by Janet Dailey
“I don’t understand,” she said in agitation. “We found the gun—”
“We found a gun,” Bannon corrected her.
She pivoted sharply. “What does that mean?”
“It means a gun was found that had two rounds fired from it.” He sat down on the sofa, but he didn’t bother to insist that Delaney take a seat. “However, there were no fingerprints on it. It had been wiped clean. And a gunshot residue test on Susan’s hands came up negative. She hadn’t fired a weapon.”
“What?” Delaney frowned, unable to believe what she was hearing. “That’s impossible. There were shots. I heard them.”
But had they come from Susan? She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to picture that instant in her mind when she saw the gunflash. Susan had been the only one there. It couldn’t have come from anyone else.
“I’m sorry, Delaney, but the evidence indicates otherwise,” Bannon stated, tenting his fingers together. “I’m afraid your situation has taken a somewhat serious turn.”
“I don’t understand.” Her father sank into one of the living room chairs, looking as shocked as she felt. “What did you mean—the evidence indicates otherwise?”
“I mean there is no evidence to corroborate your daughter’s statement that she was fired on. There were no witnesses to the actual shooting,” he said. “It’s true that Lucas Wayne told the police he saw a gun in Susan’s hand, but he also said he heard only four shots, and Delaney fired four times. Plus, Mr. Wayne thought Susan was Rina Cole. If he could make that mistake, then he could also be mistaken about seeing a gun in her hand.”
“But what about the gun that was found?” her father argued.
“Yes, the gun we so conveniently found,” Bannon murmured dryly. “The prosecuting attorney hinted—strongly, I might add—that it could have been planted there by someone who wasn’t aware a residue test had already proven Susan St. Jacque hadn’t fired a weapon, someone who felt that a gun found at the scene would support Delaney’s claim of self-defense.”
Delaney thought about Wyatt and Vance, both former policemen. It wasn’t unheard of for a policeman to carry a second gun, an unregistered weapon—a throwaway, they called it—one that could be “produced” at a scene to prevent an officer from being charged with shooting an unarmed suspect. At one time, carrying a throwaway had been a standard practice, and for some, it still was.
Both men had been at the house since the shooting. Either one of them could have slipped under the police line and planted the gun in the shrub. Riley had also had access to the area. But she was certain he wouldn’t have done it, not even to protect her.
Her father frowned. “But Delaney told me that Arthur Golden was the one who found the gun wedged in this bush. Don’t tell me the prosecutor thinks Arthur put it there, then ‘pretended’ to find it?” He openly scoffed at the idea. “Arthur isn’t that great as an actor, Mr. Bannon.”
“Truthfully, Mr. Wescott, it isn’t relevant at this point who put the gun there or why. Unfortunately, finding it has raised more doubts and suspicions in the prosecutor’s mind. To make matters worse”—he paused and glanced at Delaney—“Susan’s will was filed this afternoon. It seems she never bothered to change her will after she divorced Jared McCallister. Except for some family keepsakes that go to her aunt, Susan left everything to Jared—her bank accounts, her art gallery, everything, including the house in the West End that she received from him in the divorce settlement.”
“The house in the West End.” Delaney looked at Bannon in surprise. “The one she lived in—it belonged to Jared?”
“It was built by his family—his ancestors—years ago. Susan fixed it up,” he explained. “At the time of their divorce, she got the house and Jared kept the ranch and the cash.”
“I don’t think I like what you’re saying,” Delaney murmured.
“I don’t like saying it. But you have to see how it could look to some people—Susan is dead. One way or another, you are responsible for her death. Jared inherits a house worth close to two million dollars—a house he might rightfully feel should be his anyway. And the two of you have known each other for several years.”
“Are you suggesting premeditation?” she challenged.
“I’m suggesting that it raises some questions in the prosecutor’s mind.”
“This is crazy.” She stood up, impatient, angry, confused. “It doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Somewhere there has to be an explanation.”
