by Terry Odell
DANGER IN DEER RIDGE
by
Terry Odell
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Copyright © 2011 by Terry Odell
Cover photos by Terry Odell and Daniel K. Odell
Cover design by Dave Fymbo
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
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To my readers:
When we moved to the mountains of Colorado, I knew I had to set a book here. In addition to the magnificent scenery, I'd like to thank some actual humans who helped with this book.
To the watchful eyes of my crit partners, Steve and Karla, and to Dan, for being my first reader.
To Wally Lind and the rest of the crimscenewriters group at Yahoo, to Lee Lofland, Tom Fuller, Mark Hussey, and CJ Lyons for keeping me on track. To Deputy Matt Kennedy, who put up with my constant barrage of questions during what must have seemed like an interminable ride along.
And special thanks to Jodie Renner for her editorial services.
DANGER IN DEER RIDGE
By Terry Odell
Chapter 1
“Don’t worry, Mom. We’ll be safe here. Grace said so. And so did Miri. Can we live here forever?”
Elizabeth squeezed her son’s shoulder. There’s no such thing as forever, she wanted to say.
Will turned away from the window. “They’ll come back, won’t they?”
At least his tone had changed. His somber mood had lifted when they’d passed fields with horses and cows alongside the road as they drove to their new home. And ever since he’d seen the herd of deer walk through the yard, he’d stopped complaining about leaving Grace’s house.
Pointedly avoiding his first question, she nodded. “The town is called Deer Ridge, so I’m sure there are lots of deer around. I think they have favorite places. If our yard is one of theirs, I’m sure they’ll come again. But probably not right away. They have things to do. And so do we.”
Will’s brown-eyed gaze, so like the puppy’s he’d had to leave behind, captured her heart. How could someone so young be so solemn? And so blasted perceptive.
She ran her fingers over his recently shorn hair, missing the blond curls. Will seemed to accept the changes their new lives required, but could he maintain the façade? She understood the constant effort it took to avoid anything someone might recognize as Julie Ann.
Starting with the name. Damn, she had to stop thinking of herself as Julie Ann Vaughn. Thanks to Grace’s magic, Julie Ann Vaughn was dead. Elizabeth had read the online article about the memorial service, complete with pictures of a grieving husband. The man could play a damn good role, right down to the crocodile tears.
For a short time, when she’d first run, she’d been Jillian, but now she was Elizabeth. Plain, boring Elizabeth. Elizabeth Parker.
Ignoring the chill that shuddered through her, she found a grin for Will. “Right as rain, buster. Now go put your things away. If you do it yourself, you’ll know where everything is.”
With Will busy in his room, Elizabeth started dinner preparations. For their first night in their new home, she’d let Will pick the menu. Hot dogs, macaroni and cheese, and, because she’d insisted on something green, string beans. And it did seem to be the sort of meal Elizabeth Parker would cook for her eight-year-old son.
She’d stopped at a Walmart the day before, on the drive from San Francisco to Colorado, and bought enough basics to get them started. They might not have much, but at least she had a pot to cook in. Groceries, she’d bought today, at a Safeway about an hour away. She remembered the clerk trying to convince her to get the discount card, and how he’d raised his eyebrows when she’d refused. Had that been a mistake? Would she be more memorable for refusing?
Didn’t matter, she reminded herself. No paper trail. No computer trail.
She filled the pot with water, then set it on the burner. Checking the unfamiliar gas range, she matched the knob with the appropriate burner and twisted it. Nothing. She waited. Tried again. Was she supposed to light the burner with a match? Where was the instruction book? She yanked open drawers hoping to find one. Nothing.
Taking a calming breath, she twisted the knob again, leaning forward to listen for the hiss of gas. Still nothing. She sniffed. Nope.
Great. Grace’s Realtor had promised the rented house was move-in ready. Elizabeth ran the water in the sink. After several minutes, it hadn’t warmed.
Stop. Think. Lights work. Refrigerator works. Those were electric. The stove was gas, and she suspected the water heater was as well. Heat? The sun streamed in, and she hadn’t noticed a chill in the place. But if the heat wasn’t working, it would get cold once the sun went down. The Colorado mountains weren’t known for sultry nights in June.
Biting back a curse, she dried her hands and went to the car for her rudimentary tool kit. She’d picked up a few skills helping Miri keep Galloway House running, but she was more of a tool passer than a Ms. Fixit. Would she know a gas line if she tripped over it?
Become more self-sufficient. Another thing to add to her growing “To Do” list.
She popped the trunk and reached in for the red metal case. The sound of footfalls behind her had her jerking upward, slamming her head into the edge of the trunk. She forced herself to move slowly.
Ignore the pain. Keep both hands free. Did she have time to open the chest and grab something heavy? Wasn’t there one of those tire-changing things lying in the trunk? Trying not to be obvious, she groped along the carpet-lined space.
