by Lynn, Sheryl
He finished talking on the telephone. For all his size, his step was graceful and sure while he walked toward the house. It was easy to imagine him melting hearts on a dance floor.
She looked past him to the Buick. Bernie had eaten heartily, and even joked around. It boggled her mind, and scared her, too. How dead did a soul have to be in order to act so callous? “What happens next?”
“A forensics team is on the way. The medical examiner needs to take a look before we move the body.” His smile turned apologetic and he urged her inside the house. “It’ll take some time. So let’s talk about your sister. When exactly did she show up?”
She went to the stove to prepare a fresh pot of tea. She turned off the flame under a pot of soup. She didn’t have much of an appetite. “Day before yesterday, not too long after I got home from work. Five-thirty?”
“Is she armed?”
“With a weapon? Bernie is not violent.” She felt like an idiot. She knew what her sister was and what she was capable of doing, and still, she hadn’t heeded her instincts. “I’m sorry for not telling you about her earlier.”
“What’s done is done. Did you ask her why she was here?”
“When she lied about the gunshot wound, I knew it was useless to ask questions. I don’t think she knows the difference between fact and fantasy.” It was always this way with Bernie. Heartbreaking love, boundless sorrow, pathetic hope, raging fury. Turmoil unsettled her blood and soured her stomach.
“Diana?”
Her eyes burned and her throat ached. A good cry would flush the toxins from her system, but now was not the time. “She said she’d gone to Phoenix to visit Mother. She didn’t know Mother had died.”
“When did she pass?”
She sniffed back the urge to weep. “Five years ago. When Mother was ill, she asked me to find Bernie. I was the good daughter, taking care of Mother, seeing to her every need. And all she wanted was Bernie.” She swiped a hand across her eyes and drew a deep breath. The past was past. Life was now. “It’s not up to me to decide how others should feel.”
“How did Bernie take the news about your mother’s death?”
“She asked if Mother had left her any money.”
“Did she?”
“Certainly. Mother left me a house and this property. The bulk of her estate goes to Bernie.” She lowered her face and focused on the emotions climbing through her chest. “When Mother was sick, Bernie called collect several times. I refused the calls until she stopped trying. Pretty shabby on my part. I’m still ashamed of what I did.”
“How can Bernie get her hands on her inheritance?”
“By contacting the executor. His name is Hugh Bardenow.” She spelled the name for him. “I don’t have his telephone number or address. Sorry. He’s a partner in the law firm of Beatty, Brush and Bardenow in Scottsdale, Arizona.”
“So she’s in Vegas, then makes it to Kingman where she steals the car. How old do you think the gunshot wound is?”
Bernie’s injury worried Diana. If the bullet had nicked bone, the infection could be originating from there. That type of infection could easily turn into gangrene. “It was scabbed over, but inflamed. The bruising was turning green. I’d say three or four days old when she arrived.”
God, she prayed, all that happens is part of Your greater plan. Help me remember I have the strength to deal with whatever comes. She scrunched her eyelids. And please, please, please keep Bernie safe.
Tate touched her arm. He had lovely eyes, dark velvety brown, framed by thick black brows. Intelligent, expressive eyes, quick and sharp. She drew from them strength and sympathy. He patted her hand. “We’ll find her.”
She poured tea, and added a dollop of honey to hers. She sipped, focusing on the sweet warmth and soothing fragrance. Bernie chose her own path. When it happened to cross Diana’s, all she could do was ride out the tempest.
“This isn’t making sense,” he said.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew Bernie. She’s a, um, chaotic personality.”
“She’s got a hot car and a corpse. It makes sense to ditch both. But if she has a lot of money waiting for her in Phoenix, why steal a horse?” He grinned widely. “Ha! Because the campgrounds are filling up and folks in the great outdoors aren’t that careful about their property.”
“She’ll steal another car and head for Phoenix?” Her belly lurched queasily. “Oh my lord, did she kill the person in the Buick?”
