Dark Horse & the Mystery Man of Whitehorse

by B. J Daniels

  If only he could.

  “If the records are in that box, we’ll need to decide what to do with them,” Eve was saying. “We’ve kept the adoptions secret and our relationship secret—”

  “We only did that because there was no evidence,” Bridger said, angry that Laci had gotten back into his thoughts. “If that box does hold information about the babies, I wonder how many there will be.” He and Eve knew they weren’t the only babies adopted out by the sewing circle. In fact, Bridger suspected their adoptions were just the tip of the iceberg.

  “Carter’s afraid Glen Whitaker might hear about what was found at the site,” Eve said. “You know he’s been poking around ever since we found out the truth.”

  Bridger nodded. “I saw him out in Old Town this morning. Let’s hope he’s still out there. But you have to realize this isn’t something we’re going to be able to keep quiet if that box holds the adoption records. Don’t we owe it to the others to let them know? And I know people are wondering about our relationship.”

  “I guess that’s something we’ll have to decide when the time comes. Don’t you sometimes wish you’d never learned the truth?” she asked.

  Part of him definitely did. This whole thing had thrown a monkey wrench into his life, leaving him feeling off-kilter, unsure about the future, unsure about himself. Except when he’d been with Laci.

  “Sometimes I do,” he admitted. “But then I would never have known I had a twin sister.”

  Eve smiled. “A sister you didn’t want any part of, as I recall.”

  “I’m still sorry that was how I felt originally. I was angry and upset. I thought you were in on it.”

  She nodded. “All water under that particular bridge now, huh?” She glanced at her watch. “I’m going to go by the nursing home and see my grandmother while I wait for Carter’s call. He promised not to open the box until we’re there. I hope you’re right about Glen Whitaker being down in Old Town. I’d hate to see this on the front page of the Milk River Examiner.”

  But as she left, Bridger knew that the story coming out might be the least of their worries.

  * * *

  AFTER PHOTOGRAPHING ALICE MILLER’S birthday party and eating too much cake and ice cream, Glen Whitaker got into his SUV outside the Whitehorse Community Center and checked to make sure he’d got enough photographs of the old lady and her friends.

  He clicked on the digital photos, quickly reviewing what he’d taken at the party but more interested in the ones he’d gotten at the funeral.

  He’d managed to get some of Spencer Donovan and Bridger Duvall standing together over the casket. Given the turnout, maybe his editor would deem it worthy of the front page.

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to get an interview with Spencer Donovan. Glen had waited until almost everyone had left but Donovan. He’d gotten a few good photos of the man standing alone with the casket. And then he’d seen the mysterious brunette who was never far away when Donovan was around.

  Glen had spotted her and even gotten several photographs before she’d seen him snapping her photo and taken off. Donovan had also seen the woman and had taken off right after that as though the hounds of hell had been after him.

  And Glen had been left with the feeling that he finally had some bargaining power to get that interview. He dialed Spencer Donovan’s cell.

  “I told you I wasn’t interested in—” Donovan started in the moment the reporter announced who was calling, but Glen cut him off.

  “I know about the other woman,” Glen said, bluffing, but he was rewarded with Donovan’s sharp intake of breath. “We should talk.”

  “Do you know where the Banning ranch is?” Donovan asked.

  “Of course.” He checked his watch. He wanted to stop by Bridger Duvall’s first. “I could be there in, say, an hour?”

  “Fine. I’ll see you then.” Donovan hung up and Glen grinned to himself. So his suspicions about the brunette and Spencer Donovan had been on the money. He loved it when he was right.

  So had Donovan hooked up with the brunette quickly after his wife’s death? Or had the woman been there the whole time, waiting in the wings?

  It certainly cast a new light on Alyson Banning Donovan’s drowning in Hawaii.

  As Glen drove down to the old McAllister place, there was no sign of Bridger Duvall’s pickup. But then, he’d seen Duvall head toward Whitehorse after the funeral, no doubt back to his restaurant. It amazed Glen that the man didn’t even have a dog to keep an eye on the place. He got out of his rig and walked toward the house.

  Duvall’s big black car was parked in the barn. The man at least had the good sense to buy a four-wheel-drive truck. It was required if you were going to live in this part of Montana and drive mostly unpaved roads.

  He wondered if Duvall had already moved out of here. The place definitely had an unlived-in look about it, Glen thought as he peered in the windows before he tried the front door.

  Unlocked. Which would make a man think Duvall had nothing to hide. Or, like a lot of these old places, the lock didn’t work. He’d started to enter when he heard a vehicle coming up the road.

  “Damn.” He rushed to his rig, started it up and pulled around behind the barn just an instant before he saw a pickup top the rise.

  Getting out, he edged to the corner of the building as the truck came to a stop in front of the house. He’d been betting it wasn’t Bridger Duvall, and his instincts had proven him right.

  Spencer Donovan climbed out of the pickup and glanced around as if looking for someone—and Glen swore to himself. Donovan had followed him!

  At the front door of the house, Donovan knocked, then stuck his head inside. He had to know that Bridger wasn’t here. But then, Donovan wasn’t looking for Bridger, was he?

