Conard County--Traces of Murder

by Rachel Lee

  HILLARY WAVED AS he drove away, then carried her small bag of groceries inside. Not what she had hoped for, but it would do for now.

  But after she’d put everything away and had showered, time hung heavy on her hands. She wasn’t used to days with nothing to do, and Trace still hadn’t told her how he intended to look for Allan’s killer.

  A glance at the clock told her it was nowhere near local suppertime. She thought about wandering over to Melinda’s bakery, wherever that was, then decided against it. After noon, bakeries had usually shut down their kitchens.

  Maybe bright and early tomorrow. Besides, she didn’t have the meats she wanted yet. Not that she was accustomed to having familiar meals while she was training. She’d often wondered who had invented those rations. Dried everything.

  She’d also picked up some black bread that would do with the butter she’d bought. And a bag of frozen broccoli.

  Some things remained the same.

  She wished Trace had pointed her in some direction that she could follow, but he hadn’t. She was reluctant to dive into all those papers in the office. It would feel like a trespass, an invasion. Not that there was probably much to find, other than personal stuff that was none of her business.

  The solitude wasn’t good for her, however. There were enough nightmare images engraved in her mind to haunt her. Hillary needed no photo to tell her what had happened to Brigid. She tried not to think about it, but silencing her brain was difficult.

  She tried meditating but couldn’t focus. She attempted some yoga, but that didn’t help, either. Finally, she pulled on her favorite sweater, a natural-colored wool cable stitch, and waited for whatever Trace might bring.

  * * *

  IT WASN’T LONG before Stan Witherspoon heard that the woman was staying for a while. A friend of Brigid’s.

  Uneasiness crawled along his nerve endings until it became a full-blown anxiety attack. Had Brigid told her something? Mentioned it to her? Might he have as much to worry about from her as from Trace Mullen?

  He felt as if a vise were closing around him. Almost suffocating him. What was he going to do about this? Wait and see?

  Maybe that was the only thing he could do right now. Wait and see if the two of them started to act in some way other than as friends.

  God. Sitting in Mahoney’s Bar, he ordered a third boilermaker. Maybe it would settle his nerves.

  He had to hope that nothing would come from this. But hope was a slender thread, and a sword hung over his head.

  Chapter Five

  Trace returned to Hillary as soon as he could. He had a feeling that leaving her alone in that house with all the unfamiliar ghosts it contained might not be comfortable for her.

  Inevitably she had to be thinking of Brigid, and the kind of life she had lived there with Allan. Few enough answers for her in that house, in her friendship.

  Sighing heavily, he wondered if he was haring off in some mad hunt to make himself feel better about Allan. Maybe Allan’s despair had overwhelmed him after all.

  But every fiber of Trace’s being rejected that idea. What was bothering him as well now was Hillary’s decision to stay. Was she just feeling sorry for him? Joining his crazy quest for Brigid’s sake and not from any real belief that Allan had been killed?

  Why should she believe him, anyway? She didn’t know Allan well enough to feel one way or another. He almost wished he hadn’t shared his suspicion with her. She had a life to get on with, people she had wanted to visit. Sun in the South of France.

  He’d interrupted all that. No one else to blame for it. Maybe he needed to attempt more forcefully to persuade her to return to her plans.

  His cell rang just as he pulled up in front of the Mannerly house. It was the butcher from the supermarket.

  “Tell the lady most of what she wants will be here by noon tomorrow,” Ralph said. “And you might want to add the salmon is fresh with skin on.”

  Trace blinked. “How’d you manage that?”

  “Connections.”

  Trace was half laughing when he approached the door and knocked. Hillary answered quickly, her face a study in sorrow.

  His first thought was to divert her, possibly make her feel a bit happier. “I think you like salmon with the skin on?”

  She appeared startled as she stepped back to invite him inside. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I just had a call from the butcher. Most of what you want should be here tomorrow by midday. The salmon will be fresh and have the skin.”

  That drew a smile from her. “That’s the best way. All the good vitamins are in the fat between the skin and the flesh. But that shouldn’t be a question, should it?”

  “Some people don’t like the taste.”

  She closed the door. “Then some people don’t know how to cook it.”

  “A distinct possibility.”

  She led the way straight to the kitchen, and inevitably he thought of all the times Brigid or Allan had led him in the same direction, often for a bottle of beer and something salty to go with it.

  He didn’t find beer, but he found a fresh pot of coffee waiting. “So you’re a heavy coffee drinker?”

  “Any time of the day. My mother preferred tea, but I never liked it. I want a stronger, bitterer brew.”

  He agreed with her. Running around on a mission where you had to keep your mind clear in order to keep your head, you developed a passion for caffeine, even when the coffee was the instant kind and mixed with cold water.

  And they still needed to eat. Damn, it was becoming a constant refrain for him, a desire to keep her fed because he understood her conditioning.

  “You want a sub sandwich later?” he asked, wondering if they even had them in Norway.

  She tilted her head. “We call them big bite sandwiches. You have them in this town?”

  “Of course. The butcher makes them to order. But that’s later.”