“I have no idea.” He focused on the notes he wrote. “Does she have friends around here?”
Diana gave the question careful consideration. Her family spent many vacations in the Maya Valley. Her father had meticulously planned their days, as ferociously driven in recreation as he had been about his career. There had been no time for either sister to make friends with the locals.
“I can’t think of anyone.”
A vehicle’s lights flashed across the windows. Tippy leaped to his feet and pricked his ears. Tate went to the door. “Is there anything outdoors you absolutely have to do?”
“Not really.”
“Hang out in here then. It’ll take hours to process the car. Are you all right?”
She flashed her most reassuring smile. “Don’t worry your pretty head about me.”
He went outdoors to meet the sheriff.
Before too long, official vehicles and people filled the driveway and yard. Halogen lamps illuminated the crime scene. A rattling generator disturbed the silence of the night. When an ambulance arrived, Diana watched through the window. A man examined the corpse. The medical examiner, she supposed, officially declaring the body deceased.
As morbidly fascinating as the crime scene was, Diana pulled away from the windows. She tried to read, but after catching herself reading the same paragraph over and over, she gave up. She tried some housework, but kept ending up at the windows. Finally, she threw herself into the task of making bread. She mixed ingredients by hand, stirring the increasingly stiff dough until her arm ached. Kneading the dough further eased tension from her aching soul.
She was dozing on the sofa when Tate knocked on the door. “Come in,” she called, and stretched. She yawned mightily and pushed off the sofa. Chilled, she rubbed her arms. “Are you finished? What time is it?”
“After midnight. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
She waved off his concern.
He sniffed the air. “Is that bread?”
“Honey whole wheat, my specialty. I always do my best baking when I’m upset. So what did you find out?”
“Victim’s a male. Fifty-two years old. Brown hair, slight build. A parole card identifies him as Timothy James Robertson of Las Vegas, Nevada. Ring any bells with you?”
She gave it some thought, useless as it was. “No. Cause of death?”
“You don’t want to know details.”
“I’m not delicate.”
He looked over his shoulder at the blaze of lights. “He was shot, at least twice. Looks like he bled out. He’s been dead maybe four days, maybe five. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”
She intuited he held back something important. “Did Bernie murder him?”
“Too soon to tell.” He closed the door. “We found an empty ammunition box. We have to go with the assumption that your sister is armed and dangerous.”
Diana dropped onto a chair. She rested her face on her hands. She knew what Tate implied. If Bernie did anything reckless when approached by law officers, she could end up dead.
“I’m sorry,” Tate said.
“She chose her path. She’ll have to deal with the consequences. Want some bread?” Without awaiting his reply, she walked to the stove. It had taken months to learn how to properly use the old propane fueled stove and how to deal with the altitude. She rarely burned anything these days. She pulled a serrated bread knife from a wooden holder. There wasn’t enough bread to slice in all the world to lessen her worry about her wayward sister.
“Do you have a photograp
h we can circulate?”
“No.”
“What about of yourself?”
She paused in the midst of slicing. The few photos she’d kept from her former life seemed to be of a total stranger. “You can take mug shots of me. If I pull my hair back, I’ll look pretty much like her. She’s thinner than me, though. I’d say she doesn’t weigh more than one twenty. I’m closer to one forty.”
He made a strangled sound.
“Did I say something funny?”
He shook his head, but the way he fought a smile said otherwise. “I’ve never had a female volunteer her weight before.”
She looked down at herself. She’d put on a few pounds and felt healthier for it. “It’s only meat. More or less of it doesn’t change who I am.” She piled sliced bread on a plate and opened a jar of homemade apple butter.
He inhaled deeply, his eyelids lowering. “I shouldn’t…” He slathered apple butter on a slice of bread and bit into it. “Does Consuela know you make bread like this?”
“I wouldn’t dare even suggest messing around in her kitchen. So what happens next?”
