Shadow Ridge

by M. E. Browning

  An Ambrose had lived in the house since it was built in 1861 by the widow of a wealthy banker who had scandalized Bostonian society by having the audacity to leave Beantown behind. That she established herself in the Wild West with her first husband’s money and her second husband’s love made it all the more prurient. But no one had done more to ennoble the house than Alice’s mother, and her spirit practically infused the home. She’d gutted the interior, renovated the rooms, and updated all the wiring and pipes hiding within the walls. Thanks to her, they now enjoyed heated floors and en suite bathrooms. Thanks to Mother, every bedroom had those monstrous walk-in closets.

  Alice pushed away from the door. Time ticked, and she had to dress. One last look at the buffet. A harder look at the bar. Plenty of wines at the ready for those desiring something more fortifying than tea. If it weren’t for Edith Baxter, Alice wouldn’t be offering tea at all, but some branch on Edith’s family oak hailed from an obscure hamlet in North Cornwall and she acted as if she were descended from Arthur himself. And heaven forbid if Alice didn’t steep the leaves—always loose; bags were for heathens—long enough. She ducked behind the bar. Maybe another wine. She rooted through the choices and selected her favorite Condrieu Viognier. Edith could keep her tea.

  The caterers had placed a copper tub of ice out for the whites, and she added the bottle to the collection already chilling. Few things loosened purse strings more effectively than a silky Viognier paired with cheese. She’d learned that from her mother.

  Three caterers from the Table, a farm-to-fork downtown restaurant, clattered in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the selection of hors d’oeuvres. It smelled wonderful. Her stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten?

  The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.

  “Jiminy Christmas.” She hurried up the stairs, unbuttoning her shirt as she went. Zach’s bedroom door stood open, and she hesitated only a moment before drawing it shut.

  By habit she looked right as she entered her room, refusing to even glance at the barricaded closet.

  Neatly arranged shoes and handbags crowded the floor at the foot of the bed. She flicked through the hangers on the garment rack next to the window. Flannel, tweed, black. She spied the cream slacks tucked in with the recent dry cleaning hanging at the end of the rack and exchanged her jeans for the soft wool. The snow outside dictated something warmer than the rainbow-hued blouses suspended from the second rack, and she chose a claret cowl neck. Hopefully it would add some color to her face. The cashmere sweater slid like a waterfall over her head. That was another thing her mother had taught her: dress simply, but buy quality.

  Alice sat at her makeup table. Sometime during the last year she’d learned to focus only on her face. It was like studying an old photograph of herself, where everything behind her had faded away. She applied a dusting of blush, a swipe of mascara, a touch of gloss. Subtle.

  Olivia was right. Her hair was a fright. She rubbed a dab of pomade between her palms and smoothed the dull gray bob. Olivia had once said her mother’s hair framed her face like a storm cloud. It hadn’t turned gray overnight, like in gothic novels, but the transition had been startlingly quick. Only Olivia had been crass enough to mention it.

  The diamond studs Zach had given her last Christmas winked in the dull light seeping through the window. She stabbed the posts through her lobes, screwed on the backings. The doorbell rang.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”

  She sprang from the tufted stool in search of her wine-hued heels and then slipped them on.

  Her cell phone rang, muffled as if far away. “Please don’t be Edith. Please, please, please.”

  It took her a moment to locate her jeans, and she shook her phone from the pocket. It bounced on the bed, and her husband grinned back from the home screen. “Sorry, honey. No time.” She bent over to grab the phone. Denied the call.

  Standing, she accidentally found herself reflected in the dressing table mirror. The armoire behind her filled the reflection, and it was almost as if she didn’t exist. She’d bought the largest wardrobe she could find and removed the doors so she could see all the corners. No surprises. The heavy piece almost managed to hide the outline of the closet it blocked. A closet so dark and monstrous a woman could lose herself in it.

  A closet her mother had built.

