Gypsy King

by Devney Perry

  Except the last year, there hadn’t been club business. There were no squabbles to settle. No crimes to hide. No enemies to outsmart. My time behind the handlebars had been spent simply enjoying the open road. To think about the garage and how we could increase our custom jobs and sock away a pile of money for a rainy day.

  When it came to dealing with a murder arrest, my mind felt sluggish and rusty. It surprised me how quickly I’d forgotten the old ways. Though we’d been tapering things off for years, the Tin Gypsies had only disbanded a year ago. The last arrest I’d had to deal with had been nearly four years ago, and even then, it had been for one of Leo’s drunken bar fights.

  I pulled into the parking lot, walking my bike back into its space. As I walked to the office, I glanced down the lot toward the clubhouse.

  The yard was overgrown, and I needed to find an hour to mow. The inside was no doubt musty and covered in dust. The last time I’d been inside had been during winter when a raccoon had snuck inside and tripped the motion sensors.

  On a day like today, when I needed information and answers, I’d give anything to walk inside the clubhouse, call everyone to the meeting room table and get to the bottom of this.

  Instead, I’d have to settle for the garage’s office and a few people who were just as loyal to us now as they had been when we’d worn the same patch.

  Presley was on the phone when I opened the office door. She held up one finger for me to be quiet. “Okay, thanks. Call me back if you hear anything else.”

  I went to the row of chairs on the wall beneath the front window. Presley’s desk was the only one in the waiting area, and though Dad and I had our two offices along the far wall, we normally congregated around hers.

  Presley’s official title was office manager, but she did a lot more than we’d put in her original job description. She made sure bills got paid and customers were happy. She shuffled paperwork to my desk or Dad’s for signatures. She ran payroll and forced us all to talk about retirement plans once a year.

  She was the heart of the garage. She set the rhythm and the rest of us followed suit.

  “What’d you find out?” I asked.

  “I called the salon.” Her face paled. “Stacy said she saw a bunch of cop cars at the motel on her way into work this morning. There’s a rumor that a woman was found dead, but she’s not sure if it’s true.”

  Goddamn it. It was probably true. “Anything else?”

  She shook her head. “That’s it.”

  What I needed was to talk to Dad, but given Marcus’s attitude, that wasn’t happening. So for the time being, I’d have to funnel information through the lawyer.

  The door to the office opened and Emmett walked inside, followed by Leo.

  “Heard I missed some stuff this morning,” Leo joked.

  Not in the mood for it, I shot him a scowl that wiped the grin off his face. “Where the fuck were you?”

  “Overslept.”

  “That’s been happening a lot lately.”

  He ran a hand through his messy blond hair, the strands still wet from his shower. “Am I not getting my work done?”

  I didn’t answer. Leo was the artist in the bunch, doing all the paint and design while Emmett, Isaiah and I preferred the mechanics and fabrication. His work was getting done, but he’d been drinking a lot more lately. His arrival time in the morning getting later and later. Every night he seemed to have a new woman in his bed.

  He was still acting like the club’s playboy.

  “I think we’ve got more important things to worry about at the moment than Leo’s degrading work quality, don’t you?” Emmett asked, taking the chair next to me.

  “Degrading work quality,” Leo mumbled, shaking his head as he sat in the last open chair. “Assholes. I hate you all.”

  “Gentlemen, do me a favor,” Presley interjected. “Shut. Up.”

  “What’s the plan, Dash?” Emmett leaned his elbows on his knees.

  I ran a hand over my jaw. “We need to find out whatever we can about the murder. Dad will stay quiet so the cops aren’t going to get anything from him. But they have something. Need to find out what it is. Isaiah has the garage covered, but Pres, limit jobs so he doesn’t get swamped. Emmett and Leo, start asking around.”

  They both nodded. We might not be a club anymore but we had connections.

  “What are you going to do?” Presley asked.

  Emmett and Leo didn’t need my help, and unless the work in the garage was too much, I’d let Isaiah and Presley handle it. Because there was another person in town who had information, and she’d either give it up freely or I’d drag it out of her.

  “Research.”

  Chapter Four

  Bryce

  “I love Sundays.” I smiled at the newspaper on my desk. The bold headline wasn’t fancy or flowery, but it sure grabbed your attention.

  WOMAN MURDERED. SUSPECT ARRESTED.

  We ran an eight-page newspaper that went out twice a week on Wednesdays and Sundays. When Dad had bought the paper, he’d kept the publication days the same but had drawn a clear line between the Wednesday and Sunday editions. Wednesday was geared toward business, focused on the activities happening around town, the classifieds and announcements.

  Sunday’s paper had the good stuff. We ran the major headlines on Sunday, giving the townsfolk something to talk about after church. If there was a major story in town, it came on Sunday. Whenever we did a feature or multiweek piece, it was on Sunday.

  I lived for the Sunday paper. And this week’s was definitely going to cause a stir.

  The ads George had been working on for page three and Sue’s column on the new wedding venue outside of town would likely go unnoticed behind my article.

  Murder had a way of grabbing attention.

