Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set

by Deborah Garner

  Mist materialized next to Paige and stood waiting. For lack of anything else to say, Paige asked for a glass of white wine.

  “Whatever you recommend, Mist. I trust your judgment.”

  Pivoting in her “Mist manner,” the café owner retreated to the kitchen without taking Mr. Hodges’ drink order. Ha, Paige thought, serves him right for being so antisocial. Mist fixed dinner for him every Tuesday? She was a kind spirit, indeed.

  Because of her breakfast experience, Paige knew better than to expect a menu. She looked around the room again. As her eyes grew accustomed to the candlelight, she began to make out the landscape paintings on the walls. In the dimness, the artwork looked abstract. Like the café itself, Paige thought, like Mist’s universe.

  To Paige’s surprise, Mist reappeared and set a chilled flute of champagne in front of her; candlelight struck the sparkling bubbles. Lost in the warm glow, Paige reached for the glass, but her hand paused mid-air as she watched Mist place a second flute across the table and then set a long-stemmed red rose between the two. In a second, she knew what was happening.

  “Jake,” she whispered.

  The newspaper fell to the table and Paige caught her breath. Jake was even more handsome than Paige remembered, all blue eyes, chiseled chin, deep tan and windswept hair. She had missed him. Now here he was, his sly grin revealing she was the recipient of a well-planned surprise.

  “Hi, Paige,” Jake said, looking pleased with himself.

  “You tricky rascal! How?”

  “First a toast. To Paige MacKenzie, intrepid reporter.”

  Paige lifted her own glass and clinked it against Jake’s. “To Jake Norris, mysterious cowboy!” She took a sip of champagne before setting down her glass. “So, how did you pull this off?”

  “Your office,” Jake said. “I called there yesterday because I couldn't reach you on your cell phone.”

  “I was in flight. My phone was off. And you hate leaving messages, don't you?” Paige crossed her arms and tried to look annoyed. But she couldn’t stop smiling.

  “And you just go trouncing across the country, heading west, no less, without a word of warning.” Jake's tone was 95 percent teasing and 5 percent scolding.

  “I didn't have much notice, to tell the truth,” Paige said. “Besides, I thought maybe I'd surprise you.”

  “Well, I do believe I beat you to it.” Jake rocked back in his chair, looking like a schoolboy who'd just gotten away with an excellent prank.

  “Yes, I believe you did.”

  Enya had moved seamlessly into a haunting blend of pan flutes and soft drums. Jake’s eyes reflected candlelight. As Jake leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper, Paige gave in to the urge to touch his hand with light fingertips just to be sure she wasn’t imagining his presence.

  “Will we be getting menus soon?” Jake looked around the café for Mist. “I worked up an appetite driving today.”

  Paige slid her hand back to her champagne flute, leaned forward, too, and matched his secretive tone.

  “Moonglow doesn't have menus,” Paige whispered. “Menus complicate life.” She felt a wave of satisfaction at Jake's puzzled look. He may have surprised her first, but at least she had a head start on knowing Timberton’s quirks.

  Two plates of food glided silently onto the table; the aromas of caramelized onions and port sauce rose up. Slender stalks of fresh asparagus fanned out to the left side of two tender, beef medallions. A diminutive, almond-encrusted puff pastry of baked Brie accompanied the meal. Jake looked at the plate and back up at Paige.

  “Trust me,” Paige said. “Just eat anything she serves. The breakfast I had this morning was heavenly. If I could, I’d eat every meal here for the rest of my life.”

  Jake dug into the gourmet meal, glancing around the café between bites. Paige watched him and knew he was as curious as she’d been since she arrived in Timberton. Hunger trumped conversation temporarily, but as he finished a last bite of Brie, he spoke.

  “What kind of town is this, anyway? It didn't look like much when I drove in. But then the only café in town serves up a meal like this? I don't get it.”

  Paige could only agree.

