by Paty Jager
Ryan held the door to the Huckleberry police station open, waiting for her to enter. At least I’m not in handcuffs. She entered and immediately felt the stare of Officer Blane. There was another man she didn’t know standing by an office door and an older woman sat at a desk behind a half wall.
“Have a seat. I’ll only be a minute.” Ryan pointed to a hard chair to the right of the entrance.
She nodded and sat, when she really wanted to turn and bolt out the door. The one other time she’d been inside a police station her stepfather had to bail her out. She and some friends had gone joy riding in Miriam’s dad’s new convertible. Someone had brought along a bottle of whiskey. They’d all tried it and during the reverie ran off the road. Unfortunately, it had been a county deputy who found them before they could contact a brother to come pull them out.
The look on her stepfather’s face when he heard the circumstances had solidified her thoughts. He only tolerates me for my mother’s sake. Adam Malcom had let it be known on more than one occasion that no one was to know she had Indian blood in her. Her mother said it was to protect her, but as Shandra aged, she discovered it was because her stepfather had a dislike for Native Americans. She never did find out the why, but did her best to get away from him as fast as she could.
“Hey?”
Shandra peered up into Ryan’s concerned face. “What?”
“I said, I’m ready to go get that cup of coffee with you.” His tone was soft, forgiving.
“Sorry, I was lost in thought.”
He held the door open and she stood. “Anything you care to share?”
“No. You’re not learning all my sordid secrets in one day.” She managed a smile but didn’t feel like smiling. She’d only told her mom, once, what Ryan was expecting her to spill. Mainly because if she kept denying it, she didn’t have to come to terms with her heritage. Something she’d long ago decided didn’t matter.
Out on the sidewalk, Ryan stopped. “Which way to the quietest coffee shop?”
“Unless you have a need for coffee, I’d rather go to the school grounds. Less chance of someone overhearing.” Her stomach lurched. Are you really going to tell him your grandmother believed you had sight?
Ryan waved a hand. “Lead the way.”
She’d hoped for a few more minutes to collect her thoughts, but he started in asking questions.
“What tribe are you?”
“Nez Perce.”
“Idaho or Washington?”
Shandra stopped and studied the earnestness of his gaze. “Originally Oregon. My father’s family is descended from the Wallowas and live on the Colville reservation.”
He motioned for her to keep walking. “How did you end up in Montana?”
They entered the school grounds, and Shandra walked to the swings. She sat in a swing, pushing it back and forth with the toe of her boot dug into the sand. “My mother married my father when they graduated from high school. She was a barrel racer; he was a bronc rider. Only my mother was Caucasian and my father Indian. Even in the twenty-first century there was animosity toward the Native American. My parents had a rough time of it when they tried to settle down. But on the rodeo circuit, my father was revered for his riding skill. This is according to my grandmother. My mother won’t talk about that part of her life with me.”
“Why did your mother marry your father?”
“I’ve contemplated that many times over the years.” This was a puzzle she’d been trying to piece together since she was old enough to understand love and marriage. “I received a huge inheritance from my maternal grandmother when she died, instead of my mother.” She’d asked her mother why, but her mother refused to give a reason for her mother cutting her out of the will. “I believe my mother’s rebellion put her at odds with her parents and possibly drove her to marry my father. Then, too much pride to say she’d made a mistake.” The bitterness she felt toward her mother always made her voice go up an octave. “Fate stepped in, and she became a widow after a rodeo accident killed my father. She quickly married a son of a wealthy cattle rancher in Montana and forgot all about the five years she lived as the wife of an Indian.”
“That bitterness you have has to be hard to live with.” He peered into her eyes.
Shandra shrugged. “It wasn’t until I turned thirteen that I finally spent time with Ella, my father’s mother. She’d tried to have me visit many times but my mother wouldn’t have it. That summer my step-father planned a vacation for him and my mother. They were going to leave me homewith the housekeeper. I packed up and went to my grandmother’s. My mother didn’t want me to know my roots or become ‘one of them’.” She snorted. “Like by keeping me away from my relatives, I’d never want to know about that side of my DNA.”
“It sounds like your mother worried more about her status than what was best for her daughter.”
His quiet tone and steady gaze eased the tension that had tightened Shandra’s shoulders.
“Yeah, since graduating high school, I started spending more time with my father’s family than with my mom. I could tell it makes both she and Adam, my stepfather, happy to have me out of their lives.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Did she glimpse pity in his dark eyes? That shored up her spine and put her back on the defensive. “What do you know about growing up in a house where you are told to keep half your life a secret and are disciplined when you ask questions?”
He raised his hands. “I won’t press that subject anymore. We came here so you could tell me how a dream led you to believe the spear on that statue is the murder weapon.”
It felt like her heart jumped into her throat. She swallowed several times to shove the apprehension back down away from her windpipe so she could talk.
