Reed Ferguson Mystery Box Set 5

by Renee Pawlish

  “Really? He promised to take me to dinner, too.” Cal feigned excitement, like an enthusiastic date. I could hear his grin through the phone.

  Willie put her hands on her hips, but humor danced in her green eyes as she stared at me. “He did?”

  “Yeah, pizza.”

  “Just pizza?” she said. “I’d demand more, like The Palm.”

  “Hey.” I held up my hands. “Quit ganging up on me.”

  They both laughed.

  “I could use a break,” I said.

  “You might as well,” Cal said. “These search results will take a while. Willie, you get first priority.”

  “Aren’t you sweet? It’ll give me a chance to share some paint samples with Reed.”

  “Paint samples?” The amusement hadn’t left Cal’s tone.

  “We’re redecorating,” she said. “If you want, when we finish here, maybe we can work on your house.”

  Cal coughed. “I like my place just the way it is.”

  Willie was grinning from ear to ear. “Uh-huh.”

  “Have fun at dinner,” Cal said quickly. “I’ll talk to you two later.”

  He ended the call, and she burst out laughing.

  “You have him terrified,” I said.

  “He’ll never get a date with his bachelor pad.”

  “Cal date? Are you mad?”

  Her smile faded. “I really don’t want to interrupt, but could we go to dinner now? I’m starved.”

  I slumped back in my chair and yawned. “I could use a break.” I pointed at the computer. “I’m coming up with zero.”

  She grabbed my hand and led me out of the room. “I wasn’t kidding when I said I have paint samples to look at.”

  I mustered all the enthusiasm I could, which truthfully, wasn’t much. “I can’t wait to see what you picked out.”

  “What do you want to watch?” Willie was perusing DVDs in a drawer in the entertainment center.

  “How about a film noir?” I suggested. “You haven’t seen Slattery’s Hurricane yet.”

  “What kind of a title is that?”

  After a nice dinner and margaritas, and a discussion about what color to paint the living room – Willie was leaning toward a neutral tan with an accent wall behind the couch, and I wasn’t sure – we were back home.

  “Ah, it’s not so bad,” I said. “It’s about drug smuggling and stars Richard Widmark as hotshot fighter pilot Will Slattery and his girlfriend Veronica Lake. It’s a rare movie –” That’s as far as I got before my phone rang. I checked the number. “It’s Cal. Let me take this in the office.”

  “I’m not in the mood for something so dramatic, but I’ll pick out something,” Willie called after me.

  I nodded as I answered.

  “That was a fast search.” I slumped down in my desk chair.

  “It’s still going, but I thought you’d be interested in this,” he said.

  I sat up straight. “You found a match?”

  “Not exactly. You know how if you do a people search, some of the sites will list possible relatives, or people connected to the person you’re looking up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I found a Jennifer Madisen.” He spelled the name, and I wrote it down. “And in the list of people connected to her is a Marcia L. Holder.” He spelled that name as well. “I did a more thorough search on Jennifer Madisen, and she used to be Jennifer Holder. She married Benjamin Madisen in 1980.”

  “So Marcia and Jennifer may be related.”

  “Right. You remember what was on the birth certificate?”

  “Marsha Jenny Madison, with an ‘o’,” I said.

  “Correct. Coincidence?”

  “In my line of work, I doubt it.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you look up Marcia Holder?”

  “Just a quick search. She has an old address listed in Sagebrush, Colorado, but that’s it. No phone number or any other information. But I have a number for Jennifer Madisen.” He gave that to me.

  “A 970 area code,” I said. “That’s right here in northern Colorado.”

  “Uh-huh. Here’s the address.”

  I wrote that down, too. “That’s in Sagebrush, too.”

  “Yep. Another coincidence?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He laughed. “Want me to do some more checking on either of them?”

  “Let’s see what the rest of your search results come up with first,” I said. “And I’ll see if I can get ahold of Jennifer Madisen. I may find out what I need with that.”

