Dark Horse & the Mystery Man of Whitehorse

by B. J Daniels

  Now at fifty, she was divorced and still in debt. Nikki knew that the sheriff and FBI had done a thorough investigation of everyone in the house that night—including Tilly and her husband. They’d found nothing.

  “Tilly?” Nikki raised her voice over the whine of the vacuum as she approached the woman. “Tilly!”

  The sunlight coming in the window seemed to turn the woman’s bleached blond hair white. With a start, she realized that it was this white-haired woman she’d seen at this window.

  “Tilly?” When she still didn’t hear her, she touched the housekeeper’s arm.

  The poor woman jumped a foot, making Nikki feel terrible.

  “I’m sorry,” she mouthed as Tilly fumbled to turn off the vacuum. In the silence that fell, she repeated, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Tilly held her hand over her heart as if to still it. She was a short thin nondescript woman with bottle blond hair and manicured nails. She moved through the house like a ghost, paying little attention to anyone and vice versa, from what Nikki had seen.

  “I need to ask you about the night of the kidnapping. Could you take a break for a few minutes?”

  Tilly nodded. “I could use a cigarette. Can we step outside?”

  Nikki followed the woman to the end of the hall and down the stairs. If the kidnapper wasn’t already in the house that night, he could have come in through this entrance. The stairs led down to a small patio next to the woods. Anyone coming in this way wouldn’t have been seen.

  But in order to get in, someone would have had to leave the door unlocked.

  Nikki let the woman light her cigarette and take a drag before she asked, “What can you tell me about that night?”

  “Not much. I had a cold and had taken some medicine so I could sleep. Plus I wear earplugs. I didn’t hear a thing until I was awakened by someone pounding on my door. It was a sheriff’s deputy. That’s when I found out what had happened.”

  “Where was your room?”

  “At the other end of the wing from where the twins were taken,” she said, and tilted her head back as she blew out smoke.

  “So you were in the room next to Frieda’s.”

  Something in the way Tilly nodded caught her attention. “You would have been able to hear her leave her room.”

  “Under normal circumstances, but like I said, I took cold medicine that night.”

  “But you’d heard her come and go other nights,” Nikki said, fishing for whatever it was Tilly wasn’t saying.

  “Sure. I heard her and whoever else come and go.”

  She took a not-so-wild guess. “A man?”

  Tilly shrugged.

  “Who was he?”

  “A no ’count. I tried to warn her, but she didn’t listen. I knew him. I told her he was going to break her heart.”

  Nikki was still reeling from the fact that Tilly was telling her that Frieda had a man visitor in her room. “Was it all right for her to have a man in her room?”

  “Not hardly. Mrs. McGraw, the first Mrs., was very strict about that. Frieda could have been fired, but I wasn’t about to tell on her. I got the impression that it was the first man she’d ever...dated, if you know what I mean. She was thirty-nine and never been kissed until him. So, of course, she fell hard.”

  “Was he a big man? Kind of scary looking?”

  Tilly laughed. “Not exactly handsome or bright either.”

  “So Frieda snuck him in? Did you tell the sheriff and FBI about this?”

  The housekeeper put out her cigarette in the dirt, pocketed the stub and lit another with trembling fingers. “He wasn’t in her room that night, so why mention it?”

  Nikki stared at her. “How do you know that if you were knocked out with cold medicine?”

  Tilly sighed. “Because I had a talk with him. Like I said, I knew him. I knew he was using her. I didn’t like him in the house at night. He was a bum. I thought he might steal something.”

  “Like the McGraws twins?”

  “No, he wasn’t that ambitious or that smart to pull something like that off. I was trying to protect Frieda. So I told him I was going to tell Mr. McGraw and the next time he snuck into the house, he’d be facing a shotgun. That did the trick. Never saw him again.”

  “Still you had taken the cold medicine—”

  “Before I went to bed, before I took the medicine, I heard Frieda in her room pacing. It was late. He hadn’t shown up. I knew she’d be disappointed, but it was for the best.”

  “He could have entered the house after you went to bed.”

  She shook her head as she took a drag on her cigarette and blew out smoke. “I made sure the door was locked. As I came back up, I saw that her light was out. I could hear her crying. She knew he wasn’t going to come by.”

  Nikki took in this information. “What is this man’s name?”

  “Harold Cline, but like I said, I never saw him again and neither did Frieda. He left town.”

  “You don’t think it’s strange that he disappeared about the same time as the kidnapping?”

  “He probably thought he’d be blamed for it once Frieda told the sheriff that she’d been letting him in at night.”

  “But Frieda must not have told, otherwise wouldn’t she have been let go?”

  Tilly seemed to consider that. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “And that’s the same reason you never told.”

  The housekeeper suddenly looked worried. “You aren’t going to tell Mr. McGraw. At my age it’s impossible to find another job.” Was that what Frieda thought, as well?

  “No.” If there was something to this lead, then it could come out when the book did. In the meantime...

  Tilly seemed to relax. “Like I said, Harold wasn’t smart enough to pull off the kidnapping and if he had, he would have spent the money. The ransom money never turned up, right?”