  Alice smoothed her sweater.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  Edith Baxter was always the last to leave. Odd, considering she always acted so put out when she arrived. Alice escorted her to the door just as Zach entered the house. Nineteen years of marriage had failed to dull his looks, and he carried himself as erect as ever. He offered Edith a dazzling smile before leaning in to kiss his wife’s cheek. Alice forced herself not to flinch. Not in front of Edith Baxter. Not in front of anyone. Even herself.

  “Please tell me you aren’t leaving already, Mrs. Baxter,” he said.

  Edith looked over the wire rims of her glasses. “No need to turn on the charm, Zachary. Your wife already achieved her goal.”

  “Then you know how I feel. I can’t deny my Alice anything.” Zach offered the elder woman his arm. “May I at least walk you home?”

  Edith released the death grip she had on Alice’s arm and wedged her hand into the crook of Zach’s elbow. “Ever the gallant.” Edith had a soft spot for Zach. Most women did, Alice included. Even now. Edith patted his forearm with her gloved hand. “I still won’t vote for you.”

  “The world would stop rotating if you did.” He rebuttoned his coat. “But not to worry. I’m at the end of my term. Time to let someone else take the reins. Perhaps your grandson? Tell him to come see me. He’d make a fine district attorney.”

  “Tell him yourself. I’m too old to play your messenger. And you can unbutton your coat. My car is right outside, and I’m not too old to walk along a shoveled walkway.” She glanced back at Alice. “Lovely as always, my dear. Although next time, try not to let the tea steep so long. It was a tad bitter.”

  Alice’s smile held. Smiling was another lesson she’d learned from her mother, and over the years, she’d perfected it. She grabbed the door handle and resisted the urge to swing it right into the old biddy. “One of these days, I’m going to brew you the perfect cuppa.”

  Edith tightened her scarf and hid the crepey skin of her neck from the cold. “Let’s hope.”

  She held the rail as she descended the stairs.

  “Maybe she’ll break a hip,” Zach whispered.

  “Zachary Emerson Walsenberg.” She gave him a playful swat.

  “Tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing.”

  Not that she’d ever admit.

  Edith Baxter opened the door of her Bentley Bentayga. When Alice had bought an Audi last year, Edith had clucked her inevitable disapproval. Apparently, it was okay to import from England but not from Germany.

  “Sorry I missed your call earlier.” Alice waved to the back of Edith’s head and closed the door.

  “I had two police detectives in my office.” He shook out of his overcoat and hung it on the coatrack, then unwound his scarf.

  She took the length of cashmere from him and looped it over an empty hook. “They finally caught you, did they?”

  “They wanted to know about our rental property on Fifth.” He veered into the dining room, plucked an opened bottle from the copper tub, and poured himself a glass of wine. He wagged the bottle in her direction.

  She shook her head. “I spoke to Mrs. Petersen’s son the other day. I knew you wouldn’t mind, and I told him not to worry about the rent this month. He has enough to think about, what with his mom still in the hospital and all.”

  “The main house isn’t the issue. The detectives wanted to know about the occupant of the garage.”

  “We don’t rent the garage.”

  “That’s what I told them. Mrs. Peterson must have subleased it.” He carried his glass into the living room and settled into one of the club c
hairs, his arms cast wide across the distressed leather as if inviting her in for a hug.

  She stood in the center of the room. To someone who didn’t know him, he appeared as open as his arms. But she did know him.

  He lifted the delicate glass to his mouth and sipped the straw-colored liquid. “So you don’t know why some guy named Tye Horton blew his brains out all over our garage?”

  “No.” Her throat constricted. She’d have that wine after all.

  12

  Jo drove through the open gate into Lupine Ledge Ranch. It had been in the Teague family since Aiden’s great-grandfather turned his back on South Carolina and headed to Colorado. Local lore claimed he’d tired of the toil of tobacco farming and sought the adventure and riches of mining, but soon discovered it was more profitable to outfit miners than work next to them. The successive generations had chiseled away at the wealth and size of the ranch until only fifty acres and the namesake ledge remained.