“The summer I stayed with my grandmother, she told me I carried her gift of sight. The ability to see the truth when others lie.” She glanced up to see if Ryan had a smirk on his face. When he didn’t, she unclenched her aching hands from around the swing chains and placed them in her lap. “When I went home, all excited and talking of my gift, mother and Adam, of course, told me grandmother was an old woman who made up stories to entertain herself and those around her.” After listening to that long enough and growing older and wiser, I too, realized it was just Ella’s way of making me feel special and giving me a sense of belonging.”
Ryan shook his head. “You didn’t believe your grandmother? What was her position in the tribe?”
His knowledge of Native American culture struck her anew. “She was one of the leaders of the Long House and had a Seven Drum ceremony at her funeral. She made sure I was invited to that.”
“It sounds like your grandmother was respected and spiritual.” Ryan raised an eyebrow. “And even though you shunned your heritage, she made sure you were brought into a private Nez Perce ceremony. I would say she had more than an old woman’s desire to show you where you truly belonged.”
“How can someone like you have such knowledge and conviction about this?” Shandra couldn’t believe she was talking as if having sight was normal.
“Tell me why you had to check that spear and I’ll answer you.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the swing set pole, nonchalantly crossing his ankles.
“Is this some kind of cop double talk?” She glared at him, still not comfortable with revealing her compulsion to follow her dream.
“No, it’s me trying to learn more about this sight you say you have and discovering a murderer.”
She pushed off with her foot and swung back and forth slowly. “Have you used a psychic before?”
“Not me personally, but there was one old detective in Chicago that used one. I found the whole concept interesting. How the psychic could give solid information on one case and not another.” He shifted, leaning his back against the post and edging closer to her. He grabbed the chain and stopped her movement. “Stop stalling.”
Shandra stared up into his face. He didn’t have disapproval dimming
his gaze or animosity blotching his face. But she saw determination in his eyes and the set of his chin.
“I told you. I had a dream. Ella was in it, the man I sketched threw that spear at me. That gave me the notion it was the murder weapon.” She stared at the toe of her cowboy boots. “You’re not going to tell people why I thought it was important to the case are you?”
Ryan stared down at Shandra’s dejected posture. He couldn’t stop his hand as it reached out and cupped her chin. He tipped her face up. “Why do you find it so hard to believe you have a gift?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she pulled her chin from his grasp. “The only gift I have is making art from the earth.”
He crouched in front of the swing, putting his face level with hers. “As strong as your heritage comes through in your art, I don’t see how you can be so adamant about ignoring your dreams.”
“How can you, a White, feel so strong about my dreams?”
Ryan knew she’d be asking this question. His interest was not only in Native American myths and shamans, it went into his own heritage. “My mom is Irish, through and through.”
“Greer isn’t very Irish.” Her brow remained furrowed and her gaze confrontational.
“That’s my dad’s name. He is a mixture of all that made this country, including a pint of Native American blood. But Mom was straight from Ireland when Dad married her. My siblings names are; Conor, Cathleen, and Bridget. Mom gave us very Irish names and tells stories of the wee people and the mysteries of her homeland. I grew up believing in the very thing you are running from.”
Her gaze softened. “You believe in leprechauns?”
“I’m not a fool to go looking for a pot of gold, but I believe in the possibility.”
A deep throaty laugh filled his ears like a seductive ballad. Her eyes no longer held suspicion.
“That’s better. Now tell me every detail in this dream so we can catch a murderer.” It warmed his heart when she smiled and began retelling her dream, only this time she didn’t give the abridged version.
“When I was being pulled down the river I saw you on the bank and called to you.” Shandra’s cheeks took on a deeper hue as she added the last tidbit.
Ryan smiled. “Think that might have been a hint to contact me instead of hunting down the murder weapon on your own?”
Her golden eyes took on a new shimmer as she peered into his eyes. “I believe Ella thinks we will discover the killer together.”
Heat flashed through his body. He’d been drawn to Shandra from the start, but this sudden sultry look and talk of them working together, reinforced his desire to discover all he could about the woman.
“I believe the same thing. So from now on, you need to pick up the phone when you have a dream and call me. Together we’ll decipher its meaning and decide what ‘lawful’ actions to take.”
She had the decency to blush at his cryptic mention of her breaking and entering a crime scene.
“When will you know if the blood on the spear is Paula’s?”
Ryan unlocked his knees and raised to his full height. “We should know by tonight.” He held out his hand. She placed her fingers in his palm. Tugging her to her feet, he started back toward the city’s hub. She didn’t pull her hand from his, a small triumph.
“I need to figure out who knew the spear was removable on that statue.” He kept his pace to a stroll.
“The artist, Paula, and Juan are the first I can come up with that would have been in Huckleberry. The piece would have arrived packed in a crate and someone would have had to put it together. I assumed the reason Paula hired Juan was for his strength to help with uncrating larger pieces.” Shandra stopped.
Ryan faced her. “What?”
“If the artist brought the piece himself, it could have been all together or he could have assembled it with only Paula knowing the spear was removable.”
“So you’re thinking the artist should be the first person I contact.” Ryan resumed walking. His hand tugged out of Shandra’s when she didn’t continue. “Are you coming?”
