“Did you call the sheriff?”
“No, not yet,” Betty said. “But I'm going to now.”
“I'm getting off the line so you can call him. Have him search the hotel, her room, her car, the whole town. You have my number, right?”
“Yes, from arranging the dinner at Moonglow.” Betty's voice was shaky now. “I'll call you as soon as I hear anything.”
As soon as she ended the call with Jake, she dialed the sheriff’s number.
* * * *
It was a good half hour before Sheriff Myers pulled up in front of the hotel. He'd been halfway to Utica when Betty's call reached him. A quick U-turn sent him back toward Timberton.
Betty threw open the front door of the hotel before the sheriff was even out of his vehicle. She'd been watching out the window ever since calling him, hoping to see the patrol car arrive quickly or, better yet, to see Paige stroll up. The Timberton Hotel had never had a guest disappear, so that in itself was alarming. And she'd grown fond of Paige during her short stay.
“So, your girl's gone missing, the reporter? What was her name again?” The sheriff took his time walking up to the hotel, pulling a notepad and pen out of his front pocket along the way.
“Paige MacKenzie,” Betty said quickly, leaning forward to watch the sheriff write down the name, as if seeing it in print might make the actual person appear.
“And when did you last see Ms. MacKenzie?”
“This morning. Make that late morning, right before Mist and I made a supply run.” Betty wrapped her arms around her own waist, an unconscious attempt to comfort herself.
Sheriff Myers paused. “So, it hasn't been that long. Maybe she just went out for a drive.”
Betty removed one arm from around her body long enough to point at the curb where the sheriff saw the rental car parked in front of the hotel. He turned back to face her.
“Well, perhaps a long walk?” The sheriff lifted his shoulders in a casual, questioning manner. “After all, it's only been a few hours.”
“It has not been just a few hours, Sheriff Myers,” Betty bristled. “It has been a solid ten hours. I could walk from one end of this town to the other and back twenty times in that same amount of time. Don't tell me she just went for a walk.”
The sheriff sighed, lifting up the pen and paper and preparing to write again. “OK, list the places she usually goes. Maybe she's sick or injured – a sprained ankle or something. That could stop her getting back.”
“She has a cell phone,” Betty pointed out. “She would have called here or notified someone she knows if she couldn't get back.”
“Now, you know how spotty coverage can be out here,” Sheriff Myers countered.
“The gem gallery,” Betty snapped.
“What?”
“Write it down,” Betty said, exasperated. “You asked for places she usually goes. That's one.”
“OK, where else?” The sheriff now had the list started.
Betty rubbed her forehead, thinking. “Well, I would have said Moonglow, but obviously that's not a current option. Though I wouldn't put it past her to dig through the rubble. Better take a look there.”
“Got it. Other ideas?”
“Obviously her room upstairs, number sixteen, but I just checked there about an hour ago.”
The sheriff nodded. “I'll check again. She might go straight back there without thinking people could be worried about her being gone. As I said, it hasn’t been very long.” He cleared his throat.
Betty ignored his last comment.
“You might try the park, where Hollister hangs out. She knows Mist has been helping him. She might have gone to check on him herself. You might look under the trestle, too.”
“Under the Timberton Trestle?” Sheriff Myers looked up from his notepad. “Why?”
“Because that's where Hollister sleeps. Didn't you know that?” Betty looked puzzled. It seemed a sheriff should know everything about a community.
Sheriff Myers furrowed his brow and shook his head. “No, I didn't. And I've driven by that trestle plenty on regular patrols. I've never seen him there.”
“Well, apparently he sleeps inside that grate, at least that's what Mist says.”
“You don't say.” The sheriff looked lost in thought.
“Sheriff Myers, we're not looking for Hollister at the moment,” Betty said, her voice stern. “We're looking for Paige.”
