Home Deadly Home

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “Was this recent, then?” Cassie asked, wanting to move past the discomfort.

  She squirmed a little. “Well…just talk over the last year. You know.”

  Cassie went for direct. “Will you give me names of some of the other men or women involved in starting up a militia?”

  “I don’t know if I should.”

  “If they’re passionate about the cause, I’d expect them to want to talk to me. Maybe not about setting a fire, but expressing their anger.”

  She almost held her breath as she waited. She could probably get those names another way, but it would take longer.

  Karen finally nodded. “You’re right. They’d love it if you quoted them in the newspaper. There were only three or four I’m sure about. Some of the others talked big, but Curt doubted they’d have the guts to act.” One more hesitation. “Mason Thayer. Gene Baxter and Brian Warring.”

  “That’s three names.”

  “Austin…” Her fingers twisted together. “No, I think he went along because it made Curt happy. I’d like to keep him out of this.”

  “Okay. I understand.”

  Cassie left ten minutes later, not having learned anything else of significance. She could hardly wait to get back to the office to research the three men Karen had named. Once she knew all she could find about them, she’d track them down. She still had some weekend to catch them all at home. Then she’d pass on the names to Sheriff Holcomb.

  *****

  Grant had just left Gene Baxter’s house midday Sunday after an interesting conversation when he saw a familiar Toyota Prius pulling up to the curb. He planted himself on the sidewalk, arms crossed, waiting until Cassie got out and looked at him over the roof of the car.

  “Quite a coincidence,” he said. “Meeting you here.”

  “How’d you learn—?” Apparently reading his thoughts, she screeched to a halt.

  “I’m conducting an investigation,” he said curtly.

  That damn pointy chin rose. “So am I.”

  She was the most aggravating woman he’d met in a long time.

  “Do you want to tell me who you’ve already talked to?” he suggested.

  Her expression became mulish. “Want? No.”

  “How about we have lunch together. Do some sharing.”

  “Let me guess. I’m the one who’ll be sharing.”

  His sense of humor rescued him. “Share and share alike.”

  “I feel like I’m in kindergarten,” she muttered.

  “Works for me.”

  She rolled her eyes, an act that made her look…well, not like a child, not with that lush female body. “I was going to stop for lunch after I talked to Mr. Baxter. I guess I can break now.”

  “Why don’t we give him a rest between interrogations?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but a dimple quivered in her cheek. “You’ve made your point. What do you feel like eating?”

  “How about Tia Maria’s?”

  She looked surprised, probably having categorized him as a steak and potatoes guy. “Perfect. I’ll see you there.”

  She’d driven away before he reached his department Explorer. In fact, she was already seated in a booth when he walked into the Mexican restaurant. Perusing the menu, she glanced up. “Get lost?”

  “Drove the speed limit.”

  Her grin flashed, there and gone. “Maybe I just know the shortcuts.”

  He slid in and picked up his menu but didn’t open it. “Why don’t I remember you from growing up?” Hers wasn’t a forgettable face. Then there was hair of an unusual shade of deep, wine red.

  “Because you’re pushing forty, right?”

  He laughed. “Thirty-six, as I suspect you’re well aware. What were you, still in elementary school when I graduated? And how old are you?”

  “Thirty-one. I was in middle school. And I’ll have you know, I wouldn’t have been impressed by your athletic prowess if I had been in high school. Never went to a single football game.”

  He let the menu fall and stared at her. “Never?”

  “Nope.” This smile was smug. “I was a rebel.”

  “Joining the local anti-war protests?”

  Her laugh was as good as a touch to rouse his body. “If there’d been any, I would have been there. Really,” she admitted, sounding self-deprecatory, “I was rebelling against my father. No, more than that. The values of everyone I knew. This whole lifestyle.” She waved a hand meant to encompass the entire county and even region, Grant presumed. Her gesture had definitely included him.