“One more thing, Delaney.”
She swung around, this time braced for anything. “I’m almost afraid to ask what!”
“The prosecuting attorney indicated that, in the interests of bringing to an end all the adverse publicity this case is creating for both you and Aspen, he would entertain the acceptance of a guilty plea to voluntary manslaughter—”
“No!”
Bannon raised his hand to check her quick and angry refusal. “Hear me out,” he insisted. “The prosecutor also mentioned that he would recommend to the judge that any sentence be suspended. Naturally, there is no guarantee that the judge will abide by his recommendation. However—”
“No,” she broke in again. “Under no circumstances will I plead guilty to voluntary manslaughter. I am not going to have a felony conviction on my record. In the first place, I know what happened that night. I don’t care what the prosecutor thinks, what the evidence may indicate, or what conflicting statements the witnesses may have given—I returned fire. It was self-defense, and there is no question in my mind about that. In the second place, a felony conviction would mean the end of my career, the end of my company. You can’t honestly expect me to give that up in return for a suspended sentence when I am not guilty of anything but doing my job. And I don’t give a damn how much adverse publicity Aspen gets—or I get. If you disagree, say so now, Bannon, and I will get myself another lawyer with the guts to fight for me.”
A small, pleased smile touched the corners of his mouth. “That won’t be necessary, Delaney.” He stood up. “It won’t be necessary at all. And if that impassioned speech you gave is anything to go by, you would have made a helluva criminal lawyer. In fact, I might borrow some of it for my summation to the jury.”
“My God, was that some sort of a test?” Delaney demanded, still angry and still vibrating with it.
“You could call it that,” he admitted without apology. “We could have a tough fight on our hands. I like to know before I go in how much backbone my client has.”
“Well, now you know,” she said stiffly.
“Now I know.” He nodded.
“Have you told Riley any of this?” she asked suddenly.
“No.”
“I need to talk to him. We need to put our heads together and find some answers,” she said, talking out the jumble of thoughts in her mind. “There has to be something we’ve overlooked, something we haven’t considered.” Coming to an instant decision, she turned to her father. “I need you to drive me into town, Dad.”
Her statement took him by surprise. It was a full second before he managed to reply, “Of course. I’ll be happy to.”
“I’ll need a few minutes to pack, then we can go.”
“Pack?” It was Bannon’s turn to look at her in surprise.
“Yes, I’m moving back to the condo.”
“But the reporters—” Bannon began.
“That’s a problem I’ll deal with when it comes. In the meantime, I can’t keep hiding out here, isolated from everything. There’s an explanation for this mess I’m in, and I won’t find it here.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Delaney,” he cautioned.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to go off half-cocked. I’ll be careful,” she assured him. “But I can’t sit around anymore doing nothing.”
“I can understand that.” Bannon nodded in sympathy. “Just be sure you don’t step on the wrong toes.”
“I will be very careful.”
Twenty minut
es later, the red Camaro pulled away from the log ranch house with her father behind the wheel and Delaney in the front passenger seat. The German shepherd had the entire back seat to himself. The dog nuzzled the back of her head and whined in happiness. Absently, Delaney reached back to pat Ollie’s nose, but her attention never wavered from the road ahead of them.
Somewhere at the end lay the answers to her dilemma, and Delaney was determined to find them.
TWENTY-FIVE
USING HER KEY TO THE condo, Delaney unlocked the door. The German shepherd pushed his way past her and entered the condo ahead of her. The light above the worktable was on, but the chair behind it was empty.
“It’s about time you got back, Gordon.” Riley’s voice came from the kitchen. “I was about to organize a search party—Delaney.” He stopped in the doorway, nearly dropping the cup he held. “What are you doing here?” He saw the suitcase in her hand, and the mate to it in her father’s. “What’s going on? How come you’re here?”
“Is there more coffee in the kitchen?” her father asked before Delaney could answer his questions. “My last cup was cold by the time I got around to drinking it.”