  Much later. The chasm still lay between them, a gulf about what they would do for Allan and whether she really wanted to join this hunt. Accustomed to walking through life with a great deal of confidence, Trace wondered why he felt such uncertainty with Hillary.

  “You know,” he said slowly as he filled two coffee mugs and brought them to the table, “you really should go back to your travel plans. I shouldn’t have mentioned my suspicions, especially since they’re probably lunacy.”

  Her tone took on a slight edge. “Do you think me incapable of making my own decisions?”

  Trace realized he’d put his foot in it. He couldn’t blame her if she got angry. Paternalism, he’d heard someone call it.

  “No, I don’t think that.” And why the hell was he worried about it? He shouldn’t even feel guilty. It was her decision.

  She met his gaze straightly across the table. “Do you believe your suspicion?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we will look together. You for Allan, me for Brigid.”

  Sensible enough. “Then you don’t think I’m crazy?”

  That pulled another half smile from her. “Time will answer that, I believe.”

  Bingo. “I never saw myself as Don Quixote.”

  “Most of us don’t see ourselves as tilting at windmills, even when we are. That book may have been a comedy, but it carried a core truth—that we have to try.”

  He liked that. “You’re right.”

  Again that small smile. “We tilt at windmills all the time. Even at war. The continuation of politics by different means.”

  “Clausewitz was right,” he acknowledged. “We’d like to believe otherwise, though.”

  “It rarely makes one feel better to look through that lens. Dealing with it is difficult enough.”

  She paused and he took the opportunity to speak. “The human race is political all the time.”

  “Hence th
e jobs we have. We fight because it’s the only way left to settle matters. And sometimes there are good reasons for it.”

  He liked her clear-sightedness, her willingness to stare at reality. “I don’t think much about the reasons.”

  She answered firmly, “Nor should we. Our countries ask, and we answer.”

  He sipped more of his cooling coffee. They were growing philosophical, and that would take them nowhere useful. They both wore uniforms with pride. That was the beginning and end of it.

  She spoke again. “When do you have to return to duty?”

  “Not for a while. I’m on medical leave. Knee injuries.”

  “Not good for jumping from planes.” She didn’t wait for a response but moved on. “Where do you want to begin this quest?”

  He’d thought about it, and the truth was that he wasn’t sure. He’d considered finding his way through Brigid and Allan’s emails. Maybe some of the papers in their office.

  “Emails,” he said. “First thing that occurred to me. I’m reluctant, though. That’s so personal, I hate to trespass.”

  “If there’s a mystery behind Allan’s death, I’m sure Brigid wouldn’t mind. In fact, she would suggest it.”

  “No doubt. Still.” The intimate peek into the Mannerlys’ love life seemed an invasion of the worst sort. “After that, the papers and other computer files. If Allan killed himself, there had to be a reason. If someone else killed him, there was an even bigger reason.”

  “Then we’ll start there. Do you have the passwords?”

  He leaned forward. “It struck me as weird, but Allan left them to me in his will.”

  Her eyes widened a bit. “Then there was a reason. He wanted you to find it.”

  Also the beginning and end of it. Trespass he would.

  * * *

  THE OFFICE HAD collected some dust since Allan’s death. Maybe it had started collecting even earlier. Nonetheless, even as they shook things off or wiped them down, he could still detect the faint scent of his friends.

  Their journey through this world had been cut way too short. His chest tightened as memories began to rise within him. So much happiness and love simply erased.

  “Before we really start,” he said, “let’s go for a run. I need to work off some agitation.”

  “I’m not surprised. Let’s go.” She cocked her head. “You run quite a bit for a man with bad knees.”

  “Two knee replacements. I’ll keep working them until they stop hurting.”

  “Is this allowed?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Choosing not to run in his jeans, he hurried back to his house to get his workout gear. He hated leaving Hillary alone, then gave himself a mental kick in the butt. Valkyrie. She could damn well handle just about anything, including the emotional turmoil that might arise. The last thing she needed, or would want, was protection.

  When he returned to the house, Hillary was doing push-ups in the living room. He had to smile. Fine tuning. Answering her body’s demands. Her expression appeared lighter, as if she looked forward to this run as much as he did.

  Procrastination, he supposed, but both of them were engaging in it. Nor was the period they spent on a run going to deprive Allan, or Brigid, of anything. No time sensitivity there.

  The day had brightened, a clear blue sky overhead. The air carried a chill that reminded him of a crisp apple. Perfect days were few and far between, but this was one of them.

  He just wished his friends were here to enjoy it with him.

  When they reached the top of the climb, silent agreement caused them to start down again. No running over the ridge today. The task awaiting them had begun to pressure them.

  He just hoped that Hillary had been right when she said Allan had left him those passwords for a reason. Otherwise he was going to feel like a voyeur.

  * * *

  HILLARY COULD HAVE kept running for hours, but she was plagued by the feeling that she was running away. While she was sure Brigid would want her to look at private things, especially in light of Allan’s death, that didn’t make her feel any better about it.

