by Sheryl Lynn
“Like to know what that insurance fella is sniffing.” Gerald shook his head and grinned. “Trust me, Frank Shay rates right up there in the top ten dumbest criminals I ever ran across. There wasn’t much he ever got away with.”
“I think it’s possible.”
Gerald dropped a callused hand on Carson’s shoulder. “Want my advice? Stay the hell away from anything to do with Frank Shay. You don’t need the aggravation.”
“I’m running down names. Checking out details. It might explain why he did what he did.”
“Or you can run around chasing wild hares and get your heart broke all over again. Drop it, boy. Trust me on this. You can’t do your job if you’re chasing ghosts.” Gerald indicated the M.E.’s van where two men loaded the remains. “Any ideas about Mr. Bones?”
Carson swallowed his rising temper. Maybe Gerald was right. Maybe it was his own thirst for answers that made him believe Bannerman.
If only he could forget the delivery van and ten thousand dollars given to Frank’s daughter.
“It isn’t one of the Harrigan boys, but I suspect they were here last night. They weren’t happy about Shay’s daughter.”
“And you? Has to be hard laying eyes on that woman.”
It was, but it wasn’t. Carson wasn’t magnanimous enough to forgive and forget what Frank Shay had done. Truth be told, if Madeline had resembled her father he might have a harder time being around her.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Gerald nodded, but there was a skeptical twist to his lips. “And that’s why you keep telling Ruthie you’re too busy to come to Sunday dinner? You go to work. You sit at home in that big, old empty house. Funny way of being fine.”
Carson bristled. “This isn’t about me.”
Gerald’s eyes disappeared into sun-dried wrinkles. “You and me haven’t had a sit-down and a beer since it happened. You shut me out. Far as I know, you shut everybody out. I know you’re hurting, Carson. Damned if I don’t know how bad. But some pain needs sharing. I’m your friend. You need to remember that.”
An ache filled his chest and his throat grew thick. “I don’t need friends right now. I need good cops to solve this crime.”
“I’m sixty-nine years old, boy. I’ve buried relatives, friends and two stillborn babies. Do you honestly think I don’t know what you’re going through?”
“You have all you need from me.” He walked away.
Maybe Gerald knew about grief and sorrow, but he didn’t know Carson’s pain. Nobody did. Nobody ever would.
At the garage the investigator was replacing the padlock. He slapped a fresh seal on the door.
“Find anything?” Carson asked.
“A bunch of beads, small tools, and some personal gewgaws. No accelerant. Not even a match.”
“Can we dig up the floor? See if our victim has some friends?”
“Before we go doing that, we need to figure out how old the concrete pad is and if it’s compatible with the time of death. I can bring a cadaver dog through. A dog might tell us if there’s a body.” John winked. “Sheriff gets testy when I start rattling bulldozer keys without probable cause.”
Carson knew men with access to earthmovers and bulldozers. He ought to dig up the entire ranch. Like Madeline said, ill-gotten gains were bad luck. Returning the money to its rightful owners might halt the mounting body count.
MADELINE STARTLED from sleep. A dark shape loomed over her. She jerked upright off the sofa and gasped. Her mind and body froze up.
The shape stepped back. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” Carson said.
She pressed a hand over her pounding heart. Gloom said the sun went down. Her eyes adjusted quickly. She watched him settle his cowboy hat on a peg and unbuckle his utility belt. Feeling guilty about being caught snoozing on his sofa, she stood and folded her hands over her belly.
“Sorry I’m so late,” he said. “The mayor caught me at the police station. I got enough earfuls to last a year or two.” He turned on a lamp.
His hair looked black, his skin dark. The proud jut of his cheekbones and nose made her wonder if he had Indian blood in him.
“How are you feeling?”
Lots of cool water and a nap had left her feeling a hundred-percent better. She touched her tongue to the scab on her lip. The swelling had gone down. “I’m fine.” His perusal made her self-conscious about wearing his dead wife’s clothing.
