by B. J Daniels
“Watch where you’re going!” Charlotte yelled as the car almost went off the road. “What is your problem?”
Arlene got the car back on the road and looked over at her daughter again. She’d never noticed before how much Charlotte was beginning to resemble her sister Violet.
* * *
BACK AT THE HOSPITAL, Violet Evans felt the drool run down her chin but didn’t move a muscle to stop it.
“Violet?”
She stared into nothingness, her eyes glazed over, her mind miles away. Miles away in Old Town Whitehorse.
“Violet, can you hear me?”
The doctors called her condition a “semicatatonic state.” She’d been like this ever since she’d been brought to the mental hospital after admitting to trying to kill her mother. It was a textbook-classic case, she’d heard the doctors say and had to suppress the urge to laugh.
It should be textbook-classic; that’s where she’d found the symptoms for the condition. Lately, though, the doctors had noticed that she was starting to come out of it.
Violet loved fooling with them. One day soon she would come out of it, all right. She wouldn’t remember anything. When they told her about her crimes, she would be shocked, feel incredible remorse for the misery she’d caused and find it almost unbearable.
There would be suspicion with her apparent confusion about where she’d been, what she’d done. There would be more psychiatric tests, but finally they would have to release her back into society. They would have to since she’d clearly been sick when she’d tried to kill her own mother. And soon she would be well.
But for now, Violet Evans saw nothing, felt nothing, was nothing. At least on the surface. Her mind worked 24-7, planning and plotting for the day when she would walk out the front door of the hospital a free woman.
Inside, she smiled to herself. It wouldn’t be long now. Soon she would be free. Only this time she would be much smarter. This time she wouldn’t get caught. Nor was she just going to finish the job she’d started. That was the problem with too much time to think—it made you realize there were a lot of people you wouldn’t mind seeing dead.
* * *
THE PHONE RANG the minute Laci hung up from talking with her cousin. She smiled as she picked up the receiver, sure it was Maddie calling her back.
“What did you forget to tell me?” she said without bothering to say hello.
Silence.
“Maddie?”
No answer.
She checked the caller ID. Blocked. Her heart began to pound as she recognized the faint sound of someone breathing on the other end of the line.
She told herself there was nothing to be frightened about. It was just a bad connection. Then why could she hear the breathing just fine? “Hello?”
Still no answer.
“What do you want?” she demanded into the phone.
The caller hung up with a click.
Her heart drummed in her chest as she tried to convince herself it was just a wrong number. She hung up and hit star-6-9.
The recording confirmed that the phone number could not be accessed.
She hung up, telling herself she was overreacting. As usual. But now she was spooked, the call feeling like an omen.
Chapter Three
AT THE SOUND of a car, Laci wandered into the living room, still feeling under the weather. And while she was relieved about Maddie, she couldn’t get Alyson out of her mind. Or the strange phone call.
One of Alyson’s bridesmaids, a younger friend they’d both grown up with, trotted up the front steps.
Laci opened the door, glad to see McKenna Bailey. McKenna, all cowgirl, was dressed in jeans, Western shirt, boots and a straw Western hat pulled down over her blond hair.
“I guess I don’t need to ask how you’re feeling,” McKenna said with a laugh. “I couldn’t believe you last night. I’ve never seen you drink that much.”
Which could partly explain why she felt so horrible. But she knew the perfect cure of whatever ailed her.
“Pancakes,” Laci said drawing McKenna into the kitchen.
“Pancakes? You can’t be serious,” McKenna said as she took off her cowboy hat and set it on the stool next to her at the breakfast bar.
“Pumpkin pancakes.” As Laci whipped up the batter, she began to feel better. Cooking always did that for her. McKenna talked about the wedding ceremony, the food at the reception—the town women had insisted on doing a potluck, almost as if there were a plot against Laci and her catering company.
Ever since she’d decided to start Cavanaugh Catering, nothing had gone right. True, her first catered party had ended with a woman being poisoned to death—not Laci’s fault, though.
Since then, she hadn’t had any business and was starting to wonder if her sister had been right about it being a mistake to run a catering business here in the middle of nowhere.
Laci spooned some of the golden batter into a sizzling-hot skillet. The smell alone made her feel better.
“Spencer is really something, huh?” McKenna said.
Laci shot a look over her shoulder at McKenna. “He’s handsome enough,” she said noncommittally.
McKenna laughed. “Arlene Evans is positive she’s seen him in one of her movie magazines.” She lowered her voice. “But you should have heard what Harvey Alderson said.”
Laci could well imagine, knowing Harvey.
“He said the guy looked like a porn star to him,” McKenna said and laughed again. “Makes you wonder what Harvey knows about porn stars, doesn’t it?”
Laci laughed and turned back to her cooking. The pancakes had bubbled up nicely. She flipped each one, then brought out the apple-cinnamon syrup and fresh creamery butter and put them on the counter in front of McKenna, happy her friend had stopped by. She wished McKenna was home for more than the weekend.
