by Rachel Grant
There’d been no order to the boxes, no numbering. The only label was the word “mom” written in a child’s messy scrawl. Anger at Jack surged. How could he have left it to Jason to pack his mother’s belongings? He might be an excellent businessman but as a father he was as bad as her own. Jason had lost his mother. He’d been an only child, with no one to turn to but his father. She wondered whether Jack was too lost in his own grief to care about his son’s.
At least Libby had had her younger brother and sister. After their father abandoned them the first time, their mother had been so devastated she could do nothing but stare at the empty chair at the head of the kitchen table. Days and weeks and months went by, and no one, not even the cat, was allowed to sit in their father’s chair. During that time, her mother slowly disappeared. It was as if every time she looked at her children she saw the reason their father left.
Libby had been eleven years old, Maggie seven, Graham five. Their mother provided them with a home, food, and clothing. Libby did the rest. In third grade, Maggie begged for ballet classes. It took Libby two months to steal enough money from their mother’s wallet to pay for the class. She bought Maggie shoes and a leotard from a thrift store, and once a week for four months, she loaded Graham onto the handlebars of her bicycle while Maggie rode alongside on her own bike to her sister’s dance class. She had waited in the back of the room with a restless Graham and the other kid’s mothers. If Libby hadn’t had Graham and Maggie to take care of, she probably would have ended up as lost as her mother.
But Jason had no brothers or sisters. He often called his father by his first name. He treated him with the respect of a colleague, not a parent. Had anyone been there for Jason in the first months and years after his mother disappeared? She couldn’t imagine Laura or Earl Montgomery stepping up to the task, but perhaps James, the most sensitive and reasonable Montgomery, had taken on a paternal role. He seemed to have a different relationship with Jason.
Finally, Libby came to a stack of transcripts of oral interviews with Kalahwamish tribal members. These were arguably the most valuable pieces of Angela’s research, because several of the elders she’d interviewed were now deceased.
Libby carefully placed the first page of the transcript of the interview with Frances Warren on the glass. Rosalie’s mother had been a revered elder in her time, and from Rosalie’s own words she was the major supporter of Angela’s research. She would have been a vital source of information. Libby was surprised to see that the transcript was only five pages long. She flipped to the last page, seeing that it cut off mid-sentence at the bottom, clearly in the middle of a story. The rest was missing.
She looked through the stacks of pages but didn’t find the rest of Frances Warren’s interview. Frances might have told Angela exactly what she wanted the world to know about Lyle Montgomery, which was exactly what Libby needed.
She sat on the floor and stared at the remaining four boxes that Mark had told her not to open. She only had until next Friday to finish the report. One week and one day, and she was still compiling information. She hadn’t even begun writing yet.
Frances’ interview could be the key.
Jason had placed limits on what she could publish—no supposition, no conjecture—and authentication of Frances’ transcript might be necessary. That would be nearly impossible if the transcript was incomplete. What she really needed was the tape of the actual interview.
She hadn’t come across any tapes in Angela’s boxes, but she was certain Angela would’ve kept the tapes. She picked up one of the sealed boxes. It was heavy, and when she shook it, the contents barely shifted inside the cardboard box. Probably books and papers packed tightly. The second box weighed slightly less, but felt like it was full of the same mishmash of papers that had been in the other boxes.
The third box was lighter than the other two and made a distinctive rattling sound as she shook it. It sounded like plastic cassette tapes.
If she failed to get Jack his permit she’d never recover, not financially, not professionally. If she failed to get him the permit before the fieldwork phase was even complete, then the project would have no reason to continue. She’d invested too much in this project up front. She’d have to lay off the crew and wouldn’t be able to recoup most of the upfront costs. Worse, no one would hire someone who couldn’t even get a simple Section 404 wetland permit from the Corps of Engineers.
The Cultural Center wouldn’t be built and, while controversial, it would still provide jobs for Coho and the tribe and prevent Coho from becoming another dead logging town.
Angela’s husband and son had given her the boxes expressly for the purpose of looking through them and using the information she found. But Mark had asked her to leave them sealed. If she opened the box, would she be breaking the law? No court had issued an injunction, or whatever type of ruling that would prohibit her from cutting the tape that sealed the box.
Mark believed any evidence they might contain was more likely to be admissible in court if they remained sealed. But presumably the cops had gone through Angela’s stuff years ago, when they investigated her disappearance. If they didn’t find anything then, then why would these boxes be so important now? What were the odds this one particular box would be key to Mark’s investigation?
If she’d just opened this damn box yesterday it wouldn’t be an issue. And she needed the cassettes.
She quickly sliced through the tape, lifted the flaps, and looked inside. An open shoebox of cassettes sat on top of a stack of notebooks and papers. They were here. She sat back for a moment, relieved. She counted the tapes. There were twenty-two, three of which were labeled “Frances Warren.” She needed to copy them.
She grabbed her purse and headed to the general store, which was just a quick walk up the road. She bought out the store’s limited supply of blank cassettes and returned to the Shelby house. She opened the first package, wondering what sort of catastrophe the manufacturers expected the tapes to undergo to have wrapped them so securely, and then put the blank tape in one side of the dual cassette deck in the living room stereo, and dropped the first Frances tape in the other. Thank goodness Angela hadn’t used eight-track tapes, which would have been common in the seventies. Libby hit the record and play buttons simultaneously.
