by Robin Lamont
Jude drew back, replying, “Thank you, mister.” She had to be nice to him this evening.
“Get you a drink?” he asked
“They have a good beer?”
“It’s all the same to me,” said Cash, holding up a half-finished Budweiser.
“Let’s go take a look.”
He led her across the foyer into the bar and dining area where the mammoth elk head stared accusingly down at the festivity.
“Do you have any microbrews?” asked Jude of the bartender.
“Sure do, ma’am.” He pointed to a few bottles behind the bar, then added, “Also got a local brew in a keg called Old Gray Wolf. It’s heavy-bodied and on the malty side, but it’s not bitter like stout. Most women don’t care for it, but you look like an adventurous sort, and this one’s real good on a cold winter night.”
“Sold!”
He drew a glass of the rich beer and handed it to Jude. She drank and nodded her approval.
“You a beer conna-sir?” asked Cash with a smirk.
“I like to try new things,” said Jude.
He handed his empty bottle of Bud to the bartender who didn’t have to be told to flick off the cap on a new one.
They wandered through an archway into the adjoining room where a four-piece country band was playing in the corner and couples were happily doing the two-step on an open parquet floor. Servers from the kitchen came and went through a set of swinging doors at the back of the room. Jude saw Abby from the Tripp Creek Café; she dangled an empty tray from her hand and was wistfully tapping her foot to the music. When she spotted Jude and Cash, she gave them a guilty little wave and ducked into the kitchen. For the next half hour, Jude played her role as dutifully as she could, keeping up small talk with Cash and feigning enjoyment as his dance partner. She was surprised at his skill, but not at how he took every opportunity to put his hands on her. Each time she had to remind herself that she’d maneuvered herself into this position and it came with a cost. She just had to keep the price as low as possible.
Meanwhile she kept her eyes open. John Tripp was playing the host; accompanied by Bud Grimes, they worked the room, shaking hands with fellow ranch owners. Cash wanted to show her off to a few of his colleagues and brought Jude into the study to meet two other Wildlife Services agents. While they chatted, Jude sized up both of them and finally targeted one. His name was Hank and he was already slightly drunk. She just had to wait for the right moment.
That moment came when the second agent excused himself and headed to the dance floor. Cash tried to pull her that way as well, but she begged off, saying that she needed to take a break. “Don’t suppose you’d get me another beer?” she asked sweetly.
As soon as he left, Jude turned her attention to Hank. “You work with Cash?” she asked.
“Not exactly, I’m further north.”
“And you came all the way here for the Christmas party?” Jude gave him a warm smile and his already ruddy complexion went even redder.
He began twisting one end of his thick, droopy mustache, awkward in this social situation. “It’s somethin’ to do,” he shrugged.
Glancing across the foyer, she saw that Cash had stopped to talk with someone. “You guys don’t have an easy job, that’s for sure,” she said.
“How do you mean?”
“I heard about your co-worker Craig Eberhardt. Did you know him?”
“Sure did.”
“I’m so sorry. He was a friend?”
“You could say. We went way back.”
“What was he like?”
“Bit of a loner, I guess.”
“No wife or girlfriend?”
“He was married once, but it didn’t work out. Can’t say as I blame her. Craig was more married to his job. I think she got tired of spending anniversaries in a tree stand huntin’ deer.” He grinned, showing a glimpse of a chipped front tooth.
Cash was now waiting at the bar. “Did they ever catch the guy who killed him?” asked Jude innocently.
“Nope. But they will.” He lifted his glass and took a swallow of straight bourbon. “Animal activists, crazy effin’ people,” he said, grimacing at the liquor’s burn.
“Why are you so sure it was activists?”
“Because they hate us, that’s why.”
“Maybe there’s another explanation. Cash told me that your friend had gotten into some kind of trouble at work over his … what did he call it? A field diary? Maybe it had something to do with that.”
“What does his field book have to do with the price of eggs?” asked Hank dismissively.
“I overheard someone say that the police went looking for it thinking his last entries might bear some clue about whoever wanted him dead.”
Hank snorted. “It’s a log for work, it ain’t a personal diary.”
Jude cast another look in Cash’s direction. He was just getting to the front of the line. She still had a little more time. “Exactly. Which makes it that much more suspicious that the cops couldn’t locate it anywhere.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” he conceded.
“So, if you were Eberhardt, where would you keep this book if you didn’t want anyone to find it?”
“You’re a regular Nancy Drew, ain’t you?” Hank noted with amusement.
“And I love a good mystery,” came a deep voice directly behind Jude. She whipped around to see John Tripp towering above her. She’d been so focused on Cash, she hadn’t been aware of the rancher’s approach. “Miss Harris, so glad you could make it this evening,” he said jovially. “How’s it going, Hank?” He reached out to shake the agent’s hand.
“Not bad, Mr. Tripp,” said Hank. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“Any time. Now I see you here having a scintillating conversation with a pretty girl and I have to come over and see if I can’t barge in,” said Tripp, resting his hand lightly on the small of her back. “So what is all the mystery?”
Jude opened her mouth to say something, anything to keep Hank from responding. But he had already blurted it out, “We were talking about Eberhardt.”
