Lone Ranger

by VK Powell

  Emma snuggled against Carter’s side, and the passion she’d felt last night flared again. Carter helped her into the Jeep and reached across her for the seat belt. Emma inhaled the scent of her and was lost in the memory of their lovemaking. She heard a faint click, and then Carter’s mouth was on hers. Carter’s lips were hot and demanding. Her tongue probed deeply and she breathed with urgency. Emma eagerly returned the kiss as though it might be her last. When Emma reached to pull Carter closer, she backed away.

  Carter stood outside the Jeep staring, her breathing rapid and her lips swollen and wet. “Sorry I left you alone this morning. I wanted to say things, but I couldn’t. Forgive me?”

  Emma couldn’t think clearly enough to formulate words. She nodded and watched as Carter crossed in front of the Jeep and climbed into the driver’s seat. As they rode silently into town, Emma realized her perception of Carter had subtly changed since they’d met. Her physical strength had initially called to Emma, but Carter’s strength of character had given her the courage to reach out again. Carter wasn’t a womanizer who seduced one minute and distanced the next. Something deeper held Carter’s emotions hostage, and Emma vowed to find out what.

  “Where should I drop you?” Carter slowed as they approached the town center.

  Emma’s stomach growled, and she remembered she hadn’t eaten anything or even had a cup of coffee before rushing out. “Near the diner, please. Where will I find you later?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, come by the school gym when you’re finished.” When Emma opened the door to leave, Carter added, “And stay off your ankle as much as possible.”

  Emma waved and headed toward the Stuart Diner, walking slowly in deference to her sore ankle and to the memory of Carter’s kiss still spreading warmth through her. The diner buzzed with the lunchtime consumption of massive quantities of carbohydrates, sweet tea, and the exchange of gossip. The high-pitched roll of competing voices lowered a notch when she entered and surveyed the room for a place to sit. An older gentleman dressed in a colorful plaid jacket motioned to the only empty seat next to him at the end of the counter. The hushed voices fell to whispers, and all eyes followed her to the empty barstool. When she sat down, the man offered his hand.

  “Afternoon, Ms. Ferguson. I’m Timothy Black, director of Black’s Funeral Home.”

  “Mr. Black, it’s nice to meet you.” Emma shook his hand and eyed the plaid jacket, bright turtleneck sweater, and tan wool pants that weren’t a stereotypical mortician’s attire. However, his deep voice and focused attention were soothing and would probably be comforting during stressful times.

  Emma plucked a menu from the clothespin that secured it to the side of the counter and searched the list of specials for something semi-healthy. “What do you recommend?”

  “Loretta, give the lady a sweet tea and a number three.”

  “Hey, Emma. Nice to see you again.” Loretta plopped a glass of tea in front of her. “I’m surprised you’d take meal advice from an undertaker, but it’s your funeral.” She wrote #3 on a ticket and clipped it with another clothespin to a wire strung across an opening to the kitchen. “Order up.”

  “Are you sure I want a number three?” Emma asked Timothy Black as she sipped the tea and calculated the number of calories being pumped into her system.

  “It’s the closest thing to healthy they serve, chef’s salad. You having any luck on your story?” The room again became uncommonly quiet.

  “As a matter of fact, it’s become something quite different…and very interesting.” Emma replied loud enough for the curious. Then she leaned closer to Mr. Black and whispered, “Perhaps you remember the disappearance of Theodore Thompson, the furniture-factory heir.”

  Mr. Black picked up on Emma’s desire for discretion and replied in a hushed tone. “I remember it well.”

  She felt the renewed vigor that always accompanied the unearthing of fresh information. “How do you recall that particular night so long ago?”

  “He disappeared the same night his wife ended up in the hospital. Nobody could find him. I was working late at the funeral parlor. My assistant and I were preparing someone for a wake the next day. It was a strange night all around, as I recall.”

  “What do you mean?” Emma turned her back to the other counter customers so the two of them could talk privately in the corner. Loretta slid a chef’s salad down the counter in front of her, and Emma nodded before returning her attention to Mr. Black.