  “I wish I could tell you. It's an odd place, that's for sure.” Paige paused as Mist switched out the empty dinner plates for two coffees, one miniature chocolate soufflé and two spoons.

  “What does Susan have you working on this time?” Jake sipped his coffee

  “I'm writing a sapphire article to coincide with a gemology convention coming up in New York in a few weeks,” Paige said. “There’s a gem gallery in town, and the owner knows a lot about Montana sapphire mining and the town’s history. Once I get a good focus, I hope it won’t take long to pull it together. But there’s something else.”

  Jake took a sip of coffee as Paige lowered her voice again.

  “I came across an old diary last night while I was trying to figure out how to turn on the heat in my room.”

  “One of those display pieces that hotels put out for guests to see?” Jake said, holding his coffee cup close to his face to breathe in the aroma. “Wow, this coffee is excellent.”

  “No,” Paige said. “I mean, yes, the coffee is amazing, but no, the diary isn’t a display piece. It was hidden inside the wall. I’m sure it belonged to a local artist. This town is filled with unusual characters and secrets,” Paige said, dipping a spoon into the soufflé. “It seems surreal.”

  “Yes, I agree, surreal,” Jake said. “What are the entries in this diary like? Do they have anything to do with sapphires?”

  Paige looked a little guilty. “Nothing to do with sapphires. From what I’ve read so far, the diarist was a painting student who was frustrated with his teacher and his own work. He was an angry person, but his story intrigues me.”

  “Yes, I remember how you can’t resist the possibility of a good story.” Jake’s voice had softened. He reached across the table and laced his fingers with Paige's. That simple contact unnerved but warmed her. It was good to feel his touch.

  “How does a cool, Montana evening walk sound after we pay the tab?” Jake nodded to the café's front door.

  “I wouldn't hold your breath waiting for a check,” Paige laughed. “Payment for meals here is just as bizarre as everything else in this town.”

  “If we don’t get a bill, how do we know what we owe?” Jake said. Paige guessed that nothing in Timberton made sense to Jake.

  “To quote what Mist told me this morning, ‘leave what your heart tells you.’”

  “Well,” Jake sighed, “My heart tells me I'd better appreciate an extraordinary meal when I have a chance.” He stood and pulled out a worn, leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, taking several bills and dropping them on the table.

  Just seeing Jake stand moved Paige to a familiar breathlessness. The scuffed boots were the same ones he'd been wearing when she'd first met him in Jackson Hole. The sound of his first step onto Moonglow's wooden floor brought back memories of a day in another café, one state away. Had it really been only a month? She admired the snug, relaxed fit of his jeans. They looked like the same jeans as before, though the belt buckle was different. It was similar to the silver buckles she'd seen him wear, but with a trace of gold edging. The design featured majestic mountains and pine trees that surrounded a rustic bridge.

  “Like it?”

  Paige blushed. She knew she’d stared at that belt buckle a bit too long. Of course she liked it. All of it. What was not to like about this Wyoming cowboy?

  “Recent addition to your wardrobe?”

  Jake grinned. “Even guys shop sometimes, you know.” He helped her up from her chair, picked up the long-stemmed, red rose and presented it to her with a slight bow.

  “Dramatic,” she teased.

  “Well, drama could be your middle name, if I recall your last visit correctly.” Jake released her hand and slid his arm around her shoulders.

  “Not this time.” Paige sighed. They stepped out i
nto the cold night and paused on the sidewalk. “The people are interesting, and the diary adds an intriguing twist, but there's not a drop of drama to be found in this town from what I can tell.”

  “That's fine,” Jake said. “You're here to do an article on sapphires. Maybe the town’s old-time residents will find the diary interesting. Anyway, the most important thing is that you're here.” He turned Paige toward him and drew her close.

  “I think maybe you should show me this diary,” Jake whispered, his lips brushing Paige’s ear. “You know…the one in your room?”

