by Brenda Novak
“You’re sure?” he pressed, obviously disappointed. “You’re listed as a reference on a credit card application from years back, in New Mexico. She claimed you were her daughter.”
She’d only been sixteen when they were in New Mexico. How had he been able to trace her from there?
“I’ve never lived in New Mexico.” Presley felt no remorse for lying, just an odd sense of panic that this might spill over onto her. Right or wrong, she’d done what her mother had taught her to do.
“Christensen might not be an unusual name, but Presley is,” he persisted. “As a first name, I mean.”
“Maybe this Anita person liked Elvis as much as my own mother did.”
Presley considered herself a pro when it came to misinformation, but he seemed stubbornly unconvinced. “She may have assumed yet another identity,” he said. “Would you mind taking a look at her picture?”
“Sorry.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “My break’s over. I’ve got to get to work.”
Except she didn’t dare open the door with him standing there, and he wasn’t backing off. She hesitated with her hand on the latch, and that was all the opportunity he needed.
“It’ll only take a second.” He pulled out an old mug shot, which he illuminated with the penlight like he had his ID. “She’s the one on the right.”
Presley was too nervous to really look. She knew who she’d see, but with her mother sick and about to die she figured it didn’t matter anymore. Whatever Anita had done wrong, cancer was punishment enough. “Never seen her before in my life,” she said as her eyes flicked over it.
He held up another picture. “Do you recognize either of these two?”
She nearly told him he had to leave or she was going to call the police on her cell phone, but clamped her lips shut. She did recognize one of the two subjects of that photograph. Chey was in it as a very young girl. And something about her struck Presley as odd. Although Anita had looked as Presley would’ve expected—significantly younger but still unkempt—Chey didn’t. Her hair was curled into pretty ringlets tied with a ribbon, and she was wearing a fancy dress with black patent leather shoes.
When had this picture been taken? And why wasn’t she in it? She couldn’t remember a single time their mother had bothered to curl their hair. They’d been lucky to have a comb to straighten out the snarls after several days without a bath.
Not only that, but…who was the third person—the pretty blonde woman?
“Ms. Christensen?” the man prompted.
What did this picture mean?
The possibilities terrified Presley. Anita was about to die. She couldn’t lose Chey, too. “I don’t recognize them, either.”
* * *
Cheyenne woke to the sound of voices. Her sister was home and, apparently, her mother had survived the night. Chey couldn’t say she was glad; she couldn’t in all conscience say she wasn’t, either. It was just another day.
A glance at the digital alarm clock told her she didn’t have to be up for another hour. She rolled over to go back to sleep, but the wary tone of her mother’s voice aroused her curiosity.
“Did he say what his name was?”
“One sec.” Presley. “I got his card.” There was a brief pause. “Eugene Crouch.”
“He’s a private investigator?”
“That’s what he told me, and that’s what’s written here. Do you have any idea what he wanted?”
“None.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“I guess he could, but I don’t know why he pestered you in the first place.”
Although Presley lowered her voice, Cheyenne could still hear. “He’s been searching for you a long time, Mom. You have to have some idea.”
“I don’t, unless it’s an unpaid speeding ticket.”
“Do they go to such great lengths to track people down for that?”
“They put out arrest warrants, don’t they? Anyway, whatever he wants, it’s too late. Feel free to invite him to my funeral.”
“Don’t talk like that! You know it upsets me.”
Chey tightened her grip on the blankets. That was precisely why Anita did it. To get a reaction. To be reassured.
“You and Chey are the only family I have,” Presley said.
“You need to prepare yourself, honey. I won’t last much longer.”
“I can’t go on without you. I can’t cope as it is.” Presley sounded as if she might be crying. Cheyenne felt bad for her, but she felt even worse about the fact that she experienced no grief—that she was merely waiting for release from the responsibilities that imprisoned her.
Was there something wrong with her? Was she as bad, as ungrateful, as her mother claimed?
“Come here,” Anita cooed.
As she pictured Presley falling into their mother’s arms, Chey covered her eyes with her hand. She was glad her mother and sister had each other. Maybe Anita deserved more love than Cheyenne could give her. Despite all the differences between her and Presley, Cheyenne cared deeply for her older sibling. Growing up, Presley had been her only friend, her only ally, especially when Anita went on one of her frightening tirades. For whatever reason, their mother’s anger had always been more focused on Chey. Once or twice, Anita had become so violent that Presley had been forced to step in.
“So…what should I tell that P.I. if he comes back?” Presley asked.
“What you told him already.”
“I don’t know if he’ll buy it a second time. He knows we’re related or he wouldn’t have approached me. He said you used my name as a reference on a credit card application in New Mexico.” Cheyenne heard Presley go on to say that she’d been working at the Sunny Day Convenience store back then and had used that as a reference for her next job. She thought that was how this Crouch had been able to trace her. But then she must’ve turned in a different direction or buried her face in the blankets because Cheyenne could no longer decipher her words.
Hoping to catch the last of the conversation, she sat up, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. “Presley?” she called out. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” her sister responded. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“Who’s Eugene Crouch?”