“Ms. Parker?” A deep male voice conjured images of a linebacker-sized hit man. But why would a hit man use her new name? Her mind whirled. The voice wasn’t Victor’s. If Victor sent some thug, wouldn’t he be asking for Julie Ann? Who other than Grace and a Realtor she’d never met face-to-face knew she was here? The Realtor was a woman. Should she admit to being Elizabeth Parker?
And then a thought surpassed all others.
Will’s alone in the house.
Her fingers wrapped around cool metal. Barely registering its four-sided shape, she hefted it. Heavy enough to do some damage. Awkward to conceal. She half-turned, keeping her head down.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry I’m late. I’m here to turn on the gas.”
Relief supplanted some of the fear. Warily, her makeshift weapon at her side, she searched for a gas company vehicle. She saw a pickup at the far end of her steep, winding driveway, but she couldn’t make out a company logo. Was he blocking her in? If he was from the gas company, where was his toolbox? She hated this life, having to be your-l
ife-might-be-at-stake careful instead of the normal-woman-alone careful.
“Got a flat?” the man asked.
She dared to look at him directly. Not a linebacker. Baseball player, maybe, although the dirt-streaked blue coverall he wore hid his shape. But there was no denying the underlying muscular build. A rugged face, jaws shadowed with stubble. Snapping her gaze from his face, she looked more closely at his uniform, seeking some gas company identification. Instead, a red-and-yellow embroidered patch with a helicopter and “Life Flight” stood out against the dark fabric. Beneath it was a small green cartoon logo, but she wouldn’t step close enough to see exactly what—or be caught staring. He kept looking up the driveway toward his truck, then back at her, his expression more questioning than menacing. Did he have a partner there? Was he signaling him?
He cleared his throat. “I can change your tire if you need it.”
“What?” she said.
“A flat.” He tilted his chin toward her arm. “You’re holding a lug wrench. Assumed you needed to change a tire.”
His expression said he knew damn well what she’d planned to use it for.
“Lug wrench. Right. Um … no. I was getting the tool kit. To fix the gas. But if you’re here to do that—”
“I am.” He reached into a deep pocket of his coveralls. Her heart fluttered. Her grip on the wrench tightened as he brought his hand forward. Did he have a gun? No, not a gun. A wrench.
He cast another quick glance toward his truck. “Rhonda Simmons sent me. Mountain Realty?”
Rhonda the Realtor. Right. Another layer of wariness peeled away. He must have caught her staring at his chest. He craned his neck toward his truck again, then patted the patch. “Oh, this. Yeah, I’m a backup pilot for Life Flight. We had a rescue, which is why I couldn’t get here when I was supposed to. I hope you haven’t been inconvenienced.”
“Not really. Not yet. We just got here today.” She felt like a fool holding the lug wrench, so she set it in the trunk. But didn’t close it. “Are you also with the gas company?”
“No, but I live down the road, and I do a lot of handy work in the area, so Rhonda called me. Won’t take more than a few minutes. Or, if you’re worried, you can call the gas company directly, but it’s Friday. They probably won’t get here until Monday at the earliest. And they’ll charge you twenty bucks. Your call.” He gave her a friendly enough grin, but there was something half-hearted about it.
Her brain seemed to have come to a screeching halt after the tangle of thoughts that had been racing through it. “Um…Can you wait here one minute?”
“No problem. I have to check something. Only be a second.” He started up the driveway.
“Wait,” she called after him. “Your name?”
He grinned again. This one seemed for real. She avoided thinking how his mouth turned up more on one side than the other, and raised her gaze to his eyes. Which, she’d already noted, were a greenish-gold with a dark ring around the iris. And why had she noticed that? Dropping her gaze to his chest didn’t work either.
“Mark Grinciewicz,” he said. “Folks call me Grinch.”
She wasn’t going to. Although she wasn’t sure she’d be able to repeat Grinciewicz without practicing. She slammed the car trunk closed. “Thanks.” She darted for the house. Grinch. That was the green thing on his coveralls. Well, he sure as heck wasn’t going to steal anything from her or Will.
She opened the side door to the kitchen, calling for her son.
“Almost done,” Will shouted from his room.
Hearing his upbeat voice calmed her. She found Rhonda’s business card in her wallet and punched in the number. While the phone rang, she peered out the window, watching the mysterious Grinch loped up the driveway toward his truck. Grace’s words played over and over in her head.
The secret is becoming the part you’re playing. But remember, other people play parts as well. Don’t take things at face value.
Grace hadn’t seen Grinch’s face. Not gorgeous, to be sure. Well-worn. Lived in. Caring. She’d already been fooled by superficial good looks with Victor. If Grinch rescued people, he had to be safe, didn’t he? But he seemed nervous, distracted. The way she felt every time she met someone new, hoping they couldn’t see through her lies. Was he lying?
She peeked through the kitchen window. He was heading back down her driveway, tapping the wrench against his palm. Warming up? She gripped the phone. Come on, Rhonda. Pick up.
Will bounded into the kitchen. “I’m done, Mom. Want to check?”
