by B. J Daniels
She read the note. Twice. “You want me to be your partner in the restaurant?” Her voice broke.
“I do. The check is for all your work. I know you have your heart set on your own catering business, but I hope you’ll take my offer.”
She didn’t know what to say. Or to feel. “I need to think this over.” She couldn’t help her surprise. Or her disappointment. What had she expected? A proposal of a different kind? It was way too soon. He was offering her half of his restaurant, Northern Lights.
But as the rest of the staff came in to get ready for the opening, she knew what she really wanted Bridger to offer her was his heart.
* * *
SHERIFF CARTER JACKSON got the call at home as he was getting ready to go pick up Eve for the grand opening of her brother’s restaurant.
“Sheriff? It’s Deputy Ryan. We just found Glen Whitaker.”
Something in his deputy’s voice warned Carter that the news wasn’t good.
“It appears he was bludgeoned to death with a shovel,” the deputy said, taking Carter by surprise. He’d expected a car accident. Or a heart attack. Anything but murder. And as the days had passed, he’d started thinking maybe Glen had just up and left town.
Carter swore under his breath. “Where?”
“Found him and his vehicle out behind a barn at the McAllister place. I’d say, from the looks of him, he’s been here for a while. Also, we found his camera. It was stuffed into some hay bales behind the barn for some reason.”
“Don’t let anyone touch the camera. I’ll call the coroner and meet you out there.” Carter hung up, still shocked, and called Eve to tell her he was going to be more than late. And he’d been so looking forward to tonight. In fact, he’d planned to pop the question after dinner.
“It’s fine,” she said when he reached her. “McKenna is home. She’d love to go with me. Meet us there if you can.”
As Carter drove toward Old Town Whitehorse, he wondered what Glen had been doing at the old McAllister place. And where had Bridger Duvall been at the time? For weeks Bridger had been living in the apartment over the restaurant with Laci Cavanaugh. And the hidden camera? None of it made any sense. But then, murder was often senseless.
He told himself that no way did Bridger have anything to do with this. Unfortunately, Glen had been killed on property being rented by Bridger. Still, why would Bridger want to kill Glen? Why would anyone want to kill Glen, for that matter?
Carter just hoped that Eve’s brother had an airtight alibi.
* * *
LACI PEEKED THROUGH the swinging doors to see Bridger shaking hands with the patrons. She glowed with pride. Bridger had done it. Northern Lights was a huge success.
Bridger spotted her almost as if he’d sensed her there, almost as if he’d missed her. He smiled, a smile that was so brilliant it was blinding, and motioned for her to join him.
She nodded but didn’t move as other departing guests called him over so they could congratulate him. Dinner had been over for some time, but many of the locals had hung around even after the help had cleared the dishes and cleaned the kitchen and left.
Laci loved seeing the way the town was supporting the restaurant and Bridger. She felt as if she would bust with happiness, and the thought came pouring out of her as if from some deep well of emotion inside her.
She loved him.
She loved Bridger Duvall.
Not like the other times she’d been in love. This time was different.
The realization should have panicked her. Would have panicked her if she’d had more than an instant to think it.
An arm circled her waist, drawing her back from the door at the same instant a cloth was clamped over her mouth.
She drew a breath to scream but only managed to draw in the sickening smell of the chemical on the cloth.
The room began to swim. She tried to fight off her attacker, but it was useless. As she was being pulled toward the back door, she blindly grabbed at the counter for something to use as a weapon to defend herself.
She knocked over the pitcher of sweetened cream, felt the stickiness, and then her fingers were in one of the leftover tortes. She’d know that texture anywhere. Just as she knew who her attacker had to be. She frantically tried to write the first letter of his name in the surface of the torte as she was dragged backward.
She felt her body go limp from whatever drug she’d been given. The last she remembered was the dark alley and the slamming of a car door.
* * *
LIGHTS GLOWED BEHIND the old barn on the McAllister place as Sheriff Carter Jackson pulled up.
He’d seen a lot of crime scenes, but this one struck him as more than a little unusual given that the killer had simply dropped the murder weapon beside the body.
“Wrap that shovel carefully,” Carter ordered. “I want to check it right away for fingerprints.” He glanced at the barn wall and Glen Whitaker’s vehicle. There were footprints in the soft dirt—Glen’s boots and a smaller shoe. The killer’s? If so, the killer had very small feet—small enough to be a woman’s.
Carter noted the uneven ground between the vehicle and the barn. On closer inspection he saw where someone had laid a hand on the outside of the car for balance. “Get the prints off here, as well. I’ll take them in myself.” He turned to see his deputy waiting with a small camera bag. “Let’s see those photographs.”
Carter took the digital camera back to his patrol car and turned it on. Instantly he saw that the camera was indeed Glen Whitaker’s. There were numerous shots of Alice Miller’s ninetieth birthday party and shots of Alyson Banning Donovan’s funeral.
He flipped through them quickly, anxious to see the last photographs that Glen had taken, hoping there would be a clue as to who killed him. Like the camera, Glen’s vehicle had been hidden behind the barn. Also, given where Glen’s body had been found, it followed to reason Glen himself had been hiding back there. But why?