  “Around eleven, Harvey Livengood from Maple Street called. His mother had passed, and he wanted me to collect her from the hospital.”

  Emma’s initial surge of excitement dwindled to the dull thud of disappointment. “What’s so unusual about that?”

  “It wasn’t the call, Ms. Ferguson. Harvey said he’d been trying to get me since about ten thirty and couldn’t get through. It was a common practice that if somebody needed to contact the mortuary, ambulance, or sheriff, you’d give up the line.”

  Emma, obviously missing the point, shrugged and stared at Mr. Black.

  “Several people shared the same phone line back then, a party line they called it, but in emergencies, you were supposed to surrender the service. Harvey said there was no one on the line. The operator never picked up. We found out the next day we’d had a glitch in the system. There were a lot of glitches in town that night. That particular one was very unusual. Never happened before or since.”

  Emma shoveled a forkful of salad into her mouth and chewed very slowly to mask her frustration. The things small-town people considered significant or unusual amazed her.

  “How well did you know Mr. Thompson?”

  “Too well.” Timothy Black’s pleasant expression turned dark, and he pursed his lips.

  “What do you mean?” She tried not to get her hopes up again and took a sip of tea.

  “It’s not kind to speak ill of the dead, or in this case the missing, but he was a pain in the butt. Everybody in town disliked the man for one reason or another.”

  Emma’s confusion must’ve been obvious because Mr. Black continued with his story. “The townsfolk loved Mr. Thompson Senior, the factory founder, and Junior. They were wonderful men, kind to everyone and always willing to help. Employees at the plant liked them and liked working for them, but that grandson, Thompson III, was cut from different cloth.”

  “I don’t understand, Mr. Black. Most of what I’ve heard so far has been flattering.” She kept Sylvie Martinez’s comments to herself.

  “Then somebody is rewriting history. Very few people could stand the man. His sister is the only person who missed him. When he disappeared, most of the townsfolk figured we’d leave well enough alone. He was gone, and we didn’t need to sully the family name further. He’d seen to that quite well.”

  Timothy Black’s voice held a hint of barely contained anger. What had happened in his relationship with Theodore Thompson to make him so annoyed? “What did he do, aside from trying to expand his already-handsome empire? Why did you dislike him so much?”

  Mr. Black sopped up some gravy on his plate with a biscuit but spoke before plopping it into his mouth. “Theodore Thompson didn’t have to work for his money and looked down on folks who did. He had no compassion and thought only of himself. He had quite a reputation as a womanizer and flaunted it in poor Sandra’s face every chance he got. Is that enough? If not, I could go on. People in this town know what he was like. If they’re honest, they’ll tell you the same thing. I’ve probably said too much. It’s not my place to pass judgment on people, only to pass them along.” He finally ate the gravy-soaked biscuit and pushed his plate across the counter.

  “Just one more question, Mr. Black. Did Thompson try to buy your property?”

  “Many times, but fortunately mine wasn’t high on his priority list.” Timothy Black glanced at a pocket watch from his vest and rose from the barstool. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Ferguson, but I have to get back. Loretta, put this nice lady’s lunch on my tab.”


  Emma started to object, but Black shook his head. “I don’t often get to eat with an attractive woman.” As he approached the exit, he turned and announced, “If you have any more questions about Theodore Thompson, come see me and I’ll give it to you straight.” The voices in the diner shot up an octave after he left.

  Emma finished her salad slowly, rehashing her conversation with Timothy Black and trying to understand what bothered her about it. The old phone system had been replaced years ago, and any record of outages or maintenance was probably long gone. She made a few notes on her pad, thanked Loretta, and stepped out into the afternoon sun.

  She slowly browsed some of the quaint shops dotting Main Street, attempting to distract her thoughts from Carter West, Timothy Black’s opinion of Theodore Thompson, and the highly anticipated call from Rick Hardy. If she mulled over any of the subjects too long, her mind spiraled in a circle of conflicting and incomplete feelings and data. She took a seat by the fountain to rest her ankle before walking to the gym to find Carter.