  Thinking of her own emails over the years, she was sure she wouldn’t want anyone reading them. They told the story of boyfriends past, stories that got more than a bit steamy when she was away training or on a mission. A sop to loneliness that might well reveal more about herself than she’d like anyone else to know.

  Painting an emotional picture of her over the years, if someone cared to piece them all together. Emails to her father, private in the way only two soldiers could share. Some things she would never want her mother to read. Tears over death in her unit. Complaints about a particularly tough training schedule, most of them in her earliest days with the Jegertroppen. She’d gotten over herself pretty quickly. One had to or would never survive.

  She survived her transformation into a well-oiled cog in the machinery that served a greater cause. A growth from girl to woman to Valkyrie. A steady toughening into an elite warrior.

  No, she wouldn’t want anyone to read those emails. Except in this case, she, Brigid, Allan and Trace were cut from the same cloth. If anyone could approach with understanding, it would be her and Trace.

  But the fact that Allan had left Trace all those passwords... The idea had left a cold feeling in her heart, a presentiment of something awful around the next corner. It was a feeling she knew well, but familiarity didn’t help.

  Whatever they found might shift the world off its axis.

  When she and Trace got back to the house, they took turns in the shower. He’d had the foresight to bring a change of clothing with him. She had one final change in her duffel, so she decided to do a load of washing. It would keep her busy in a different way.

  She was down to her camouflage, the most comfortable clothing for travel. She hoped she didn’t have to wear it outside, because it would give Trace more questions to answer about her, and she’d appreciated the brevity of his introductions to people they met.

  Then it could no longer be postponed. No reason to put off the inevitable. Except Trace found one.

  “I’ll run out and get those subs now. We can eat them whenever.”

  “Are you reading my mind?”

  His expression remained grave. “Possibly. Shamefully, I’ve reached the point of being a coward.”

  “So have I.”

  She watched him take off in his car, then started another pot of coffee. Once they began, she suspected they’d keep going late into the night. Well past bedtime for her Norwegian clock.

  Her days and nights had begun to sift together, though. A familiar feeling and not a bad one. At least jet lag hadn’t laid her low again.

  Tough it out. Across thousands of miles came her father’s voice. He was a loving and kind man, but he’d never accepted half measures. Tøff det.

  She needed to right now.

  Searching the cupboard, she found steel insulated mugs with covers. Pleased, she washed two and poured the rich black coffee just as Trace returned.

  “I smell the good stuff,” he remarked. He placed a large paper bag on the table, a bag that appeared to be holding four long sandwiches. Beside it he placed a six-pack of beer.

  “Lager, I’m afraid. I didn’t know if you’d want something else.”

  “Lager is good.”

  He put it in the refrigerator along with the sandwiches. Then, with full mugs in hand, they headed toward the dreaded task.

  Hillary could almost feel Brigid right behind her, urging her onward. God, she missed her friend.

  * * *

  HILLARY SPOKE. “Jet lag may be catching up with me once again. I’m feeling a bit chilled.” She stretched and yawned. In front of her stood a stack of papers on the corner of the desk. Beside her Trace stared at computer files.

  He answered, “Eight hours’ time difference
, right? I’d be feeling a bit chilled, too, at four thirty in the morning.”

  “Yes. And I’m staring at my watch and trying to believe it’s eight thirty in the evening.”

  He chuckled quietly. “Let’s give it a break. Then I’ll put on my food-pusher hat and mention that we haven’t eaten anything in hours.”

  “Food pusher?” She raised her brow.

  “Well, I keep noticing how often I talk to you about food. How often I suggest that we should eat. It’s starting to become weird.”

  She laughed. “And when you’re on active duty, how much do you eat? More, I would guess, than we’ve been eating. Anyway, food becomes an obsession for soldiers.”

  That was true, he thought as they went to the kitchen. The subs still awaited them, and he brought them out. She didn’t object when he placed two bottles of beer on the table.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t get fish on the sandwiches,” he said.

  She laughed again, a light, pleasant sound. “My obsession.”

  As they unwrapped sandwiches, she remarked, “We have a national dish in Norway.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Well loved. At the moment, there’s a big argument about whether it should be changed.”

  “Why would anyone want to change it?”

  She shrugged. “Ask the politician who started the argument. It’s not like anyone has to eat it or will eat differently.”

  He nodded, lifting half his sandwich. He’d ordered just about everything on these subs, hoping it would tickle her fancy. “What exactly is it?”

  “Boiled lamb and cabbage.”

  He was startled. “For real?”

  “Actually quite tasty. Apart from fish, we consume a lot of lamb in Norway. Mainly because we raise a lot of it.”

  Boiled lamb didn’t sound tasty to Trace, even with cabbage. He let it go, returning to matters at hand. “We haven’t found anything.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Are you always so positive?”

  She shrugged. “How negative are you?”

  Not very, he decided. He couldn’t jump into dangerous terrain without a lot of optimism. Look at his knees. He’d trashed them during a night jump on some very rough terrain overseas. And still he wanted to go back to full duty, although that didn’t seem likely now.