by Reece Butler
“Not with me.” The woman gave her a closer look. Too close. Marci backed up a step. “Simon’s at the ranch if you want to call him.”
“Just might do that.” She gave an abrupt nod and disappeared through a doorway hung with rows of bright colored beads. They made a clacking sound as they fell into place behind her.
“So much for no one asking questions,” Marci muttered to herself. If Simon had gone to bed as she suggested, he’d never make it to the telephone in time. If there was no answer she’d tell the woman to wait a few minutes and call back. By then Simon could be fuming, but he could take out his temper on the cashier, not her.
She started at the end closest to the entry door and skimmed past the shelves, picking out what she thought the children most needed. Milk, bread, peanut butter, jelly, hot dogs and buns. The shredded coconut was next to mini marshmallows, canned fruit salad, maraschino cherries and lime Jell-O. She picked up the Jell-O package. Yep, there was the recipe for that same too-sweet jellied salad. The door chimed when someone came in, but she didn’t want to gain attention so kept to her task.
“You got a license to drive that truck?”
Marci’s shoulders tightened at the harsh, demanding voice. She set the package back with trembling fingers and turned, head down. Heavy black boots, well polished, and dark creased pants. Oh, Lord. She looked up. He was the last person she ever wanted to see. Tall, blond, handsome, and deadly. Though he had his brown hat at a jaunty angle, the steel in his eyes proved the sheriff took no nonsense from anyone.
“Yes, sir, but not on me.” She held her clammy hands loose at her sides. “Simon MacDougal said to get groceries and put them on his account, so I didn’t bring a pocketbook.”
Actually, she didn’t own one anymore. Nikki offered to see what was available in town, but a pocketbook was one of those things a woman had to buy on her own. The sheriff’s green eyes bored into hers before dropping to check her out. He took in her stained tennis shoes, ill-fitting jeans, loose T-shirt, and too-big jacket that she’d borrowed from the row at Simon’s back door. The black-and-red check coat looked old enough that anyone familiar with the family might recognize it.
“Best we step outside.”
She heard the order that was politely phrased as a suggestion. She wiped her palms on her thighs and swallowed. He stepped back, barely enough for her to brush past. Her shoulders scraped past the buttons on his shirt. She clenched her fists to hide her shaking hands. Her chest was so tight she fought to breathe.
This is ridiculous! she lectured herself. The sheriff of Climax, Montana, was not going to arrest her for murdering her husband. He was there because the shopkeeper called him instead of Simon to confirm her story. A long, sturdy arm reached over her shoulder to pull the store door open. The jingle of the bell sounded harsh rather than friendly. She blinked as she stepped into bright sunshine. A paw took her elbow to guide her. It was a light touch, but she knew if she tried to tug free, he’d clamp down tight.
To her surprise he pulled open the passenger seat of Simon’s truck instead of the back door of the white four-door pickup parked beyond it. In case anyone might mistake it for a ranch truck, there was a large black-and-gold star on the door proclaiming the truck belonged to the Sheriff of Climax, Montana.
“Have a seat,” he said, and she scrambled up. “Facing me,” he added.
She adjusted herself to sit sideways rather than face the windshield. He was so tall her toes pointed at his thighs. Thick ones, below which were black boots perfect for stomping small women.
She was not going to faint or throw up. He was just a helpful officer. Yeah, right! He surprised her again by putting a foot on the door frame and hunching over, forearm on his thigh. She’d expected him to use his size to intimidate her. Instead, he used his direct gaze.
“Name’s Sheriff Max Gibson, ma’am.”
“I’m Marci Grant,” she whispered. She cleared her throat and sat straighter to show she had nothing to hide. “Mrs. Grant. I’m a widow.”
“What’s your maiden name, Mrs. Grant?”
Expecting a question about Simon, she hesitated at this far more personal inquiry.
“Be easier on both of us if you told the truth straight out.”
“I’m not hiding anything,” she snapped, glaring up at him. “I just…” She exhaled, dropping her eyes. She’d spent enough time being questioned by cops that she could tell he already had a pretty good idea of who she was. This was the beginning of the end of her freedom. “Meshevski. Marci Meshevski.”