“The body has nothing to do with the fire. M.E. says the bones were under the house at least six months, maybe longer.”
She shuddered. She wouldn’t even pass a graveyard at night, and she’d been sleeping atop a corpse? “Do you know who it is?”
“Won’t even know if it’s a man or a woman until the M.E. figures it out.” He walked down the hallway to the kitchen. Madeline followed. “Do you remember anything else about the fire?”
“No.”
He hung the utility belt on a hook inside the pantry. He moved around without looking at her. “This is a big old house and I’m hardly ever here.” He unbuttoned his uniform shirt and opened the freezer compartment in the refrigerator. “Don’t think I’m casting crumbs. I’m not.” He pulled a foil-covered dish from the freezer. “You can stay here until we get your situation straightened out.” He turned on the oven. “It’s no bother to me and no one will bother you. Nobody has to know you’re here. You’ll be safe.”
It took a moment before she got her wits about her to speak. “I can’t let you do that, Carson.”
He was walking up the stairs.
The trait she disliked most in herself was her instinctive distrust of kindness. When people were cruel, she knew where they were coming from. Kindness was too often a thin mask over darker motives. She couldn’t for the life of her imagine why Carson Cody was being so nice.
When he returned, he wore a ragged T-shirt with A.S.U. emblazoned on the front and a pair of faded blue jeans. He still wouldn’t look at her. He slid the casserole into the oven. “Have to take care of my horse.”
“Carson.”
He stopped, shoulders hunched.
“Thank you for the offer, but I can’t accept. You’ve done too much for me already.”
He opened the door. “You don’t have much choice.” Before she could reply, he slipped out of the house.
She slumped against a counter. Carson Cody was one of the strangest men she’d ever met. She could not accept the offer, but she forced herself to appreciate the kindness behind it.
“OH, THANK YOU, thank you.” Breathlessly Madeline peeled tissue paper from the beaded vessel she called Wildfire. Sixteen inches tall and shaped like a gourd with a curved swanlike neck and fat bottom, it was a piece she loved so much she hated putting it up for sale. Subtle shades of red, orange and yellow swirled against a background of electric blue and soot-black. Wings and ruffles of beads formed flickering flames.
She beamed at Carson. Everything was here, even the empty paint can she used for disposing of bits of thread and broken beads. The cardboard boxes smelled of smoke, but nothing was damaged.
She had spent a second night on the narrow bed squeezed into a bedroom used for storage and hadn’t slept well despite clean sheets and a firm mattress. Ghostly whispers seemed to emanate from the walls. No matter how she tossed and turned, she couldn’t stop thinking about Carson sleeping only a few feet away. So this was it. She couldn’t impose any longer. She couldn’t shove ugly reminders into his face.
Good intentions be damned, now she had her beads. She itched to get to work, to make up some lost time. Part of her said she ought to be ashamed of her selfishness, but it was weak in the face of her yearning. Mama had alcohol, Madeline had art. Both were slaves to obsession.
“That’s…” His voice trailed as if the words were in there but he couldn’t grab them. “I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s beautiful.”
She set the vessel on the table where light sparkled and shimmered against the cut beads, giving the piece a life of i
ts own. His compliment filled her with warmth. “I’m hoping folks at the Santa Fe show think the same thing.”
He reached for the piece but stopped before touching it. “How do you do that? Glue?”
“They’re sewn on one bead at a time. I never use glue on vessels. You can’t know how happy I am this didn’t burn up. I’d never be able to replace it.”
“I’m sorry you lost everything else.”
“I knew the risk when I came here.” That was only half a lie. She had convinced herself that no one would know she was in the area. She poked through a box and found the phoenix vessel, with the thread still wrapped neatly around the neck and the needle tucked between the beads.
“I have to go back to town. The kitchen table is yours, so you can work. Same rule as yesterday. Do not, under any circumstances, open the door.”