The sheriff scribbled a few more notes, shut his notebook and stuffed it in his pocket, along with his pen. “I'll check all those areas, including the roped-off café ruins and the grate under the trestle. Also, Clive's place and the outskirts of the town in all directions, just in case she did go out walking and got herself injured. You said her room is number sixteen?”
It did not slip past Betty that he emphasized the words “roped off” when referring to the café. Paige did seem to push the limits. But being judgmental wouldn’t help find a missing person. She only nodded silently as he stepped past her and headed up the stairs.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Jake downshifted and started uphill. The ten percent grade that marked the beginning of the stretch over Teton Pass was not his favorite section of road. He preferred heading out of Jackson Hole from the north end of the valley, up through Yellowstone National Park. This time it wasn't an option. The south entrance to the park was already closed in preparation for winter. His only choice was to detour through Idaho.
The weather was clear, so he easily made it down into the flatland that backed the Tetons without any problems. After he passed through the town of Victor, he turned north. One by one, he put small Idaho towns behind him, keeping a steady foot on the accelerator. He was tempted to push the speed limit, but he knew better than to risk it. Getting pulled over in a small town in the middle of the night would cause more of a delay than taking it slow.
Had Jake not been consumed with worry, he might have tried to calm Betty down on the phone. But he only had one thing on his mind: making sure Paige was safe. Logic had told him to stay put and wait for Timberton's locals to find Paige. In view of the late night hour, the sheriff was their best hope. By the time he arrived in Timberton, it would be nearly 4 a.m. If Paige was in trouble, that could be too late. But there was little chance of sleeping when his nerves were wound tighter than a lassoed calf.
He'd managed to chug four cups of coffee while tossing a change of clothes and a toothbrush into a duffel bag. Pacing back and forth inside the ranch house would have only revved up his anxiety. If nothing else, driving would give him something to do.
For all he knew, there was no reason for worry. Paige was stubbornly independent. Her cell battery could easily have run out, in which case she wouldn't have gotten anyone's messages. She could be holed up somewhere writing, lost in thought, without any clue that people were worried about her. He had to believe this.
Temporarily reassured by these thoughts, he forced himself to view the drive as simply an excuse to spend another day with her, not the panicked trip it actually was. It would give him a chance to discuss Lambert's findings with her in person. He could hardly wait to see her face when she heard the painting was worth more than they'd originally thought.
It was fortunate Lambert had the connections he did. A call to an old colleague, an art historian at the Smithsonian, had turned up an unexpected twist – a second painting. The idea that another painting of Silas Wheeler's had come under question had never entered Lambert's mind. As it turned out, a small faction of art enthusiasts had suspected for some time that an unknown western painter had produced at least one remarkable piece of work, yet had passed it off as the work of Silas Wheeler. The question had always been why? With only one example of art by the mystery painter, there had been little reason for controversy. The painting was simply what it was – a single piece of exceptional artwork.
Until now. Now there were two, which made it an entirely different situation, according to Lambert. One painting could easily be a fluke. But the surfacing of a secon
d meant there was a pattern. If there were two, could there be more? And just how exceptional were these paintings? Would there be a demand for them? Would they have value?
Jake passed through West Yellowstone and continued north along Hwy 191, through the Gallatin National Forest. The spectacular scenery along this stretch of highway made it a favorite drive of his during daylight hours. Now, at midnight, it was just another lonely highway. He leaned forward, adjusted his seating position, shrugged his shoulders up and down to release tension and settled back again in the truck's seat.
Jake had heard the excitement in Lambert’s voice as he shared the new information about the paintings. Although he appreciated a nice piece of western art, Jake had never been much of a painting connoisseur. Still, he could understand how the discovery of an unknown painter would be news in the art world. Had Paige stumbled onto something much bigger than she thought?
He cruised into Bozeman just before midnight, stopping only long enough to gas up the truck and try to call Paige. Still no answer. He bought a cup of coffee and a bag of chips from a convenience store on the edge of town and got right back on the road. If he kept making good time, he could be in Timberton between 3 and 4 a.m. By then, Paige would be safe, sound and asleep in her room at the hotel, cell phone plugged into its charger. Yes, he was certain that would be the case.