“None of your damn business, little Miss Know-It-All,” her mother snapped. “I’m still kickin’. Until I’m six feet under, I’ll handle my own affairs!”
Dropping onto her pillow, Cheyenne counted to ten instead of thinking the same old terrible thoughts about her mother. Where was her control? Her pity?
Meanwhile, Presley spoke up, which siphoned off some of the tension. They’d always acted as buffers for each other, especially with Anita.
“Just some guy I met at work, Chey,” she called back.
Her sister had plenty of scary stories about the gamblers who frequented the Indian casino. They could get drunk and far too friendly. Or violent. Presley dated bikers, many of whom were ex-cons, so she had more than a few scary stories about them, too. Cheyenne worried about her safety. What they’d endured as children had affected them so differently. Chey wanted to cling to everything that society deemed normal and admirable. She wanted to forget the past and pretend she was no different from the group of friends who’d provided so much love and support since she started high school.
Presley, on the other hand, didn’t resent Anita or how they were raised. She lived fast and loose, a lot like their mother had once lived. The sad part was, Presley was capable of so much more.
“You said it was a private investigator,” Cheyenne said.
“So?” Presley responded.
“Why would he be looking for Mom?”
“I figured it was better not to ask.”
She had a point. Whatever this man wanted was sure to involve a fair amount of humiliation. Anita had long been an embarrassment to Cheyenne. And that made her feel even more guilt. What kind of child was so ashamed of her own parent?
Maybe
it was better if they never found out why that man had come to the casino.
2
“Do you think I should ask him?”
Sitting in the passenger seat of her friend’s Prius, Cheyenne pulled her gaze away from Joe DeMarco. Together with his father, he owned the only service station in town. He was facing away from them, standing in one of the auto repair bays, while her best friend, Eve Harmon, got back behind the wheel. They hadn’t really needed gas, but they left the Gold Nugget B and B in the hands of Cheyenne’s kitchen helper to come here as often as possible, hoping to bump into him.
“Of course you should.” Cheyenne forced a smile. It wasn’t easy to encourage Eve to ask Joe out. Joe might be a relatively recent infatuation for Eve, but Chey had had a crush on him since forever. Not that she’d ever told anyone. She was fairly certain it was the best-kept secret in town.
Fingering the thick, knitted scarf tied around her neck, Eve worried her lip. “I don’t know....”
“What do you have to lose?” Chey asked.
“Face, I guess. I want him to ask me.”
“I once heard Gail say he wasn’t interested in a stepparent situation for his girls.”
“He only has them every other weekend. And I’d be a great stepmom!”
“That’s true, but he’s always seen us as his little sister’s friends. Maybe he feels he’s too old for us. For you,” she quickly amended.
Fortunately, Eve didn’t seem to catch the slip. “He’s nice, but…sort of preoccupied when I’m around. I can’t really get his attention.”
As Chey watched, Joe turned, saw her sitting in the car and waved. Instantly, her cheeks flushed hot. That was all it took—a wave. He’d had that effect on her ever since Anita had first carted them into town in her old Skylark. She’d never forget how hungry she and Presley had been that day. While her mother counted out the change they’d scrounged up to buy gas, she’d left Presley, who wanted to stay in the car, and went to the minimart. They didn’t have the money for food. She’d just wanted to look, to imagine what it would be like if she could indulge in one of the many treats displayed on those shelves.
When it was time to leave, Anita had called her twice. Chey remembered because her mother had then shouted for her to “get her ass moving” and thumped her on the head.
Stomach growling, Cheyenne had dragged herself from the Hostess aisle to the door, where Joe had caught up with her long enough to hand her two packages of the Twinkies she’d been eyeing. Embarrassed because she knew they looked as poor as they were, she’d tried to give them back, but he’d insisted the snacks were past their sale date and he was about to toss them.
It wasn’t until she was back inside the car, groaning in pleasure and devouring those Twinkies with Presley, that she’d taken a closer look at the wrappers. The expiration dates hadn’t passed. Neither one was even close.
Cheyenne was pretty sure she’d been in love with Joe ever since that day. Or maybe it was a couple of weeks later, when she first saw him at school. He was a handsome, popular senior, she a lowly freshman, when he’d noticed some kid making fun of her ill-fitting dress. He’d immediately walked over and sent that boy running. Then he’d grinned at her as if he somehow saw the sensitive girl, who’d already been through far too much, beneath the ratty hair and secondhand clothes.
“How’d he treat you at the Chamber of Commerce mixer last night?” she asked, picking at her nails so she wouldn’t be tempted to look at him again. It had broken her heart when he’d married right out of high school. But then he’d divorced and returned to Whiskey Creek and, at twenty-six, she’d been granted a second chance—not that anything had happened in the five years since.
Eve slid the receipt for the gas purchase into her purse. “He said hello. That was about it.”
