A Flurry of Lies (Bison Creek Mystery Series Book 4)

by A. Gardner

  “I bet Ada has already locked the doors at the bakery,” I said.

  “She better not have. I need my chocolate, and I need it now.” Joy was well practiced in the art of walking fast in heels. I’d always thought it should have been an Olympic sport because I could never manage it.

  “Spoken like a true addict.”

  My stomach churned as we neared the front of the Grizzly. The spot where the shootout had taken place was empty. No crime scene tape. No police officers or snap-happy tourists. It was as if the incident had never happened. Like the town had already moved on with their lives.

  I knew better.

  Miso barked.

  I glanced over my shoulder. We were passing Oso Cantina, and the smell of grilling meats and the sound of sizzling fajitas came through the open door. Miso yanked at his leash. I pulled him back. He yanked it again, this time using all of his body weight to force the coarse rope from my palm.

  What the . . .

  “Miso!” I yelled. His curly-coated figure disappeared around the side of the Santoses’ Mexican restaurant. I chased after him and found an overturned trash container and a pissed off employee. Miso immediately went after the gobs of refried beans and Spanish rice. “Miso, stop that!”

  Joy stopped right behind me, catching her breath. “Ewww.”

  “This thing was already too full to begin with.” A woman with midnight hair pulled back in a tight bun knelt down to gather the mess. It was Tina Santos, and she didn’t look as happy as the customers she’d been serving at Oso Cantina.

  “Sorry, Tina. He has always had a thing for garbage.” I quickly grabbed Miso’s leash.

  “You must have something rotting away in there.” Joy wrinkled her nose.

  “Probably tortillas,” Tina replied. “You won’t believe how many people toss them. Even the perfectly good ones.” Tina clenched her jaw as she collected the scattered garbage in a pile using her foot. “I hate half-priced margarita night. This is just the cherry on top of everything.”

  “Yes, I was sorry to hear about your family’s sugar skull,” I said. I handed Joy Miso’s leash and helped Tina with the overturned trash bin. “Oh, and the family dog. Tamale? Is that his name?”

  “You must have run into Mim.” Tina rolled her eyes. “She has been confusing people left and right.”

  “So Tamale isn’t lost?” I pulled the bin as hard as I could and it stood back up with a loud clang.

  “My mom has been telling everyone about the break-in,” Tina explained. “Whoever smashed the sugar skull left the back door open. I told Mim that Tamale could have gotten out. Luckily, he didn’t. He wasn’t even there.”

  “Mim. That woman is like the poster child for selective hearing.” Joy shook her head, observing me while I did all of the heavy lifting. I didn’t mind it, though. What was the point of muscles if you never used them?

  I glanced into the trash container. It was half full of trash bags and a few random takeout containers. But something stood out from the rest. It was a different shade of brown and a shape that didn’t bear resemblance to anything the Santos family would have been serving. My chest tightened, and my legs went stiff.

  Oh, no. No. No. No.

  Tina lifted a torn trash bag and stopped when her eye caught what mine had. Her eyes went wide, and she let the torn trash bag slip right out of her fingertips. The hole at the top ripped a little more. Tina resorted to pointing and looking up and down the narrow alleyway.

  “Ay dios mio, what’s that doing here?”

  “Let me see.” Joy marched right up to the trash container, stepping over crumbled tortilla chips. My heart raced. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m calling the sheriff,” Tina said.

  I closed my eyes for second, but when I opened them I was still in the middle of a nightmare I wanted no part of. Unfortunately, I had no choice. I had to ride it out until the end because the object of confusion was a hunting rifle.

  And I already knew who it belonged to.

  Chapter 7

  A good portion of townies worked at Pinecliffe Mountain Resort, my sister and me included. It stood at the base of Pinecliffe Mountain, and it attracted skiers and snowboarders from all around. My boss, Mr. Kentworth, used to boast that it had been rated the tenth poshest resort in the region. But the tiny town of Bison Creek had gained more popularity when it had made national news last winter. A celebrity engagement gone horribly wrong saw to that. Business had snowballed for everyone after that. Joy and I had both gotten raises and promotions, and my training schedule was booked for the next six months. Joy had been bombarded with weddings and special events.