Wanting to accept burned like hunger. She had no money for rent, no valuables to pawn, no way of even promising payment. Then she remembered the casserole he had fed her last night. A gray mush with overcooked noodles and colorless vegetables tasting of canned soup and salt. He kept a tidy house, but he didn’t know a lick about putting together a decent meal. “I can cook.”
He brightened with interest. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been told my biscuits are worth sitting down to and I respect a good cut of beef.” She lifted a shoulder. “I can earn my keep. For a few days, until I can figure out what to do.”
His focus went distant. He looked relaxed and not so weighted down this morning. His eyes were almost pretty, being so light against his dark complexion. In them were signs of hungering for good food.
“It might be more than a few days,” he said. “There’s the investigation and the fact that someone tried to seriously hurt you.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke first. “Can you make a pot roast? You know, with onions and carrots and dark gravy?”
“I can.”
His smile entranced her. Her naturally lusty nature, kept so carefully hidden, bubbled to the surface. She drank in the craggy, handsome lines of his face and the powerful musculature of his neck. She dared let her attention slip to the breadth of his shoulders and his lean belly snugged beneath the heavily laden utility belt. Imagining what lay beneath the tailored shirt and trousers warmed her blood. She had a weakness for big men with brawny arms and sexy voices and slow smiles. Carson had the slowest smile she had ever witnessed.
“Okay then,” he said. “There should be a roast in the freezer and produce on the bottom shelves in the pantry. Feel free to rummage for anything else you might need. I’ll be back around six-thirty.”
She rested her chin on her fist and frowned. Of all the places to find herself, this would have been the last she’d have ever imagined.
As engine noise faded, absorbed by the sough of wind against the house and the rumble of the swamp cooler, inspiration captured her. Within minutes she had her work in progress set up on the table and fresh wax on the thread. She picked up a bead and settled in to work.
Midmorning, unable to ignore the crick in her neck any longer, she set down the needle. She rose and stretched and rolled her head from side to side. She poured a cup of coffee. It was bitter and burned, having sat on the coffeemaker for hours, but she needed the caffeine jolt. Down the hall, through the front room, she stood at the window and studied the day. Thunderheads towered over the far horizon, brilliant white and steel-gray.
A movement flashed across her peripheral vision. She ducked and coffee splashed her shirt. She set the cup on the floor then crept to a window and peered outside.
Tony Rule jogged around the circular driveway. He wore very short running shorts and no shirt. A white sweatband was stark against his black hair. His skin gleamed in the sunshine.
Madeline was impressed that he’d been able to run up the mesa from his cabin. He ran a second circuit around the driveway. She wondered if he knew she watched him. He had come by the house last night. Madeline considered it prudent to stay upstairs while the men drank a beer on the porch.
Don’t open the door even for her best friend from second grade, Carson had said. She didn’t like following orders, but her throat was still sore from smoke inhalation and the cuts on her hands were tender. Good enough reasons to accept his caution.
Tony slowed to a walk and shook his arms and hands. He walked around the house. Curious, Madeline crept from window to window, trying to follow his progress.
His face popped into view. She tried to scream, but all that emerged was a strangled croak. She clutched the shirt material over her heart.
“Madeline!” He didn’t have an ounce of body fat and every muscle was sharply defined. His model-handsome face was greasy with sweat. “I didn’t know you were here.”
A nail prevented the window from opening more than a few inches. She touched the nail. Not even her best friend… “What are you doing?”
The wattage of his smile increased. “Stealing water from the faucet. How about some ice?”
“Carson isn’t here.”
“All the better says the big bad wolf. How are you doing? How are you feeling?”
She’d feel a whole lot better if she knew what to do.
Tony’s initial surprise meant Carson hadn’t told his neighbor about her staying in the house. He was serious about her not opening the door to anyone. “I have work to do. Nice seeing you again.” She dropped the curtain and returned to the kitchen.
Water rushed in pipes. The kitchen clock ticked off the seconds. When the water stopped, she relaxed. Far better for Tony to believe she was rude than for Carson to think she was stupid.