“No, this was the last,” Riley replied, still looking to Delaney for an explanation.
“I’ll make some more.” Her father set the suitcase on the floor and went past Riley into the kitchen. Ollie followed, his toenails clicking on the vinyl floor.
By the time her father returned with two steaming cups of freshly brewed coffee, Delaney had told Riley about her meeting with Bannon, the results of the residue test, the lack of fingerprints on the gun, and Susan’s will.
He crushed his cigarette in the coffee table’s large glass ashtray, then rolled to his feet, taking two quick steps away from the sofa before stopping. “Who would have planted that gun?” He ran a hand through his hair.
“Any number of people had the opportunity.” She had given the question considerable thought during the ride from the ranch. “I think we can safely eliminate Toby and the caretaker. Toby is too afraid of a gun to touch one, and the caretaker, Harold Walker—what reason would he have to do it? Wyatt or Vance might have done it, but they’re both ex-cops; they would have known a residue test would be done. You can be eliminated for the same reason. Which leaves—Lucas and Arthur. Arthur found the gun, which makes him the obvious choice. In a way, it’s almost too obvious,” she said and sighed. “Dad pointed out that Arthur is not an actor, and I’m inclined to agree. Arthur is not an actor. I don’t think he could have pulled off pretending to find it.”
“That only leaves Lucas.” Riley dug in his shirt pocket for another cigarette.
“It was probably a misguided attempt to help me.” She carried the cup to her lips, blowing on the dark surface to cool it before she took that first sip.
Nodding, Riley took a long, deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a quick stream. “Makes sense. He’s blamed himself often enough for mistaking Susan for Rina.”
“I know.” She lowered the cup, holding it with both hands. “Now if we could only get him to admit that to the police, assuming he is the one who planted it.”
“You’ve lost me.” Her father frowned in bewilderment. “What would that accomplish?”
“It would take some of the suspicion off Delaney and take away the smell that she acted in a way that needs to be covered up.”
“I see.” His frown turned thoughtful as he considered Riley’s answer. “One thing bothers me, though—if Lucas Wayne planted the gun in that bush, how could he be sure someone would look there? How could he be sure Arthur would find it?”
“You just found the hole in Delaney’s theory,” Riley admitted. “It’s possible Arthur might have made a comment to Lucas about the haphazard way the police searched the bushes. Lucas might have picked up on that and told Arthur he should tell somebody about it. If Arthur hadn’t, Lucas might have been forced to come up with something on his own. Unfortunately, we’ll never know.”
“This gun is sidetracking us from the one truly important thing.” Delaney set her coffee cup down. “Who shot at Lucas that night? Somebody did. If it wasn’t Susan—and all the evidence seems to prove it wasn’t—then who? The prosecutor and the police think I made up the gunshots just like I obviously imagined seeing a gun in her hand—”
“I heard six shots that night,” Riley stated. “I didn’t imagine them, Delaney. I counted them off.”
“Unfortunately, you are the only one who did.”
“Wyatt was talking. Maybe that’s why he missed hearing the first one.”
“Maybe. But who fired it?” She came back to her original question. “Everybody on the grounds was accounted for, except Arthur. You were with Wyatt. I was with Lucas. And Toby was with the caretaker. Arthur was the only one alone at the time. He claims he was walking out back, but—what if he wasn’t? What if—” Delaney stopped and shook her head, then unconsciously flipped her hair back behind her ears with a comb of her fingers. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would he shoot at Lucas?”
“Publicity?” her father suggested. “Maybe he wanted to reinforce all this press about Rina Cole being out to get Lucas.”
Delaney dismissed that. “Rina does an excellent job of that without his help.”
“Maybe he wanted to keep Lucas scared,” her father said.
She frowned. “Why would he want to do that?”