“The thing about men as good-looking as Spencer Donovan—you’d have to keep him corralled at home,” McKenna said, only half joking. “Every woman in the county would be after him. Speaking of men...I did something really stupid last night.”
Laci couldn’t imagine McKenna Bailey doing anything stupid in her life. She hadn’t even had that much to drink last night. “What?”
“I signed up on Arlene Evans’s rural dating internet site,” McKenna said and grimaced. “I’m never going to find my handsome cowboy helping Eve with the ranch. Or at vet school. I figured, what would it hurt, you know?”
“I know,” Laci said with a laugh as she slid a plateful of silver-dollar pancakes in front of McKenna and watched her slather them with butter before making another skilletful for herself.
Was that all it had been last night? A splash of champagne and a shot of envy, stirred not shaken, with a healthy dose of vivid imagination? She sure hoped so because she really didn’t want her friend to be in trouble. She glanced at the kitchen clock over the stove as she sat down, not even hungry for her favorite pancakes. Alyson would be in Honolulu soon.
“Laci, these pancakes are to die for,” McKenna said between bites. And the conversation turned to Laci’s catering business—and lack of clients. And for a while Laci stopped worrying about Alyson and worried instead about how to get Cavanaugh Catering cooking.
* * *
BRIDGER DUVALL SNAPPED on his flashlight as he descended the rickety basement stairs of Dr. Holloway’s former house. It was dusty and dark down here, the overhead light dim. The place, he’d learned, had been sitting empty for years. He doubted anyone had been down here in all that time.
“Can’t be much of interest down there, but you’re welcome to look, I guess,” the elderly neighbor said from the top of the stairs.
“Thanks,” Bridger called over his shoulder as he descended deeper. He’d managed to talk the neighbor into letting him in
to the house after discovering it was empty, and the man thought he knew where there might be a key.
In a town like Whitehorse, neighbors were often given a spare key to the house next door. Bridger loved that about this part of Montana. As it turned out, the door hadn’t even been locked.
A house that the doc owned—but apparently had never lived in—seemed like the perfect place to store records you didn’t want anyone to ever see.
The basement smelled of dampness and mildew. He stopped on the bottom stair. He heard something scurry across one dark corner and shot his flashlight beam in that direction quick enough to catch the shape of a mouse before it disappeared into a hole in the concrete.
Great. Who knew what else lived down here.
Bridger shone the flashlight around the small, damp basement. It was little more than a root cellar. He brushed aside the cobwebs to peer into a hole that ran back under the house. There was a lot of junk down here, most of it looking as if it had been there since the house was originally built a hundred years before.
One box held what appeared to be women’s clothing. He held up one of the dresses. Dated. Had the clothes belonged to the doctor’s wife before her death? Or had the doctor had a mistress who’d lived here?
Bridger dug through several of the boxes, finding more old clothing but no files. No records.
He couldn’t help his disappointment. He’d hit one dead end after another. In the last box he opened he found an old photo album. He flipped it open. Most of the pages were empty except for a few colored photographs of two little girls. Children who’d been part of the adoption ring?
Tucking the album under his jacket, Bridger climbed up out of the basement, anxious for some fresh air.
The helpful neighbor was waiting in the living room. “Find anything?” he asked.
“Nothing much.” He’d told the old man that he was looking for his mother’s medical records. No lie there. He feared the man wouldn’t let him take the photo album if he told him about it, so he kept it hidden under his jacket.
Bridger handed him back the key, thanked him and took one last look at the inside of the house, wondering why Dr. Holloway had kept it and whose clothing that was downstairs. The dresses had been in different sizes, so that seemed to rule out a mistress.
A thought struck him, giving him a chill. Was it possible the birth mothers had stayed here in this house until they’d given birth? Maybe even Bridger’s own mother?
The used furniture appeared to be a good thirty years old and was now covered in dust. If his mother had stayed here, there was no sign of her after all this time.
He followed the old man out the front door, glancing back only once. For just a split second he imagined a woman standing at the front window, her belly swollen with the fraternal twins she carried, her face lost behind the dirty window.
* * *
TO KEEP FROM calling Alyson and ruining her honeymoon, Laci tried to stay busy. She cooked everything she could think to make, then had to find a home for all the food.
She dropped off a week’s meals at her grandfather Titus’s apartment—the one he’d taken in town so he could spend more time at his wife’s bedside at the nursing home.
Gramma Pearl’s condition hadn’t changed since her stroke. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t able to respond, even though Laci liked to believe she knew her and understood what Laci said to her. Once, Laci would have sworn her grandmother squeezed her hand. Laney said it must have been her imagination.
Laci’s imagination was legendary.
The treats Laci had baked she took to the staff at the rest home when she went to visit her grandmother. They all seemed to love her cookies and cakes.
As she came out of the nursing home, Laci was debating what to do with the batch of her famous spicy meatballs she had in her car. They were too spicy for—She collided with what felt like a brick wall, emitting an “ufft” as strong arms grabbed her to keep her from toppling over backward.
