Shotgun Moon

by K. C. McRae

  toward them, ignoring the twinge in her ankle. In the paddock outside Izzy’s stall, a woman stood stroking the mare’s neck and talking to her in a high-pitched voice better reserved for babies and Pomeranians.

  “Oh, and aren’t you a sweetheart? What a pretty girl!” Izzy nibbled at her fingers. “Is you hungry? Does the pretty girl want a little snack?” With her other hand she reached into her pocket.

  Merry walked through the open gate and up behind the woman. “Don’t even think about feeding my mare. And don’t ever offer your fingers to a strange horse unless you’re willing to lose them.”

  The woman whirled, then laughed. “Oh, you scared me. But don’t worry—this little darling and I are no strangers. We met just the other day.”

  Smooth blonde hair capped her skull, framing a heart-shaped face. Small-featured, tan and pretty, the effect was marred by her thinness, so extreme that her head looked too large for her body. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds.

  “She is a girl, isn’t she?”

  Merry sighed. “Yes. Most mares are.” She studied the woman. “So you’ve been here before.”

  “Mr. Spalding brought us out the other day, but the owner wasn’t here—is that you? We looked around a bit. The house was locked, so we couldn’t see the inside, but we were able to check out everything else. Including this sweet horse.” She turned and hugged Izzy.

  “You tried to go in my house?”

  “Well, of course. After all, if we’re going to buy the property, we have to be able to see what we’re getting.”

  “You’re not going to buy the property. It’s not for sale.”

  The woman took a step back, a small frown creasing her brow. “It’s not?”

  “No. It’s not. You’re trespassing. And you endangered my horse by leaving the gate open so she could get out the last time you were here nosing around. She might have run away, or injured herself. Of all the thoughtless—”

  “Hey now, hey now, no need to fly off the handle there. You are a prickly one, yes, you are.” T. J. Spalding and another man approached through the gate and walked toward them. His companion, tall with a thatch of dark unruly hair and an open face, watched them.

  Izzy pushed past the blonde woman and came to Merry, who walked her into the stall and shut the half door.

  She heard the woman whisper behind her. “Look how that horse follows her. Can you teach them to do that?”

  Merry gestured the trio out of the paddock before closing the gate. As she latched it behind them, she shot a pointed look at the woman, who blushed. Spalding had reached the porch and had his hand on the door before he noticed Merry and the couple had stopped in the middle of the yard. He jogged back to them. The few steps of exertion left him panting.

  “Now listen here, Ms. McCoy—” Spalding began, but the other man held up his hand.

  “I’m Thomas Brentwood, and this is my wife, Theodora.”

  “You can call me Tee.”

  She gave a little nod. “Merry McCoy.”

  “Ms. McCoy, you own this property?” Brentwood’s mellifluous voice sounded like it had been aged in an oak casket for twenty years.

  “Yes. And you’re trespassing.”

  Brentwood raised his eyebrows. “We’ve been given to believe that this property is on the market.”

  Merry narrowed her eyes at Spalding.

  Brentwood looked displeased. “Apparently that’s not the case. Perhaps Mr. Spalding here was mistaken.”

  “No,” Merry said. “I was very clear.”

  “I see.” Brentwood shifted his gaze to the shorter man beside him. “T. J.?” A vein of iron ran through his smooth voice.

  Spalding blanched. “Well, I … of course she’s going to sell.” Regaining his cockiness, he spoke to Merry. “Sure you are, sure you are. Your mother is unfortunately deceased, and you don’t want to stay around here where everyone knows what happened down in Texas. You’re a pariah. Why would you keep the place when you have buyers standing right here in front of you that are very—very—interested and able to take it off your hands?”

  “T. J.,” Brentwood said.

  “Exactly what do you think happened ‘down in Texas,’ Mr. Spalding?” Sarcasm laced Merry’s tone.

  “I asked around,” Spalding said. “I know.”

  “I just bet you do.” She turned to the other man. “Listen, Mr. Brentwood, I’m sorry you wasted your time coming out here, but I’m not selling.”