“I’d like for you to stay in McClintock. It isn’t safe here.”
“In case Bernie comes back?” She shook her head. “She’ll steal from me, but she won’t hurt me.” She almost claimed that her sister had never been violent, but Bernie sported a gunshot wound and there was a corpse in a stolen car. “At least, I don’t think she would. And, I have to take care of my animals. Not to mention, there’s that darned bear.”
“You have a pet bear?” His face wrinkled in comical confusion.
She laughed. “No! A bear destroyed two of my hives last fall. He came back this spring. I put up a fence, but you haven’t seen persistence until you’ve seen this bear.”
“Have you contacted the wildlife people?”
“I don’t want him hurt. I just want him to leave my hives alone.”
He swung his head and his big shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Your welfare comes before the animals. You need to leave.”
The sheriff knocked on the door and Diana invited him indoors. He was about her height, but stocky and powerfully built. She watched him take in the house. Unlike Tate, whose expressive face had registered surprise, bemusement and amusement, Gil Vance merely swept the place with his impassive gaze. She invited him to sit and offered him some bread. He refused both.
“The state police and forest service are checking out camp grounds and trail heads. If she runs into searchers or road blocks, she may double back. I want you to vacate this house until your sister is in custody.”
Diana bit back protests that Bernie wasn’t violent. She no longer felt certain about anything concerning her sister. “Even if Bernie doesn’t believe I’d report my stolen horse, she has to realize I’d eventually discover the body. She won’t come back.”
“Depends on how desperate she gets. If you can’t afford to stay in a hotel or a bed and breakfast, I’ll find someone to put you up until your sister is taken into custody.”
“No.”
“We’re hoping it won’t take—No?” His eyebrows drew into a deep frown. “This isn’t a matter for debate, Diana.”
“I already explained to Tate. I can’t leave my animals.”
“Diana,” Tate said, “Be reason—”
“I’m not being unreasonable. I understand your concerns. But I can’t leave.”
The sheriff scowled and shifted his stance into one of aggressive authority with his shoulders back and his fists on his narrow hips. “There’s protective custody.”
She smiled. “If you’re trying to scare me, Gil, it won’t work. I know what a big softie you are.” She noticed Tate pulling his chin and pointedly not looking at the sheriff. “If you’d like, I’ll sign a waiver, releasing you from any responsibility for me in this matter.”
“Is she always this stubborn?” Gil asked Tate.
“Usually she’s worse.”
Gil muttered under his breath, then shook his head. “Whether you’re here or not, I’m posting a man on this property in case your sister returns.”
“She won’t.”
“For her sake,” Gil said. “I hope she does.”
Chapter Four
Tate strode into the Track Shack and stopped short in amazement. It wasn’t even nine in the morning and all tables were occupied, and people lined the bar. The air was heavy with conversation and the smell of bacon and huevos rancheros. Both weekend waitresses were circulating with coffeepots. Unable to account for why the place was so busy, he blinked at the sight.
He was wired, buzzing, itchy for action. He’d worked all night on the Robertson homicide, cursing the sketchy information available, but excited by it, too. Before he’d moved to McClintock, he’d been a New York City homicide detective. Investigating was in his blood, and he was fired up—even if Gil couldn’t decide if it was their case or not.
No one knew where Robertson had been shot or where he’d died. Gil wanted to hand the case over to the state police; they had the budget for a proper investigation. Tate had convinced the sheriff to hold off playing musical-jurisdictions until after they picked up Bernadette.
He needed sleep, but doubted if he could shut off his brain. A decent cup of coffee was the next best thing.
Diana pushed through the kitchen doors. She balanced a laden tray on one hand. He spotted her, she spotted him and in unison they frowned.
People shouted questions at him about the homicide. He recognized regulars, but quite a few customers were people who’d never stepped inside the Shack before. He waved off the curiosity, telling people he couldn’t discuss an active case. He guessed the major topic of conversation throughout the valley was the body found on Diana’s farm.