  “Sounds good.”

  And he was gone.

  I dialed Jennifer Madisen’s number and waited. After four rings, it went to voice mail.

  “You’ve reached the Madisen residence,” a deep male voice said. “Please leave a message and we’ll get back to you.”

  I ended the call. I wasn’t prepared to leave a message until I knew that Jennifer was actually at that number. I’d try again in the morning.

  “I’m done for the night,” I announced to Willie as I came back into the living room.

  “Good,” she said.

  She was lounging on the couch and was already watching You’ve Got Mail, with Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

  “Oh, a chick flick,” I said.

  “You’ll like it.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I snuggled up next to her, and pretended that I was enjoying the movie, while I thought about Jennifer Madisen.

  Chapter Six

  Thursday morning, Willie and I had breakfast together, and while she ran to the bank, I searched on Jennifer Madisen. I found very little, not even another city listed as a former residence. The only thing noteworthy was that her husband, Benjamin Madisen, was the sheriff of Sagebrush. He was referenced in some articles from the Sagebrush Journal, the local newspaper, but nothing particularly interesting. I searched a bit longer, then picked up the phone and tried Jennifer Madisen again. This time, a woman with a shrill voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Jennifer Madisen?” I asked.

  “Yes?”

  Tentative, probably thinking I was a salesperson.

  “My name is Philip Marlowe,” I said, referring to Raymond Chandler’s fictional detective.

  “That name sounds familiar.”

  Uh-oh. Every once in a while, someone knew the Philip Marlowe character. I barreled ahead so she wouldn’t have time to think about it. “This might sound like an odd question, but do you know a woman named Marcia Holder?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, that’s my sister.”

  “Do you happen to know how I can get in touch with her?”

  “I’m sorry, you said your name was Marlowe?”

  “Yes.”

  She had quickly become guarded. “Why do you want to talk to my sister?”

  It was my turn to hesitate. I didn’t want to come right out and say that Marcia Holder might be my client’s mother, so how much should I say?

  “My client would like to speak to Marcia,” I finally said.

  “Your client? Who are you?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  That sound of a phone call dropping sounded in my ear.

  “Hello?” I said, then stared at the phone.

  That wasn’t how I envisioned the conversation progressing. I figured that by telling her I was a PI she might become more reserved, and that was fine. I was going to suggest that she give my number to Marcia, and Marcia could call me. I didn’t think she’d hang up.

  I dialed the number again, and Jennifer picked up. No caller ID?

  “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Madisen, please don’t –”

  That darn disconnect sound. She’d hung up again!

  I tried one more time and the call went directly to voice mail. This time I hung up on the male voice on the recorder. I set the phone down, wondering why she’d suddenly ended the call. Did she have something to hide? How could I find out if she wouldn’t talk
to me? I got back onto the internet, and looked up Sagebrush, where Jennifer Madisen lived.

  Sagebrush was a little over a hundred miles from Denver, north of Interstate 70. It appeared to be a small farming community, with a dairy plant and other small businesses. I studied a map, and figured it would take me about two hours to drive there.

  I sat back and stared at the laptop while I thought through my options. Try Jennifer again? I doubted she’d talk to me. Road trip? Go out to Sagebrush and speak with Jennifer Madisen in person? It’d be harder for her to brush me off then, and a face-to-face encounter would allow me to better gauge her reactions to my questions to see if she was lying about anything. And if Marcia Holder was related to Jennifer, and Marcia was from Sagebrush as well, maybe I could find some other people who knew her. If so, they might know if Marcia had been pregnant in the mid-eighties.

  I googled hotels in Sagebrush, and found what looked like a few cheap motels in the town. Then I saw there was a Sagebrush Inn on the western side of town. It looked like a bigger hotel that might have once been affiliated with a better hotel chain. That would work, if I needed to stay overnight.

  Just then, Willie came into the office and startled me.

  “You look deep in thought,” she said.

