by B. J Daniels
“What can you tell me about Westfield?” he asked, just wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. “Leta mentioned you worked there?”
“Just until I could get another job and get out of there.”
“When was that?” he asked.
“Twenty-six years ago.”
At least her memory seemed intact. “Do you happen to remember a young woman named Caligrace? She had a young daughter. The girl would have been about four years old, dark hair and—”
“I was the cook. I stayed in the kitchen. When I wasn’t working, I locked myself in my room. That place was the scariest I’ve ever worked.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The woman who ran the place was a bitch—excuse my language, but she was. And those girls? Thieving, lying, horrible girls that no one wanted, most of them pregnant or hauling around babies that no one wanted.”
“Do you remember the name of the woman who ran the place?”
“Gladys. I’m surprised I even remember that.” She shook her head. “I was there only a few months that fall. I’ve never been so cold. One of the girls died, and we had to keep her body in the basement because the ground was frozen and we had to wait for the state to come and bury her.”
He shuddered inwardly. “It must have been horrible.”
“I couldn’t get out of there soon enough.”
He closed his notebook and rose to his feet. “Thank you. I appreciate your—”
“Aren’t you going to ask me about the murder?”
“You were at Westfield Manor then?”
She laughed hoarsely and repeated with contempt, “Westfield Manor.”
He lowered himself gingerly back to the edge of the couch and tried to breathe through his mouth as he opened his notebook again. The chill that ran the length of his spine felt like a sharp cold blade. “What do you remember about the murder?”
“One of the male caretakers was stabbed to death in his room. The killer was never caught, but we all knew it was someone inside the home. The doors were locked at night, not that it kept some of them in or others out. But the killings were done by someone who lived there. The knife used was one stolen from my kitchen.”
“Weren’t you terrified?”
“Why would I be? She was only killing men.”
“She?”
“Everyone knew it was one of the girls. Which one?” She shrugged. “I suspect they were all capable of it. For all I know, Gladys herself could have done it. The woman lied about everything. Like when that girl fell down the stairs. Everyone knew she was pushed.”
* * *
LAURA STOOD AT the top of the basement stairs, staring down into the dark. Don’t go down there. Her every instinct told her to let the past go. But her mother had dug it up like a grave digger determined to look death in the face no matter how gruesome. Or how painful.
A need she couldn’t explain made her reach inside the doorway and feel around for the light switch. Her mother was determined that she remember every hellhole she’d lived in as a child, including Westfield Manor.
She hadn’t known the name of the place. They had all run together to her.
“After your father left us, I didn’t have a choice but to take any job I could,” her mother had said earlier after almost frightening the life out of her.
“What do you want from me?” Laura had demanded. “Forgiveness? Fine, you’re forgiven for dragging me and Catherine around the country from one horrible place to another. Now you can die in peace.”
Her mother had begun to cry. “I can’t bear the thought of what will happen to you once I’m gone.”
“I’ll be fine. It isn’t like you were able to stop the bullet that took my leg or any of the other life-changing events in my life.”
“No, I haven’t protected you, have I?”
“You sound tired. You really should get some rest.”
“I am tired. The doctor said I could go at any time. Remember that prayer I taught you when you were a child? ‘Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake...’ You left out that last part.”
“Probably because I expected to die in my sleep. Or worse.”
Laura flipped the switch. A dim light blinked on deep in the darkness below her, revealing a set of steep narrow wooden stairs to the basement.
“This case you’re working on,” her mother had said. “Is it with the man you used to have as a police partner?”
“Homicide, but yes.”
“Laura, there is something I have to tell you.”
“I don’t want to hear some horrible thing you need to get off your conscience that I will have to live with for the rest of my life.”
“You have to stop investigating Westfield,” her mother had said.
“This case isn’t about that. I already told you that. It’s about some girl who lived there.”
She had started to leave her mother’s bedroom, when the woman grabbed her arm, forcing Laura to turn back to her. “I know you must have recognized her the first time you saw her photo.”
“Mother, I told you—”
“Caligrace. She looks just like her mother.”
“I told you. I don’t remember all the homes we lived in. Maybe she looked familiar. Maybe the name Westfield—”
“Your partner is investigating the murders!” her mother had cried. “Your cop partner. Oh, Laura, he’s setting you up, don’t you see that? He knows about us. He knows about...Catherine.”
She had shaken loose her mother’s grip and taken a step back from the bed. “It’s just a coincidence that this woman was at Westfield when we were. It has nothing to do with Catherine. Or you. Or me. You have always tried to poison my mind. I’m not letting you. Just die and take your secrets with—”
“Whether you believe it or not, I love you.” She’d reached into her pocket, pulled out her hand and held her closed fist out to Laura.
Laura had stared at the wrinkled hand for a moment before she’d let her mother drop a key into her palm. “What is this?”
“They say the truth will set you free. For your sake...” Her mother had closed her eyes. “It’s in the basement. Your father’s old trunk.”