“You the Doc’s sister?” She nodded. “She’s a good woman. Why hide it?”
Now that the truth was out she could meet his eyes. He’d do what he wanted no matter what she said, so she might as well tell him the truth. She’d watched enough Cagney & Lacey episodes to know she might get better treatment that way. It wasn’t as if she was confessing to a crime.
“After being invisible as Mrs. Ted Grant for twelve years I wanted people to know me as myself, not the town doctor’s little sister.”
“Fair enough.” He took a good look at her face. “By people, you mean Simon?”
Her ears burned. She hoped the truck cab was dark enough that the sheriff wouldn’t notice. His dry chuckle proved otherwise. He wasn’t behaving like the cops who’d forced her to go over her story again and again, trying to pick it apart. Her fear began to face, replaced by irritation. She hadn’t done anything wrong. One call to Simon would prove it.
“You and your sister look a lot alike, once you take away the obvious.”
“You mean that I’m eight inches shorter, brown to her blonde, and over eighty pounds lighter?”
“You’ve got the same facial structure.”
“Thank you for confirming we’re related. So, now that you know who I am, may I buy groceries?”
“I knew who you were before Cindy called me.”
That made her look at him rather than his uniform. His eyes were certainly green. They also had smile crinkles at the corners. Another surprise.
“How?”
“I’m the sheriff of a small town. My family have lived here for generations. Trust me, I have my ways.” He rose to his full height and held out his hand to help her down. “Tell Simon I expect him to host the next poker game since he can’t drive.”
She had no choice but to take his well-callused hand. She hopped to the ground. “He’ll be getting a walking cast on Monday.”
He snorted a laugh. “I don’t consider that a driving cast. I want you behind the wheel until I say otherwise. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stop by my office on Monday to pick up a temporary Montana driver’s license.” He tipped his finger to his hat, waved at someone inside the store, likely Cindy, and strolled down the street.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over with,” she muttered to herself.
Marci shut the pickup’s door with more force than necessary. Her stomach was in knots and her hands shook. She’d had a wonderful time with the children, but her fear wiped away all the pleasant memories. Would the fear ever end? She did not want to end up like Richard Kimble, running from so-called justice in The Fugitive TV show. But she couldn’t run, leaving Nikki alone and terrified for her. So she’d naively hoped to hide in this small Western town.
Sheriff Gibson knew she was scared of him. Police officers didn’t like puzzles, so he’d want to know why. What if he contacted the police back East? She’d purposely left no forwarding address, and had instructed her lawyer to keep everything until she telephoned him. She had no intention of calling anytime soon.
She re-entered the store, turning her back to shut the door. It echoed in her mind like the slamming of a prison cell. Keeping her head down, she shuffled to where she’d parked her rickety shopping buggy. She returned to her shopping, wanting to just get it over with and go home. Her chest was tight, her shoulders hunched. She could no longer pretend she was safe here. It was only a matter of time before they came aft
er her. Cindy with the hard eyes wasn’t there, thank God. She was considering buying a magazine when a familiar voice greeted her. She turned to find Brenda smiling and holding her arms out for a hug. Marci almost broke down at the comforting touch.
“I see you’ve met my brother.”
Brother? Marci wiped her eyes as she looked at Brenda, who was wider than herself but no taller. “That big blond giant is your brother?”
Brenda groaned. “He got the tall, blond, Gibson genes. I got my mother’s shape.” She patted Marci’s arm. “Don’t mind Max. He’s really a pussycat.”
“One with sharp teeth and claws,” Marci muttered.
Brenda pushed Marci’s cart to the side. “Obviously Max has not been very welcoming. So I’m taking you to lunch with a couple of girlfriends. You’ve spent enough time with Simon. You need some gal talk. My treat.” She held up her hand before Marci could complain. “I’ve got it all worked out. No one will guess who you are.”