  “Right.” Still, Nikki wanted to know more about Harold Cline.

  * * *

  CULL FOUND HIS father in his office. “I hope you aren’t working.”

  Travers smiled up at him. “I’m not. I’ve always liked this room. I feel comfortable in here.” The phone rang. He motioned to Cull to give him a minute and answered.

  “No, Patricia, I can’t tell Frieda that. It’s her day off. She told me that she and Nikki are going to visit her quilting group. You have to stop making her work on her day off. Fine. Whatever.” He hung up and sighed.

  Cull saw that his father was upset. He wanted to wring Patricia’s neck.

  “I’m going to see Mother. I thought you might like to go with me.”

  “I can’t. Jim Waters will be stopping by. I need to talk to him.”

  Cull studied his father. “Tell me you’re going to fire him.”

  His father chuckled. “He’s been with me a long time.”

  Travers believed in rewarding loyalty. “Maybe too long.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll tell Mother hello for you.”

  “Thank you. Tell her...tell her I still love her.”

  Cull nodded and left, his thoughts veering from one to the next and always coming back to Nikki. He’d fought his attraction to her, but it was so much more than that. The woman fascinated him. He’d never met anyone like her. If only they had met under other circumstances.

  * * *

  AT THE HOSPITAL, he let a nurse lead him down to his mother’s room. Marianne McGraw was right where he expected her to be—in her rocking chair holding the two worn dolls. She didn’t react when he pulled up a chair and sat down in front of her. The blank eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing.

  “Hello, Mother,” he said. “It’s Cull. Dad wanted me to tell you that he still loves you. Also I thought you’d want to know that he had a heart attack.�
�� Did her rocking change? “He’s okay though. Weak, but recovering.”

  He listened to the steady creak of the rocker for a few moments. “I met someone.” He let out a chuckle. “After all this time I meet someone who interests me and she ends up being a true crime writer doing a book on the kidnapping. But I guess we can’t help the people we fall for, huh.”

  The admission surprised him, but had no effect on his mother.

  He talked for another ten minutes, telling her about the ranch, the new stallion, her other children.

  “Ledger is still in love with Abby,” he said with a sigh. “I can’t see any way that can have a happy ending.” Just like his own situation, he thought. “Boone, well, he’s ornery enough that it will take a special woman to turn his head.”

  He watched his mother’s blank expression as she rocked back and forth, the rocker creaking with her movement. “This woman who’s staying at the ranch, the true crime writer, she thinks she can find out what really happened that night. A part of me hopes it’s true. But another part of me...” He swallowed, surprised at the fear that filled him. “What if she finds out that it was you? You and Nate? I don’t believe it. But if it turns out I’m wrong... I can’t let that happen, Mother. But I’m not sure I can stop her. I don’t think anyone can.”

  * * *

  THE SHERIFF HAD just gotten back from a meeting when she saw that she had a message from the lab. She quickly dialed the number and was handed off to the lab tech who’d taken the test.

  “You have the results?” she said in the phone. McCall wasn’t sure what she expected to hear. That Nikki St. James was wrong. Or that it was true and there was someone in that house systematically poisoning Travers McGraw. She’d been in law enforcement long enough that nothing should surprise her.

  “We found arsenic in the hair follicles,” the lab tech said.

  McCall let out the breath she’d been holding. So it was true. “Thank you. Please have those results sent to my office.” She started to hang up, but instead disconnected and dialed a judge she had a good working relationship with.

  “I’m going to need a warrant,” she told him and quickly informed him of the lab test. Poison had always been a woman’s weapon throughout history.

  “I’ll have your warrant within the hour,” the judge promised. “I’m assuming you have a suspect?”

  Everyone in the county knew Patricia Owens McGraw. She could count the number of people who she’d befriended on one hand. “Let’s just hope she doesn’t know we’re on to her. I’d like to wrap this one up quickly. The media is going to have a field day.”

  “Yes,” the judge agreed. “Especially with the anniversary of the kidnapping only days away.”

  She hung up, thinking about Nikki St. James. The woman was sharp. She just might have saved Travers McGraw’s life. But the irony didn’t escape McCall. If Nikki discovered through her investigation for her book that the twins were dead, it might kill him given his condition.

  * * *

  NIKKI HAD FOUND out what she could about Harold Cline before she returned to the kitchen to find Frieda finishing her chores.

  Just as Tilly had told her, Harold had been a ne’er-do-well with a sketchy background. He’d done poorly in school, had trouble holding jobs, had been married and divorced, but had never had a run-in with the law.

  She had to agree with Tilly that he didn’t look like someone who could engineer one of the most famous kidnappings in Montana history and get away with it. But whoever had taken the twins had help, and that person could have been the mastermind behind the kidnapping. Harold Cline could have just been the muscle.

  The fact that Harold Cline seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth right after the kidnapping also made Nikki suspicious. She couldn’t find anywhere in the information she’d gotten on the case that the sheriff or FBI had talked to Harold. Either they hadn’t known about him or didn’t consider him a suspect. She was betting it was the former.

