by Sheryl Lynn
“I can’t. Unless I’m forced to, I just can’t.”
He didn’t blame her for not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. He worked his fingers through her hair, separating windblown tangles, luxuriating in its texture. There were a few silver strands among the dark brown.
Her mouth fixated him. Her lips had a natural rose tint, and were sweetly molded, the indent in her upper lip barely there. The smell of flowery shampoo filled his nose, but beneath it, like some seductive undernote, he could smell her unique scent that always reminded him of vanilla. Her eyes were liquid, drowning pools, drawing him in until he no longer felt the chill breeze or heard the chirping, screeing, clacking and cawing of insects and birds.
He bent his head. The voice of reason told him to cut it out, but other urges yelled at him to kiss her or die.
When his lips touched hers, she stiffened under his arm. One slim hand pressed against his chest. Still, he couldn’t make himself stop. He kissed her gently, his back muscles on the verge of shredding from the force it took to not sweep her into his arms and ravish her. Soft, so soft and so very sweet.
Then she was kissing him back. Her hand worked its tender way upward to rest beneath his shirt collar. When he opened his mouth, her lips parted, too. He inhaled her breath, mingling it with his own.
He kissed her harder, his mind awash with memories of the bed inside the lodge. The too-soft mattress that threatened to swallow them alive. The smell of pine sap and wood smoke and mice. The scent of her arousal burning his blood and waking every nerve.
The intrusion of an approaching vehicle almost made him cuss. He dropped his arm. She stepped away. Color had returned to her face. She nervously patted her hair, then the base of her throat. Her lips glowed with faint moisture. When she licked them, his pulse rattled his eardrums.
Kissing her was even better than he remembered.
Tate arrived in his old beater Ford Bronco. The man was a nickel away from the poorhouse. That he was willing to risk a steady income and public censure drove home how very seriously the deputy believed there was more to the shooting than an accident.
“Am I late?” Tate called. He carried a large Styrofoam cup of coffee and a nine-volt flashlight.
“We just got here,” Elaine said.
Tate sipped coffee and wandered around the yard. He appeared aimless, but Ric guessed he was studying the layout.
“Is there any other way a vehicle could get here?” he asked Elaine.
“Not unless it has wings.” She pointed east. “There are two big ravines between here and Branch Road. Up north it’s all national forest. You can make it here cross-country on foot or horseback, but not in a vehicle.”
“Who’s been inside since it happened?”
“As far as I know, only the ranch manager. He closed it up and made sure there was nothing around to attract bears. It doesn’t look as if anybody has been here since.”
Tate gestured at the door.
Elaine swallowed hard. She sorted through the ring of keys and climbed onto the porch. She unlocked the door, pushed it open—the hinges creaked as if in pain—then stepped aside. Tate handed them each a pair of latex gloves. He turned on the flashlight and entered.
“Going in?” Ric asked her.
“I have to know,” she whispered and walked inside.
Ric passed a nervous hand through his hair; his throat felt tight. The gloves made his hands look eerie in the gloom. The lodge was as dark as dusk except where Tate’s flashlight shone. It smelled musty, rousing images of ancient tombs.
Elaine opened wooden shutters. Window panes were so dirty the light seeped inside with a yellow tinge. Dust swirled whenever one of them moved. A large stain marked the wooden floor planks. He recognized the unmistakable rusty brown of dried blood. Bobby’s blood. Ric’s gut lurched.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Tate asked.
Elaine was staring at the stain on the floor, too. Ric touched her shoulder. She shuddered and turned away.
“Tell me about the lodge.”
She hugged herself and kept her gaze fixed on the ceiling. “My grandfather built it in the thirties. At that time the only way to get here was on horseback. He’d bring friends up here for hunting parties. That’s how Mama and Daddy met. He was the son of one of Granddad’s hunting buddies.”
Ric cast a baleful eye on the trophy heads mounted on the walls. There were several elk and deer heads with soot darkened antlers and a snarling bear showing ivory fangs. His philosophy was, if it wasn’t shooting at him, leave it be. Even if he did hunt, there was no way he’d have glass eyeballs staring down at him.