Grinch was walking around her car, running his hand along the hood. More thoughts buzzed through her head. Checking her plates? Planting a bug? Too much television, she told herself. She managed to keep the anxiety out of her tone when she answered Will. “As soon as I’m off the phone. Do me a favor and wait for me in your room, okay?”
* * * * *
Grinch peeked through the passenger window of his pickup, reassuring himself that Dylan would stay asleep for the few moments it would take to get the gas flowing. The bumpy ride down the steep, pothole-filled driveway would have woken him up for sure. Besides, Chester was with him, and nobody would approach the truck with that mutt standing guard. He gave the window a soft pat, then headed toward the house.
It had been obvious that he’d frightened the Parker woman, and not by showing up unannounced. She had that trapped-animal demeanor. What’s her story? He wandered around her car. Layers of road dirt. California plates. Tires in decent shape, but if this was her only vehicle, she was going to have some trouble once the snows hit. Sooner if she didn’t get the driveway repaired and graded.
He checked the pickup again, Dylan’s red hair clearly visible against the passenger side window. Was he moving? Waking up? Damn, what was taking that woman so long? He needed to get Dylan home. Hell, he could have had the line opened and been gone by now.
He eyed the house. The front door opened, and the Parker woman trotted down the porch steps. At last. He strode toward her, trying to replace his impatience with a reassuring smile.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I verified that Rhonda sent you. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Understood, ma’am,” he said. “This day and age, it pays to be careful. Although you’ll find most folks around here are friendly.”
“Will it take long?” she asked.
“Not at all. I’ll open the main line to the house, then make sure everything works for you.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” She disappeared into the house like a prairie dog into its den.
He opened the line, then jogged toward her door. She must have been watching, because the door opened when he hit the first wooden porch step.
“You’re finished?” she asked. He noticed her round, blue eyes. Eyes that kept darting glances toward the house. “So we’ll have hot water and heat?”
“Show me to the furnace and water heater, and I’ll fire them up for you.”
“Um…I’m not sure where they are. Basement, I guess.”
He forced a smile. “Either that or the garage. I’ll find ‘em.”
“Can I try the stove?”
“Sure. Give it a shot.”
She stepped in that direction, then stopped. “Um … it’s not going to explode, is it?”
He restrained himself from pushing past her. “Shouldn’t. Here, let me.” He twisted the knobs, hearing the pop as the ignition system kicked in. Seconds later, blue flames flickered below each burner.
He was about to check the oven when the sound of a dog’s frantic barking chilled his blood. Chester. He whirled and raced to the door, flinging it open. The spotted mutt raced circles around Dylan, who was stumbling down the drive.
“Dylan!” Grinch leaped off the porch and sprinted across the gravel, dodging potholes. “I told you to stay in the truck.” He grabbed the child.
Dylan sniffled. “I’m sorry. But I—” Then he threw up what appeared to be three times the volume of what his litt
le stomach could hold. What had Mrs. Bridger fed him? She had a reputation as a reliable sitter, and Grinch had been grateful she’d agreed to take Dylan at the last minute, but maybe it hadn’t been a smart move.
“It’s all right, Dyl. It’s all right. You’ll be okay,” Grinch said, ignoring the stench and the mess. He rubbed the boy’s back and held his head.
“I’m sorry, I tried to be good.” His tears returned, along with shuddering sobs. “I sicked in the truck too.”
“What’s going on?”
Grinch turned to see the Parker woman, hands on her hips, a scowl on her face. He sat on the ground, pulling Dylan into his lap. “Sorry. Dylan—I thought he’d be okay for a few minutes—your place was on the way—Rhonda said it was a rush job—I didn’t—”
The woman crouched by his side, running her fingers through Dylan’s sweat-soaked hair, touching his forehead. “My God, he’s burning up. What kind of a person are you, leaving a child alone in the first place, not to mention a sick one.”
“Dylan was asleep. I didn’t know he was sick. And Chester was with him,” Grinch said, the words not out of his mouth before he realized how stupid they sounded.
“Chester?” She whirled her head around, fingers curled into fists.
“Dog,” he said.
She scanned the yard where Chester was now performing the obligatory sniffing routine. Apparently satisfied there was no additional threat, her posture relaxed. “You might as well come in and get cleaned up. Should you call your pediatrician?”
“I...we…don’t have one. I didn’t know Dylan was sick.”
She was already marching toward the house. Grinch scooped up Dylan and followed. Damn, the kid was burning up. Some father he was turning out to be.
At the door, Grinch stopped. “Let me get these coveralls off. No point in messing up your house.”
Without asking permission, she took charge of Dylan. “We’ll be in the bathroom.” She mumbled something and they disappeared. Momentarily stunned, he stood on the porch. His brain kicked in at last, and he unzipped the vomit-soaked coveralls and stepped out of them, shuddering as the cool air surrounded his skin. At least he had cargo shorts and a tee underneath. They seemed to have escaped harm. Leaving his coveralls and boots in a heap by the door, he went inside in search of his son.