  Glen realized that this must have to do with the brunette. He glanced down at his camera hanging around his neck. Donovan must know that Glen had photographs of the woman.

  Glancing around, Glen spotted a pile of hay stacked against the side of the barn. He took off the camera and stuffed it deep in the hay, then went back to his spot at the edge of the barn, not looking forward to a run-in with Donovan if it came to that since he was trespassing.

  Glen didn’t see Spencer Donovan and was wondering where he had gone when he heard a metal clang behind him. He was frowning, wondering what had made that sound, as he looked back toward his vehicle but saw nothing.

  He turned to peer around the end of the barn again, looking toward the house, worried about where Donovan had gone. That’s when he heard the soft scuff of a boot heel on dirt directly behind him.

  Glen spun around and came face-to-face with the business end of a shovel. He didn’t even have time to raise his arm to deflect the blow. The metal made a hollow clanging sound as it struck, the pain blinding as it ricocheted through his skull.

  His knees buckled as the ground came rushing up at him, but before he reached it he heard the second blow of the shovel—not that he felt it.

  Glen Whitaker was dead before he hit the ground.

  * * *

  LACI WAS JUST leaving her house when the pickup Spencer Donovan had been driving came roaring up in her yard.

  Before she could retreat back into the house, he was out of the truck and stalking toward her.

  “What are you doing here?” Laci demanded.

  “I have to talk to you,” he said. “Could I come in?”

  “No.” She clutched the edge of the door, ready to slam and lock it if he came any closer.

  “I don’t understand why you’re acting as if you’re afraid of me,” he said from the porch, sounding hurt.

  “I know.” It was out before she could call it back. “I saw the way you looked at Alyson at the reception.”

  Spencer stared at her. “What are you talking
about?”

  “You were on the dance floor. Alyson was visiting with one of the guests, and I saw your expression suddenly change.” She saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes.

  He stepped back, looked away, ran a hand over his face.

  “I saw your face. I knew you were going to hurt her. I—”

  “You’re wrong,” he said, raising his voice. “I thought I saw someone I used to—never mind. You think I killed my wife because of some look you thought I gave her? That’s crazy.”

  “That’s what you want everyone to think. But Alyson is dead. And we both know she was a strong swimmer.”

  “A much stronger swimmer than me,” Spencer said. “That’s why I wasn’t with her.” He looked away. “The truth is... I’m afraid of water.” His gaze came back to hers.

  “How convenient.” She started to close the door. “And stop leaving those stupid yellow roses in my car!”

  He blanched and looked around as if afraid someone had heard her. “What?”

  “You heard me. Just leave me alone and stop threatening me.” She stepped back to close the door, but he moved fast for his size. He stuck his foot in between the door and the jamb and shoved the door open, knocking her back as he took a step toward her. A scream rose in her throat as he grabbed her wrist, his fingers digging into her flesh.

  “Don’t do this,” he said, his voice breaking. “You really don’t want to do this.”

  She jerked free, scrambling toward the kitchen and the phone, praying she could reach it before he caught her. She jerked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. The line began to ring. She turned, expecting to find him standing before her, ready to stop her.

  But the kitchen was empty.

  “9-1-1 operator. How may I help you?” the dispatcher said on the other end of the line.

  Laci couldn’t speak—just as she hadn’t been able to scream earlier. She stepped cautiously to the kitchen doorway. Her front door stood open. She moved toward it.

  “9-1-1 operator. Please tell me your emergency.”

  She hadn’t gone far when she saw Spencer. He was walking down her driveway to his truck. She rushed to the front door, closing, locking and leaning against it.

  “Hello?” the dispatcher said, sounding worried.

  “I’m sorry. It was a false alarm.” Laci hung up, her heart a sledgehammer in her chest. Tears blurred her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever being so frightened.

  She moved to the window, afraid Spencer was still out there, but his truck was pulling away.

  She was right about him. Was it possible he would turn himself in now? She could only hope.

  But in the back of her mind she kept asking herself: if Spencer Donovan was a killer, then why hadn’t he come after her in the kitchen? Or was he just biding his time? Waiting for an opportunity to make it look like an accident, the same why he had Alyson’s death?

  All she knew was that she had to find evidence against him to get the case reopened—before she was next.

  * * *

  ATTORNEY TOM SIMPSON had an office uptown in a two-story brick building in Roundup, Montana, that said he wasn’t as successful as he would have liked.

  Laci hadn’t called ahead, having a feeling that Tom wasn’t going to want to talk to her. There was no secretary behind the front desk. Still at lunch, although it was almost two? Or on an errand?

  Through his open door she saw him sitting behind his desk. He’d taken off his suit jacket. It hung on the back of his chair. She noted the gold wedding band on his left hand and a photograph of a woman and two small children on the corner of his desk.

  He had his feet propped up on the old radiator by the window and was eating what looked like a turkey-and-cheese sandwich on white that his wife must have made him that morning for lunch but that he hadn’t got around to eating until now. He was eating and gazing out the window, and for a moment Laci regretted that she had to disturb him.