Finally, he said, “Read about it in the newspaper,” and escaped into the kitchen.
Diana brought him a cup of coffee. She looked him up and down. He still wore his uniform. He needed a shower.
“What are you doing?” she asked. “I thought you were in back, asleep.”
He gulped a slug of coffee. Ahh. The sludge Gil insisted was coffee tasted like motor oil. This was manna. “Haven’t been to bed yet. And I could ask you the same thing. Isn’t it Saturday?”
“I couldn’t stay home. Too antsy. I saw how busy Susan and Anne were, so decided to help. Which was a mistake, since everyone wants to talk about Bernie and the body. I don’t know what to say.” She tugged his tie. “You look awful.”
He saluted with the coffee cup. ‘Thanks.
“Have you learned anything?” she asked.
He rubbed the back of his neck. At the moment, all he had were questions with not a single answer in sight. Consuela was giving him the evil eye. He leaned in close and spoke for Diana’s ears only. “Come on back to my apartment. I’ll fill you in.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Afraid so.” He glanced at his watch. “Give me ten minutes to shower. See if you can sweet-talk Consuela into making me up something to eat. I don’t care what. I’m so hungry, I’d eat sawdust.”
In the relative quiet of his apartment, the shower relaxed him almost too much. He caught himself drowsing under the spray. He cut off the water and stepped out. He wiped steam off the bathroom mirror and stared into his bleary eyes. At thirty-eight, he wasn’t a kid anymore, able to run non-stop for days at a time. He thought about shaving, decided not to, and dressed in a clean T-shirt and jeans. Diana knocked on the door and he welcomed her inside.
She set down a tray loaded with a bowl of stew, a hamburger on a whole wheat bun and a salad. The brown bread made him curl his lip. She was always badgering him to stop eating white flour and sugar. At the moment, he was too hungry to gripe.
Diana sat across the table from him. She appeared to be in no hurry to hear whatever bad news he had to share. She looked around the efficient apartment. Her gaze lingered longest on the overflowing bookshelves.
Odd embarrassment trickled through him. This apartmen
t was functional, nothing more. A place to sleep, store his belongings and work on his computer. Compared to Diana’s pretty house, it was a slum.
Who cared? he told himself harshly and concentrated on the food.
He finally leaned back and patted his belly. A yawn escaped before he could stop it. “So, about your sister.”
Her chest rose and sank in a silent sigh.
“She’s got quite a rap sheet. Most of the charges are for non-violent crimes. Drugs, kiting bad checks, prostitution.”
“Most?” she asked.
“She did some hard time in prison. Armed robbery. That’s where she was when your mother died.”
She placed a hand over her mouth.
“Robertson is quite the gentleman, too. Lucky him, he won’t be going back to the slammer. Not that he’ll be missed. He’s a serial sex offender.”
“A rapist?”
“That, too.”
“Why did they let him out of prison?”
“I don’t believe those scumbags are ever rehabilitated, but parole boards don’t share my views. Anyway, it’s not the sex offenses that makes this interesting. It’s armed robbery. He has a habit of hitting places where he can take hostages. Specifically, young female hostages. I put in a query to Kingman to see what kind of trouble they’ve had lately.”
“Was Bernie that man’s hostage?”
“I doubt it. There are signs that she tried to stop his bleeding. It looks like they’ve been together for a while. We found receipts in the car that show she went from Kingman to the Phoenix area, then up the back way through northern Arizona and into Colorado.”
“They were shot committing a robbery?”
He popped a pickle slice in his mouth. From where he sat the futon that served as both bed and couch was visible behind Diana. The futon cover was dark green; the way her hair looked against it distracted his fuzzy brain.
“Tate?”
He blinked rapidly. She repeated the question and he replied, “Anything is possible.”
Her face was calm, but she was folding a scrap of paper into increasingly tiny squares.