  But her number one complaint was the parking.

  It sucked.

  The hotel embodied its heritage while still offering modern amenities. It was filled with Victorian-style furniture and various antiques the owners had collected all over the continent. The top floor had a private fitness studio where I trained clients at just about every fitness level. And the gym had gorgeous views of the mountains and Canyon Street.

  I checked my schedule, sitting in my office next to the weight room and scratching the top of Miso’s head. Part of my agreement with Mr. Kentworth after taking on a rigorous workload was that I could bring Miso to work with me. As long as he stayed in my office and didn’t cause problems, my boss had agreed. I’d been relieved to hear it because I didn’t know how much longer Mrs. Tankle would be able to put up with the pitter patter of paws above her bookshop when Miso escaped from his crate.

  “I so look forward to your Monday morning sessions with Blabby Millbreck,” Taryn said as she entered my office to grab a bottled water from the mini fridge.

  “Really?”

  “No.” Taryn brushed aside her sun-kissed ponytail that had once been streaked with strands of purple and blue. I’d met her years ago at a half marathon in Denver. She was an out-of-towner, which meant that she didn’t care at all about town gossip or politics. The only reason she stuck around was because her employment contract came with free skiing. The warmer months were tough on her.

  “Hey, she was quieter than usual at our last session,” I commented.

  “That wasn’t her. That was the Botox. She had a hard time moving her face.” Taryn raised her eyebrows. “If I have to hear another story about how the Collins boys ruined her lawn, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “Put some headphones in until your next client gets here.” Miso wagged his tail, glancing up at her.

  “Easier said than done.” She cleared her throat. “So, I expect you heard about what happened Saturday.”

  “The shootout?” I’d tried to clear it from my mind but I couldn’t. The sheriff had confiscated the rifle I’d spotted in the trash bin just outside of Oso Cantina, and I knew it was only a matter of time before the entire town knew who the gun belonged to. It had taken me all night and four chocolate bars to calm Joy down.

  “Yeah.” She twirled a strand of hair, glancing over her shoulder at the hallway where Martha Millbreck was due to step out of the elevator at any moment. “I was in Denver visiting some friends. I only heard about it this morning at the bakery when I stopped in for coffee.”

  “Did you know Dalton?” I observed the vacant look on her face. She shrugged.

  “Not really.”

  “Me neither,” I responded. “It seems he wasn’t a very likable guy anyway.”

  “I guess Cydney is on it, huh?” Her hair twirling became increasingly intense. “Have you talked to him lately?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.” I grinned. She played it cool when Cydney came in for tips on strengthening his bum knee, but I knew she had a thing for him. He had a thing for her too. For some reason, the two of them hadn’t been able to get their acts together. “He said he misses you.”

  “Really?” Her eyes went wide.

  “No.” I focused on Martha’s workout of the day, walking through each move in my head. She resisted when it came to the weight training. Any l
ifting over ten pounds freaked her out. She’d told me on several occasions that she didn’t want to look like a man.

  “Jerk,” she muttered.

  “I’m not the Pony Express, Taryn. And we’re not in high school. Just ask the guy out.”

  “Okay, I think we’re done here.” She adjusted the strap of her sports bra and headed for the door. “If he wants to go out with me, he can grow a pair and ask me himself.”

  “He won’t,” I shouted after her.

  “He won’t grow a pair?”

  “No, he won’t ask you out,” I clarified.

  “What makes you so sure? I thought you said he was interested.” Taryn leaned in the doorway, eagerly awaiting my response.

  “He is.” I sighed and pulled myself away from my work long enough to explain my reasoning. Cydney was like lots of other guys I’d come across—stubborn and proud. “But he sorta kinda asked you to get a coffee with him once, and you turned him down, remember?”