“We can go back to the gallery and get the contact information for the artist from Paula’s records.” Shandra tipped her head as if she challenged him to return to the gallery.
“Let’s head over there.” When he reached out to reclaim her hand she avoided him by breezing by at a quick pace. Was she that excited to get to the crime scene or using the pace to avoid being seen holding his hand? He rubbed at the tension building in his neck. She seemed to be the more professional of the two. It would be in bad taste for him to go strolling down the street holding the hand of the person who discovered the body and was still a suspect in some people’s eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
Shandra had to put distance between she and Ryan. She was allowing him closer than anyone in her life. And her body was reacting to his presence in ways she’d only experienced once before and that encounter had driven her deeper into herself. She didn’t like the person she’d been after that relationship.
Ryan tilted her view of things and tilted her common sense. The latter was just as scary as her body’s reaction to him.
At the gallery, she stopped in front of the back door and waited for Ryan to retrieve the key from a pocket. He brushed past her and sent her body into a tither. Get over this. He’s no different than any other male I’ve encountered. Deep down she knew he was much different than any other man she’d had in her life.
Ryan touched the door and it moved. He motioned for her to step to the side as he drew a gun out from under his denim shirt.
She stood outside the door for two breaths, then tiptoed quietly behind him as he advanced into the building. The sound of cursing and snapping came from inside the office. Had the murderer returned to the scene of the crime?
Ryan stopped and she thumped into his back. He spun, grabbing her with his empty hand. “I told you to stay outside?” he hissed into her ear.
“I thought you were just motioning for me to allow you to go first.” She batted her eyelashes, knowing he couldn’t see it in the dim light. But her voice had deepened to the sultry flirtatious tone she’d used on many occasions to get a male to do her bidding.
“Stay here.” He whispered, giving her arm a quick squeeze.
Reluctantly, she stood her ground. But she searched the dim lighting and listened intently as Ryan crept toward the office.
The second he disappeared into the room, Shandra scurried forward.
“Hey! Let go of me!”
Shandra closed her eyes and listened. Why did that male voice sound familiar?
“What are you doing in here? This is a crime scene, no one is allowed past the yellow tape.” Ryan’s tone was laced with irritation.
“Paula owed me money. I figured since she won’t be selling my stuff, I was coming to get it.”
“In the office? Your art would be in the gallery. All artists have been contacted and told their work is part of the investigation. They, and you, will have to go through proper channels to get it back.” Ryan had lost his patience with the person. It rang in his voice. “Turn around.”
“What are you doing?” The voice rose in disbelief.
The click of handcuffs, she well remembered from her recent experience, revealed the man’s fate.
“You’re under arrest for breaking and entering and…Shandra, come in here, please.”
Ryan didn’t have to request twice. Shandra popped through the door and stopped in her tracks. She didn’t know the man’s name, but she’d noticed him at several of Paula’s exhibits.
“Stop!” Ryan ordered as she started to walk toward the two. “Don’t step on the pieces on the floor. See if you can find a plastic bag or something to put the pieces in. I’d like to take them with us.”
Shandra scooted into the private restroom and found a box of sandwich bags. At her return, Ryan had the man sitting in a chair with his hands laced through the arms and cuffed.
“Yes, the gallery again. Bring m
y forensic bag. I have a suspect to be transferred to the station.” Ryan shoved his phone back in the holster on his belt and knelt at the stick-looking pieces.
She handed him the box of bags.
“These will work.” He put one on his hand like a fingerless glove and picked up the pieces placing them in another bag.
By the time all the pieces were gathered, Officer Blane came charging into the room.
“Take this man to the station, get his information, and hold him until I get there.” Ryan glared at the handcuffed man.
Shandra glanced down at what appeared to be the overturned base for the pieces Ryan had picked up. Writing scrawled across the bottom. My love twines around you like a clinging vine, giving you nourishment.
Officer Blane unlocked the cuffs and jerked the suspect to his feet.
“Hey!” the intruder glared at Officer Blane.
“Blane, take it easy, I want him cooperative when I get there to question him.” Ryan’s rebuff didn’t seem to sink into the zealous young cop. He clicked the cuffs back on the man and pushed him out the door.
“One of these days that kid’s going to do that to the wrong person and end up on his ass.” Ryan shook his head.
“Look at this.’ Shandra tugged on Ryan’s shirt sleeve and pointed to the base and writing. “I’d say from that inscription, you may have another one of Paula’s love interests.”
Ryan unzipped the backpack Officer Blane left and donned a pair of latex gloves. He picked up the object and turned it around and around inspecting it.
A chuckle bubbled up Ryan’s throat as he realized what he held.
“What?” Shandra asked, pushing closer and staring at the object in his hand.
Did he tell her this was a rather provocative scene of two bodies entwined in the act of love?
“I saw this in its entirety when I took photos of the crime scene.”
“Really? Was it interesting?” She leaned closer, staring at the base as if she could see what it had been.