Angela’s voice filled the room. Libby had gone through this woman’s research. She lived in one of her houses, knew her husband and son, and had, in fact, probably even handled her skull, yet she’d never seen a photo of Angela Caruthers. And now she heard her voice.
Frances Warren spoke, giving Angela permission to tape the conversation. The cadence of Frances Warren’s voice told Libby as loud as her words that she was a Northwest Indian. A linguistics expert would easily be able to authenticate this tape, if necessary.
As eager as Libby was to listen, she still had hours of photocopying to do, so she went upstairs and resumed making copies, returning downstairs every half hour to turn over or switch tapes.
At six thirty, she stopped making copies so she could get ready for dinner with the crew. She’d almost finished copying the papers, but only managed to copy four tapes. She changed into her favorite casual dress and wondered whether she should move all her clothes to Simone’s. Instead, she packed an overnight bag. She’d be back tomorrow anyway. She locked up the Shelby house and then headed to Simone’s so they could drive together to the tavern.
HE WATCHED HER LEAVE the house a few minutes before seven. Would she return here or spend the night at the apartment?
Or worse, go home with the cop?
It didn’t matter, he told himself. He was prepared. He had his plan. Mark Colby was expendable. If need be, he could make the blonde’s death look like an accidental victim of Libby Maitland’s psychosis. A friend who had gotten in the way.
Yesterday he’d taken her spare Taser cartridge and gotten the gas cans, the duct tape, her belt, the pillowcase, and the wine bottle he’d stashed in the backyard shed. He had lighter fluid, which
would work like ether to knock out the cop or the bimbo, if necessary. No matter where she went tonight, he’d attack.
If she lived, she would be arrested. If she died, all the better. She’d be out of the way and the evidence would still lead back to her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WHEN LIBBY AND SIMONE arrived at Coho Tavern, they found the crew settled in for the evening with Luke Roth, Sara Eversall, and two other men, both Coho police officers.
Libby took a seat next to an officer name Roger. Simone took a seat on her other side.
Roger said, “I get to meet the Wolf Lady at last.”
“Excuse me?” Libby said, feeling as if she must have missed the first part of the conversation.
“Just a little joke. You’ve called the station so many times in the last week with no real evidence to back up your calls. It looks like you’re crying wolf. But don’t worry, we’ll always respond to a pretty thing like you.” Roger winked at her.
“Roger, don’t be an idiot,” Sara Eversall said. “Tuesday morning someone sprayed cow’s blood all over a wall in her house and smashed artwork with a pickaxe. If you think that’s crying wolf, go back to the academy.”
The officer turned red. “I guess the name doesn’t really apply anymore,” he mumbled and the conversation around the table resumed.
Libby smiled a thank-you to Sara and studied the menu to hide her anxiety. After the waitress took her drink order, she tentatively entered the conversation, fully aware of the chill that had settled over the table the moment she sat down. The male officers exhibited barely cloaked suspicion, making her wish the two groups hadn’t combined.
Her gaze met Mark’s across the artificially darkened bar, and her mood lightened. Maybe there was hope for this evening after all. He walked up behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders, leaned down, and spoke softly into her ear, sending shivers down her spine. “Purple.” He pinched her eggplant-colored linen dress just above her bra strap, rolling the fabric between his fingers. “I didn’t see this color on the drying rack in your basement.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder.
“This calls for further investigation.”
Simone jumped up. “Sit here, Chief, I need to make a phone call.” She winked at Mark as she walked away. Mark took her vacated seat and draped his arm along the back of her chair. Libby’s tension evaporated.
The waitress returned with a tray of beers. “Evenin’, Mark. You want a black and tan or a ginger ale tonight?”
“Better make it ginger ale, Heather.”
“You got it.” She turned to Libby. “You ready to order, ma’am?”
“Simone, the blonde who stepped outside, wants the salmon burger and fries. I’d like the fish and chips.”
“I’ll have the same,” Mark said. He took a sip of Libby’s beer uninvited, an intimate action that caused warmth to invade her belly.
The waitress’s gaze went to his arm draped on her chair. Mark had an admirer.
Simone returned and several seats shifted, but Mark stayed by her side. He leaned back and held her gaze. “I wasn’t planning to be here tonight, but Sara called. I’m thinking a promotion may be in order.”
She glanced at the lone woman officer of the group, who smiled when Libby caught her eye. Well, at least there was one cop besides Mark who didn’t think she’d been crying wolf.
For the next hour, conversation flowed across the table as the cops and archaeologists traded stories. The novelty of having a new crowd to hang out with might save Libby’s crew from the coming factionalism. The fact that the new friends were cops meant Libby wouldn’t spend her nights worrying the crew was out drinking with no plan to get home. It would be a refreshing change as most field crews consumed enormous amounts of alcohol. The only way to ensure that no one drank and drove was when the project took place in a remote area that required camping. Then the trick was to get from the campfire to the tent without breaking a leg.