  “Yes.” Paige said with a soft smile. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Mist had grown used to the sharp click of the latch as she closed the front door behind her guests. If she had her way, there wouldn't be a latch at all on the door, nor on any of the windows. Locks kept people closed off when they should strive to remain open to each other. But she was only the business owner. When it came to the menu, she could follow any whim she desired. When it came to the building, she had the limits of any other tenant, and that meant locks on the doors.

  Clive Barnes wasn't bad, as landlords went. He had seemed glad to find someone who was interested in renting the old café, which had been vacant for years and had fallen prey to transients and vandals. The relief in his voice had been clear when she had first called from California to ask about the place. He asked a fair price, more than fair, probably because the residents of Timberton were in dire need of a decent place to eat. The few other eateries within the town limits were open only during the summer season and closed their doors as soon as fall arrived and the tourists disappeared. And it seemed no one wanted to drive down the road to Wild Bill's.

  It had all fallen into place perfectly. She'd researched every town and city in Judith Basin County, from Great Falls to Billings. This territory was home to one of the American West's finest painters: Charles Russell. She'd been enthralled with his work from the first day she began dabbling with painting techniques as an art student in Santa Cruz. His pieces were soft in color, yet bold with reality. They portrayed a life that was nothing like hers. Russell's images told stories of the Sioux and Blackfoot, not of California surfers. They represented tableaus of dry, open land, not the infinite waters of the Pacific Ocean. Yet they spoke to her.

  She'd paid her way through art school by working at a beachside bistro, a tiny place with only a half dozen tables. Since there wasn’t an opening for a server, she'd ended up in the kitchen prepping food for the cooks. Chopping vegetables seemed like the last thing that would interest her, but she found the repetitive motions soothing. When she began helping the chef prepare sauces, her interest grew more intense. She'd find herself daydreaming in art class, counting the minutes until class would end and she could go to work. The varying colors of the food, the textures and flavors of the sauces and, ultimately, the presentation of the final dishes, became her art. It was not long before she became the chef's right-hand aide, learning culinary details that made the difference between a meal being just good and out-of-this-world extraordinary.

  In the evenings, after the bistro closed, she often sat on the front patio with her easel and paints, duplicating on paper the glow of the moon on the sparkling ocean waters. Below splashes of dark blue and silver-gold, gentle strokes of yellow and brown merged to represent the still-warm sand. Those evenings were magical, filled with the song of crashing waves and the fragrant ocean breeze.

  When she sat back to observe her work, she had the eerie sense that the beach sand resembled rolling hills and the moon, big, open skies. Where were those images coming from? She would adjust the easel and look at the painting from different angles in the dim light above the bistro’s door, hoping to bring the connection into focus. But she could never figure it out.

  Had she traveled as a child and visited a similar landscape? It was unlikely. She was an only child, and she’d lost her parents to a car accident when she was barely three years old. Her grandmother had raised her along the Pacific coast until she herself died just one day after Mist's eighteenth birthday. She was a California girl, for certain. That is, until she arrived in Montana.

  Timberton had offered several things she sought – a change of pace, an opportunity to study the landscapes a favorite artist had so beautifully captured and, serendipitously, a way to earn a living. The town was desperate for a decent restaurant, and the ramshackle, vacant eatery had potential. A small room behind the kitchen could serve as a combined studio and living space. It was all she needed.

  Turning away from the door, Mist extinguished the café lights and retreated to the back, slipping off her work boots and settling down on a wooden stool. She clipped a fresh sheet of paper on her easel, dipped a slender brush into a mustard-hued paint pot and began.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Paige wrapped her hands around a mug of fresh-brewed coffee and tried to conceal her disappointment. She watched as Jake speared a forkful of raspberry-stuffed French toast, slopped it around in drizzled syrup and popped it into his mouth.

  “I don't see why you have to leave so soon,” she said, aware she was whining. “You just got here last night.”

  “I'm not leaving this instant,” Jake pointed out. “We have time for a leisurely breakfast.” He contemplated a side platter of fresh fruit, neatly cut and artistically displayed. He motioned for Paige to help herself, but she shook her head. He chose a crescent-shaped slice of honeydew melon and added it to his plate.