Carter was disappointed when he reached the end of the photographs. There was nothing before the funeral. He swore and went back through the photographs, stopping on an image of a woman in the background at the funeral.
There were several more photographs of the woman. Glen had zoomed in on her, snapping a shot as the woman made what appeared to be a hurried getaway. Why was that?
Carter had never seen the woman before.
So what was Glen’s interest in her?
The last shot at the funeral was of Spencer. He seemed to be going after the mystery woman.
A deputy tapped on the window. “I have those prints ready for you to take.”
Carter raced back to town with the prints and the photographs. While he ran the prints, he called Mark Sanders and asked him to stop by.
“I’ve never seen the woman before,” Sanders said. “I have no idea why Glen would have taken shots of her.”
“She and Spencer Donovan were the last people photographed before Glen Whitaker was murdered,” he told the newspaperman.
* * *
BRIDGER GLANCED BACK toward the kitchen, disappointed Laci hadn’t joined him. Darn the woman. It was just like her to think it would steal his thunder.
The night had been an unmitigated success. He couldn’t believe it. He felt as if he were floating on air. His own restaurant.
But tonight would have meant nothing without Laci. And now that it was almost over, all he wanted to do was share the rest of the night with her.
Earlier, he’d seen the expression on her face when he’d offered her the partnership in Northern Lights. He’d thought she would be pleased. But she’d seemed disappointed. He hoped he could explain later, explain what he was really offering her.
Most of the guests were leaving. He said his goodbyes.
As he pushed open the doors to the kitchen, h
e was shocked and disappointed to see that the room was empty. No Laci.
The back door was partially ajar. He went to it and looked out. The alley was also empty. Upstairs, he called for her, but she wasn’t anywhere around.
Back in the kitchen, he started to worry. She’d left without saying goodbye? She must have been more hurt than he’d thought. Sometimes he was such a fool.
He turned and glanced back at the kitchen. One of her chocolate tortes was sitting on the edge of the counter. Something looked odd about it.
He stepped to the torte and let out a curse when he saw that someone had ruined the smooth surface.
Who would do such a thing? Laci? Had she left mad?
But as he stared down at the torte he saw that the marred surface was in the shape of a letter. An S.
His heart began to pound harder as he looked around and noticed that Laci had left her purse and her car keys in the cupboard where she’d put them earlier in case she had to run out and get any last-minute items.
She couldn’t have left without them. Then where was she?
As he started to step toward the back door again, the sole of his shoe stuck to the floor. Something sticky had been spilled there.
He reached down and felt the white, sticky substance, then stood and checked the counter. There’d been some clotted cream in a container next to the last torte when he’d gone out to bid the guests a good-night.
The container was empty, the cream drying on one side where it had been spilled.
That’s when he noticed that the cupboard by the back door was ajar. He stepped to it, fear rising in his chest as he pulled open the door. At first nothing looked out of place. Then he saw that the box of matches he kept next to the emergency candles was gone.
What the hell had happened back here after he’d left?
He looked back toward the spilled cream and saw the marks where something had been dragged across the cream-sticky floor.
The sight set his heart racing.
The drag marks led out the back door and into the dark alley.
Bridger was reaching for his cell phone to call the sheriff when he looked up and saw a figure silhouetted in the kitchen doorway. “Spencer?”
Chapter Thirteen
“WHERE’S LACI?” BRIDGER DEMANDED, snapping shut the phone to launch himself at Spencer. He grabbed him by the collar, driving him back into the wall. “Where the hell is she? If anything has happened to her—”
“I swear to you I haven’t done anything to her,” Spencer cried, his eyes wide, terrified. “You have to believe me.”
“I’m through believing you. I should have listened to Laci. She tried to warn me. She told me about the damned roses you were leaving her.” He tightened his grip on Spencer, seeing the fear in his eyes, a fear much deeper than what Bridger might do to him.
Bridger stepped back and looked at him, seeing how disheveled he was, how unnerved. “What the hell is going on?”
“I warned Laci,” Spencer cried, his voice breaking. “I told her to quit snooping around in my past. I knew this was going to happen. That’s why I came back.”
Bridger stared at Spencer, his heart thundering in his chest, his blood roaring in his ears. “What are you talking about?”
“She’s not dead.”
The words rocked Bridger back on his heels. “She better not be dead.”
“Not Laci. Emma.”
“Emma?” Spencer was talking nonsense. Was he drunk again? “Emma Shane?”
“She’s not dead,” Spencer repeated.
“That’s crazy. We saw her in the house right before it blew up.”
Spencer was shaking his head, his face still chalky, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “I’m telling you, she didn’t die in the fire. I’ve seen her. I couldn’t tell anyone because I knew they’d think I was crazy, but I saw her at the reception.”
Bridger stared at him openmouthed. “Your wedding reception?”