“Oh, terrible, terrible thing,” said Tripp.
“Cops can’t find his field book,” said Hank. “And we were trying to figure out where he might have put it ’cause it might tell ’em who the murderer was. At least, that’s Judy’s theory.”
“Is it, now?” asked Tripp. “Tell me more.” He continued smiling, but his gaze had hardened.
Jude sensed a sudden tension in his body that flowed like a current through his hand still resting on her back. “Just rumors around Stanton,” she said breezily, hoping he couldn’t see her pounding heart through the neckline of her dress.
“Well, you shouldn’t listen to rumors. They can get people into all sorts of trouble, don’t you think?”
“We were just chatting,” said Jude. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
To her relief, Cash appeared with a beer in each hand.
“Well, enjoy yourselves now,” said Tripp. “Nice to see you, Hank. And you, Miss Harris.”
He sounded cordial enough, but Jude’s danger sensors were firing, and when the rancher tapped Cash on the shoulder and asked to “have a word” with him, she could feel her fragile cover story fall away like flimsy clothing, leaving her naked. From the corner of her eye, she saw a grim Tripp steer Cash into the next room. She made her excuses to Hank and made a beeline for the ladies room. Once there, she locked the door and leaned on the sink, her knees feeling weak. Damn. You were too busy keeping an eye on Cash to watch your own back. And just when you might have learned something from Hank. What the hell was Tripp so freaked out about? His comment about ‘rumors getting you into trouble’ – that was a warning. Was it about Eberhardt himself? Or the field diary? You’ll never find out now. Maybe they don’t know who you are, but they know who you’re not.
Cut your losses and get out while you can.
Someone knocked on the bathroom door. “Just a second,” called Jude. She flushed the toilet, straightened her hair in the mirror, and headed back to retrieve her coat. She hadn’t gone far when she spied Cash in the foyer, peering one way then the other, no doubt looking for her. Quickly, she retraced her steps. The hallway hooked around into the dining area, where the band was in full swing. Tripp stood with Bud Grimes by a set of French doors. He said something to Grimes, then slipped through one of the doors to a stone patio. Grimes waited a moment, then followed.
Jude didn’t hesitate. She dashed into the busy kitchen where cooks and wait staff were preparing desserts. The head chef was shouting instructions, trays and pots clanked, and the sweet smell of baked goods hung in the air. Jude spotted Abby, arranging cookies on a platter, and sidled up to her.
“Hi, you want one of these?” chirped Abby.
“Actually, I’m feeling a bit lightheaded. I could use some air,” said Jude apologetically.
“I hear ya,” said Abby.
“Can I get out this way?”
“Sure, through the pantry. There’s a service entrance at the end.”
Abby pointed her in the right direction and Jude hurried off.
The cold hit her instantly. She found herself downhill of the patio, which was rimmed with Christmas lights, and picked her way across the dirt and gravel until she spotted the outline of two figures by the railing. Tiptoeing closer, she squeezed between a few shrubs. The muted music and laughter coming from inside covered her footsteps and the rasp of the leafless branches scraping at her legs. She crouched by the patio wall, directly below the two men.
“What is Cashman doing with her?” Grimes was asking.
“What do you think?” responded Tripp dismissively.
“Did he say anything to her about the diary?”
“He says he didn’t, but he’d tell her anything to get laid.”
“Who the hell is she, anyway?”
“I don’t know. She was out here a few days ago asking questions about wolves and god knows what else … asking about you,” said Tripp.
“Me?”
“Wildlife Services.”
“She a reporter?”
“All I know is she’s trouble,” replied Tripp with exasperation, “and she suspects that Craig’s diary got him killed.”
“Shit.”
“Where is it, Bud?” asked Tripp.
“I don’t know,” Grimes exploded. “Chief Ramey would have told me if his boys found it.”
“Oh, you think so? They open up that notebook and read about the cash payments I made to Eberhardt and your other agents. They read about the plane rentals, the trash animals, endangered species, and how Shoot ’n Shovel comes right from the top.” Jude could almost hear him poking Grimes in the chest with each accusation. “And you think they’re going to call you and say, ‘We found what you’re looking for and we’ll FedEx it to you.’ I don’t think so. I think they say to themselves, ‘Good golly, look at all this taxpayer money going to private ranchers, and to our own state senator, no less.’ I think they say to themselves, ‘Maybe this Eberhardt guy was into blackmail. Or maybe he was going to defect and cozy up to animal rights people the way Walt Kincaid did.’ No, if Ramey finds that diary, he’s gonna come around sticking his nose into our business.”
“But what about the trap?” Grimes argued. “With Eberhardt’s leg in there … it points directly to those animal rights fanatics. Maybe this gal is one of them. But she’s not going to find the diary, John. If the cops didn’t find it, she won’t.”
There was a long silence and Jude became aware that she was shaking in the cold; she forced her jaw to stay open so her teeth wouldn’t make a racket when they chattered.
“I’d better get back,” Tripp finally said, his voice now detached as if his mind was elsewhere. “Don’t do anything. Don’t talk to anybody. I’ll have Cash deal with this.”