  “I won’t say I’m not disappointed. We really like the place.” Brentwood smiled.

  Merry smiled back. It wasn’t his fault Spalding was such a little prick.

  “Oh, you’re being downright unreasonable, Ms. McCoy,” Spalding said.

  “T. J., please wait for us by the car,” Brentwood said without looking at him. Reluctant, Spalding drifted to stand by his vehicle, a big sulk all over his soft little face.

  “Honey,” Tee Brentwood said. “You made him mad.”

  Brentwood shrugged. “Sorry about all this, Ms. McCoy.”

  “Merry is fine.”

  “Okay. And I’m Thomas. You don’t have to worry about us bothering you again.”

  “Thank you. Now if I could just get it through to Mr. Spalding that his time is wasted here.”

  Brentwood frowned. “I have some friends on the real estate commission. I’ll see what I can do to help you out with that.”

  “You don’t need to do that. He should take the hint this time.”

  “It’s just a phone call. And maybe you’ll let me know if you hear of any property coming up for sale that we might like.” He reached

  into his pocket and handed Merry a card. “Needless to say, we just lost ourselves a real estate agent, and while we love this country we don’t know the area very well.”

  She considered the card. The phone number had a Montana area code, but she didn’t recognize the prefix. Probably a cell phone. There was no address.

  “What exactly is it you’re looking for?”

  His wife answered. “Enough land to get a taste of open country. I’ve lived in the city my whole life, and now I want to live in some of this wonderful untrammeled space you have here. Keep some animals—I love horses, but as you’ve already guessed, I don’t know much about them. I’m really very sorry about letting that one out the other day.”

  “You just have to use common sense with animals. Helps if there’s someone around who will answer questions, too. Are you looking for a vacation place?”

  “No,” Brentwood said. “I’m retiring. We want to live here full-time, be a part of the community. Maybe even get some cattle.”

  “Why were you looking at this place? It sounds larger than what you want.”

  “T. J. told us smaller plots weren’t available. And I wouldn’t mind having a good-sized chunk of land.”

  “Well, I’ll keep your number. You never know.”

  She shook both their hands, and the couple walked to where the real estate agent waited. Merry watched Spalding’s irritation turn to something like fear as Thomas Brentwood spoke to him. He jumped into the Cadillac and jerked it into drive, spraying gravel as he drove away. Tee Brentwood said something to her husband. Brentwood smiled and kissed her on top of her head.

  The Land Rover worked its way around a couple of potholes before picking up speed. Merry would think long and hard about recommending a place to Brentwood. Like most Montana natives, she didn’t like the idea of a bunch of rich outsiders moving in, the preponderance of Hollywood types buying up land for vacation homes they rarely visited having long ago jaded those who lived and worked here. At least the Brentwoods planned to stay year round and had a lot of money, some of which they’d spend locally.

  And for some reason, Merry kind of liked the guy.

  twenty-one

  Merry’s first c
all went through to Barbie’s voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message and tried the Quikcare Clinic next. A woman answered after four rings.

  “Hello? I’m looking for Olivia Lamente.”

  “This is Olivia.”

  “Hi. This is Merry McCoy.”

  Silence.

  “Listen, I was going through some of my mother’s papers, and she has a note here that she sold a gun to Bo a few years back.” She was surprised at how easily the lie came to her.

  A pause. “Yes?”

  “Listen, I know it’s a bad time, but I was wondering whether he kept it or sold it to someone else.”

  “Why?”

  “I was, uh, kind of hoping to buy it back if I could track it down.”

  Another pause. “You’re allowed to have a gun?”

  Uh oh. “If I permanently disable it, so it won’t work. Then it’s okay. I don’t want to shoot it. Only have it because … because it was Mama’s.”

  Sorry, Mama.

  “What kind was it?” Olivia said finally. But her tone was softer.

  “A thirty-eight.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t really know much about guns. What did it look like?”