Swallowing her fear now, Laura descended the steps into the damp, earthy-smelling space. It wasn’t a true basement, more like a crawl space under a house, because the floor was dirt, the ceiling so low she had to bend over to keep from bumping her head on the joists.
In the dim light, she spotted the trunk in a corner. It was an old army one with a large padlock on it, making Laura think of the day she’d asked about her father.
“He was in the army. His name was Roger.”
“Roger?” Catherine had laughed and rolled her eyes as if she thought their mother was joking with them. “Roger Dodger?”
“You didn’t know his last name?” Laura had asked innocently. She was all of eight.
“Of course I knew his last name. He lived with us for a while after you girls were born, but we never married. He was a nice man. Sweet, nice-looking,” their mother had said almost a little dreamily. “But he wasn’t cut out for a wife and a couple of crying kids.” Even at a young age, she’d heard the bitterness.
It was too dark in the basement to unlock the padlock. Anyway, the trunk wasn’t so large that she couldn’t pick it up. Pocketing the key, she lifted the trunk and carried it up the stairs into the kitchen.
The funky smell of the basement followed her. Putting the trunk on the kitchen table, she went back to close the basement door. She hadn’t looked in all the dark corners under the house, hadn’t wanted to know what else might be down there.
Back in the kitchen as she started to unlock the trunk, she stopped to look behind her. The house s
uddenly felt too quiet.
Moving slowly, almost tiptoeing, she walked down the hallway toward her mother’s bedroom.
The door was closed again. Laura was sure she’d left it open. Gooseflesh skittered over her skin. She stood listening before slowly opening the door.
Her mother still lay on the bed. But one arm dangled over the side, the hand splayed open. Her mother’s pillow was on the floor next to the bed. Something about that made Laura step into the room. She knelt to pick up the pillow and noticed there was a spot on it that looked almost like blood.
Drawing closer to the bed, she stared down at her mother. There was blood on her lip. Her eyes were open wide, her face frozen in a grimace. Laura felt her heart lunge as she caught a whiff of her sister’s perfume. Dropping the pillow, she stepped back from the bed. A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house.
“Catherine, I know you’re here.” Her voice broke with the fear she felt whenever her sister showed up. Bad things happened when Catherine was around. “Oh, Catherine,” she said as she stared at her mother. “What have you done?”
She thought she heard her sister’s laugh on the wind that buffeted the side of the house. The laugh was mocking, just as it had been when they were children.
Laura stood in the doorway of her mother’s room. Her shock had given away to a numbness. She tried to feel something other than sick with regret. Look what her mother’s precious Catherine had done. Even now, her mother would still have loved Catherine more, she thought as tears filled her eyes.
Standing there, she’d never felt so alone. She thought of the trunk she’d brought up from the basement and what might be inside it.
Throw it back down the stairs. Don’t let your mother win. She’s gone. She can’t hurt you anymore.
The doorbell rang, making her jump. She held her breath. It rang again.
Stepping out of the room, she shut the bedroom door behind her as she moved down the hallway feeling sick to her stomach.
On the front porch, a large dark figure pressed the doorbell again before moving from the small window in the door to the larger window that looked into the living room.
Laura watched the man cup his hands to his eyes as he leaned against the glass to peer inside. She moved quickly to the door and opened it.
“Hello,” he said and handed her his card. She glanced at it. Edwin Sharp, P.I.
“I’m looking for Gladys McCormick. I understand she lives here.”
Laura leaned against the doorjamb. “She did. I’m sorry, but she passed away earlier today. I’m her neighbor. I was just closing up the house for her.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NO MATTER WHAT Frank said, Nettie was convinced her theory would net her the name of the Beartooth Benefactor.
She spent her mornings in the café, watching her former general store being rebuilt. No expense was being spared to return it to its former glory.
That made her both sad that it wasn’t hers anymore and proud of whoever was restoring it. And grateful, too. She couldn’t have afforded to rebuild the store as it had been.
But it wasn’t the workers that she spent most of her time watching. She took in the cars that drove by, especially those that went by slow. She watched for anyone taking photos or just hanging out on the street.
With all the activity, her quest kept her busy.
“Frank said he’s been pushing you to set the date,” Kate said as she refilled Nettie’s cup with coffee. “What’s going on? I thought you were anxious to marry him.”
“I am,” she said, still watching the street. “I just can’t leave right now.”
“Oh?” Kate asked and glanced toward the window. “Are you having second thoughts about selling the store?”
“I need to know who’s behind this.”
Kate chuckled and sat down opposite her. “I thought you’d have the mystery solved by now.” She frowned. “If this person wants to stay hidden that badly, maybe you should forget what I said about investigating. Look what happened last time.”
“I doubt the Beartooth Benefactor will kill me for exposing his identity.”