“We really have to quit meeting like this,” said a teasing male voice.
She looked up as she recognized the voice from the wedding reception. Actually, from the merry-go-round in the schoolyard next to the community center, where he’d come to her assistance.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said, embarrassed.
“Nice to see you, too,” he said and grinned. “Glad to see you’ve recovered from the wedding. Still having trouble staying on your feet, though, I see.”
He was even better looking in broad daylight. He wore a Western shirt, jeans and boots. His dark hair curled at the nape of his neck beneath his gray Stetson. She noted that his clothing was worn and dusty as if he’d been working.
She hadn’t taken him for a working cowboy last night—even though he’d been wearing boots with his tux. Apparently he was the real thing. Having grown up in old Whitehorse, she had a soft spot for cowboys. Especially ones as gallant as this one.
“Still rescuing damsels in distress, I see,” she said, cringing inside at the memory of what happened at the wedding.
He smiled and held out his hand. “I don’t think we were ever officially introduced. Bridger Duvall.”
Bridger Duvall? The mystery man of Old Town Whitehorse? Now she remembered why he’d seemed vaguely familiar. While their paths had never crossed, she’d certainly heard about him.
“Laci Cavanaugh,” she said, taking his hand. It was wonderfully large and warm and comforting. There was something so chivalrous about him. She recalled how he’d given her his napkin outside the community center. Also how he’d given her peace and quiet. She’d appreciated both.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, looking into her eyes before letting go of her hand.
“So you’re Bridger Duvall,” she said, feeling more than a little off-kilter considering the way their paths had crossed both times.
“The scurrilous rumors about me are highly exaggerated,” he said with a twinkle in his dark eyes.
She cocked her head at him, curious and maybe flirting just a little. He did have a great handshake, and that voice of his was so wonderfully deep and soft. Like being bathed in silk.
“Which rumors are those?” she asked.
“That I only come out at night, that I’m fabulously wealthy and that I’m doing weird experiments in the barn out on the ranch.”
She liked his sense of humor. “And how are they exaggerated?”
Grinning, he leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I do the weird experiments in the basement.”
“That house doesn’t have a basement.”
Bridger laughed as they walked toward their vehicles. “Caught me.”
Laci Cavanaugh. Granddaughter of Pearl Cavanaugh. He felt only a twinge of guilt. It had been no accident running into her today. He hadn’t meant the run-in to be so literal, though. But whatever worked.
“Well, at least now I know which rumors are true,” she said as she moved to her car and started to open the door.
“It was nice seeing you again,” he said, surprised he meant it—and not because of his ulterior motive.
She smiled. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again.”
As she opened her car door, he was hit with a tantalizing aroma that took his breath away. “What is that wonderful scent?” he asked stepping over to lean past her into the open car door to take a whiff.
She laughed. “Meatballs and spaghetti. I was planning to drop the dish off at the senior center, but I’m afraid it’s too spicy for their tastes.”
Bridger cocked a brow at her. “Well, it is almost dinnertime, and I just happen to know the perfect place to take it. I can assure you it would be greatly appreciated. Just follow me. It’s only a few blocks from here.”
He saw her hesitate, as if worried that the rumors about him might be true, before acc
epting. If she only knew.
Laci followed his pickup, surprised when he turned into a spot in front of one of the old empty buildings on the main street, and wondered if she hadn’t made a mistake in coming here with him.
“I don’t understand,” she said, looking from him to the building, which apparently was being remodeled.
“You will.” He opened her car door and took out the casserole dish. “Right this way.”
He led her through the front of the restaurant, which was filled with sawhorses, tools, dust and paint supplies, through two swinging doors that led to the new stainless-steel commercial kitchen. Everything but a small table and two chairs was covered with plastic until the painting was finished.
Clearly this was where he’d been working. He put the casserole on the round table and dug under the plastic to open a cabinet and bring out dishes.
“I have some leftover bread and a salad I’d planned to eat for supper,” he said, setting both on the table.
“What is this place?” she asked, looking back toward the front of the building as he began to cut thick slices of the bread.
“It’s a restaurant. Well, that is, it will be once it’s finished,” he said with obvious pride, and she realized he worked here.
“Opening a new restaurant in Whitehorse?” She hadn’t meant to sound so disbelieving.
“I know it’s risky—”
“Risky is one way of putting it.” She wondered who’d take such a risk, since the last restaurant in this building hadn’t lasted six months.
She lifted the lid on the casserole, and he groaned and breathed in the rich scent with obvious pleasure. She couldn’t help but smile with pleasure of her own.
“If that tastes half as good as it smells...”
She laughed as she dished him up some of the meatballs and spaghetti hiding beneath the sauce and waited as he sat down and picked up his fork.
He took a bite, closing his eyes and savoring the wonderful flavors. His eyes flew open. “Who made this?”
“I bought it from some woman cooking beside the road,” she joked, thinking he must be doing the same, as she filled her plate and took a bite of his salad. “This salad is wonderful. Did the restaurant’s cook make it?”