  Merry described the revolver in general terms. “And it had her name on it.” She hoped Olivia hadn’t heard about the gun that killed Denny Teller.

  She didn’t give any indication she had, saying, “I think I remember seeing it.”

  “Did he sell it?”

  “I don’t think so. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, he taught Barbie how to shoot with it.”

  The tiny shiver traveled up Merry’s neck again.

  “But it was probably lost in the fire, along with everything else. I’m sorry. I know about wanting to keep things that belonged to those we’ve lost.”

  “I know you do, Olivia. I’m sorry, but I had to ask.”

  “I understand.”

  After they said goodbye Merry sat looking out the kitchen window for a long time, trying to put it all together.

  ———

  Merry spent the next few hours catching up on mundane chores. She cleaned Izzy’s stall and spread clean bedding. She did her laundry, picked up the house a little, and watered the bushes running rampant in Mama’s rose garden.

  She remembered the shotgun as she came in the back door to the mudroom. Sure enough, it was leaning against the back of a cupboard there. The exterior surface was finely pitted with rust, but it looked clean enough inside. She’d take it apart and oil it down sometime soon. The box of ammunition tucked on the shelf below might have been purchased by her grandfather; the shells inside were old, wrapped in stained cardboard rather than brightly colored plastic. Tucked in with them was a metal box that held three chokes designed to screw on the end of the barrel in order to narrow or widen the shot spray, depending on the prey.

  Merry grabbed the box and gun and took them out to the barn. She climbed the ladder to the hayloft and stuffed them into a gap between the floor of the loft and the wall. As a teenager she’d used the space to hide contraband cigarettes, tequila, and the occasional joint. This, too, was contraband for a felon on parole.

  Back inside she was folding a load of laundry when the phone rang. She sighed. Having free access to a phone wasn’t as great as she’d remembered, and it didn’t help that Mama hadn’t believed in Caller ID. But she gave in to its trilling demand in case it was Shirlene or Kate calling, trying to ignore the excited, piping voice in the back of her mind that hoped it might be Jamie.

  “Hello?”

  A pause and then a voice cutting in and out.

  “Hello?”

  “… wasn’t home.”

  “Lauri? Where are you?”

  The connection cracked again, allowing only spurts of her cousin’s voice.

  “I can’t hear you.” Merry tried to hide her exasperation. “Are you on a cell phone?”

  “I was over there the night he died. She wasn’t there.”

  What the hell was she talking about? “Who wasn’t where?”

  “Barbie wasn’t there.”

  “At Clay’s?”

  “No! At home.”

  Wait a minute. “She wasn’t home the night Clay died? You’re sure?”

  “Yes.” Now Lauri sounded frustrated. “Janelle told me she said she was home, but I went inside … slashed …” Her cousin’s voice faded out.

  Slashed. That was the night Lauri had punctured Barbie’s waterbed. Of course. Merry tried again. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

  A few seconds passed, and Merry thought the cell connection had given out. Then, “I’m all right.”

  “You need to come back home.”

  “No way. It’s not safe.”

  A part of Merry agreed with her cousin, though reason screamed that Lauri was making it harder on herself by running away.

  “At least tell me where you are.”

  “Will you listen to me? Barbie wasn’t home.”

  “Okay, I get it. But damn it, Lauri, tell me where you are.”

  The connection abruptly ended. Merry stood with the phone still pressed to her ear, a pair of tube socks dangling from her hand.

  Shit.

  ———

  After lunch Merry headed back out to the barn. Leading Izzy to the center of the aisle, she hooked her halter to the crossties and began brushing her coat with a round rubber currycomb, scrubbing in small circles. The mare’s hair sloughed off as she worked her way from neck to rump. Then she did it all again with a stiff-bristled brush, and a final time with a soft-bristled brush, smoothing the horse until she gleamed.

  So before peeping in Clay’s window in the hope that she could seduce him and then convince him he was the father of her baby, Lauri had gone over to Barbie’s, walked in, and vandalized her waterbed. The house had been empty, even though Barbie and Olivia had supposedly been busy with WorldMed-related work.