  I nodded as an idea popped into my head. “How’d you like to take a little mini-vacation?” I asked.

  “Did you finish your case already?”

  I shook my head. “No, I thought we could combine work and pleasure.”

  “Like when we went to Aspen?”

  On a previous case, I’d needed to track down a suspect who lived in Aspen, a small, exclusive tourist town in the mountains west of Denver, and Willie had gone with me. After I’d wrapped up the case, we’d enjoyed a couple of romantic days there.

  “Kind of,” I said.

  “Where to this time? Vail? Breckenridge? Steamboat?”

  “Sagebrush,” I said.

  “Sagebrush? Never heard of it. Oh, is it out of state?”

  “It’s a small town on the eastern plains.”

  She frowned. “That doesn’t sound very exciting.”

  “You’ll be with me.”

  “That doesn’t sound very exciting,” she repeated.

  “Oh, that’s cold.”

  She came over and kissed me. “Just kidding. If we can find a hotel with a pool, I can relax there while you’re off detecting.”

  “That’ll work.” Although I had no idea if the Sagebrush Inn had a pool. I stood up. “Let’s get packed and head out.”

  “Oh, this’ll be fun. A quick getaway.”

  We stopped for lunch in Limon, the “Hub City” of eastern Colorado where five highways and two railroads intersect, then gassed up and moved on. Farther on, we turned onto Highway 59. The drive north was uneventful, the scenery flat, the landscape all around with consisting of farms, ranches, and barren fields. We arrived in Sagebrush around one. There wasn’t much to Sagebrush, although it boasted a large grocery store, a Pizza Hut and a few other fast food joints, and some mom-and-pop shops.

  As we drove down Main Street, Willie looked around and tried not to appear disappointed. Although the town seemed to be a mix of older and newer buildings, it did not have the appeal of a tourist town. This was no Aspen.

  “It’s … quaint,” she finally said.

  “Uh-huh” was all I could muster.

  “Sometimes these old towns have good antique stores,” she said hopefully.

  I glanced at her. “You want to shop, too?”

  “I can’t spend the whole time by the pool.”

  “I’ll have the car.”

  “Maybe you won’t be that long.”

  “Then we’ll have some nice, quiet time together.”

  “I like the sound of that,” she said.

  I soon pulled into the Sagebrush Inn and parked. There were no cars in the lot, and no people around. A dry heat hit us as we got out of the 4-Runner.

  “Does this place have a pool?” she asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “If not, what am I going to do?” she murmured. “It’s too hot to walk around.”

  We went inside and checked in and, luckily for me, there was a pool. I took our overnight bags and my backpack with my laptop to a functional room with a bed, nightstand, and an older model TV in an armoire.

  Willie looked around. “I think I’ll go to the pool now,” she said as she pulled her swimsuit from her bag.

  “Okay. I’m going to head out.” I’d brought my Glock, and I strapped on my ankle holster with the gun.

  “Will you need that?” she asked.

  “I hope not.”

  “How long will you be?”

  I shrugged. “An hour or two? Then maybe we can find a good local restaurant for dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I kissed her and then left.

  Cal had given me the address for Jennifer Madisen, but when I’d googled it earlier that day, the map made it look like her place was in the middle of a field. I didn’t relish the idea of driving around the prairie trying to find her house, so I stopped at the lobby to talk to the desk clerk.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  He was in his twenties, with shoulder-length black hair and a stubble of beard on his chin. He was staring at a laptop, and by the pops and explosions emanating from it, I could tell he was playing some kind of shoot-’em-up video game. He threw me an annoyed look as he pulled himself away from it.

  “I’m trying to find a house – or maybe it’s a farm – near County Road 15 and Blaine Road,” I said. “But on the map, it looks like the road ends before you get to the address.”

  “You looking for the Madisen ranch?”

  Small town, I thought. Everyone knows everyone. “Yes,” I said.