Cheyenne hated that she was secretly pleased by this report. She wanted Eve to be happy more than anyone else in the world, even if it meant she couldn’t have Joe. Eve was like a sister to her, one she could both love and admire. Eve’s family, the Harmons, had taken Cheyenne in at various points during the past seventeen years. They’d given her a job in the kitchen of the family inn, trained her to cook and let her take over when their other cook moved away. She owed them so much.
Suppressing a twinge of conscience, she attempted to make a joke about the situation. “He should be grateful for your patronage. You come here more than anyone else. He probably wonders what you do with all those bags of chips you buy. He’d be able to tell if you were eating them.”
Eve laughed but sobered immediately. “Do you think I’m being too obvious?”
That was hard to tell. Joe was always friendly. He just never called or did anything else to show special interest—in either one of them.
Cheyenne drew a bolstering breath. “Why don’t you see if Gail will give him a nudge?”
His sister was part of their clique, a clique that had been friends since grade school—except for her, of course. She was fourteen when they moved to town. Presley had been sixteen.
“Gail would love to see Joe marry again,” she added. “Especially someone who’ll treat him better than his ex.” Gail had no doubt been too caught up in her own life to notice that Eve suddenly had a thing for her big brother. A year ago, she’d married a famous movie star who’d been a PR client and had her hands full coping with all the changes that required.
“She and Simon are in L.A. He’s working on a movie.”
“That doesn’t mean she never talks to Joe.”
With a frown, Eve started the car. “No, but…I’m not ready to go that far yet.”
Now that Eve had aborted her mission to invite Joe to dinner, Cheyenne could relax for the moment. “So you’re not going to ask him out?”
“Not right now. Maybe I’ll work up the courage later.”
Cheyenne nodded. She needed to forget about Joe, finally get it through her head—and her heart—that there was no chance he’d ever return her interest. As long as Eve wanted him, it didn’t matter even if he did.
* * *
“What are you doing here? It’s too cold to be sitting outside.”
Cheyenne turned to see Eve, who’d been as busy as she had since their trip to the gas station, weaving carefully through the headstones of the old cemetery next to the inn. “Just thinking.”
It was the slowest part of the day, between the morning rush when they prepared a fancy breakfast for the inn’s guests and cleaned the rooms, and three o’clock, the time new patrons began to trickle in. She would’ve run home to check on her mother. She normally did. But this afternoon she couldn’t bring herself to make the effort. Presley was there; she’d call if Anita’s situation worsened.
Eve’s footsteps crunched in the patchy snow. Since her boots were more for looks than bad weather, she watched where she was going until she got close enough to avoid ruining the pretty black suede. Then her eyes cut to the words carved in the closest headstone—also the oldest and largest—as if they made her uncomfortable.
They probably did. They made everyone uncomfortable.
Here lies our little angel, brutally murdered at six years. May God strike down the killer who took her from us, and send him into the fiery pits of hell. Mary Margaret Hatfield, daughter of Harriett and John Hatfield, 1865–1871
“Are you feeling bad that we’re planning to capitalize on the mystery of her murder?” Adjusting the scarf around her neck, Eve perched on the garden bench next to Chey.
Eve didn’t have to say who she was. “Maybe a little.” Not only had Mary been born in the home that was now Eve’s parents’ B and B, she’d died there. Her murder had taken place well over a century ago, but just about everyone in town knew the terrible details. She’d been found in the basement, strangled. There’d been no indication as to who’d killed her.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do it.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Cheyenne responded. “You and your parents will lose the inn if we don’t do something.�
�� If that happened, Chey would be without a job, too, but she could probably get on somewhere else. It was Eve’s situation that concerned her. The Gold Nugget meant so much to the Harmon family. Over the years, especially during the past twelve months, they’d dumped everything they had into the business.
Eve hugged herself for added warmth. “I know. I keep telling myself that publicizing a haunting isn’t a big deal. It’s such an old crime. It just adds atmosphere, right? But…we’re talking about a girl who died a violent death. Her ghost really could be lingering here.”
Cheyenne straightened in surprise. “I thought you didn’t believe in things like that. I thought you said every rattle and creak could be explained as the settling of an old house.”
“Since I’m so often at the inn alone, it’s easier to believe that. There’s no point in scaring myself to death. But—” Eve met her eyes “—a lot of people do believe in the paranormal.”
Chey frowned at the sea of headstones surrounding her. For the most part they were organized in neat rows, but crookedness in certain spots suggested a random beginning. “Do you remember, shortly after we moved here, when my mother got mad because I stayed with you part of the time and with Gail part of the time and I didn’t come home for a couple of days? She tied me to that tree.” Cheyenne pointed to the big oak in the corner, which was located close to another bench.
Eve grimaced. “How could I forget? You spent the entire night out here. When my father found you the next morning, he was furious that she could do such a thing to her own child. But…your mother pretty much wrote the book on how to be a terrible parent.”
After that incident, Cheyenne had gone to live with the Harmons for three months—until her mother’s cancer took a turn for the worse. Because she hated feeling like a burden on people who shouldn’t have to take care of her, and because Presley wanted her to come home, she’d eventually gone back. “At first I was terrified to be trapped in the dark, so close to Mary’s grave.”