  The waitress appeared to take their orders. He went for a burrito, Cassie for shredded chicken tacos. The minute they were alone again, Grant asked, “What set you off?

  “Oh.” Her shrug was elaborately casual. “My father is so rigid. We never got along.”

  He’d feel guilty about getting so personal, but she was the one who’d raised the subject. “Rumor has it you grew up at his side, working on the newspaper.”

  “He grudgingly let me hang around, probably because he’d have had to pay someone to keep an eye on me otherwise. He didn’t like it when I questioned how he did anything, and especially his take on a story or his narrow-minded, biased editorials.”

  Like most people in the county, Grant took the weekly Courier to keep an eye on local happenings. Even having held onto some of the conservative values common hereabouts, Grant hadn’t liked the editorials he’d read since coming home. The opinions were what his eccentric grandfather had called ‘My way or the highway’. No calls for balance, for listening to each other or opening a dialogue. Thinking back, he realized the tone had subtly changed since mid-November or so.

  “But he asked you to take over while he’s laid up,” Grant said.

  This short laugh disturbed him, lacking as it did any humor at all.

  “He didn’t see a choice. He has some good employees, but they all have their niches. None of them have a clue how to wrap up the package and tie the bow, so to speak. Truth is, he’s keeping an evil eye on me. He is not a happy man right now.”

  Grant reflected on those recent issues of the paper. “You haven’t expressed any radical views yet.”

  “I don’t want to give him another stroke.” Nothing about her tone suggested she was being flip.

  The waitress delivered their drinks and meals, creating a pause in a conversation he found unexpected.

  “Do you think he’ll recover enough to take charge again?” he asked, spreading his napkin on his lap.

  “Um.” Cassie unashamedly tucked one corner of hers inside her shirt collar, protecting her entire front from drips. Then she picked up her first taco. “I’m staying positive with him, which drives him nuts, but it’s true he’s made big strides. His speech was completely garbled after the stroke.” She gave a wry smile. “Somehow, I understood what he was complaining about, anyway.”

  “Any reason not to be positive?”

  “Once you’ve had one stroke, the risk of having another is increased. Dad has other risk factors, too. He’s mad that I’m trying to change his diet. The minute he’s on his own, he’ll go back to eating a lot of red meat and deep-fat fried stuff.” She took a bite, as if to signal that she was done.

  Grant studied her before taking a knife and fork to his burrito. Tone and body language seemed designed to express her indifference to her father’s choices and fate. He thought she cared, but was uncomfortable with anyone else seeing that. Once again, he found himself curious about where her mother had been when she grew up glued to her father’s side, but he didn’t ask. His gut said the topic was taboo, and he could see why if the rigid, disapproving man he’d met was her only family.

  Dabbing at her mouth with a napkin, she said, “Your parents still in town?”

  “Half the time. They winter in Arizona.”

  “Is that why you took the job down there?”

  “Yeah, I stayed with them when I first got out of the service, which led to me looking for a job in the area. M
om says cold weather makes her bones ache, and Dad doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “They weren’t ranchers, were they?”

  He shook his head. “My grandfather was, but Dad broke the mold. He was a pharmacist. Owned the pharmacy. You’d probably recognize him if you saw him. When he was ready to retire, he got lucky enough to find a buyer.” Small towns in this part of the state didn’t attract a lot of new residents. “He and Mom have held onto enough land from the original homestead for a couple of horses. They both still ride. I’m living at their house right now, taking care of the animals.”

  “I’m living with my dad.” She scrunched up her face in the way he thought was cute, although he guessed she’d find the word abhorrent. In fact, he wondered if she knew how expressive her face was. “Apparently, it really is possible to go home again.”

  Grinning, he said, “Yeah, I don’t want to live with my parents, even if we are friends. I rented a place in town until they left for Arizona. I didn’t want to buy a house until I was sure I planned to stay.”

  “Are you?”