“I heard he came up here all the time,” Tate said. “Even out of season.”
“At the office, people were always coming in to discuss business. At home, there’s Mama.” She shrugged. “Mama likes to talk. And a shut door is a challenge to her. So when he wanted privacy, he came up here. He just seemed to need solitude every so often.”
Tate studied an old-fashioned rotary telephone on a desk. “Did your mother ever come up here?”
“No. She calls this the boy’s clubhouse.”
“Did she ever suspect he was having an affair?”
Eyes wide and wary, she faced the deputy. The fingers on her right hand tip-tapped against her arm.
“I know it’s unpleasant,” Tate said. “But this is the perfect setup for a guy who’s fooling around. And you’re the one who found the earring.”
“There was one time…” She turned away and bent as if to examine a dusty rocking chair. She kept her gloved hands away from her sides, as if uncertain what to do with them. “Daddy and Bobby took Jodi to a boat show. Alice came over. She and I and Mama were drinking wine and, you know, girl stuff. Mama said the funniest thing. Not funny ha-ha, funny strange.”
“Which was?” Tate prompted.
“She said if Daddy ever left her, it would be for a girl like Alice.” She added quickly, “She didn’t mean it, though.”
“Then why do you bring it up?”
“Because you’re asking!”
Ric could hear her agitation rising and took a step, but stopped. Tate had to ask these questions. Elaine had to answer. Even if it caused her discomfort.
“Daddy flirted with Alice, and she flirted back. It was harmless. You know she isn’t the type to fool around with a married man.”
“How did Alice react to your mother’s comment?”
She lifted a shoulder in a quick shrug. “She laughed it off.”
“Any other women he seemed chummy with?”
“Linda.” She laughed, sounding strained. “Linda was Daddy’s right hand. She was his office manager for more than twenty years. I can’t see them having an affair.”
Ric chewed his inner cheek to keep from saying something obnoxiously sexist. No way would Del Crowder have risked his marriage for a rangy old sourpuss like Linda Pallo. The woman had all the charm of a drill sergeant. He couldn’t imagine her even kissing a man, much less having an affair.
Tate made a shooing gesture. “If you would, wait outside for a little bit.”
Ric took Elaine’s arm and escorted her outside. She seemed relieved, but puzzled. She pulled off the gloves and eyed them in distaste.
Through the open door Ric watched Tate settle cross-legged on the floor near the place where Bobby had died. Tate set the coffee cup beside him.
“What is he doing?” Elaine asked.
“Some kind of detective magic, I guess.”
They watched for a while, but all Tate did was sit, his back to them. Ric began to get cold so he wandered away. Elaine trailed him.
Behind the lodge was a corral and shed for pack horses, and the falling down remains of an ancient outhouse. He spotted the tracks of a black bear in a patch of snow. He pointed them out to Elaine. Hard packed trails led away through the forest in several directions. A squirrel chattered at them.
“I can’t imagine how Daddy could have an affair,” Elaine said. “You know how
some people are. Always looking for dirt to gossip about. Besides, Tate is right. If Bobby had caught Daddy with a woman, he wouldn’t have dared keep something like that from me.”
“What would he have kept from you?” He’d like to have an affair. Right now. All this quiet and fresh, earthy forest air made it too easy to ponder kissing her again.
She walked aimlessly, her hands in her jacket pockets. “That’s a tough one to answer. I don’t think he ever deliberately withheld information from me.” She turned to him. “He didn’t tell me you were back in town.”
They made a slow circuit around the lodge. Tate was still sitting. So they wandered and made small talk and finally ended up inside his truck. Ric hated the circumstances, but he enjoyed the opportunity to spend time with her. He desperately wanted to kiss her again.
TATE ASKED Ric and Elaine to come back inside the lodge. His brow furrowed in a scowl. “This is not right.”
Ric and Elaine waited for him to elaborate.
Tate turned a slow circle, one arm outstretched, seeming to indicate each table and chair and the desk. He stopped, pointing at the door. “You might not want to listen to this, ma’am.”
Elaine drew herself stiffly erect. “I have to.”