  The modest house was dark and the barn was closed up, but Aiden’s truck was backed up to the open doors of the enclosed arena. Jo left her car between the two buildings. Underfoot, the snow crunched. Only seven thirty and already the top layer had hardened.

  It had been months since she’d seen Aiden. Weeks since she’d thought about him, at least until today. That had been a surprise. Disorienting. Still pleasant.

  She entered the arena. The overhead lights lit up the inside like high noon. Three barrels marked a triangular race course. Even standing, she felt herself dig her heels low, lean forward. Imagined loping the figure eight between the two side barrels. Coming out of the pocket, the burst to the final barrel. The balls-to-the-wall hundred-and-five-foot sprint to the finish line.

  Her heartbeat picked up; her breath quickened. So many memories in this arena. Not all involving horses.

  She turned her back on the arena and sidled through the open door of the utility room. “Wow, that didn’t take long.”

  Aiden nodded a greeting as he shook out a length of rope over a deer carcass on the floor. “Old man Lyster’s place is overrun. Thought I’d help him out with my private property tag. You want to pull or scrape?”

  He’d changed out of his earlier clothes. Now he wore a pair of Carhartts and a faded green Henley with a hole along the seam of his right cuff. Both were speckled with blood. His hunter-orange vest hung from one of ten pegs that lined the wall. Most of the others held neatly wrapped halters and bridles. A sawhorse, an old refrigerator, and a canted desk and equally rickety chair rounded out the furnishings pushed against the walls.

  “Pull.”

  He looped a rope under the deer’s chin at the base of the neck. Even under the Henley, Jo saw his muscles jump as he hoisted the doe so it hung suspended from the rafters. He looked good. Fit.

  She hung her jacket on the only other empty peg, pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, and cuffed her Oxford shirt. “I nicked the hide once helping my dad. I’ve never lived it down.”

  “I remember. My barn jacket’s there if you want. Gloves are on the shelf.”

  The canvas jacket hung to her thighs and protected her work clothes. She knew from experience that the gloves he bought fit his oversized paws. She drew two latex gloves out of the back pocket of her slacks and held them up. “Have gloves, will travel.” One of the perks of being a cop. At least until the gloves went through the wash. The dryer was worse.

  He cut around the deer’s elbows and then slid the knife under the skin and sliced toward the chest. The doe was a decent size. He’d already field-dressed it, and the cavity yawned empty.

  Echo Valley kids knew where their meat came from. She’d grown up eating elk and venison her dad had brought back from his hunting trips. Over the years, two supermarkets had sprouted in the valley to feed those who didn’t live as close to the land. One was a chain market, and the other catered to those who wanted to eat organic but didn’t want to go to the trouble of raising or hunting it themselves. Even now, the police department training officer had to schedule qualifications and courses around hunting season or no one would show up.

  Aiden sliced the hide around the neck and made a single incision from the neck to the belly. Jo reached in and tugged the cut corner of the hide, holding it taut. He covered her hand with his while he sliced through the first few inches of exposed membrane, careful not to cut the hair. Then he moved on.

  The carcass started to swivel, and Jo steadied it. White hair lined the doe’s ears. Impossibly long eyelashes framed clouded brown eyes that stared into nothingness.

  Her throat tightened. She still tugged the hide taut, but she studied her boots. She’d seen too much death the last two days.

  They worked in silence until the hide was almost completely stripped from the doe.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  For a second she thought he meant the deer.

  “You and Cameron,” he prompted. “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “He wasn’t you.”

  Aiden nudged her aside, then took the hide in both his hands and drew it off the final few inches. “Seems to me you knew that when you married him.”

  “He made me feel beautiful.”

  “Since when did you need a man for that?”

  “Funny thing about men. They can’t always convince you you’re beautiful, but they have a knack for making you believe you’re ugly.”

  “You’re looking tired.”