  As Emma started toward the school, her cell rang, and she pulled it from the side of her bag. Rick Hardy’s number showed on the screen. She hadn’t expected a response so quickly, but his call would change the entire focus of her visit to this small town. “Hi, Rick. What news?”

  “I’ve just gotten a call from the lab.”

  She recognized his curt tone, reserved for serious business matters. She gripped the phone tighter and waited.

  “The medical examiner and forensic anthropologist agree the skull of your missing person definitely shows signs of trauma, probably from a small-caliber weapon. Point of entry was just above the glabella and exit between the superior and inferior temporal lines.”

  “Can you give it to me in English, Rick?”

  “The entry and exit points of the bullet indicate a trajectory consistent with Theodore Thompson being shot between the eyes by someone shorter or possibly seated at the time. We won’t be sure about other injuries to the rest of the skeleton until it’s completely reconstructed, but this is enough to cause death pretty quickly. Looks like you’ve got yourself a murder story. I’m sending Agent Billie Donovan down there tomorrow to reopen the case on behalf of the BCI. She’s new to my team, but she comes highly recommended.”

  “But—”

  “I know how you are, so please stay out of the investigation. The agent knows you’ve got first dibs on the story when the case is closed.”

  “Rick, that hardly seems fair. After all, I dug this up on my own. Can’t I just tag along? I’ve developed a rapport with the folks and could be an asset to the investigation.”

  “That’s not a good idea. You’ve been asking general, non-threatening questions. Once folks find out this is now a murder investigation, there’s bound to be resistance and evasion. My agent has the legal authority to manage that. Let Donovan handle it. Promise me you will.”

  She wasn’t about to politely hand off the biggest story of her life to a buttoned-up BCI suit. She’d made a promise to Fannie and intended to keep it.

  “Emma?”

  She crossed her fingers. “I’ll let your trained professional handle the case.” She hung up quickly and continued toward the gym to meet Carter before Rick could hear the deceit in her voice.

  Children’s laughter reached her as she drew close to the gym and immediately made her smile. Laughing kids made everything brighter, or at least took her mind off her troubles for a while. She eased the back door open and glanced inside, hoping to catch Carter in her relaxed state, enjoying the children and doing what she loved. But the old metal door squeaked, and her four young friends from the cookout rushed her.

  “Emma. Emma.”

  “Hi, guys. What’s going on?”

  Simone mimicked bouncing a ball and executing a jump shot. “We’re smoking Carter at basketball.”

  “Really?” She looked toward Carter, who was holding a basketball and shrugging as if she had no excuse. “All of you against one?”

  “She’s like a giant,” Nico said. “We gotta have some kind of advantage. This ain’t golf, you know.”

  Emma laughed. “I guess you’re right.”

  Carter sauntered over and started to put her arm around Emma but stopped. “You ready?”

  Emma nodded.

  “Okay, guys, put the equipment away, and I’ll lock up. Good session…and great game. You won fair and square. See you next time.”

  Emma watched Carter lock the equipment room and turn off the lights while the kids collected their gear and filed out. It was a rote task, but Emma would be content watching Carter sleep, eat, read the paper, or any of thousands of mundane activities. She made everything seem effortless and sexy somehow.

  With all the kids gone, Carter slid her arm around Emma’s waist and escorted her to the Jeep. “You should really be careful looking at me like that in public.”

  She brought her hand to her chest in mock surprise and produced her most innocent face. “Like what?”

  “Like you could eat me.”

  Carter stood at the door of the Jeep, and Emma almost grabbed her and pulled her in on top of her. “Now there’s a great idea.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The ride back to the park was as quiet as their first one had been, but for an entirely different reason. Carter constantly touched Emma’s arm or leg, fanning the desire that had plagued her all day, and Emma couldn’t keep her hands off Carter either. Carter didn’t need words to express what she was feeling. Emma sensed her passion like a hungry beast hovering, ready to consume her, and it stirred Emma’s blood.