  “I was young and naive,” she argued.

  “That was last month.”

  “He might try again,” Taryn said, straightening her shoulders as soon as the elevator dinged. “You don’t know that he won’t.”

  “Sure.” I told her what she wanted to hear, but I doubted it would happen.

  Martha Millbreck, the mayor’s wife, stepped off of the elevator wearing a bright pink tracksuit and sunglasses. Just like I did with her husband, I sometimes wondered if she looked in the mirror and saw a woman in her early twenties. Her bob was a shade lighter than usual, closer to blonde, and her skin was a little too orange for my taste.

  “I made it,” she huffed. “I’m counting on you to get rid of these thunder thighs before swimsuit season.”

  “Hop on the treadmill and warm up,” I instructed her. She took off her jacket and handed it to me before getting onto the nearest treadmill. The inside of her jacket smelled like coconut, and it had bronze stains. “Spray tan?”

  “I don’t do the sunbeds anymore, Essie.” Martha began walking at a brisk pace. “Melanoma is a real thing. Besides, that fake ’n’ bake look is so out.”

  Taryn’s nostrils flared as she held up a peace sign and promptly left the room.

  “Good for you, Martha. I’m sure your skin will thank you for that.”

  “Can you believe that business in town this weekend?” Martha jumped straight to the juiciest rumors. “The mayor was just about mobbed by all of those tourists. He was just trying to help clear the area. You should see his news feed these days. Absolutely insane. He got over fifty messages on his birthday, you know.”

  “And how old did he turn this year?” I asked. I already knew the answer to that question.

  “Thirty,” she lied.

  “Uh-huh.” Is that for the twenty-first or twenty-second time?

  “Fine.” She pumped her arms and walked even faster. “Forty. Give or take a few years. He robbed the cradle when he married me.”

  I knew from my records that she was nearing fifty herself.

  “You’re a good sport, Martha.” I handed her a water bottle. “I didn’t know the two of you were on speaking terms.”

  Her friendly smile hardened. “The mayor and I are doing just fine.” She lifted her chin and stomped a little as she completed her warm-up. “I don’t want him mixed up in all of this. It’s like that Henson woman all over again.”

  I clasped my hands together so tight that the natural follow-up was to crack my knuckles.

  “How do you mean?” The tone of my voice stayed the same. My heart rate didn’t.

  “I really shouldn’t gossip.” She paused for a second. “But the rumor is that the bartender wasn’t shot with a gun from the shootout. The sheriff said all of those pistols had been cleared. I heard this from Booney himself.”

  “Did Booney tell you anything else?” I asked. “Like what the police think happened?”

  “Apparently, they have another suspect,” Martha blurted out quicker than she could check her cell phone for any missed messages. “I heard this morning that there might even be another gun.”

  I gulped.

  “Well, I know Booney practically runs the BC Gazette, but he’s not exactly the most reliable source. I mean, this wouldn’t be the first time he’s made up stories.”

  “I guess.” Martha tilted her head to the side.

  I couldn’t throw her off of Wade’s scent for long. Pretty soon, Booney would catch wind of the story, and Wade’s name would be all over the Internet. It didn’t matter that Booney was drunk half the time and had once published an obviously fake article about a member of the royal family hiding in a storage closet at the corner market. The corner market hadn't been that crowded in years. If he painted Wade as a villain, the town would listen. My sister would suffer the consequences. Maybe even my parents.

  “Let’s focus on your quads.” I waited a few more minutes before turning off the treadmill and starting Martha on her first set of exercises. My gaze wandered toward the window overlooking Canyon Street. A squad car drove past the Bison Creek Bakery and turned toward the mines.

  Wade’s nightmare was coming to life. I tried to focus on my session with Martha, but my mind jumped over and over again back to the moment Wade had told me about his missing rifle. He had his enemies just like anybody else, but who would want to frame him for murder? I couldn’t come up with a motive. Maybe the real killer had seen Wade and Dalton cause a scene at the Grizzly the night before and used it to their advantage.