  Was her cousin telling the truth? Merry thought so. Why hadn’t she told someone earlier? She said Janelle Paysen had told her about Barbie’s alibi. Which meant she might not have known before. She hadn’t exactly involved herself in discussions about her own case. Though, now that Merry thought about it, Lauri might have known about Barbie’s alibi for a while. If she didn’t want to admit she’d borrowed her mother’s boots because she’d get in trouble, she sure wouldn’t want to admit she’d taken a knife to someone’s property.

  Either way, Olivia had lied to provide Barbie with an alibi. She seemed so protective of the younger woman, a regular mama bear. She’d always taken in strays—horses, dogs, people. Even Barbie had mentioned it the day after the fire when she’d come to see Merry, though she certainly hadn’t seen herself as one of Olivia’s rescue projects. Still, Clay had been Olivia’s stepson. She couldn’t know she was protecting a murderer.

  Merry brushed Izzy’s face and combed out her dark brown mane and tail. She lifted each hoof and pried it clean of debris with the curved metal hoof pick, then placed pad and saddle on her back. The mare opened her mouth to accept the bit, and Merry gently bent her ears forward to fit the headstall over them. She led her out of the paddock and mounted up.

  Despite the horse’s eagerness, Merry held her back to a walk at first. They made their way east, toward the rolling foothills that rose up on the edge of the ranch. Out on the flat beyond the barn, she eased into a jog.

  Had Denny known Barbie’s alibi didn’t hold up? Maybe he and Anna had stopped by her house and no one had been home. But Anna hadn’t seemed unsure about where her roommate had been when Merry talked to her at the bloodmobile. Then again, as Jamie said, anyone can lie.

  Denny, flopped in that awful recliner, talking about Clay’s new little hottie. Barbie, her face alive as she’d said she’d kill to protect herself.

  At the base of a small rise half a
mile away, Merry slowed to a walk again, and she and the mare picked their way to the top.

  Where she and Rand had lived in Texas, the constant flat horizon defined a perfect saucer of ground where the light fell hot and pale. Here the altitude, low humidity, and the contrasting richness of undulating purple-blue mountains enriched the sunlight to a generous ripeness. A cloud shadow poured across waving grassland.

  An unreasonable sense of nostalgia assaulted her without warning. Izzy’s ears twisted back as she swung down under a wind-twisted pine, looping the reins over the stub of a lower branch. Squatting on her haunches, she surveyed the meadow down slope through a veil of yearning. She inhaled the spice of willow and timothy hay, wild roses and equine musk: a plethora of memories mixed together in the still, dry air and deposited into her soul for consideration.

  Izzy whuffled softly in her ear, offering the warmth of her breath, her animal concern, the whisper-soft touch of her tender nose against skin. Merry stood and stroked the big horse’s neck, mounted, and continued east.

  Why did Barbie feel so many had to die? Jealousy, maybe, for Clay. But Bo? Maybe his death really had been an accident.

  Denny could have known why she killed Clay. That might have been enough for him to confront her. Merry suspected he wouldn’t want to turn Barbie in so much as get something for his knowledge. Blackmail. Because if he’d wanted to turn her in, he would have. He’d obviously had some kind of truck with Sergeant Hawkins.

  Avarice had done him in. Not that Merry could say she’d miss him much.

  What about Anna? She was the link between Denny and Barbie. Was she next on Barbie’s hit list?

  Merry and Izzy rambled along a circuitous route, ending at the Lamentes’. The mare picked her way among the charred ruins of the smaller outbuildings. Where one had stood, the fire had left behind only a small, blackened pile of wood charcoal surrounded by a rough square of singed earth. The house had fared little better, reduced to a scorched skeleton leaning precariously against the sky. In the open, stark interior, Merry could see the wreck of barely recognizable furniture protruding from the mess. Izzy nosed a piece of seared countertop lying in the front yard and shied away from the stink.