Chapter Fifteen
Marci allowed Brenda to haul her away, but her stomach was almost as tight as when the sheriff grilled her. Some of the women Ted told her to befriend would put fighting roosters to shame. They were a tight-knit clique who could slice and dice a foe to ribbons. They made sure she knew she’d never be one of them. Brenda had probably known these friends since they were toddlers. How could she ever fit in?
But Brenda on a mission could not be stopped.
Since the sheriff already knew who she was, Marci didn’t keep her head down as they passed the civic building. She’d avoided looking even though she knew it was childish to think covering your eyes made the boogeyman disappear. Adults knew he waited silently until you thought it was safe to look. Then he attacked.
Enough!
She looked across the street, surprised to see a children’s playground between the two wings of the building. The sheriff’s office and jail were on the left. The unfortunately familiar pickup had its own spot, complete with a sign. From what she could tell, civic offices took up the middle and the right sections.
“That’s the Pioneer Playground,” said Brenda, noticing Marci’s interest. “The nine original Tanner’s Ford families built it and we maintain it as well. The benches were donated in honor of our veterans. Their names are on brass plates along the back. We’re practical people. Statues are nice to look at, but when you’re waiting around for paperwork, benches are more useful.”
“I think it’s a great idea.” She held her hand up to peer closer. “Did someone vandalize them? I see dark marks.”
“Those are brands from all the local ranches. It’s a bit of history for any tourists who stop by. Not that we get many.” Brenda stopped in front of the double doors of the Climax Roadhouse. “You go first.”
It took a minute for Marci’s eyes to adjust. Straight ahead were the washrooms. The door to the right was closed but she could hear country music playing from a jukebox inside. It wasn’t nearly as bad as she’d expected, or as loud. She’d heard about nasal whining and twanging guitars but a smooth male voice sang.
“Doesn’t George Strait have the best voice?”
Marci murmured her agreement as she followed Brenda. She’d never heard of the man, but it did sound nice. They turned left into the diner section. It was bright thanks to the wall of windows next to red vinyl booths with high backs. The walls held old photographs, mostly in black and white. Men rode horses and bulls, or posed with various automobiles or politicians. Women showed off prize-winning cakes, quilts, jams, and jellies. Instead of looking staged or quaint, it felt homey.
Brenda stopped at a booth containing two women. One held a toddler on her lap. The other was very pregnant. Both wore bright blouses, but they were cotton and didn’t have the puffy shoulders she was used to. Marci figured it must take a few years for fashions to get to small Western towns. She’d be happy if she never saw another Miami Vice wanna-be. She’d had it with scruffy beards and white T-shirts worn under a suit coat, though Don Johnson could get away with it.
“Hey, everyone, meet Marci.” Brenda motioned for Marci to get in first. Her grin showed that she was, indeed, doing it so Marci couldn’t escape. “She’s new to town and doesn’t know too many people yet.”
“Hi, Marci. I’m Anne Taylor, and this is my daughter Marsha,” said the one with the child. Both had caps of brown curls and wide smiles. “Don’t worry, we have a rule about no personal questions. But feel free to tell us anything. We’ll keep it to ourselves,” she added.
A waitress in her forties with the name “Dot” on her breast took the orders for iced tea and sodas. She stuck her pencil in her back-combed ’do as she walked away. Only a few hairs around her ears moved. The rest looked shellacked in place. At least she had a good reason for wearing the style. She wouldn’t lose her pencil unless she pushed it too hard and it fell inside the beehive. Marci pulled her attention back to the group when Brenda started talking.
“Doc Meshevski rented a basement apartment from Marci and her husband for a few years while she was at school,” explained Brenda. “They got along so well that when Doc Nikki heard Marci’s home had burned down with everything in it, she insisted on bringing her to Montana to start over. The Doc’s renting that small apartment of Harry’s. It’s not big enough for one, much less two.”
