by Karen Leabo
A year? Good Lord, no! “But, Sam, I know what the right choice is. I know it with my whole heart and soul.”
But he was shaking his head. “It has to be this way, Callie. For my peace of mind.”
Great, just great! What Sam didn’t know was that she’d already been offered the job, right on the spot. The editor at the Post who’d interviewed her, Gloria Reames, had taken an instant liking to Callie. They’d quickly built a rapport, and before Callie knew what was happening, the job was hers if she wanted it.
Frankly terrified, she’d told Gloria she would have to think about it for a few days. But now the decision was surprisingly easy. She didn’t want a job at the Post. She wanted Sam and Deana, and the other children she and Sam might have one day.
It was a cinch she couldn’t tell Sam about the job offer now, or he’d shuffle her off to D.C. for the next year, whether she wanted to be there or not. “All right, Sam.” She touched his beard-shadowed face. “I agree to your silly condition.”
Now he smiled without reservation. “The time will go by quickly, you’ll see.” Then he was kissing her, and Callie lost herself in the feel of his mouth, his warm breath against her face, his soft: hair sifting through her fingers. And she knew with every fiber of her being that they belonged together.
“And no more secrets between us, agreed?” Sam murmured, nibbling her ear. “I know we don’t see eye to eye on everything, but we can always talk things out.”
“Argue, you mean,” Callie said with a chuckle. But immediately she sobered. There was already a secret between them. She should tell him that the D.C. job was hers for the asking, and then convince him not to make her delay their marriage because of it. But somehow, she couldn’t find the courage to spoil the moment.
Tomorrow she would call Gloria Reames and tell her she’d decided not to take the job, and then put the whole thing behind her. Sam would never have to know.
“Sure you can hack it, married to a cowboy?” Sam asked, holding her close.
He’d meant the question in jest, but Callie felt a little shiver run down her spine. She’d always claimed she didn’t believe in fate or psychic predictions from gypsies or newspaper horoscopes, but here she was falling headlong into marriage with a cowboy—the one thing she’d sworn she wouldn’t do. And the one thing Theodora had claimed, with uncanny certainty, that she would do.
TEN
As Callie sat in her favorite frozen-yogurt shop in Destiny, waiting for Sloan Bennett to show up, she mentally went over her list of things to do. One of those things was to call up Gloria Reames and tell her she couldn’t take the job. She’d been procrastinating for days.
But now she wondered: Was she hedging her bets in case her marriage plans with Sam fell through? She wouldn’t change her mind, but what if he did? Surely not. Surely she had more faith in him. The wedding was in less than two weeks. Once a decision had been made, plans had accelerated at the speed of light. Even though she was feeling a little shell-shocked by the whole thing, he hadn’t once expressed any doubt.
Her delay in calling Gloria was simply avoidance of something unpleasant, she told herself. Besides, she was working furiously on her idea for the Greenhorn at the Ranch story—which might possibly become a Greenhorn Marries Rancher story—and she wanted to have the details nailed down before she talked to the editor.
This meeting with Sloan was another unpleasant necessity. There were loose ends to tie up. She wanted her part in the Sanger investigation to be a closed book before she saw Sam again.
“So, how’s the blushing bride today?” said Sloan’s voice from behind her. She jumped, and he laughed. She’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t even seen him come in. He set a chocolate milkshake in front of her, then found a chair. “The milkshakes are on me—call it gratitude for helping us close the book on the Sanger investigation for good.”
Callie said nothing. There was something nibbling at her subconscious, something uncomfortable.
“Callie, what’s wrong?” Sloan leaned forward, peering at her face.
“It’s just that—and I can’t believe I’m saying this—but something still doesn’t feel right.”
Sloan frowned. “Like what?”
“Like, the note wasn’t written in Johnny’s own hand, so how do we know he really wrote it? And why wouldn’t he handwrite it and sign it properly? And why didn’t he notice that he’d printed out the feed order instead of the note, and correct the matter?” Callie hadn’t even realized she’d been harboring these doubts in the back of her mind until now. Like everyone else, she’d wanted to—tried to—put the tragic matter out of her mind.