  The morning meal held little of the evening dinner’s excitement. Small syrup pitchers replaced the votive candles on the tables, and improvisational jazz replaced Enya. Paige found the jazz especially annoying at the moment. Last night’s clear sky and bright moon had evolved into dark clouds instead of sun. The threat of rain was palpable.

  Mist appeared beside the table, offering coffee refills. “Java Love?” she asked serenely, holding a thermos-type coffee pot over the table. Even the metal coffee container seemed out of place to Paige.

  “Java Love?” Jake asked before Paige had a chance to head off his question.

  “Yes,” Mist said. “We serve Java Love at Moonglow. It is excellent coffee and beautiful motivation for starting your day.”

  Paige fought the urge to roll her eyes. Why was she feeling so snippy? She'd been around spoiled preschoolers in her life with better attitudes than her current one. That realization alone made her feel worse.

  “I have a large load of lumber being delivered tomorrow at the ranch. I need to be there when it arrives.”

  Jake's tone was apologetic, though there was no reason for him to be. After all, she hadn't let him know her own plans. If she’d warned him that she was coming, he might have been able to rearrange the delivery.

  “Lumber,” Paige repeated. Her tone was polite, but cool.

  Jake laughed, unable to contain his amusement at Paige's irritation. “Yes, lumber. Dan McElroy's going to help me get the flooring replaced in those cabins on my property. His furniture business has slowed down since the tourist season is over. He can use the work, and I can use help getting as much done as possible before the heavy snow comes, which could be any day now.”

  “Oh, that reminds me!” Paige snapped out of her pout at the mention of Dan McElroy's name. “I need to get him rent for that little cabin of his I used when I was out here last time. I asked him to hold it when I thought Susan was sending me back to Jackson Hole.”

  “Don't worry, he's holding it,” Jake said. “And don't worry about the rent, either. He's not going to let you pay for time you're not there.”

  Paige set down her fork. “But that's not right. He could be renting it to someone else.”

  “He doesn't want to rent it to anyone else,” Jake said. “He hadn't rented it for years before you came to Jackson. Seems he had some bad experiences in the past. He'd rather have it empty than have some deadbeat renter in there. He likes the idea that someone he can trust will come back now and then.”
Jake put down his own fork and took Paige’s hand. “And so do I.”

  * * * *

  “How's the research going?” Paige could hear the manic sounds of the newsroom in the background of her conversation with Susan.

  Paige could visualize the scene. Susan would be standing over her desk multi-tasking, sorting files and photos, while a fax machine behind her spewed out documents at warp speed. The glaring overhead lighting would make the rushed activity around the editing department seem electric. The aroma of coffee would float through the office, an energy lifeline for the staff. Brandi, undoubtedly, would be hovering around her own desk, refreshing her makeup and tapping the tips of her glittered manicure against her phone, waiting for someone to die. Paige shuddered and said a silent prayer of thanks that she was working “Features” instead of “Obits.”

  “It's coming along. I need to do more fact-checking, but focusing on the Yogo sapphires seems to be the best way to go.”

  “Sounds ideal,” Susan said. It wasn't always easy to match advertisers with feature articles, but this was a perfect scenario. The story would sell the ads. In turn, the ads would draw attention to the story.

  “This will make our advertising department happy. They're already hitting up the local jewelers to buy large display ads. Sold a few already. Revenue forecasts are up for the week of the convention.”

  Susan's voice faded while she answered a question away from the phone. As always, the office sounded hectic.

  “If Brandi's not too busy, maybe she could check around for information on sapphire deposits out here.” Backup research could be both helpful and expedient. In spite of her eccentricities, Brandi wasn't bad at rustling up information. “And it'd be good to track down jewelers who already have Yogos in stock.”

  “I'll get her working on it.”

  “Thanks, anything might help. Besides, it'll keep her busy between funerals.”