After they finished their meal, Mark took her hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
Pleasure mixed with a small amount of dread. She’d have to tell him about the box she’d opened today. She looked to Simone, who’d driven her to the bar. Simone waved her off. “Just remember socks don’t count.”
Libby laughed. In college they had shared a rule: when dating someone new, one had to keep two items of clothing on at all times. Of course, it was just one of many rules Libby adhered to and Simone circumvented with ingenuity. Good thing for Libby she’d been paying attention and knew exactly how to get around the old rule.
“Where are we going?” she asked as she climbed into Mark’s car.
“For a drive.”
She leaned back in her seat, not willing to tell him about the box yet. She wanted time alone with him. As he drove, she told him stories about the history of Coho and about the Thorpe and Warren families. Nearly one-third of Kalahwamish tribal members had the last name Warren and the rest were related to a Warren. Family history was tribal history.
“I’ve noticed you generally say ‘Indian,’ not ‘Native American.’ Isn’t Native American the current correct term?” Mark asked.
“In my reports, I use the term Native American. It’s clearer than ‘indigenous peoples’ or ‘hunter-fisher-gatherers’ or whatever is currently being promoted. In writing, I have to be politically correct. But in speech I use the word Indian, because that’s what most Indians call themselves. I’ve never heard an Indian say, ‘a Native American friend of mine…’ or ‘a descendant of hunter-fisher-gatherers I know….’ The Indians I know prefer the term Indian.”
“Why did you become an archaeologist?”
“I’ve always loved history and archaeology. When I was a sophomore in college, I suddenly realized that I wanted to study what interested me the most—not necessarily what could get me the best job or even a job.”
“Your parents must have been thrilled,” he laughed.
“I put myself through school. My dad wasn’t around much, but he was a history buff. Whenever he showed up—and I’m talking about after at least a two- or three-year absence—he would bring lots of gifts to try to buy us off. Not normal children’s gifts, but biographies, history books, things like that. I devoured them. I don’t know if I was trying to please him—hoping he’d stick around if we appreciated what he’d brought us—or if I read them because I was genuinely interested in the subject matter. Somewhere along the way I got hooked.” She left unsaid Simone’s theory that she went into archaeology to win her father’s approval.
“I had a harder time convincing my brother and sister that archaeology was a good major—we’ve always taken care of one another. And I’ve always been able to support myself. My sister the journalism major can’t say that.” She paused, realizing she didn’t know anything about his family. “I’m the oldest of three. What about you?”
“I have two sisters. I’m the oldest.”
“Were you the bossy older brother type or the protective kind?”
“They’re five and seven years younger than me, so I was protective—I still am. But I was pretty bossy, too. I was in Seattle by the time they were in high school, so I wasn’t able to be as protective as I wanted to be.”
“Did you use your police uniform to intimidate their dates?”
“As often as I could.”
“And cleaned your gun in front of them?”
“Only once. I really didn’t like the guy my sister was dating.”
He turned off the main roadway and onto a narrow state park access road. He parked near the beach and shut off the engine. “Let’s walk.”
As she walked toward the rocky beach, she was glad she’d chosen to wear the linen dress. Straight and slender with buttons down the front, the dress made her feel feminine every time the soft fabric brushed against her legs. The sensation intensified in his presence, proving her theory that things you liked were even better in the company of someone you were attracted to.
They c
rossed the beach to the water’s edge. The tide was high and still coming in. Tiny waves lapped the shore. They strolled along the water’s edge in silence. At the far end of the beach, she picked up a stick and stirred the water to see the bioluminescence. Glowing tendrils flashed in the swirling liquid.
Mark’s hands slid over her hips. She dropped the stick and turned in his arms. The late July Pacific Northwest twilight cast him in sepia colors. His intent look made her belly flutter. She found it difficult to breathe.
He slowly smiled.
“That smile should be made illegal.”
His dimple deepened and he kissed her with a confidence that turned her on as much as his lips did. She twisted her fingers in his hair in matching rhythm to the hot strokes of his tongue.
He broke the kiss and leaned his forehead against hers. “I’ve got a problem. I’m working on an extremely important murder investigation, yet you’re all I want to think about. You’re hell on my work schedule.”
Her lips trailed along his cheek. She nipped his earlobe. “I’m having the same problem.”
“I want you to know, I don’t play around. I’m not seeing anyone else.”
“I don’t, and I’m not, either.”
“Good. Now, I need to know something almost as important…” He deftly unbuttoned the top three buttons of her dress. The cool evening air hit bare skin, causing her nipples to harden even more underneath her purple satin bra.
“Purple. Just as I suspected.”
She grinned. “You should be a detective.”
“Smart ass.” He reached out and cupped a breast in each hand, rubbing his thumbs over the satin bra that hid her aching nipples from view. He kissed the rounded flesh above the cups. His hands slipped down her sides to hold her steady as his mouth moved ever closer to the satin of her bra. She pulled his face back to hers and kissed him hot and hard on the mouth.
She ended the kiss and glanced around the deserted beach. “Isn’t this the sort of thing you ticket people for?”