  “Mr. Simpson?”

  Startled, he swung around and put down his sandwich as he reached for his suit jacket to cover up the mayo stain on his white shirt.

  “Please don’t let me interrupt your late lunch,” she said, taking a chair across from his desk.

  “I’m sorry—did we have an appointment?” he asked, glancing at his watch. “My secretary is out.”

  She shook her head and took a chair across from his desk. “I just stopped by to talk to you about Spencer Donovan.”

  Tom frowned. “Who?”

  “Oh, you must remember Spencer Donovan.” She’d photocopied several of the pages from the internet class reunion site and now passed him the one of the two young teammates grinning at the camera.

  He took the sheet of paper reluctantly, barely glancing at it before handing the photo back. “Actually, right now isn’t—”

  “I’ll be quick,” Laci said, giving him her best smile. “Of course, your comments will be kept confidential.”

  “What is this about?”

  “Spencer recently married my best friend. She drowned while swimming on their honeymoon.” She refused to call it an accident and had to bite her tongue not to tell Tom that she knew Spencer had killed Alyson. But she feared he would take her for a nutcase and call the cops to throw her out if she didn’t go at this carefully.

  After her run-in with Spencer, Laci was more determined than ever to find evidence that would get Alyson’s case reopened. She felt as if Spencer were a ticking time bomb. She had to act quickly—before her time ran out.

  Tom Simpson looked sick to hear the news about the honeymoon death. “Poor Spencer.”

  Yes, poor Spencer. “I’d like to help Spencer through this but I don’t know him very well. You knew him. Tell me about him.”

  “Well, it was years ago—”

  “That’s what I’m interested in. What was he like in high school?” she said, drawing her chair closer to his desk. “I just get the impression this isn’t the first tragedy he’s had in his life.”

  Tom looked sick. He picked up his sandwich, dropped it into the container it had been packaged in and shoved it into a desk drawer. She gave him time, knowing he was making up his mind about talking to her. Did that mean there was something to tell?

  “I don’t know what to say. He suffered some football injuries.” He shrugged. “Other than that...”

  She saw the change in his expression as he remembered something. “What?”

  “Well, there was this girl in high school...”

  Of course there was, Laci thought. “Don’t tell me. She died, right?”

  * * *

  BRIDGER COULDN’T CONCENTRATE on work. He kept thinking about the box that had been found in the ruins of Dr. Holloway’s office and what might be inside it.

  And he couldn’t help worrying about Laci. He’d hoped that telling her about Spencer saving his life would make her understand not only why he owed the man but also why Spencer couldn’t have killed anyone.

  But as short a time as he’d known Laci, he knew she wouldn’t rest until she—Until she what?

  He felt a jolt. Until she found out everything there was to know about Spencer Donovan. So why did that scare him so much?

  His heart was pounding as he picked up the phone and called her home number, praying she would be home and not off investigating Spencer. No answer. He didn’t leave a message.

  He tried her cell. A message came up on the screen. Caller out of area? He swore as he hung up. Where had she gone? Who was he kidding? She’d gone to Roundup. She’d find out everything about Spencer.

  But there was nothing to find. Laci would eventually realize she was wrong. She was wrong, wasn’t she? He didn’t believe for a minute that Spencer could kill anyone, right?

  As if he’d conjured him up, the back door of the restaurant open
ed and Spencer walked in.

  “The place is looking great,” Spencer said, glancing around the kitchen before stepping into the dining room.

  All the tables had come, as well as the chairs. The building was starting to look like a real restaurant.

  There was art on the walls and tablecloths and candles on each table. With luck, the restaurant would be open before Christmas.

  But Spencer barely gave the place a look. He appeared nervous as he glanced around the kitchen. “So where is your junior chef?” he asked, the question leaving little doubt he’d come here looking for Laci.

  “Working up some menu ideas for me,” Bridger said, wondering why when it came to Laci he lied to Spencer.

  “Really? I thought I saw her heading down the highway out of town earlier.”

  Bridger felt his heart lodge in his throat. He’d forgotten that Spencer was staying at the old Banning place just down the road from Laci’s. He had no idea where she was at this very moment, but he’d wager it was somewhere on the road to trouble.

  “Did you need her for something?” Bridger asked, a little unnerved by Spencer’s interest in Laci.

  He seemed to hesitate. “I would imagine you know that she thinks I had something to do with Alyson’s death.”

  Bridger winced. He’d known this was going to happen. “She’s just upset.”

  “I don’t think so. Someone had been in my house while I was gone. They’d gone through my belongings.”

  “Laci wouldn’t...” Bridger let the words die off. In the state she was in, maybe she would. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure that will do any good.”

  He studied Spencer, seeing a state of anxiety that worried him. “Something else?”

  Spencer looked uncomfortable. “That reporter—Glen Whitaker? He called me earlier. He’s been trying to get an interview. I finally gave up and decided to talk to him, but he never showed.”

  “That’s odd.” Bridger couldn’t help but wonder why Spencer had agreed to talk to the man.