  “The mayor was right there, you know,” Martha said. “I could have lost him. That’s the last time I let him show up to gatherings on Canyon Street. I don’t care if it’s tradition. Screw tradition.”

  “But you didn’t lose him,” I responded.

  “This time.” Martha cleared her throat and grabbed a set of weights. “What about next time?”

  “There won’t be a next time,” I said.

  “Let’s hope not. For the sake of this town’s reputation.”

  Chapter 8

  A dozen donuts were all I needed to get Murray to talk.

  I strolled into the police station with a box full of bribes and an agenda. I had an hour before my next client, and I’d chosen to spend it learning more about the shootout case rather than eating my lunch and surfing the web on my phone. Miso’s collar jingled as he shook off a fly that had landed on his back. Murray must have left the window open in the break room.

  The Bison Creek police station was just off of Canyon Street in what used to be the old firehouse. There weren’t many rooms inside, but every extra floor surface had been fitted with tables and desks to accommodate new employees. Murray sat near the front door, and he picked up the phone on his desk the moment he saw me.

  “Good afternoon.” I dropped the sugary box on his desk. Miso pulled his leash toward a desk across the room where I used to sit. He’d taken many naps underneath it.

  “Hang on a minute, Essie.” Murray held up a hand. “This is a very important call.”

  “Who’s on the phone?” I opened the box of donuts, grazing a donut hole covered in powdered sugar with my finger.

  “Uh . . .” Murray’s eyes darted to the donuts and then to me as I licked my finger. “Uh . . . Well, it’s the . . .” He hung up and touched the box of sweet incentives. “Oh, never mind.”

  “Is Cydney in?” I looked over at his desk. It was spotless and meticulously organized as usual—a control freak’s paradise.

  “Not at the moment. Should I give him a call?” Murray picked up the phone again.

  “No. That’s okay.” I shook my head. I’d been banking on Cydney not being around to enforce the rules. “I just wanted to drop these off and see how everything is going.”

  “I see what you’re doing.” Murray narrowed his eyes, his head of auburn hair looking slightly more orange in sunlight. “You think you can bribe me with donuts because I’m a cop. That’s offensive, you know.”

  “You love donuts,” I pointed out. “You
just happen to be a cop too. How is that offensive?”

  “It’s what they call stair-typing.” He leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grin, but I knew it was only a matter of time before he started thinking with his stomach and not with his head.

  “I think you mean stereotyping.”

  “Exactly,” he replied.

  I pressed my lips together. “Not exactly. Don’t you remember that time you ate half an apple fritter from the trash in second grade? You’ve always been obsessed with Mrs. Adley’s sweets, particularly her donuts.”

  “I’m pretty sure it is.” He sat up again, eyeing a cream-filled donut in the middle of the box. “We had a training on this.”

  “I heard a rumor that the sheriff already checked all the guns from the shootout, is that true?”

  “You know you wouldn’t have to bribe me if we were married.” Murray winked as he scooted a little closer to the bakery box.

  “Well, you asked me once but we were only ten,” I replied.

  “You can’t hold that against me. How was I supposed to know that a package of bubble gum wasn’t an appropriate wedding gift?” He held up a finger. “These days I know better than that.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a Captain Kirk bobblehead. “How’s this for a wedding gift?”

  I covered my mouth, trying not to laugh.

  “Doesn’t your mom still cut your sandwich into little triangles?”

  “And she can make your lunches every day too if you say yes,” Murray said. He pushed the toy closer to me. “Just take it. I’m not allowed to leave it on my desk anymore anyway. Dad said it was too distracting.”

  “He has his own office. Why would he be distracted by a bobblehead?”

  “It was me who got distracted.” Murray shrugged. “And the fact that I said Chase: The Final Frontier too many times. Chase sits right over there.”

  I glanced a few desks away at a man in a uniform filling out paperwork. He briefly looked up and rolled his eyes.