  Small-town gossip traveled fast and I had no doubt that most people in and around Clifton Forge already knew about the murder. But gossip was just that, speculation and rumor, until it was printed in my newspaper. Then, it became fact.

  After leaving the Clifton Forge Garage—and one pissed-off biker—behind on Friday, I’d come to the paper and immediately begun writing.

  As stories go, this one didn’t have a lot of detail. Chief Wagner was keeping tight-lipped about the murder as well as the victim. Before they released her name, they were tracking down next of kin.

  The only details he’d divulged in his press sheet were that a woman had been murdered at the Evergreen Motel and they had a suspect in custody. Lucky for me, I knew who the suspect was and had been able to add it to my report.

  Along with my well-timed photo.

  Draven Slater’s name was splashed across the Tribune’s front page, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. I was going to report this story from beginning to end—the judge’s gavel slamming on a wooden block as he sentenced a murderer to life in prison.

  I was taking a risk that I knew the end of my story already. Journalists typically didn’t assume the primary suspect was guilty, and normally, I prided myself on keeping an open mind. But my gut screamed that Draven was a criminal and while he’d been able to escape incarceration for his previous arrests, I doubted he’d be able to slip free this time.

  Reporting and writing this story could be the mark I made on this town. It could establish my career here. My name. And it could be the story that filled the hole in my life.

  As the police and prosecutors worked to build a case against Draven, I’d be right along for the ride, reporting whatever tidbits they threw my way. And since the chief wasn’t very forthcoming at the moment, I’d do some digging on my own.

  I was buzzing at the prospect of real investigative journalism.

  The door behind me opened and BK stepped out, wiping his hands on a rag. His black apron hung past his knees. “Hey, Bryce. I didn’t think you were still here.”

  “I’m just leaving.” I stood from my chair and folded the fresh paper in half before tucking it into my purse. I’d come in before
dawn to help Dad and BK finish up the print run, then gotten papers bundled and ready for the delivery crew. After the paperboys and papergirls left with their parents, I snagged my own copy.

  This one was a keeper.

  “Are you heading home?” I asked. Dad had left thirty minutes ago.

  “Soon as I get everything shut down.”

  “Have a good one, BK. Thanks.”

  “You too.” He waved, disappearing back into the pressroom.

  BK and I only crossed paths on Wednesday and Sunday mornings. He worked odd hours, mostly coming in at night before a print run. Sometimes he’d do maintenance on the presses, again preferring to work at night. Occasionally, he’d do some early-morning deliveries if we were short on help.

  Like the other staffers here—myself included—BK worked hard for Dad. One day, I hoped to inspire that kind of loyalty from the paper’s employees too.

  I smiled at the paper once more, thinking of Dad’s reaction to my story. When I’d turned it in on Friday night, he’d gotten a Cheshire catlike grin on his face. Dad didn’t want me digging into the Tin Gypsies, but he had no problem reporting on a murder and being the first to announce Draven Slater as the primary suspect.

  He’d come in to run the presses with BK last night, making sure the paper printed without a hitch. My story had reinvigorated Dad. He knew I was going to keep digging, finding out whatever I could about the murder. He hadn’t said a word to stop or slow my progress. Though he had cautioned me: Dash Slater wouldn’t let his father go to prison easily.

  Yawning, I walked out of the bullpen, surveying the empty desks. It was six o’clock in the morning, and once BK left, there’d be no one working today.

  Except for Art, who’d been the receptionist slash security guard for nearly two decades, the staff held flexible hours. Dad didn’t care. Neither did I, as long as everyone met their deadlines.

  Sue was responsible for the classifieds and, like me, preferred to work in the morning. George, who ran advertising, came in before noon, just in time to clock in, grab a handful of mechanical pencils and a legal pad, then head out for whatever lunch meeting he’d booked the day before. And Willy, a fellow journalist who had an aversion to his desk, rolled in around six or seven each night, dropping off his latest story before disappearing to wherever it was Willy disappeared to.

  It was a different pace, working here. A far cry from the chaos of television. There were no makeup artists or hair stylists following me around every corner. No cameras tracking my movements. No producers barking orders.

  No pressure.

  Since it was quiet here, I often found myself alone. Or on the good days, alone with Dad. He worked whenever there was work to be done, which, for a newspaper with only six employees, was often. It had allowed us many hours, each working independently at our desks, but still together.

  I pushed open the front door, turning to lock it up. My car waited in the first parking space, but I was too keyed up to go home. I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours last night, and it would be a while before I crashed.

  So I headed for the sidewalk, making my way over three blocks toward Central Avenue. I hoped the delivery drivers were fast today, getting papers into the hands of our readers.

  I was sorry that today’s headline was possible only because a woman’s life had been cut short. While I enjoyed the thrill of a dramatic story, the sadness and tragedy beneath was heartbreaking. I wasn’t sure who the victim was, if she had been a good person. If she’d been loved or if she’d been lost.

  There wasn’t much I could do for her but tell the facts and report the truth. I’d bring her life—along with her death—to light.

  My initial impression of Chief Wagner had been positive. But I had a feeling he’d become accustomed to keeping the masses of Clifton Forge slightly in the dark.