Jude waited until she heard the patio doors close and hurried back into the house. Keeping her head down, she took her place behind a couple retrieving their coats. Occasionally, she snuck a glance over her shoulder as she anxiously waited her turn. Come on. Come on.
“Coat tag?” asked the attendant.
“Uh … yes, somewhere.” Jude’s frozen fingers fumbled in her purse, her fear of being seen growing with every second. “Here, here it is.”
The wait for her coat felt interminable. Let. Me. Get out of here. She didn’t know what Tripp meant when he said he’d have Cash deal with her, but she sure didn’t want to find out. They were into something really dirty and didn’t want it exposed. Had Eberhardt gotten greedy, looking to make some extra money by threatening to reveal Wildlife Services’ corrupt war on wildlife? Had they killed him to shut him up? If so, they wouldn’t think twice about silencing an animal rights activist who knew too much.
The attendant returned with her coat. Jude almost made it to the front door when she felt herself being roughly turned around.
“Hey, Cowgirl. I was looking for you.” His face, lit from behind, looked gray and hard.
“Oh, Cash. I looked for you, too. But I couldn’t find you, and then I … I’m not feeling all that well, so I’m going to head out.”
“Nah, that’s not right,” he said, grasping her hands. “The evening’s just getting started.”
“Thanks, but I have to get an early start tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving Stanton?”
“’Fraid so.”
“But we hardly got to know each other. Whoa, your hands are freezing and your lips are blue. Where the hell you been?”
Jude pulled her hands away. “Like I said, I think I’m coming down with something.”
“I’ll drive you to the Aspen.”
“No thanks, I’ll be fine.”
“Oh, no.” He took her by the shoulders and leaned in, the beer on his breath heavy and sweet. “I think you owe me. You know, after showing you all around and inviting you here…”
She wrenched herself out of his grasp. “No, Cash. Please.”
He reached for her again, but a burly man in an overcoat stepped in between them. “Cash, m’boy,” he said quietly, but firmly. “The lady wants to go home.”
“But she don’t feel good, so I’m gonna take her,” growled Cash.
“You’re not driving anywhere, son,” said the man. “Go get yerself some coffee.”
Jude didn’t know who the man was, but could have hugged him when Cash backed off. “He’s not a bad sort,” said her rescuer after Cash walked stiffly away. “But young men these days aren’t taught how to be gentlemen.”
“Well, clearly you were,” said Jude. “Thanks.”
She hurried down the front steps and found her car. Cash did not reappear, but he knew where she was staying. Jude sped back to the Aspen, glancing behind her frequently – something that now had become as routine as breathing.
Chapter 23
The guesthouse was dark; even the holiday lights around the front window had been unplugged for the night. Jude used her key to get in and took off her shoes so as not to make any noise on the stairs. She had just started up when she heard an excited scrabbling against the hardwood floor behind her.
“Jesus, Finn! You scared the crap out of me,” exclaimed Jude in a reedy whisper. “What are you doing down here?”
He wagged his tail furiously in response. A light went on in the dining room and Foster Dunne appeared. “Good evening,” he said. “Would you like some tea?”
Oh, God, thought Jude. Here we go again. She thought if she had to play act for one more second she would explode. “No,” she replied, adding even more tersely, “Did you let Finn out of my room again?”
“I did.”
“Do you always go into your guests’ rooms when th
ey’re not here?”
“Not as a general rule,” he answered evenly. “But I felt bad for him being cooped up all evening. Are you alright? You look quite pale.”
“Yes, I’m fine. Good night.”
“Good night, then. I’ll tell you about your visitors in the morning.”
Jude stopped in her tracks. “Visitors?”
“Two agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation came looking for you earlier.”
Her breathing on hold, she repeated, “Looking for me?”
“Well, they wanted to know about your travel company.”
“Come to think of it,” said Jude. “A cup of tea sounds like just the thing.”
She trailed Dunne to the kitchen where a kettle was starting to whistle. While he got out cups and teabags in his slow, mechanical way, he told her that the agents had asked what documentation, if any, she had provided when she checked in. The screws were tightening even further. Holding on to the last vestiges of her story, however, Jude feigned puzzlement.
“That’s odd,” she said. “What could they want with EO Travel? Oh, well, I’ll call my boss in the morning. I’m curious … what did you tell them?”
“Nothing, really.” Dunne sat down and blew on his tea. “I showed them the business card you gave me.”
“I guess they have to look at everything if they’re investigating a murder,” she threw out. “Did you know Craig Eberhardt?”
“I knew who he was.” Seemingly disinclined to pursue the subject, Dunne sipped his tea. A lone howl sounded in the hills behind the guesthouse and Finn’s ears perked forward.
“What is that? A wolf?” asked Jude.
“Or coyote.”
They waited in silence for an answering yip or howl, but it never came. Finally, Dunne said, “The sound always makes me think of the Baskervilles. Do you know the story?”
Jude was happy enough to get off the subject of the FBI and responded, “The Hound of the Baskervilles? I read it when I was a kid, but I’ve sort of forgotten. Isn’t that the one where Sherlock Holmes investigates a family curse?”