Dan. That was Dan Wilkes sitting on a stool across the counter from Marcie, who was now leaning in, smiling at the man as if he were the only person in the room.
Torn between shock and annoyance, Ricki quietly closed the distance between them until she was standing right next to Marcie, a polite smile plastered on her face as she stared at Dan. The former CIA guy turned out-of-shape park ranger looked at her and blinked as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Marcie turned her head and beamed at Ricki. “Well, hi. What are you doing here?”
“I own the place,” Ricki said, still holding that smile in place and not moving her stare away from Dan. “Were you looking for me?”
“No, he wasn’t,” Marcie answered for him. “He came in to have something to eat.”
Ricki looked down at the empty space in front of her assistant partner. “Really? It looks like you’re finished. Aren’t you on duty?”
“No, he isn’t,” Marcie intervened once more, drawing an exasperated look from Ricki. The older woman turned a sunny smile on Dan, whose cheeks had turned bright red, but he still hadn’t managed to get a word out. “You sit right there, Ranger Wilkes. I need to have a short talk with my boss.”
She stepped around Ricki then latched on to her arm, towing her much taller boss down the length of the counter and into the kitchen. Anchorman looked up from his seat at the table, a hamburger raised halfway to his mouth. He immediately scooted his chair around until his back was to both women.
“I’m not here,” he declared.
“That’s good,” Marcie said with a nod. “Because this is a private conversation.”
Ricki stuck a finger out and pointed at the cook. “He’s sitting right there, Marcie.”
“But he won’t listen.” Marcie let go of Ricki’s arm and crossed her arms over breasts that were pressed tight against her uniform. “And this won’t take long. I like that Ranger Wilkes.” She glared when Ricki crossed her eyes. “And you can just stop making those faces. You’re a far piece from being my mother. The fact is, I’m halfway to being yours, so you have no say in my social life.”
“You were flirting with him,” Ricki stated flatly. “And don’t shake your head at me, I know that pose and smile of yours. It’s the one you use when you’re after a date.”
“I’ve already had a date with him, Miss Smarty-Pants.” When Ricki’s mouth dropped open, Marcie gave her a smug grin. “See? You get caught up in chasing down some missing ranger and don’t even notice what’s going on. There. We’ve already had a date and the sky didn’t fall in. So that’s the end of that.” Finishing off with a wave of her hand to emphasize her point, Marcie looked over at Anchorman. “Okay. We’re finished. You can be present again.” When Ricki started to say something, Marcie flashed her a stern warning look. “That’s the end of it,” she repeated firmly and marched off, letting the double doors swing back and forth behind her.
Ricki walked over and tapped Anchorman on the shoulder. “Hey there, Mr. I-Know-Nothing. How long has this been going on?”
Anchorman set his now-empty plate aside and stood up. He turned to face her, keeping the chair between them. “I still don’t know anything, and I’m keeping it that way. I don’t ask where you sleep at night, or where Marcie chooses to kick off her shoes. She’s right, you know. It’s her life. Stay out of it.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Ricki shut her laptop and pushed back from her compact desk in the corner of her living room. She stretched her back then took a quick look at her watch. Between finishing off reports for Hamilton, transcribing her case notes, and even making her bed for the first time in a week, she’d managed to burn through the rest of the afternoon and early evening since she’d stomped out of the diner.
She had about three-quarters of an hour left to kill before she needed to meet Anchorman at the VFW post. Her stomach sent up another gurgle of protest, joining the others it had made since she’d arrived home. She still hadn’t had anything to eat today, so she stood up, intending to give in to her body’s insistent reminders that it needed fuel.
She scuffed her feet as she walked to the kitchen, where she pulled open the refrigerator and peered inside, leaning in as she considered her options. Eyeing the jar of peanut butter, appropriately sitting right next to the strawberry jam, she resisted the urge to splurge on comfort food, instead opening the cooler drawer with the vegetables in it. She grabbed the plastic bag containing the rest of the vegetables that Eddie had chopped up for her at the beginning of the week, along with a bottle of dressing, because in her opinion, the best way to eat raw vegetables was with ranch dressing as a quick and easy dipping sauce. She lifted a plate from the drying rack next to the sink and carried her meal over to the counter. Returning to the refrigerator, she found an unopened package of sliced turkey meat and tossed it over to join the rest of her impromptu meal. After dumping the veggies out on the plate and squirting some ranch dressing next to them, she opened the deli package and took out several slices of turkey. The first bite was salty enough to have her jumping up again to get a glass of water, but once she’d settled down and started eating, her thoughts began to wander. Without the distraction of reports and the case details, she couldn’t shake off the effects of that last argument with Marcie.
Now that several hours had passed, her temper at seeing Marcie and Dan Wilkes acting so cozy together had completely evaporated, leaving a sheen of guilt, and yeah, more than a little embarrassment, behind. She picked at her dinner as she silently came to the conclusion she’d acted like a snotty junior high girl. And Anchorman was right. She had no business interfering in Marcie’s life. But damn it, the woman was like family to Ricki, half mother, half older sister, and the fact was she adored both halves. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to share Marcie’s attention with someone else. Well, okay, not all of it’s that, she thought on a burst of honesty. But mostly, she just didn’t want Marcie to get hurt.