“The sheriff called me to say he had a shooting and to bring my evidence kit. When I got here, another deputy was already inside and so were the paramedics. They were working on Del.” He pointed to the floor. “Bobby was laying right there.” Small stains led away from the big stain. “It was a mess. Men tracking blood, stuff moved around.” He scowled ferociously at the door. “Del’s revolver was laying on the floor over there. You can still see the chalk marks I made. I tried to do damage control, keeping people away from Bobby and making sure the scene wasn’t contaminated any worse than it was. Everybody swore up and down they hadn’t moved Bobby.”
Tate made it too easy to see what had happened that night. Ric began feeling sick.
“I shot a roll of film. Del had passed by then, but the paramedics kept working on him while they took him away. Always the faint hope, you know? So anyway, the sheriff comes back in and sees me marking the floor. He flips. He’d already thrown the other deputy out and he ordered me out, too.”
“What reason did he give?” Ric asked.
“He didn’t.”
“So why were you sitting on the floor just now? Did you see something?”
“Trying to make sense, that’s all. Getting my memory straight. When I first saw Del he was covered with blood. I thought he’d been shot, too. Then I figured out he’d been trying to resuscitate Bobby.”
Ric glanced at Elaine. Her face was pasty.
“So Bobby was laying on his back.” He tapped the center of his chest. “Dead on shot, right through the heart. He was a fairly big guy, so Del wouldn’t have done much more than rolled him over. I’m pretty sure by his position that he was facing the desk when he was hit. Except Del’s gun was by the door, behind Bobby.” He turned on the flashlight and swept it slowly over the floor and wall around the door. “The medical examiner didn’t find a slug. There was an exit wound.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Ha.”
Ric followed the flashlight beam. Something in the wall gleamed dully. “Bullet?” he asked.
“Bingo. So if he’s shot while facing the desk, why is the gun behind him?” As if holding a debate with himself, he answered, “Someone could have kicked it. Or, Del could have started for his car, remembered he had a phone in here, and dropped the gun—”
“No,” Elaine said. Her face was still white, but her expression was determined. “I might, if there is no other possibility, believe Daddy had one accident with his gun. But two accidents? You don’t know how fanatical he was. He’d no more drop his revolver than a mother would drop a baby.”
“Why would he bring the weapon inside in the first place?”
She showed her palms in a helpless gesture. “He always carried it in his car. As far as I know, he never took it out.” She studied the desk. It was covered with papers. “The only reason I can think of, would be if he was cleaning it. But no cleaning supplies.”
“I don’t recall seeing cleaning supplies at the time. Huh. Take a look around while I get my kit. Put your gloves back on. Look for anything unusual or out of place.”
After Tate left, Ric touched Elaine’s arm. She shuddered. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Other than wanting to toss my breakfast, I’m just fine.” She swiped a sleeve across her lips then straightened her shoulders and focused on the desk.
The papers scattered across the desk were dusty and parched looking. Several were smeared with rusty stains. Ric narrowed his concentration to the task at hand. He studied a map and a large drawing that seemed to correspond with the map. He asked Elaine about its meaning.
“It looks like a plat map,” she said. “Here’s the river. Oh, it’s the southeast corner of the ranch. This is the highway.”
“So what are all these puzzle piece-looking marks?”
“Just guessing, but it looks like a housing development. This must be a golf course here. What do you think?”
Having never seen a plat map, Ric wasn’t certain what exactly he was looking at. The meandering pencil lines did vaguely resemble a golf course.
“This isn’t Daddy’s handwriting. He drew a lot better than this, too.” She made a squeaky noise, clamped her hands over her biceps and backed a step. “Axton wanted to buy this portion of the river so he could subdivide it into ranchettes. King owns this part of the ranch.”
“Axton and King had a deal going?”
She shook her head, but seemed uncertain. “I really don’t know any details. No one has mentioned it since Daddy died.”
“What are all these receipts and stuff?”
“Bank slips.” She peered closely at a green ledger sheet. “It looks like it’s for one of his rentals.” She shrugged it off and turned her attention back to the maps. “Daddy talked about development in the valley. Go to places like Buena Vista and Durango, almost any small town, and the residential building is astonishing. With telecommuting and retirees looking to escape the cities, mountain property is a hot market.”
