Moore from the supervisors’ meeting.

  “He must be expecting quite a crowd,” Froats said around a mouthful of fries.

  Moore spun toward them, his chin elevated. “I certainly hope so. This is an important issue for the citizens of Monongahela County. Are you here for the meeting? If not, you should move to another part of the restaurant.”

  Froats acted like Moore hadn’t addressed the comment to him.

  “He talks like he’s one of us. Which he ain’t.”

  Moore glared at the retired police chief, who refused to look at anyone or anything other than his salad. With a disgusted huff, Moore turned away from them and took a seat at a table with Mendez.

  Noon came and went. A half-dozen area residents drifted in and took seats. Tiffany cleared the empty plates from in front of Pete, Yancy, and Froats and topped off their coffee cups.

  Definitely not the overflow crowd Moore had been expecting. About ten after the hour, he stood and cleared his throat. “I imagine everyone else will come in after church, but let’s get started anyway.”

  Pete watched him launch into a rehearsed pitch for banning the evils of fracking from their county. Moore waved his arms as he bellowed in an apparent attempt to sound like a fire and brimstone preacher. Coming from this guy though, the speech sounded more like crazed ranting than charismatic leadership. Froats had repeatedly used the word “blowhard,” and Pete couldn’t argue with the assessment.

  A few minutes into Moore’s dry but loud tirade, Cody Bodine sauntered in and stood next to one of the empty tables as if waiting for an invitation to take a seat. Moore must have spotted the interloper, but made a strong effort to ignore him. The others in the room though all turned to stare at the gas company’s spokesman.

  Pete noticed a gleam in Froats’ eyes and half expected him to rub his hands in gleeful anticipation.

  Moore’s speech trickled to silence, like a steam engine coasting to a stop. He turned to glare at Bodine. “You aren’t welcome here.”

  “Really?” Bodine appeared unfazed by Moore’s open hostility. “I thought this was an educational meeting. I just want a few minutes of your time to clarify some of the misinformation you’ve been feeding these people.”

  “You had your chance at the township meeting last week.”

  “And you tried to shut me up then too. Unsuccessfully. Residents want to hear both sides of the story. Most of them anyway.” Bodine did a slow turn, pausing to meet the gaze of everyone in the room. When he got to Pete, he froze. His eyes widened for a moment before he recovered.

  The reaction was miniscule, but Pete noticed. Bodine hadn’t expected to see him there. Nor was he especially pleased about it.

  No one spoke either for or against Bodine’s presence.

  Except for Moore. “The only reason I didn’t shut you down at the township meeting was that supervisor you have in your pocket.”

  Joe Mendez coughed.

  Moore flapped a hand at him, motioning for him to stay seated. “Not you.”

  “I know, not me,” Mendez said. “But Howard was just doing his job. You were out of line.”

  Moore wheeled on him, red-faced. “Whose side are you on, Joe?”

  “The township’s. Howard Rankin is as honest and responsible a man as I’ve ever known. Whether I agree with him or not, I’ll not sit idly by while you accuse him of being in the pocket of big business.”

  The crimson in Moore’s cheeks deepened to almost purple as he glared at Mendez. The supervisor, however, remained undaunted.

  Pete made a mental note to shake his hand later.

  Failing in his attempt to intimidate Mendez, Moore bulldozed toward Bodine. The gas company spokesmen appeared less willing to face his opposition’s wrath. He stepped back.

  For a moment, Pete thought Moore was going to take a swing at Bodine, but instead, he moved closer and whispered something to him. Something Pete couldn’t make out.

  Bodine paled. Pete thought he noticed the Texan shoot a glance his way, but Moore blocked his view.

  “I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Bodine said to Moore, his voice low.

  “No, I’m not.” Moore no longer whispered. “Howard Rankin may not be in your pocket, but you’re in Hope Springfield’s bed.”

  Zoe was snugging the cinch on her saddle when she heard the rumble of diesel and the crunch of tires on gravel outside the barn. She reached down to stretch one of Windstar’s front legs forward and then the other, releasing any skin that might be pinched by the girth.

  The diesel fell silent. A truck door slammed. The sound of footsteps carried on the cold air. Zoe turned to the doors.

  Hope Springfield, attired in tight beige jeans and a blue quilted coat, strolled into the barn. With her auburn hair flowing around her shoulders and her always-flawless makeup in place, she looked more ready to model for Shepler’s catalog than to spend time in a barn. “Good morning, Zoe. I see great minds think alike.”

  “You’re planning to ride too?”

  Hope smiled, but fatigue shown in her eyes. “It’s been a rough week. I thought getting some air, even cold air, might do me good.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell you how sorry I am about Dale.”