She knew all too well from personal experience that getting involved with anyone in law enforcement never turned out well. Look at her, for God’s sake. Or Clay. Or even her uncle Cy, who’d never had enough time to marry anyone at all. She frowned. Or at least that was what he’d always claimed.
Still, it was true. Law enforcement and a happy relationship never had been a good match. Blithely ignoring all the agents she’d met who had rock-solid marriages, Ricki spent another ten minutes justifying her concerns.
Feeling completely vindicated, she managed to stay on that train of thought for exactly the amount of time it took her to put the remaining food away and rinse off her plate. By the time she’d shoved her arms through the sleeves of her heavy coat and walked out to the truck, the guilt was back.
No matter how much she argued with herself, Anchorman was still right. If Marcie wanted to waste her time on a losing relationship and probably getting her heart broken along the way, it was her choice. Her friend knew the risks of getting involved with law enforcement. We’ve talked about it often enough, Ricki reminded herself as she put the truck into gear and slowly backed out of the long driveway.
By the time she’d reached the small cutout where she could turn the truck in the right direction, her attitude had made the same 180-degree turn as the vehicle. Tomorrow she’d apologize to Marcie.
“No point in calling her tonight,” Ricki muttered to herself as she turned onto the main road leading into Brewer. “It’ll be getting late by the time I’m done at the VFW.” That, plus the fact that since they’d had the argument in person, she felt the apology should be delivered the same way.
Feeling better, Ricki smiled for the first time in hours. She’d make it right with Marcie tomorrow, and with any luck, uncover a solid lead tonight.
When she pulled up on the side street where the VFW was located, she spotted Anchorman hanging at the bottom of the steps leading up to the porch of the house that served as a post. There was a good crowd tonight from what she could see, but then there usually was.
Most of the men in town, and a fair number of the women, belonged to the VFW, and it was the major source of their social lives.
She found a place to park a block down the street, and by the time she had climbed out of the truck, Anchorman was strolling down the sidewalk toward her, his hands in the pockets of his well-worn leather bomber jacket. She lifted a hand in greeting before locking the truck and adjusting her gun in its holster. Generally, the VFW didn’t allow firearms inside the post, but the local chapter made an exception for anyone in law enforcement. Bill Langly, the commander of the chapter as well as the bartender on most nights, had told her that since she’d “re-upped” with the ISB, she qualified as law enforcement. Of course she hadn’t been informed of her new exception status until after she’d tracked down and caught a serial killer, but she figured that was fair enough.
The rain she’d predicted had spent most of itself earlier in the afternoon, but a light drizzle still lingered, coating her hair and shoulders with a thin sheet of moisture by the time she joined Anchorman on the sidewalk. Seemingly oblivious to the wet and the increasing bite of cold in the air, he stopped, effectively blocking her path.
“So, I never asked why you wanted to come to the VFW,” he said by way of a greeting.
She shoved her hands into her own pockets and gave him a bland look. “Does that mean you figured the role of a babysitter was to go along anywhere without asking for a reason?”
“Not a babysitter, boss lady. Backup,” Anchorman stated. He glanced over his shoulder at the house with all its lights blazing. “Do you figure that ranger, or maybe the PI, was a veteran?”
Ricki shrugged. “No idea. But if you want to talk to anyone in town over the age of sixty, the odds are they’ll be here.”
Anchorman’s jaw jutted out. “You know, there are younger vets, too.”
“Didn’t say there weren’t,” Ricki said affably. “But the younger vets probably won’t remember a park ranger from fifty years ago. We’ll have better luck with the older guys.” She flipped the collar of her coat up to keep the rain from dripping down her neck. “Can we go in now and get out of the wet stuff that’s running down my nose?”
His shoulders relaxed and he grinned. “It’s water, that’s all. I’d think a special agent wouldn’t mind a little rain.”
“I don’t when it’s necessary, but right now it isn’t.” She pushed him aside and stalked past, hurrying toward the shelter of the porch. She reached it in sixty seconds flat, taking the steps two at a time. She landed in the middle of a group discussion on the porch and apologized as she wound her way into the converted house.
The long front hallway was covered with pictures of the various functions and ceremonies held at the post over the years. She greeted several people on her way toward the main room, with its long bar stretched all the way across the back. The space was comfortably packed with tables, chairs, and enough bodies to make finding a seat a difficult, but not impossible, task.
The post’s commandant was pouring tall mugs of beer from his usual place behind the bar. He spotted Ricki almost as soon as she entered the room, lifting one hand in a high wave above his head while placing a foaming glass in front of one of the members who’d staked out a spot at the bar. Ricki waved back and ducked and dodged her way in his direction, sure that Anchorman was right behind her, keeping an eye on her back. While she didn’t like the idea of a babysitter, she really didn’t mind having the safety net of a backup, no matter how much grief she’d given him about it. If there had been a killer walking among them for the last half century, then the odds were good he was sitting at one of the tables right now, watching her.