  “Okay, you go north on Highway 59 until you get to County Road 15.” He gave me directions, and then said, “County Road 15 continues east, even though it doesn’t look like it on the map. It dead-ends at the Madisen ranch.”

  “Thanks.”

  He was back on his laptop before I walked out the front door. I drove out of town and followed his instructions. Most of the land around was dry and barren. In ten minutes, I came to County Road 15. I went east, and eventually the dry prairie gave way to green fields. Then I came to an entrance to a ranch with an arched gateway sign that read “Madisen Ranch.” In the distance I saw a large, two-story house with a long porch that wrapped around one side of the building.

  I headed slowly down the dirt road and pulled into a circular drive in front of the house, then glanced around. The house was white clapboard, with a pitched gable roof, large windows with black shutters, two chimneys, and a three-car garage. A few tall oak trees towered over the house, branches swaying in a searing breeze. No one was around.

  I got out and climbed the porch, my footsteps ringing hollowly on the floorboards. I rang the bell and waited. Deep chimes sounded from within, and a moment later, the door swung open to reveal an older woman in a cream-colored pant suit. Not exactly a ranch-wife outfit.

  She was tall and thin, with perfectly coiffed brown hair, and an obvious penchant for gold jewelry. A large diamond flashed on her left ring finger.

  “Jennifer Madisen?” I asked.

  “Yes?” She looked past me to the 4-Runner.

  I had to remember what pseudonym I’d used. “I’m Philip Marlowe.”

  “I remembered who he was,” she snapped. “He’s that detective from the movies.” She surveyed me up and down. “I don’t know who you are, but I have nothing to say to you.”

  With that, she slammed the door shut with a bang.

  Chapter Seven

  I was momentarily stunned, and then I punched the doorbell again.

  “Mrs. Madisen?” I called out.

  Nothing.

  I rang the bell again, then pounded on the door and hollered her name, wondering how long it would take her to lose patience and come back out. When nothing happened, I r
ang one more time, then moved to a rocker on the porch and sat down. I’d driven almost two hours to get to Sagebrush, and I had nothing better to do, so I’d wait her out. She’d eventually have to come out to tell me to go away, and I’d tell her why I was here. Maybe that would get her to talk to me.

  After fifteen minutes of rocking, I had built up a sweat, even though I was sitting in the shade. I was also growing angry, wondering why Jennifer wasn’t making an appearance, and questioning my own stupid plan.

  I dithered about what to do, then finally stood up and was about to ring the bell again when I saw a cloud of dust building down the road. As it drew closer, a dark-colored sheriff’s cruiser came into view. I sighed. In my annoyance, I’d forgotten who Jennifer was married to.

  “She called the cops,” I muttered. At least they hadn’t come with sirens blaring and lights flashing. That would’ve been overkill just to get little ole me.

  The cruiser came around the circular drive and screeched to a stop behind the 4-Runner. A big, bald man with a wide chest emerged from the car. He wore a tan uniform, dark boots, and sunglasses, and he put on his campaign hat as he walked around the front of the car. He came toward me in a saunter meant to seem casual, but was clearly not.

  “Can I help you, son?” he asked in a deep voice.

  Now that he was closer, I noticed a few wrinkles on his weathered face, and I pegged him in his fifties. A bit older than my almost forty. I was also keenly aware that he was bigger than I first thought. I took two steps backward and subtly thrust my chest out, which did nothing to intimidate him.

  “I wanted to talk to Jennifer Madisen,” I said.

  “Do you have some ID?”

  I pulled out my wallet and showed him my driver’s license, and then my private investigator’s license. It wasn’t anything official – you don’t have to be licensed in the state of Colorado – and he treated it as such, barely acknowledging it. I hoped he didn’t pay much attention to the name, since I’d told his wife I was Philip Marlowe.

  “If my wife doesn’t want to talk to you, nothing’s going to change her mind,” he observed wryly.

  I didn’t like that I could see only my reflection in his sunglasses. “Okay,” I said. “But it’s very important.”