  “I think so.” No chance of anything happening with this woman if he stayed in Fort Halleck, that was for sure. A twinge of regret surprised him.

  Cassie only nodded, confirming his impression by immediately becoming impersonal. “Did you learn anything from Baxter?”

  “First, you need to tell me who you’ve talked to. And how you got their names.”

  “I don’t have to tell you a thing, you know.”

  No, she didn’t. His inability to control her was not only frustrating, it worried him. What if she talked to the wrong man? Had it occurred to her that the murder could have been part of a leadership struggle among the would-be land-rights militants?

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’m the sheriff.”

  “I’m the press.”

  He cursed under his breath, which inspired her to smile.

  “I talked to Brian Warring,” she conceded.

  Grant shook his head in frustration. “He was next on my list.”

  “Who else is on your list?”

  They eyed each other. Oh, what the hell, he thought.

  “Austin Jackson.”

  “Oh, Karen said Curt thought—” Seeing his expression, she cut herself off.

  Pissed, he said, “Karen Steagall gave you the names?” When he talked to her, she’d implied neighboring ranchers like Whitney were Curt’s best friends.

  Cassie failed to look chagrined. “I was going to tell you. Once I had a chance to interview them.”

  “Didn’t occur to you that they might be more cautious in what they said to me after you’d grilled them first?”

  “Nope.” She stuffed the rest of a taco in her mouth, chewed and swallowed before she continued, “And I don’t grill. I have conversations.”

  He hadn’t eaten a third of his burrito. “What did Curt think?”

  “That Austin was all talk, no action.”

  “I had the same impression.” He scowled at her. “Damn it, I knew Warring in high school. What did he have to say?”

  “Not much. If you knew him, you might get further. He didn’t seem to like me. He’d probably expect you to be on his side.” Unconcerned, she dug into her refried beans, but stopped with a bite halfway to her mouth. “Are you?”

  “On the grazing land issue?”

  Cassie nodded, her expression suspicious.

  “I get the arguments on both sides. I don’t think the answer is either/or.”

  “Huh,” she said after a minute, and resumed eating.

  It would be easier to stay irritated at her if only she didn’t amuse him, too.

  “What names did Karen give you?” Grant tried to moderate his usual assumption of authority. Dealing with her, it backfired every time.

  She clearly thought over what she wanted to tell him, but finally said, “One more. A guy named Mason Thayer.”

  “Oh, hell. I knew him, too. He wasn’t the hothead in high school that Curt was, just...” Seeing her bright-eyed curiosity, he went on. “In trouble with the law. Vandalism. Breaking and entering. Since I haven’t had to arrest him, I’m assuming he’s cleaned up his act.”

  Even so, listening to what Karen had said about this particular friend of Curt’s, Grant bumped him to the top of his priorities.

  “He has a ranch,” Cassie said, “but Brian says he isn’t married. He hinted that after five o’clock or so, I’m likelier to find him in a tavern than at home.”

  Another memory stirred. “Oh, yeah. Pretty sure he got arrested along with Curt in a bar brawl last summer.” Before Jed Dawson came on board. He’d have to pull up the report for details, but Grant told Cassie most of it. A grad student from the University of Oregon had been in the middle of conducting a study of the sage grouse, including a count. Bad enough, but he’d unwisely gone to the tavern with a Forest Service biologist. Curt and several friends had challenged them. A few pitchers of beer had evidently erased common sense, assuming Curt and his cohorts had any to start with.

  “Nobody got seriously hurt,” he concluded, “but the judge slapped the idiots with some community service.”

  “Restoring stream beds?” she asked tartly.

  He grimaced. “Nothing that relevant.”

  “Huh,” she said again. Then, after a moment, “What if all this has nothing to do with the murder? I mean, you’re the one who called Curt a hothead. He could have made enemies for other reasons, too.”