  Which was why she was anxious to talk to Frieda away from Patricia’s prying eyes and ears.

  The cook took off her apron and still seemed to hesitate. “I’m not staying at the Whitehorse Sewing Circle today. I’m just dropping off some fabric for future quilts. We make quilts for new babies in the area.” She stopped short as if she hadn’t meant to say that much.

  “Great, I’ll get my car. You can tell me where to go.”

  Frieda looked resigned as she climbed into the passenger side of the rental car a few minutes later, hugging the bag of fabric.

  “I thought this would give us a chance to talk without any interruptions,” Nikki said once they were on the road.

  The cook said nothing as she looked out the side window.

  She drove south, away from Whitehorse, deeper into the Missouri Breaks, following Frieda’s directions. “I’m surprised they meet this far from Whitehorse.”

  “The first settlement of Whitehorse was actually nearer the Missouri River,” Frieda said. “But when the railroad came through, the town migrated five miles to the north, taking the name with it. So now, it’s called Old Town. It’s little more than a ghost town, though some families have remained.” Again she stopped abruptly.

  Nikki drove through rolling prairie, the purple outline of the Little Rockies off to their right, before she dropped over a hill and slowed at a rusted sign warning there were children at play. A tumbleweed cartwheeled across the road in front of the rental. Frieda was right about Old Town being a ghost town. There were a few buildings still standing, including what appeared to have once been a country schoolhouse.

  “It’s that large building on the right,” Frieda said as they passed the old school yard and she saw a weathered sign on the next building that read Old Town Whitehorse Community Center.

  There were three pickups parked out front. Nikki pulled in next to the one on the end and shut off the engine.

  “Looks like the whole group is here,” Frieda said. She suddenly seemed even more nervous.

  “If you prefer I not come in...” Nikki said.

  “I just need to drop this fabric off.” The cook looked conflicted. “You might as well come in and see what they’re working on today.”

  As they stepped inside, Nikki was hit with a scent that reminded her of the old trunk in her mother’s attic where she’d found the newspaper clippings about Nate Corwin.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the cool dimness inside. Three older women sat around a quilting hoop. They all turned, their hands holding the needles and thread hovering above the fabric.

  “I brought a guest,” Frieda announced into the deathly silence.

  The women quickly welcomed Nikki, though they seemed to watch her with interest.

  “This is Nikki St. James. She’s a true crime writer. She’s doing a story on the McGraw kidnapping,” Frieda blurted and took a breath.

  “So we heard,” said a small gray-haired woman with bright blue eyes. “It’s a small town. Do you quilt?”

  “No,” Nikki said as she watched the woman make tiny perfect stitches in what appeared to be a baby quilt. “My neighbor does. I have one of her quilts. I love it.”

  “Did Frieda tell you that we have been quilting here for years? Used to make a quilt for every newborn in the area. Now not so much,” the woman said almost wistfully. “Our numbers have dropped considerably.”

  Nikki had done her homework and found out that along with quilting the women of the Whitehorse Sewing Circle had also placed babies out for adoption illegally since the 1930s. No one had seen any jail time since most of the “leaders” behind the illegal adoptions were dead now.

  “So tell us about your book,” a large white-haired woman inquired.

  “Not much to tell,” Nikki admitted. “I’ve just begun my interviews.”

  Frieda
hugged the bag of fabric she’d brought. “Has she interviewed you?” a sour-face dyed redhead asked Frieda.

  “Why would she? I have nothing to add,” Frieda said without looking at Nikki.

  “I’m sure Frieda will help if she can. We all want to know what happened to the twins,” Nikki said, hoping it was true.

  “Well, most of us already know,” the sour-faced one said. “One look at Marianne McGraw tells the whole story.”

  The three women who’d been at the table when Nikki had entered all shook their heads as if in condolence to poor Marianne. “Imagine the nightmares that woman has,” the sweet little gray-haired woman said in sympathy.

  “Of course there’s a chance she wasn’t involved,” Nikki said.

  Sour-face scoffed.

  “There is always a chance that new information will surface,” Nikki said and all the women gave her a look of pity.

  “That good-looking horse trainer turned Marianne McGraw’s head. It happens all the time and look how it ended,” said the bottle redhead. “They both got what they had coming.”

  “But what about those sweet babies?” the little gray-haired woman said.

  “They’re long dead,” sour-face snapped. “Someone will stumble onto their graves one of these days, you’ll see. Lucky the kidnappers are dead or locked up. Otherwise, it would be dangerous digging around in the past for your book.”

  Next to Nikki, Frieda dropped the bag of fabric she’d been holding. “I’m so clumsy,” she said, sounding close to tears.

  They all turned to look at her as she quickly retrieved it from the floor and put it on a nearby table. All the color had washed from her face. For a moment Nikki was afraid the cook might faint. What had the women said that had upset her?

  * * *

  “WE SHOULD GO and let you ladies get back to work,” Frieda said. She had regained some composure, but clearly didn’t look well as they said their goodbyes and left.

  Nikki thought about what Patricia had said to Frieda about the quilt group, how the cook had gotten upset that day, as well. But what was it about this group of older women quilting?