  “Thanks.” Hope gestured at Windstar. “I know you’re saddled and ready to go, but if you can hold up for a few minutes, I’d love to ride with you.”

  Any other time Zoe would have appreciated the company, but today she was on a mission—investigate the area where she’d found Dale’s body—and she didn’t think Hope would care to visit that particular spot. “I wish I could, but I have to meet friends this afternoon and I really need to get going or I’ll be late.”

  Disappointment showed o
n Hope’s face. “I understand. Well, have a good one.” She lowered her head and walked past Zoe and Windstar to her horse’s stall.

  Zoe unbuckled the halter and slipped it off the gelding’s head, replacing it with his bridle. He accepted the bit, and Zoe straightened his ruffled forelock before gathering the reins and swinging into the saddle. She booted him into a smooth jog across the arena. As she reached the big doors at the end, she took a furtive glance over her shoulder.

  Hope stood at Domino’s stall watching her go.

  The only sound in the back room of Parson’s Roadhouse was the distant clink of silver and glassware from the front of the restaurant. Bodine’s jaw slackened then tightened as if he wanted to speak, but the words stuck. Empowered by his opponent’s indecision, Jake Moore smiled. Or bared his teeth. Pete half expected him to dive for the Texan’s jugular.

  “That’s a lie,” Bodine said with a waver once he found his voice.

  Moore’s smile grew. “Is it?” He shot a glance in Pete’s direction, but brought his focus back to Bodine. “I overheard a rumor that you’ve had a number of…” Moore cleared his throat. “…meetings. With Hope Springfield. Private meetings.”

  Froats shifted in his seat. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Pete raised a silencing hand.

  Bodine stood a little taller in an effort to regain control. Or at least fake it. “And you believe every rumor you hear? You’re a fool. The opposition—you—will say anything to discredit the gas industry. You have no real grounds to block us, so you fabricate evidence. Now you’ve moved into personal attacks.” He jutted his jaw indignantly. “And you’re plunging to a new low, smearing the reputation of your own county commissioner’s grieving widow.”

  “Grieving widow?” Moore choked out a laugh. He turned again to meet Pete’s gaze, but this time held it, although he still directed his words at the Texan. “Tell me, Bodine. Do you own a truck and horse trailer?”

  He appeared puzzled. “Of course I do.”

  “Where are they?”

  Bodine scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “Right now. Where is your truck and trailer?”

  “On my ranch.”

  “In Texas?”

  Puzzlement morphed into annoyance. “Yes, in Texas. That’s where my ranch is.”

  Moore, still holding Pete’s gaze, smiled as if he’d just filled a royal flush. “Then whose pickup was that I saw you driving shortly before ten last Sunday morning pulling a horse trailer behind it? Because to me it looked a lot like Hope Springfield’s truck. And the trailer looked a lot like the one parked up at her place.”

  The ground had softened and the snow started to melt into slop, indicating to Zoe the temperature was climbing into the thirties. Still, the cold air invigorated Windstar and put a dance in the gelding’s step. A four-footed walk wasn’t happening, so Zoe allowed him to jog, a slow, smooth gait that rocked her hips side to side without bouncing her backside out of the saddle.

  Zoe had no idea what she expected to find. She and Pete had scoured the area around Dale’s body a week ago. There had been nothing then. Why did she think she’d find something now?

  The trail opened at the graveled parking lot next to the road. Zoe reined in and Windstar responded by tossing his head. She listened. No traffic sounds. So she released the pressure on the bit. The horse didn’t need the added leg cue to jog forward across the pavement. He did, however, slow to a walk once they entered the woods and the trail turned into a slick mess of ice and mud.

  She tightened the reins again as they neared their destination. Pete had cordoned off a large area surrounding the spot where Dale’s lifeless body had sprawled, and ribbons of the yellow crime scene tape still fluttered in the underbrush. “Whoa,” she said a few yards shy of the strip that crossed the trail. Having worked out some of his pent-up energy, Windstar complied and stood quietly.

  With most of the trees stripped of their leaves, the view was much less obstructed than in the summer. For a moment Zoe flashed back to the unbroken vistas of New Mexico. Even without foliage, a person stood a much better chance of sneaking up unseen here than out there. She thought of that night at the house trailer with Logan. The approaching headlights of Noah Tucker’s Jeep. Danger didn’t always require stealth.

  From which direction had the gunshot come? She scanned the woods to both sides and ahead, trying to picture what might have taken place. Where had the shooter been? Maybe it really had been a stray bullet fired from a mile or so away.

  Not likely.

  Windstar’s head came up and he swung his rump around, trampling the underbrush and briars. With his ears pricked and his full attention aimed toward the trail they’d just traveled, he nickered. Zoe spotted a flash of white through the trees. Another horse whinnied a response.