“Oh, Lord, it’s so old I’m surprised the town allowed him to offer it,” said the petite blonde across from Marci. “I remember doing some heavy petting there many years ago. Sorry,” she said to Marci, “I’m Ginny McInnes.” She patted her large belly. “I married the men I was necking with, and they gave me these twins.” She winced, then set the heel of her hand on the upper side of her bump. She pressed down for a moment, and then released. “Oh, that’s better. I swear they’re already wearing cowboy boots like their daddies.” She rubbed another spot. “I wanted girls, but when we went to the city for an ultrasound, it was obvious they were boys.” She rolled her eyes, making it obvious how they knew.
“And neither Sammy nor Grant have stopped boasting yet,” added Anne with a laugh.
Marci had to pull her eyes away from the amazing sight of Ginny’s belly. She’d not seen many pregnant women as Ted’s group tended to be reed-thin. Second wives weren’t expected to produce children. They couldn’t understand her desire for something that would ruin their figure. It was another strike against her. It was different here. She relaxed against the padded booth. These women were more like her. Happy to have children, married to men they cared about, and welcoming to strangers.
“Sorry to interrupt, Brenda,” prompted Ginny. “Doc brought Marci here, and…?”
“And then Simon hauled his cute ass to the clinic with a broken leg. He’s got a cast from his toes up. Can’t bend over or even stand for long. So Doc insisted someone take care of him for a couple of weeks. Since there’s no one else, Marci agreed to stay as his housekeeper.” She made a face. “That is, if she can stand him that long.”
“You lost everything?” asked Anne.
“I was sleeping when I realized the house was on fire,” said Marci. She and Nikki had worked out the story before Nikki spoke to the police. “I ran out the front door. I was halfway across the lawn when something exploded and knocked me out. I found out later that it was the propane tank for the pool heater beside the bedroom window. The fire department said nothing could be saved.”
“You were almost killed!” said Ginny.
“Her husband was,” added Brenda quietly.
“Oh, you poor thing!”
Marci couldn’t lead these women on. If she wanted to live in Climax, she had to start out on the right foot. She felt an ease with these laughing women. They didn’t look down their noses, but warmly accepted her. She’d tell the truth, but only part of it.
“Can I be honest?” she asked. She waited for their nods. “I thought my husband was still at work because he came home late so often. But it turned out he was in the bathroom when the explosion happened. He didn’t get out.” She
held up her hand to stop their sounds of sympathy. “Ted was not a nice man, and he was a horrid husband. I’m sorry he died, but I’m not sorry to be a widow.” Brenda took her hand and gave her a squeeze of support. She waited for their condemnation.
“Well, then!” Anne and Ginny exchanged glances. “More power to you.”
Marci let out the breath she’d held. She reached for her glass of soda to soothe her dry throat.
“Amen to that,” added Anne. They all nodded. “You were living in that tiny apartment?”
“Until Friday, when she moved to the MD Connected,” said Brenda, jumping in. “And after caring for Simon, she needs some gal time.”
“She needs more than that,” said Anne, eyes sparkling, “but the bar doesn’t open until five.”
Marci found herself laughing along with them. Dot returned and took their orders. The others knew what they wanted, but Marci hadn’t been in a diner before. Ted didn’t approve of such establishments. It was three star, or nothing. She looked around and immediately spotted what she wanted. Her mouth watered.
“I’d like a bacon cheeseburger with fries,” she said. “No onions, please.”
“What do you think of the wallpaper in Simon’s upstairs bathroom?” asked Anne.
“I haven’t been upstairs yet. I’ve been cleaning up the kitchen and…” She looked at the grins her new friends sported.
Brenda leaned forward, grinning at Anne and Ginny. “Do I need to point out there’s only one bed on the main floor?” The other women, laughing, shook their heads. Marci closed her eyes as heat rose to her hairline.
“So, that explains why Marci doesn’t want onions,” teased Anne.
Ginny suddenly gasped. She struggled out of the booth and hurried toward the door with a familiar logo on it.
“Pregnant woman coming through!” called Dot as Ginny rushed past. She brought a high chair for Marsha, who settled in with a fistful of breadsticks and a sippy cup.
“Let’s hope Mr. Dobbs isn’t at the urinal this time,” said Brenda. “He doesn’t like being interrupted once he finally gets going.”