  “He could.” Grant had never been so open with anyone outside law enforcement about an investigation. He wasn’t a hundred percent sure why his tongue tended to loosen when he was with Cassie, but her sharp insights had something to do with it. The fact that she’d kept her promise not to mention the balloon helped, too. “But I ask myself how Curt stood out. He seems to have been a pretty ordinary guy in a lot of ways. What makes him different is the anger he’s channeled into this war with the feds. What I can’t figure out is where it came from.”

  “His grand cause? Or his anger?”

  “Either. The anger…” He hesitated. “My gut says it had something to do with his father. Maybe his mother. Did Curt think his father was too spineless to drag his mother home? Or she left him because he wasn’t man enough for her?”

  Cassie opened her mouth to jump on that, but closed it, apparently recognizing that the sentiment wasn’t his.

  “Curt and I played football together, but he was a year behind me, not part of my crowd.”

  “I didn’t know him except by sight and reputation,” she said. “I saw his dad around. I can ask my father about him.”

  Grant mulled that over. “Wouldn’t hurt. I’m not sure it matters what drove Curt, though. It’s the result that could have made him a target.”

  She nodded.

  Seeing their mostly cleared plates, the waitress presented the tab. Grant read Cassie’s intention and snatched it before she could. “I’ll pay.”

  “This wasn’t a date.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Although it had felt like one for a few minutes there. “When I dine out with a woman, I pay. Live with it.”

  Apparently deciding she could, Cassie headed for the door. In the parking lot, she asked what Gene Baxter had had to say. Grant didn’t see any reason not to tell her.

  “The idiots had in mind to form some sort of militia, except they weren’t having any luck recruiting troops. They’d have liked to be linked to an umbrella organization to give them more legitimacy, but struck out on that, too.”

  “I knew about the militia idea.” She glanced at him. “Karen again. Ah…did Baxter tell you they were talking about doing a controlled burn on federal land this spring or summer? I have to wonder how controlled it would have been,” she added.

  He stopped halfway across the parking lot. She finally noticed and turned around.

  “Gene didn’t tell you about their genius idea, I take it.”

  “Probably because of the star I wear.” He tapped it.

  �
��Oh, yeah.”

  He strode to where she’d stopped by her car. “Any other gems from Karen that you haven’t told me?”

  “Only that he was freaking her out. She had visions of him being in prison when she went into labor. They were at odds enough, the marriage could have been in trouble.”

  Grant thought that through.

  Seemingly reading his mind, Cassie said, “Her grief was genuine. If you’d seen her face…”

  “She didn’t kill him.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Sheriff Holcomb?”

  “Plenty,” he said flatly. “And it’s going to stay that way. Speaking of, you’ll back off until I’ve talked to Mason Thayer.”

  “Will you arrest me if I don’t?”

  “I’ll be real tempted.”

  “Finder’s keepers,” she said sweetly, whipped around the side of her car and bent to hop in.

  He was turning away when she made a strangled sound. A few strides took him to where she’d frozen, half-in her car.

  “What?”

  “I…it’s probably nothing.” She straightened, her body almost touching his.

  At any other time, he’d have had trouble focusing on anything but the rich color of her slightly ruffled hair. As it was, he growled, “What’s ‘it’?”

  She pointed. His gaze followed, to the passenger seat, where what appeared to be a rolled up poster lay. A red ribbon kept it from springing open. Red curlicues, like on a fancy Christmas bow, spilled from the knot.

  A gift.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Roughly seven hours later, Cassie was still thinking about the poster. She’d insisted on unrolling it herself, although she’d put on those thin latex gloves Grant produced from a pocket as naturally as if he always carried some.

  Well, he probably did. She imagined him grabbing keys, wallet, spare change…and gloves, in case he found a dead body today.

  Or a creepy gift.

  Under other circumstances, she might have liked this one. It was a high quality poster made from a U.S. postage stamp. A four cent stamp that lauded freedom of the press.

  In fact, the first thing she said was, “Nice.”