Just over three hours later, Jake pulled up in front of the Timberton Hotel. The front porch light was on, along with the lobby lights. Jake threw on the emergency brake, hopped out of the truck and approached the entrance. Not bothering to ring the bell, he twisted the doorknob, found it unlocked and shoved it open. Jake made a beeline for the second floor, taking the stairs two at a time. He arrived at Paige's room to find the door open, lights on and no sign of Paige anywhere.
It was clear the room had been searched thoroughly. Dresser drawers stood ajar, as did both doors to the room's walnut wardrobe. The contents of Paige's briefcase were spread across the bed's quilted duvet, spiral notepads left open and manila file folders strewn against the pillows, her cell phone alongside. Sweaters and T-shirts spilled over the edge of her luggage, including a draped sliver of black lace. Jake felt a protective surge of discomfort at the thought of the sheriff rummaging through Paige's intimate apparel.
“Jake, is that you?” Betty's voice called up from below.
“Yes!” Jake shouted, doubling back down the stairs. He half hoped to find Paige, Mist and Betty sitting together in the kitchen, sipping hot chocolate and laughing about the false alarm. Instead, he found Betty twisting her hands in a peach floral apron. Her normally coiffed hair was disheveled, her face drawn from lack of sleep. Jake’s fears multiplied instantly.
“No sign of her? Nothing?” Jake heard the fear in his own voice. Betty shook her head.
“Sheriff Myers has been here three times, each time without any news, just asking questions and going through Paige's room over and over.”
Jake took Betty's arm and led her to a lobby chair, easing her into it. “I tried to call you again after I left Bozeman, but couldn't get decent cell reception.”
Betty tried to stand back up immediately, but Jake encouraged her to rest. “Let the sheriff do his job, Betty. If you can stay calm, it will help us all.”
Mist brought a gust of wind into the lobby with her when she entered. She looked concerned, but composed, as usual. She said a quick hello to Jake then set a hand on Betty’s shoulder.
“He's right, Betty. Being upset won't help us find her any faster. We'll all just end up feeding off each other’s nerves. If we stay calm, we can think more clearly. Maybe we've overlooked something that will come to us if we pause long enough to let it.”
“How can I just sit and relax when Paige is missing?” Betty remained seated but looked back and forth between Jake and Mist, as if together, they might have an answer as to where Paige was and why she was missing.
Jake was glad to turn the handling of Betty's nerves over to Mist. It was one thing to try to calm Betty, but another to calm himself. Sitting still was the last thing he needed. It would only make him more nervous.
“I'm going back up to Paige's room again to look for more clues. The sheriff could have missed something, even after all those searches.” Jake headed for the stairs.
Mist looked up. “Sheriff Myers has been over at the gem gallery, too, asking to look through paperwork from Moonglow. I gave him the sketches. He thought they might help.”
“No offense, Mist, but how could your sketches help find her? I don't get the connection.” Jake paused, his foot on the first step.
“Not my own sketches,” Mist said. “The sketches I found in the back of the café when I moved in. I told everyone about them the morning after the fire.”
“Why would the sheriff be looking through papers at the gem gallery?” Jake said. “He should be out physically searching the area.”
Mist moved her shoulders to indicate a shrug, but in such a way that it resembled more of a ballet move. Jake doubted he'd ever become used to her unearthly behavior.
“He is out searching the area, Jake,” Betty said. “And he's been checking in here. I think he's just trying to be thorough.”
“I suppose so,” Jake said, though he looked unconvinced. He sprinted up the stairs. There had to be something everyone else was missing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sheriff Myers sat in his parked patrol car a few miles outside of town. It was a lucky break, having that New York reporter go missing. He hadn't counted on such a stroke of good fortune. For all the times he'd tried to come up with plausible excuses to search Timberton's Main Street buildings, this excuse was the best. No one would be suspicious now. He could snoop around all he wanted. After all, he was just doing his job.