  She started to push her hair off her face, saw her gloves, and stripped them off. “Probably not the best time to tell me that.”

  He peeled off his own gloves and lobbed them into the trash can. He crossed over to the mini fridge and tossed her a beer.

  She caught it and raised the can in a toast. “I’m staying with Dad until I get things sorted out.”

  “You can always bunk here. Key’s in the same spot it’s always been.”

  The can opened with a gush, and she sipped away the foam before it overflowed. “You really should find a better hiding spot. Besides, what if I get drunk one night and try to have my way with you?”

  “I’ll get more beer.”

  Jo stuck her tongue out at him. “Dad’s place is temporary. Just until I figure out how things are going to shake out. How long you in town for?”

  “Might be seeing a lot more of me soon.”

  She’d heard that before too. “Not sure how much of you I can handle. You’re looking pretty scruffy these days.”

  “One of the benefits of the job.” He ran his free hand over his beard. “It drove me crazy over the summer, but it feels pretty good now.”

  “You keeping yourself safe?”

  He dug his fingernail under the beer tab. “As much as possible.”

  Which probably wasn’t nearly enough, considering the company he kept. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m looking forward to the day you shave.”

  “You and me both.” He opened his beer. “Sorry I interrupted you today. Interview?”

  “Working a dead body.”

  “What do you have?”

  She jerked her head toward the arena and exchanged his canvas coat for her warmer one. “A single male with a catastrophic gunshot wound to the head. Shotgun inside, expelled shell where you’d expect it, and a near-empty bottle of liquid courage on the table next to him. No obvious signs of forced entry, but the door was unlocked, so no help there.”

  “Did you find a note?” he asked.

  “Nope. The woman I was talking to at the Bean—she was the one who called it in. College classmate of the guy.”

  “She go inside?”

  Jo shrugged. “I asked, she said no.”

  “But?”

  Hunches had no standing in a courtroom, but they thrived in police work. “Something wasn’t right.”

  “Grief makes people react in unexpected ways. What’s your gut tell you?”

  That I need to file for divorce. “Something’s off.”

  He considered her words. “Do you know what?”
<
br />   They stopped at the open doors, and Aiden killed most of the arena lights. Jo leaned her forearms against the tailgate of his truck. “I got back to the station last night, and Quinn—that’s her name—was waiting for me. Wanted to report she was being threatened. That’s what we were talking about when you entered the Bean. She brought copies of the emails.”

  “Legit?”

  “It occurred to me that the two incidents could be linked. One guy shows up dead and now his friend is receiving threats? But the only current thing I could find linking them is a video game they’re designing together as their capstone project.” She tipped her beer can in little circles on the corner of the bed. “Oh, and get this, Ronny Buck is the other person they’re collaborating with.”

  “There’s a name I haven’t thought about in a while.”

  “I’m dropping in on him tomorrow.”

  He leaned his back against the truck and propped his boot against the tire. “Squint going with you?”

  “Ah, look at you,” she teased. “You’re worried about me.”

  He took a leisurely pull on his beer. “More concerned for Ronny.”

  “As long as his daddy isn’t around, shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, the threats were bogus.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The arena lights were stingy with their glow, but even so, she suddenly felt exposed. “The only emails that contained actual threats where ones she’d sent to herself.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Why does anyone make a false report? Attention, sympathy, anger, revenge? I wish I had a better read on her.”

  The stillness of the night wrapped around Jo. She always seemed to end up at the ranch whenever she needed answers. The day her mother died, Jo had pedaled her rickety bicycle down the county roads leading to the Ledge, choking on dust and grief. Aiden had come across her abandoned bike by the barn and figured where she’d be. He hiked up to the rocky outlook, his knapsack filled with cream cheese–and–jelly sandwiches, warm Cokes, and a bag of Oreos. After night fell, they lay side by side, staring at the inky sky until tears blurred Jo’s vision. He never spoke, just moved his hand close enough that it brushed the side of hers. That was the summer their skin started to tingle when they touched.