  Not anymore.

  If I learned something, I was sharing.

  The sun was shining bright, even this early in the morning. The cool air was refreshing on my skin and in my lungs. I breathed deeply as I walked, the scents on the slight breeze reminding me of summers as a kid.

  Montana was typically beautiful at the beginning of June, but this year, it felt especially so. Maybe because it was my first spring back after having lived in Seattle for the better part of two decades.

  The trees seemed greener. The skies bluer, bigger. I hadn’t spent a lot of time exploring town since I’d moved, but as I walked, I felt the urge to see it all. I was ready to make this town my own, to become a part of the community.

  Clifton Forge was home.

  I reached Central Avenue, turning right. Two blocks down there was a coffee shop calling my name. Nearly all the businesses and offices that crowded this street were closed at this hour, their windows dark. The only places open were the coffee shop and the café across the road.

  Clifton Forge didn’t get the enormous influx of tourists that other small Montana towns saw each summer. Tourism here was nothing like it was in Bozeman, where I’d grown up. Our town was too far off the interstate to get much notice. The millions of visitors who poured into the state each summer to visit Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks passed us by.

  Our town’s main influx of outsiders came in the fall, when hunters made Clifton Forge their home base before setting off into the wilderness with guides and horses to hunt elk, bears and deer.

  Most of the locals liked it that way, forgoing added business traffic for peace and seclusion. When you walked into the café or the coffee shop, nine out of ten faces were familiar.

  Except mine wasn’t. Yet.

  I hadn’t spent enough time out and about town. Now that summer was here, that was going to change. I’d spent enough years in Seattle being recognized for my face—if I was recognized at all. For the most part, I was just another anonymous person going about their daily lives.

  But here, I wanted to settle in and settle deep. I wanted people to know I was Lane and Tessa Ryan’s daughter, because belonging to them made me proud. I wanted people to think of me when they thought of the newspaper, because reading my stories was a highlight of their week.

  “Good morning,” I said as I entered the coffee shop.

  The barista sat behind a counter next to an espresso machine. Her mouth was hanging open as she stared at my newspaper between her hands. “Did you hear? A woman was murdered at the motel.”

  I nodded. “I heard. It’s awful. At least they caught the guy.”

  “I can’t believe it. Draven? He’s such a nice guy. Leaves good tips. Always friendly. I just . . . wow.” She folded up the paper and put it on the counter, the shocked look on her face remaining. “What can I get you?”

  “Cappuccino, please.” I smiled politely, even though I was irritated that Draven had seemed to fool so many.

  “For here or to go?”

  “To go. I’m just out for a morning walk.”

  Any other morning, I would have introduced myself, but as she made my coffee, she kept stealing glances at the paper. I doubted that if I told her my name, she’d remember it today. She seemed distraught. And not by a woman’s murder, but because Draven was the primary suspect.

  How does he have everyone fooled?

  She made my coffee and I left her with a wave. I crossed the road, heading for the newspaper but perusing the businesses on the opposite side of the street this time. When I reached my car, I got inside but home was not my destination.

  The Evergreen Motel had been swarmed with activity over the past two days, the police barricade sending a very clear go the hell away message to anyone driving by. But the murder was two days old and my questions would only wait so long.

  It was a risk going so soon but one I was willing to take. With luck, the owners might have some information they’d be willing to share about the victim. Or Draven himself. Information they might have been too flustered to give to the cops.

  The motel was on the other edge of town, away from the river. The drive took only mi
nutes, the streets nearly empty. It was appropriately named; the tops of the evergreens that surrounded the motel on three sides seemed to brush the clouds.

  The building itself was only a single story, built when the style was for each room to have an exterior door. The metal keys were no doubt attached to red oval disks with the room numbers stamped in white letters. The motel was a U shape, all twelve rooms facing the kiosk in the center that was the office.

  Had the owners not taken such good care of the Evergreen, it might have reminded me of some seedier areas of Seattle where motel rooms like these were rented by the hour. But as it was, this place was clean and charming.

  The siding was a freshly painted sage green. Flower baskets hung on posts outside each room, overflowing with red, white and pink petunias. The parking lot had recently been restriped.

  Definitely not a place I would have expected a murder.

  A man about my age sat behind the front desk in the office, the small room built solely for function. There was no waiting area for coffee in the mornings or a cookie plate in the evenings. There was just enough space to stand by the counter to collect your key—all of which hung on a pegboard on the wall. I’d guessed red oval disks. These were green.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he greeted.

  “Good morning.” I flashed my brightest, friendliest smile.

  “Do you have a reservation?”

  “No, I’m actually from here.” I extended my hand across the counter. “Bryce Ryan. I work at the Tribune.”

  “Oh.” He hesitated before taking my hand. “Cody. Cody Pruitt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Cody.”

  “You’re here about what happened in 114?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’d like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t know anything more than I already told the police.”

  “That’s okay.” I reached into my purse for a small notepad and a pen. “Would you mind if I took a few notes as we talked? You can always say no. And you can always say something is off the record if you want to keep it between you and me.”