“Is that what we’re calling him?” Kate chuckled. “I wouldn’t be so sure he wouldn’t kill you. Let’s face it—anyone investing as much money as they are here has to be more than a little crazy. Beartooth as a destination resort?” She scoffed. “So you might want to just let your curiosity not get the best of you this time.”
“Why do you think he’s doing it?” Nettie asked, looking out the window again.
“Other than being crazy?”
“Frank thinks it’s someone who used to live here who’s, like, on his deathbed and wants to do something for the town.”
“That’s one theory.”
“That cowboy, the dark handsome one, did he say what he is doing in town?” Nettie asked. “Didn’t he arrive the same day as the crews did?”
Kate nodded. “I heard he was looking for a small ranch to invest in.”
“What do we know about him?”
As the bell over the front door tinkled, Kate shrugged and pushed to her feet. “I think he’s interested in my waitress, so there better not be anything underhanded about him.”
Nettie blinked as Kate left to wait on whoever had come through the door. She’d forgotten all about Callie Westfield. Last year she’d hired a private investigator to find out what he could about Callie. As it turned out, he’d said he’d found something that Nettie would find interesting, but unfortunately, he hadn’t lived long enough to tell her what that information had been.
Was it possible Callie Westfield was the Beartooth Benefactor? Working as a waitress was great cover, if that were the case. Callie could watch the town change, listen to what everyone thought about it, and no one would be the wiser that she was behind it.
Or maybe Callie and the cowboy were in it together.
With a sigh, Nettie realized how improbable that was. No, she thought Frank was right. It was someone from around here. Someone with a soft spot for Beartooth.
* * *
GLADYS MCCORMICK WAS DEAD. Edwin put in a call to Rourke, knowing that the U.S. marshal was going to be as disappointed as he was.
The woman who’d answered the door said she was a neighbor and knew nothing about Gladys or where she might have worked, Edwin told him. “Apparently, Gladys stayed to herself, the neighbor said. She’d never even met her until Gladys called to say she wasn’t well. The neighbor went over this morning to find Gladys dead. I guess the mortuary had just picked her up before I got there.”
“That’s too bad.” Rourke sounded distracted.
Edwin thought about that street in Harlowton in front of Gladys McCormick’s house. He’d thanked the neighbor and walked back to his rental car, tired and ready for this assignment to end. But there had been something else bothering him as he’d looked back at Gladys McCormick’s house. He’d felt...spooked. He’d been in some dark places in his life, none quite as dark as this case, though, he’d thought, remembering being in Westfield Manor.
“I know you must be disappointed,” he told Rourke now. He hadn’t expected to get much out of Gladys McCormick—especially after what he’d heard about her. But he’d wanted to meet her and see if she was as evil as everyone said.
“I could try to get into the house after the neighbor leaves...” Edwin said, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
“I think you might do better finding out more about the murder that was committed at the girls’ home,” Rourke said. “Can you talk to that deputy you met again? Get me everything you can. I’m especially interested in the date of the murder.”
Edwin thought about just placing a call to Burt Denton, but the man hadn’t wanted to talk about it anymore. He knew if he hoped to get any useful information, he was going to hav
e to go back to Flat Rock. And he’d have to again see the burned-out shell of Westfield Manor and that room on the third floor. Even when he closed his eyes to sleep at night, he saw those crudely carved letters in the windowsill. Caligrace.
But this time, he was driving.
* * *
“I WAS THINKING about what you said, and I’d be bitter, too, if it was me,” Johnny Frank said as he and Carson Grant pulled up in front of Grant-West Ranch’s main house.
“Bitter? I thought you were the one telling me just the other day that I was lucky my sister gave me a job, a little land and a cabin to live in,” Carson Grant said as he sat taking in Destry’s new home. She and her husband, Rylan, had built it after their marriage. Now they had two small noisy twins, another kid on the way and what should have been Carson’s inheritance.
“I was wrong,” Johnny was saying now. Johnny had found out that Destry wasn’t even W.T.’s blood. Carson’s father had left everything to his bastard daughter. “The W Bar G should have been yours, lock, stock and barrel. You’re the old man’s son. Who leaves everything to someone else’s daughter? No, that just wasn’t right.”
“I gave it all up in a moment of weakness, okay?” Weak—wasn’t that what his father had always thought of him?
“Who gives up a fortune in a moment of weakness?”
“It’s a long story and not one I want to rehash. Destry got the ranch, married Rylan West and now they own the largest ranch in this part of the state. I’m happy for her.”
“Well, I’d be bitter as hell and trying to get what was rightfully mine back, if I were you.”
“You’re not me,” Carson snapped.
“Okay, but your old man’s cook lives better than you do. How in hell did she get the mansion your father built?”
“Simple. She loved him and I hated his guts.” He cut off any further conversation by shoving open the pickup door and climbing out. He didn’t want to talk about it, not today. He had other things on his mind. Number one on that list was Callie Westfield down at the café. He’d been chasing her relentlessly for months.