She glanced at the paper where Carson had written his cell phone number. No sense bothering him over nothing.
CARSON SLID into the leatherette booth across the table from Judy Green. On the walk to the diner, he had practiced in his head a nice way to fire Judy. There was no nice way. She smiled at him and his ears burned.
The lunch crowd had dispersed from the Big Rim Diner. Carson could tolerate the speculative stares and whispers from the few customers lingering over pie and coffee. Waitresses cleared tables and wiped down booth seats, while complaining loudly about the cheapskates who tied up tables and left miserly tips.
Across the street, old Luke sat on the stone steps, an American flag stuck in the planter beside him, and a handwritten sign saying Only Veterans Deserve To Vote. He held a newspaper and looked for someone to argue with.
The front-page story in today’s paper was about the fire on the Shay ranch. Dooley Duran was quoted regarding the suspicious origins of the fire and the valiant efforts that had prevented the fire from spreading. The sheriff gave a short statement about the unidentified body. The story mentioned Madeline’s name several times, so anyone who had missed the gossip about her arrival, or didn’t believe it, now had the truth in black-and-white.
“So what happened to that woman?” Judy asked. She had arrived before him and picked through a limp salad. “You know, his daughter. I hear she killed a guy and set the house on fire to cover it up. I wouldn’t be surprised considering her background and all. Apples don’t fall far, you know. Does scare me a bit to know she’s running around. Or did the sheriff pick her up?”
Her chatter eased his conscience. Around Ruff, the best ways to spread news were the telephone, television and tell Judy. It was time for a change. He hated Judy’s cooking and he was tired of everyone knowing the intimate details of his life.
“I asked you to meet me here…I, uh, don’t quite know how to say this, Judy. I’ll just come out and say it. I don’t need your services right now. I have to let you go.”
“Come again?”
“It’s not like I’m firing you,” he said. “I appreciate all you’ve done for me.”
“You can dress it in pretty words all you like,” she said, “but I’m still losing my job. You ain’t made complaints. What’s the matter?”
A waitress set a cup of coffee in front of Carson.
He thanked her, but she didn’t go far. Carson stirred the coffee until the waitress gave up on eavesdropping. By then Judy went red in the face and her eyes were watery. He’d rather be in the midst of a shoot-out with bank robbers than sitting with a weepy woman.
“Think of this as a vacation.”
“A vacation won’t pay the electric bill!”
“Beth Robertson is hiring over at the Double View Motel.”
“Beth only hires illegals. They work cheap.”
Sometimes, Carson thought, given half a chance to escape the small minds and petty prejudices of Ruff, he’d jump at it. “I’m sorry, Judy, I don’t need you right now. That’s that.” He brought out his checkbook. “I’ll pay you two weeks’ salary because this is such short notice.”
Judy slumped and twirled a strand of honey-colored hair around her finger. She was in her midtwenties with a pleasantly pretty face—though not so pretty at the moment with the way she scowled. “I thought you liked me.”
“I do like you. This is nothing personal.” He filled out a check, tore it from the book and handed it over.
She wrinkled her nose as she read it. “I mean, like me. You know, the way I like you. You have to be lonesome in that big house. It’s not right for a man to live the way you do. Without a woman and all.”
If there was any sexual attraction between them, he’d missed it. “I have to get back to work.” He scooted out of the booth.
“Carson, wait—”
“If I gave you any ideas, I’m sorry.”
Her mouth twisted in an ugly grimace. “You men are all alike.”
Alarms jangled in his head. He searched his memory for anything he might have done—an affectionate word, a touch—anything at all to make her think he considered her as anything other than an employee. His conscience was clear.
He jammed his hat on his head and made his escape.
Chapter Six
Carson hoped he never had to do that again. Firing police officers was an unpleasant aspect of his job, but sometimes he had no choice. Although a few fired officers had threatened revenge, none ever cried. Judy unsettled him.