  The sloppy sucking sound of hoofs plodding through muck grew louder. So much for solitary snooping. Zoe didn’t need to see the rider to know who approached. There was only one black-spotted white Appaloosa stabled at the barn. Domino.

  Less than a minute later, Hope rode up, her cheeks flushed from the cold air. “This is a nice coincidence,” she said with a smile. “I so hate riding alone.”

  Thirty-three

  Pete pronounced the meeting adjourned. He called Yancy and Mendez into service to direct the handful of attendees out of the room and assigned a too-eager Warren Froats the task of babysitting Jake Moore at the bar.

  “Don’t question him,” Pete told his predecessor. “I want that job myself. Just keep him there and don’t let him talk to anyone. Or let anyone talk to him.”

  Froats grunted. “I’ve done this a time or two in the past, you know.”

  “I know.” Pete didn’t add that the former chief’s record wasn’t a shining recommendation of professionalism.

  With the back room cleared of everyone except a pale, fidgety Cody Bodine, Pete pulled out a chair at one of the tables and sat. He gestured for the Texan to join him.

  Bodine complied, but his eyes kept shifting toward the door.

  Pete opened his notebook and set it on the table. “Tell me about last Sunday morning.”

  Bodine’s Adam’s apple rode the wave of a big swallow. “I already told you.”

  Pete placed a finger on his notebook. “You said you stopped at the Springfields’ home to speak with Dale, but he wasn’t around. You said you spent about an hour talking to Hope but weren’t able to sway her opinion.”

  Another big swallow. “That’s right.”

  “Exactly what time did you arrive?”

  “Ten thirty.”

  “And yet Jake Moore says he spotted you driving the Springfields’ pickup truck, hauling their horse trailer a good half-hour earlier.”

  “That wasn’t me,” Bodine sputtered. “He’s mistaken.”

  “What about these private meetings with Hope?”

  Sweat beaded on the Texan’s forehead. “I never met her before last Sunday. Private or public.”

  “Mr. Moore seems to believe otherwise. I’m going to talk to him next. Find out what he knows. How he knows it.” Pete held Bodine’s gaze. Watched him squirm. “Life would be so much easier for you if you’re the one who tells me what I need to know.”

  Bodine wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. “I’ve told you the truth.”

  Cody Bodine was on the verge of a meltdown, and Pete knew it. “You’ve provided a convenient alibi for Hope. But that goes both ways. She’s provided an alibi for you too. What do you think she’s going to say when I tell her you’ve been seen driving her truck?” Pete tapped his notebook with his pen. “And another question I have for Mr. Moore—where exactly did he see you in the Springfields’ truck? If he can place you on that back road behind the Kroll farm, near where Dale’s body was found, I have to tell you, it doesn’t look good.”

  Bodine didn’t reply. His wide-e
yed gaze had shifted to the table in front of him.

  “Do you think Hope is going to continue to provide you with an alibi for killing her husband when I tell her the evidence we have against you?”

  Pete hadn’t thought Bodine’s eyes could get any bigger. He was wrong. The Texan met his gaze. And the dam broke. “You—you think I killed Dale Springfield? No. I never—I mean it wasn’t me. It was her. It was all her idea. I didn’t think she’d go through with it. I thought it was all just talk. Until she called me last Sunday.” Bodine took a breath. “And told me she’d shot her husband.”

  Coincidence. Zoe had learned from Pete to distrust that word. She studied Hope’s face, searching for any sign of deceit. The friendly yet tired smile appeared genuine. Hope’s posture aboard her horse seemed easy and relaxed.

  So why were Zoe’s nerves suddenly on edge? Was it merely that word? That sentence?

  This is a nice coincidence.

  “You followed me?” Zoe asked, keeping her voice as light as possible.

  Hope looked toward the area where Zoe had discovered Dale’s body. “I saw the direction you rode off in, of course. There are lots of criss-crossing trails you might have taken, but I thought I might catch up to you here.”

  Here. Zoe followed Hope’s gaze. “I would’ve thought you’d want to avoid this particular trail.”

  “Well, yes. If I was alone, I definitely would ride anywhere but here. But it’s good to face it with a friend. Don’t you think?”

  “I suppose.”

  Hope turned toward Zoe. “Did you come out here to do some more investigating?”

  “Investigating?”

  “You are a deputy coroner, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. But the police have already arrested your son-in-law for Dale’s murder.” Zoe shrugged, trying to appear dismissive while wondering if Hope knew the case against Scott had collapsed. “There’s nothing left for me to investigate.”

  Hope continued to watch her for a few more moments before nodding with a sigh. “It’s sad, isn’t it? I knew Scott hated his father, but I never thought he’d take it to this extreme.”