  But she and Carter were just beginning to discover each other, to really communicate, and she didn’t want to blow it by being an insatiable sexaholic. She’d learned through journalism to be patient and take things slowly, but she seemed to operate on an entirely different level in relationships. Logic gave way to emotions, and she was out of her depth.

  When they approached the park, Carter asked, “Where do you want me to drop you?”

  The question took Emma entirely by surprise since they’d been fondling each other nonstop since town. She’d assumed they’d go directly to her cabin. “I…thought maybe we’d…”

  Carter leaned over and gave her a light peck on the cheek, not at all what Emma hoped for, and said, “I’ve got to make rounds. Prowler, vandal. Be back in about an hour.”

  Emma stifled her disappointment and forced a smile. “Okay. I’ll just chat with Ann, but what about my car?” When Carter showed no sign of understanding her question, she continued. “I should pay the guy who fixed my slashed tires.”

  “Don’t worry about it. He owed me a favor.”

  “I’d still like to pay my own way.”

  “Can’t you just accept a favor and say thank you?”

  “Thank you, Carter, and I look forward to seeing you later.”

  Carter winked. “You bet.”

  When Emma opened the office door, Ann sprang from her seat behind the counter, her purple shirt and pink-scarf necktie a flash of bold color.

  “Howdy, Emma. I’ve been wondering what happened to you today. I saw the service-station guy replacing your tires. Sorry about that. Seems like we’ve got a vandal on the loose. How’s your ankle?”

  “Much better, thanks. Do you have any of your special brandy left, or did I clean you out last time?”

  “You bet.” Glancing at the wall clock, Ann said, “Flip the sign on the door to closed.”

  Ann retrieved the tin mugs, filled them with her secret stash of apple brandy, and set one by Emma’s chair while Emma removed her shoe from a still-tender ankle.

  “Here’s to whatever ails you…and to a speedy recovery.”

  Emma took a sip of the amber liquor and rolled it around in her mouth, enjoying the hint of dried apple and citrus.

  “So, what’s going on with you and my niece?”

  Emma gasped and swallowed at the same time, forcing the potent liquid up and out her nose. She coug
hed and sputtered, trying not to choke but wishing she would. Ann offered her a napkin, and she dabbed at her watery eyes and nose.

  “I didn’t mean to send you into a tizzy. That’s sure a waste of good brandy. I was just wondering what happened with you two. Carter was a bit light on details.”

  Finally able to speak, Emma said, “I think I understand what you’re asking.”

  “Am I being too nosy?” Ann’s voice held only a hint of real contrition. “Carter tells me I should mind my own business, but I have to admit, my business isn’t near as interesting as hers.”

  “What did Carter say?” Emma wasn’t sure how or even if she should answer.

  “Not much, as usual. She’s always been the quiet type.”

  Deciding she had nothing to lose, Emma dove in. “I’m not sure I know exactly what happened. We talked for a while. She fed me dinner with chopsticks, which was the most romantic thing anyone’s ever done for me. And before I could stop myself, I was all over her.” Emma’s pulse pounded with the memory, and she fanned herself with the napkin.

  “I bet that threw her for a loop. Carter has always fancied herself as the one in charge.”

  “And that’s the other thing. I don’t usually make the first move. It was like something foreign was driving me. I probably scared her, and I’ve no idea what she’s thinking now.”

  “Who knows with that one, but it was probably good for her. She needed a new experience. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. Just be yourself.”

  “I met her at the school gym to ride back home, and she was with the kids again. I’m so attracted to the woman I saw with those children that I couldn’t pull myself away. She’s amazing. They love her, and she obviously loves helping them.”

  Ann nodded and took a sip of brandy. “Carter has always wanted to be a child therapist. She would’ve had her own practice by now if she hadn’t interrupted her studies to be here with me. She denies that’s the reason, but I know the truth. She didn’t want to leave me alone after Cass died. I couldn’t talk her out of it.”