“To keep Lucas needing him, turning to him, not giving him a chance to think about his career. Believe me, as hot as Lucas is right now, Arthur has to be sweating blood that Lucas will dump him for a big-name management company. Why he hasn’t already is anybody’s guess.”
“That reasoning sounds shaky to me, Gordon.” Riley squinted at the smoke curling from the cigarette that dangled from the corner of his mouth.
“If we eliminate Arthur, then someone was on the grounds that we don’t know about,” Delaney said. “And there’s only one person I know who wants to see Lucas Wayne dead.”
Riley nodded. “Rina Cole.”
“All along we have been operating on the assumption that Susan fired the shots—you, me, the police, everyone. No one has checked the hedges along the perimeter to see if anyone came through them, have they?”
“No.”
“You and I will. Tomorrow morning.”
Her father rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. “We have a plan now. That makes me feel better. In fact, it puts me in the mood for a big dish of Rocky Road. How about you, Delaney?”
“I don’t think we have any ice cream, Dad.”
“Yes, you do. I had Riley stop and pick some up on our way from the airport. So, how about it?”
She shook her head. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Riley?”
“None for me. Thanks, Gordon.”
“You two don’t know what you’re missing.” He headed off for the kitchen.
Delaney picked up her cup and took a sip of it, then stared into the coffee, its dark surface pulling at her and mirroring her thoughts.
The sun was a yellow ball in the sky above Smuggler Mountain, its rays slanting onto the summer-lush slopes of the Rockies and glancing off the town sandwiched between its ranges. The sounds and voices of workmen busy installing a security gate at the entrance to the drive rang clearly through the crisp morning air.
Delaney watched them for a minute, her glance automatically noting the number on the job and the presence of the uniformed officer lounging against the side of a panel truck. “No reporters,” she observed as Riley tucked his radio into its belt holster.
“The funeral is this morning,” he reminded. “They’re probably off covering it.”
“I forgot.” She wondered if Jared was at the funeral, then decided he was. Despite the divorce and their conflicting views, Jared was the kind of man who would feel it was his duty to pay his final respects to the woman who had once been his wife. The thought of not attending Susan’s funeral wouldn’t occur to him.
“How much longer do you think the police will keep a man stationed here?”
Riley hooked the zipper of his tan windbreaker together, raising it a couple inches. “With the funeral and the gate going up, they’ll probably pull out after today.”
“At least the gate will make our job easier.”
“Too bad gates and fences only keep out honest people.”
“True.” Delaney buried her hands inside the slash pockets of her vest. “If you’re ready, we might as well check the hedge along the front first and work our way around the property.”
“Let’s go.”
Angling away from the workmen, they cut across the lawn and began their search approximately ten feet from the driveway. The bushes had been planted mere inches apart, their dense, interlocking branches forming a seemingly impenetrable barrier along the two hundred feet of road frontage. They walked its length, stopping every few feet to peer under the drooping branches, looking for any gap between the plants wide enough for an intruder to wiggle through, then moving on again, scanning the tangle for broken branches.
At the cornerline, Delaney spotted a small opening between the plants and got down on her hands and knees to inspect the tunnel-like gap. Behind her, Riley swore suddenly and savagely under his breath.
“What’s the matter?” She backed out of the bushes, briefly snagging her tapestry vest on a twig.
“You can kiss goodbye any thought of finding a freshly broken branch. Look.”
Delaney stood up, automatically brushing at the knees of her black jeans as she glanced in the direction of his curt nod. At almost the same instant, she saw the gray-haired caretaker and heard the snip-snip-snipping of the pruning shears in his hand.
“Great.” She sighed in disgust at the neatly trimmed hedge that stretched behind him, and the long pile of chopped-off branches beside it. “Why did he have to pick today?”
“Who knows? Come on. Let’s go talk to him,” Riley said. “Maybe he’s seen something.”
The grizzled caretaker saw them coming and lowered the shears to his side. “Saw you crawling around on the ground,” he said. “Did you lose something?”