When she finally made it to the bar, Bill’s face broke into a friendly smile beneath the beard that reached well past his chin. “Happy to see you again, Ricki.” He leaned closer, a twinkle of laughter in his eyes. “Or should I call you Special Agent James?” He looked over her head and his smile broadened even more. “Hey there, Anchorman.” He shot his hand up in a quick, sharp salute. “We’re honored to have you come in anytime. Not often we get a decorated Marine sniper in here.”
Anchorman smiled and reached over to shake Bill’s hand. “Since I’m the only one in town, I guess I can believe that.”
“You’ve got me there.” The post’s commandant tipped his head back and laughed, making the ceiling lights bounce their reflections off his bald head. “What can I get the two of you? Beer or a soft drink?”
“Soft drink,” Ricki said. “I’m on duty.”
“Same here, same reason,” Anchorman replied, drawing a quizzical look from Bill.
“You join up with the park service too?” the barman asked.
“Nope. Unofficial duty,” Anchorman said. He lifted the glass of soda Bill placed on the counter and turned around, scanning the room as he took a casual sip.
“Looks like he’s on patrol,” Bill said to Ricki in a loud stage whisper.
“He is,” Ricki whispered back just as loudly. “He’s looking for the enemy.”
Bill’s eyebrows drew together as he glanced over at Anchorman’s back. “What enemy?”
Ricki grinned. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me.” When the former Marine continued to ignore them both, Ricki took the two pictures she’d brought along out from beneath her coat, where she’d stuck them into her belt to keep them dry. “I need to show these around, if that’s okay with you, Bill.”
He glanced down at the photos on the counter. “They look old.” He shifted his gaze back up to hers, his smile gone. “Is this about that ranger you found up at the old lighthouse in Massey?”
“Yeah,” Ricki confirmed. “I’m hoping someone remembers him from these pictures.”
Bill picked up the group shot of the rangers and studied it. “All those guys look pretty much the same in those park uniforms.” He set the first picture down and picked up the second one. “And he’s standing too far away to see his face in this one.” He handed the photo back to her with a smile. “But you’re welcome to give it a try. Depending on how far back these go, you might ask Pete and his group over there.” Bill nodded toward a corner on the far side of the room. “And have a chat with Carl Evans. You remember him, don’t you? He used to own the hardware store just outside of town. A gas station is there now. That went up after Carl retired and sold the land.” When Ricki nodded and looked around the room, Bill pointed to a small table off to the side, near the door. “He’s sitting over there reading a book, like usual. Says he likes all the commotion around him while he reads.” Bill shook his head. “Dumbest thing I ever heard, or close to it. Anyway, he’s got one of those photographic memories, so he might be of some help to you.”
She looked toward the door, spotting the rail-thin man with a shock of white hair through the shifting crowd. He was sitting by himself with a book open in front of him. She had a passing acquaintance with Carl Evans, having gone to the hardware store with her dad from time to time. Mr. Evans had always been friendly, and back then he’d had a full head of jet-black hair. But he’d always been just as thin as he was now. She remembered wondering on a couple of occasions if he’d ever been in danger of being blown over by a puff of wind.
Picking up the picture, she thanked Bill for the advice then started threading her way toward the group of six, where Pete was holding court. Anchorman picked up his glass of soda that was now half-empty and fell into step right behind her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
When Ricki approached the table in the far corner, all six men looked up at once. Pete, the ad hoc leader of the group, lifted a hand, heavy with blue veining, in greeting. His pure-white hair was a sharp contrast to his complexion, permanently bronzed from spending most of his life working in the sun. Now well into his seventies, Pete spent his days reading whatever struck his fancy and chatting with his friends. His specialty was keeping a close ear to the local gossip mill, a practice he excelled at, and at which he was only surpassed by Wanda. While Pete actively pursued any new tid
bits with unabashed glee, Wanda usually had the gossip coming to her.
Either way was effective in knowing what was going on around town, which was why Ricki was always careful about what she said around Pete or any of his friends.
“Hi there, Ricki James.” Pete pointed to an empty chair at the next table and waved at one of the other men to fetch it for her. He continued to smile through the general shifting of bodies around the table as the men made room for her to sit down and the chair was slid in behind her.
She nodded her thanks and sat while Anchorman took up a space against the wall at her back. She smiled when Pete didn’t waste any time in getting down to the expected grilling.
“I saw you over there talking to Bill. Looks like the two of you were having a serious discussion.” He pointed to the photos she’d laid facedown on the table. “What’s that you were showing him? Pictures of the crime scene?”
Ricki deliberately paused, slowly tapping her index finger against the pictures as she glanced around the group, measuring their curiosity, wanting them to take a good look and not simply dismiss the images in the photos out of hand. She finally shook her head.
“Not the crime scene, but a person of interest.” She leaned forward and added in a dramatic whisper. “A lot of interest.”
She sat back again as heads nodded in conspiracy all around the table. Slowly flipping the pictures over, she passed the group shot to Pete. “If you recognize anyone in this photo, or even more than just one individual, it’s very important to my case that you let me know.”
One Last Scream (Special Agent Ricki James Book 2) Page 20