“Del and Axton were full partners, right? So Axton could make deals with anyone he wanted. He didn’t need Del’s okay.”
“I guess…”
“So Bobby goes to the realty to pick up trash. He catches King and Axton in cahoots.”
“Now my uncle is involved in murder?”
“I didn’t say that. Bobby said he’d discovered some shabby information. Not illegal. Not immoral. Shabby. That could describe a guy stabbing his business partner in the back. Not to mention a brother selling the family legacy out from under his sister.”
“If this is such incriminating evidence, why would King leave it here?”
He opened his mouth, but had no rebuttal. King was a jackass, but he wasn’t stupid.
Tate returned with a plastic box. He set it on a chair and popped the lid. “What have you found?”
“Maps of the ranch and sketches for what might be a proposed housing development.”
“This ranch?”
“Uncle King’s portion.” Elaine chewed her lower lip. She looked worried. “Mama and King own the ranch half and half. Mama pays King for grazing rights and he gets a share of profits from cattle and hay sales.”
“Tell the rest,” Ric prompted.
She sighed, put upon. “Apparently King had been making noise about selling some acreage to Axton for development. He couldn’t have been serious. Even if he were, he’d have been in for a huge fight with Mama.”
“Are we talking big money?”
“Probably.”
“Interesting.” Tate turned to the bullet in the wall. First, he took several photographs, both with and without Ric holding a ruler to show how far it was from the floor and door. Then with a dental pick, Tate pried the slug from the wood and it dropped into his palm. A colorful expletive slipped from h
is mouth. He shot a sheepish grin at Elaine. “Check this out, ranger.”
Ric peered at the misshapen bullet. It had a faint rusty streak on it. “Is that blood?”
“Probably. But that’s not what’s so interesting. What is interesting is that Del’s revolver was a .38 special Smith & Wesson. Model called a Body Guard. Fairly small. Easy to handle. A nice little piece.”
Ric got it then. The implications made his insides constrict. “This isn’t a .38 round.”
“It’s a .44,” Tate said. He dropped it into a zipper-top plastic bag and wrote a notation on it. “When I picked up Del’s weapon it had recently fired one shot. Start looking for more bullet holes.”
Elaine inspected the furniture and window panes. Ric and Tate checked the walls. Ric found a small hole rendered nearly invisible by soot-darkened chinking between the logs.
“I think this might be it,” Ric said.
Tate put his nose nearly to the wall. Again, he shot photos, with and without measurements. He again used the dental pick to probe the hole. A slug popped into his waiting palm.
“Well, well, well. We’ve got ourselves a .38. How many handguns did Del own?”
“Only the revolver he carried in his car,” Elaine answered. “Oh, and a pair of matched Colt .45s. Antiques. I don’t think they’ve ever been out of their display case.”
Tate brought out a telescoping pointer and worked it into the bullet hole. He fiddled with it, his brow furrowed in concentration, until the metal rod protruded at an angle. He looked between it and the other side of the cabin. He pointed at the door. “I’d say this was fired from somewhere right over there.” He fetched a spool of white string from the plastic box.
He had Elaine hold one end of the string against the bullet hole, then unrolled a length to follow the angle of the pointer. He hemmed and hawed like a mechanic seeing something interesting underneath a car hood.
“A midget shot Bobby?” Ric asked.
“Hold this, ranger. Ma’am, make sure the string stays lined up with the pointer. How tall was your father?”
“Just under six feet.”
Tate’s broad shoulders blocked the doorway. “Here’s a possible scenario. Bobby comes up here to tell Del about some shabby information. But the bad guy got here first. He’s standing in front of the desk, trying to talk his way out of trouble. Bobby walks in, the guy panics and shoots. Bobby falls. Del runs to his car and grabs his weapon. The heart attack hits.” He clutched his chest with his left hand then raised his right hand cocked into a gun shape. He dropped to one knee and bent over as if in pain. His gun hand lined up perfectly to the bullet hole in the wall.