“That had to be the look Laci said she saw. I just glanced up and there Emma was. But then I blinked and she wasn’t there and I thought I just imagined her.” Spencer put his face in his hands for a moment before looking up at Bridger again. “It wasn’t the first time. I’ve seen her before. I thought it was just the nightmares. You remember the horrible nightmares I had after...” He rushed on, the words tumbling out. “She looks different. Her hair is long and sometimes it’s dark brown and other times it’s blond or red or—”
“You’ve lost your mind,” Bridger said, grabbing him again. Spencer was crazy. It was the only explanation. “You’re the one who took Laci. She left an S in the top of the torte as you were dragging her out. Now what the hell did you do with her?”
“It wasn’t me,” he managed to rasp. “I swear to you. It was Emma.” His eyes locked with Bridger’s. “She drowned Alyson and killed the others. I know that now. When Laci told me about the yellow roses...” He broke down.
Bridger let go of him, remembering what Laci had told him about the other women in Spencer’s life. Spencer was much sicker than Bridger could have imagined. “You need help.”
“See?” Spencer said, his voice breaking. “This is why I didn’t tell anyone about her.” His face crumbled. “Don’t you see, if she’s been leaving Laci yellow roses, then Laci is next.”
Bridger’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean next?”
“Emma’s going to kill her—just like the others.”
* * *
LACI WOKE, HEAD ACHING, sick to her stomach. The car rocked on what felt like a gravel road. She tried to sit up and felt her head swoon.
Where was she? She couldn’t remember anything.
Her eyes blinked open, then closed, her lids too heavy to keep open. She tried again and saw that she was in the back seat of a car that was speeding along a gravel road. Her hands and feet were bound with duct tape, and there was a French Canadian station on the radio.
She felt groggy as she pushed herself up until she could see that she was in a large SUV. A woman with long, dark hair was driving. Past her was nothing but darkness, the SUV’s headlights cutting a golden swath into it.
“Oh, dear,” said the driver, glancing in the rearview mirror. “She’s awake.”
Before Laci could react, the woman swiveled in the driver’s seat and jabbed a syringe into her arm.
“You really need your rest, dear,” Laci heard the woman say as the car swerved and Laci tumbled to the floorboard behind the front seats.
In an instant she felt the drug coursing through her veins. The rear of the car blurred. She struggled to get up, but she no longer had control of her limbs. Her body seemed to website. She fought to try to keep her eyes open, but it was a losing battle—one she lost quickly.
* * *
BRIDGER TRIED NOT to panic. Laci couldn’t have been gone long. If Spencer had taken her, then he couldn’t have taken her far. And Bridger had to believe that was the case given that Emma Shane was dead—and Laci had left an S shape in the top of the torte as she was being dragged out of the kitchen.
“Where is your car?” Bridger demanded as he opened the safe he kept under the kitchen counter and took out the .357 Magnum along with a box of cartridges.
“Out front, but Laci isn’t—” Spencer looked from the gun to Bridger, then lurched into the bathroom. Bridger heard him retching, then keening like a wounded animal. Bridger waited, then opened the door and dragged Spencer out, wondering what had happened to that older boy who, in an act of heroism, had saved Bridger’s life that day in the creek.
“Come on, we’re going to find her. You’re going to take me to her.”
“If you want to find Laci, if you want to save her, you have to believe me. Emma has her.” He looked as if he might break down again. “I don’t know what she
plans to do with her. I swear.”
Spencer looked terrified and confused. Dead or alive, Emma Shane had been haunting him for years. Bridger thought of the bad luck Spencer had experienced with women over the years. As Laci had said, no one had that much bad luck. Crazy or not, Spencer was Bridger’s only hope of finding Laci and saving her. If it wasn’t too late.
“Emma can’t be caught. Or stopped,” Spencer said in a small voice.
“Like hell,” Bridger snapped. “Because you’re going to help me find her.” But even as he said it, he thought of the big open country of this part of Montana. Laci could be anywhere. Was he really starting to believe that Spencer might be telling the truth?
Bridger reached for Spencer, afraid of what he might do to him but stopped as he caught sight of the cupboard that he’d found open earlier. The only thing missing, he remembered, was a large box of matches.
His heart leaped to his throat. “Fire. Oh, God. I think I know where Laci is,” he said as he grabbed hold of Spencer and shoved him toward the door.
* * *
THE COMPUTER SCREEN on Sheriff Carter Jackson’s desk flashed. He stared at what came up, blinking in disbelief, then shock. The prints matched. He had his killer.
But this couldn’t be right. According to the fingerprint analysis, the print taken from the side of Glen Whitaker’s vehicle belonged to a woman who’d been dead for twenty years.
Maybe even stranger, the name sounded familiar.
Emma Shane.
It came to him in a rush. Emma Shane, the woman who’d killed herself and her family after Spencer Donovan had broken up with her in high school.
Emma Shane was alive?
He sat for a moment, trying to understand what this meant. Emma Shane must have seen Glen Whitaker taking her photograph at the cemetery and followed him out to the old McAllister place. Who knew what Glen might have been doing out there.
So she kills him—but doesn’t find the camera with the photographs.
But what was she doing in Old Town Whitehorse to start with? Spencer. Spencer had gone after the woman in the photograph Glen had taken. Spencer knew she was alive.