Each search inside a town building gave him a chance to collect information. Each trip outside the town limits allowed time to inspect and analyze anything he'd found. The reporter had left a hefty stash of notes on local sapphire mining, far more information than he'd accumulated himself. He'd found the expected paraphernalia of a woman traveler – clothing, toiletries and make-up – as well as a tattered, old journal in her room, but he'd left all that behind. He wasn’t interested in the woman’s personal belongings and some old man's stupid ramblings about artwork. Those wouldn't help him find what he was looking for. He did take one of her sweaters, just to make his search look legit. But the sapphire mining history notes could come in handy. Even better, the sketches he'd conned out of that hippie chick could be valuable.
It hadn't been his plan to come out west, but cousin Sid had been all revved up. With a change of wardrobe, a scruffy beard and a cowboy hat, Myers could blend into the western scenery, Sid had insisted. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and limit his responses to a few words, like “Yes, Ma'am,” “Nope” and “Thank you.” There was no way his thick New Jersey accent would be obvious if he didn't blast his mouth off. Just to make sure, he'd practiced a western drawl. A few late nights with John Wayne helped do the trick. Hell, it wasn't that hard. After all, he'd been an acting student long before choosing a more profitable career as a thief and con man.
He spread out one of the sketches on the seat of the patrol car and switched on the overhead light. A rough square with vertical lines was all that was on the paper. It probably represented something, but wasn't enough to mean anything on its own. One by one, he spread out sheets and set them aside, finally coming to one that held his interest. The drawing showed squares and rectangles on the right half of the page, many in a row. Long lines ran along the center of the sheet, starting at the top and curving off to the right at the bottom. Fainter, dotted lines ran along the right margin, overlapping at times with the square and rectangular shapes.
He squinted at the paper, moving it around under the patrol car's light, inspecting it from different angles until he recognized the drawing was an outline of Timberton. The long lines referred to the main street, while the various box shapes represented build
ings. And the dotted lines...bingo. It hit him like a bolt of lightning. Exactly as he'd hoped to find, those had to mark old mining tunnels. Sid had been right. The reporter was going to lead them to sapphires and then lead them right back to immediate sales. They'd be ready when all those international buyers came through the city with their bank rolls. And, with the amount he'd siphon off behind Sid's back, he'd be ready to retire. A modest villa along the French Riviera sounded especially enticing.
It was an easy, quick scheme: Follow the reporter to the town, then to the gem gallery, then to the source of the gallery's goods, then back to Sid's place, where they'd turn it all over quickly. She'd do the legwork, and they'd lap up the rewards. Now the only challenge that remained was to find the sapphires and get out of Timberton before anyone became suspicious. As much as that New York troublemaker had been butting her nose into people's business all over town, it would spell bad news if she got interested in what he was doing. That could be messy. He’d have all the hassle of covering tracks. No, keeping it simple was key.
He inspected the map more carefully. Even as sure as he was that the dotted lines represented a tunnel, there was no indication of a way to get inside. Old mining tunnels ran through many parts of the area, but entrances had long since been boarded up or filled in, for safety. When the café burned down, he'd hoped the cellar would have a trap door to a tunnel. No such luck.
It was the same with other basements around town, at least those he'd been able to inspect. He'd just about run out of creative excuses to gain access. The candy store had been easy, what with the owner always thinking the register was short. He'd browsed around inside that store plenty of times. The saloon, too, had been easy. The night bartender packed away so much whiskey he'd never notice customers dancing on the bar counter, much less anyone casually poking around walls and floors. And any decent sheriff would keep an eye on a homeless man, so it had been a cinch to check every inch of the park, even with that weirdo café chick hanging around a lot to keep the old guy company. If there were any entrances within the town itself, he hadn't been able to find them.
Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set Page 35