She especially hated bringing any doubts to light now, because her so-called meddling was bound to be a point of contention between her and Sam.
“So your theory is that someone killed Johnny, tapped the note out on his computer while he was still bleeding, tried to print it out, but in haste printed the wrong thing—”
“Maybe the murderer wasn’t familiar with the computer.”
Sloan seemed to be thinking. After a long minute he shook his head. “Sorry, Callie. I can’t buy into this one. I think Johnny simply wrote his note on the computer because it was easiest. It’s cumbersome to handwrite things after you get spoiled by word processing.”
Sloan had a point. All right. So this time she’d let it drop. She’d done her part, she’d voiced her doubts.
“Okay,” she said with a nod. “I’m done playing Nancy Drew. I have a wedding to plan. Which brings me to the other reason I asked to meet with you. I want to hire an off-duty police officer to help with parking at the church. Would you be interested?”
Sloan smiled. “Sure. As long as I can come inside the church after the traffic dies down and watch you and ol’ Sam getting hitched. About time.”
If we ever do get hitched, Callie thought an hour later as she stood on the Sangers’ front porch, feeling over the door frame for the key she knew was there. She still didn’t have a dress. Beverly had graciously offered her own wedding dress of thirty-five years ago, lovingly preserved and stored in her closet. “You know where the key is,” Beverly had told her. “Just go on over there anytime and try it on. And while you’re there, could you water the houseplants? I’m sure Will won’t remember.”
Callie’s hand closed over the key. She let herself into the stuffy house. Since it was relatively warm outside for a November day, she left the door open to allow some fresh air in. Then she went to Beverly’s bedroom. Feeling a bit like a voyeur, she pawed around in the closet until she found what she was looking for, on a high shelf in the very back.
She brought the box out into the light and sucked in a breath of pure delight. The plain satin dress, the color aged to a delicious ecru, was like something a princess would wear. The veil, attached to a circlet of pearls, added to the image. Callie took it out of its protective housing, shook it out, and tried it on.
It fit perfectly.
“Hah, one problem solved,” she said aloud as she gingerly stepped out of the dress. She folded it gently and returned it to the box. Now she would have to go to the mall to find some ecru satin pumps, and she would be set.
Callie finished up by watering the plants, which were indeed looking a bit droopy. She returned the watering can to the back porch and gave one final look around before heading out. That’s when she noticed the office door ajar.
Had the cleaning service come? she wondered. Had they done a good job? She couldn’t resist taking a quick peek.
The office was practically sterile in its cleanliness. No unpleasant odor lingered, just the aroma of furniture polish and glass cleaner. The desk chair was gone, she noticed—probably unsalvageable. She was about to withdraw when an overwhelming temptation overtook her.
Johnny’s computer. The suicide note. Would the police have left it on the hard drive, or erased it?
In moments the machine was humming. It was identical to the one she had at home, so she had no trouble
cranking up the file management program. All she had to do was ask for word-processing files by date, starting with the most recent.
And there it was, a file titled simply “note.” She opened it, took a deep breath, and started reading:
My Dearest Family,
I don’t see how I can go on. I’m exhausted from the constant struggle. Once I’m gone, you’ll never have to worry again. I love you all. Please forgive me and remember me fondly.
Yours, now God’s,
Johnny Sanger
The first thing that struck her was that the language wasn’t Johnny’s. He’d been a plain man of plain words. My Dearest Family and remember me fondly sounded like phrases out of a Victorian diary. But even as she was contemplating whether Sloan would entertain her suspicions, she noticed something else. Upon closing the file, she was back in file management, where the date of the note’s creation was clearly listed.
A date that was two days after Johnny’s death.
It took a few seconds for the full implication to hit her. Johnny hadn’t written this note. A murderer had.
Good heavens, how could the police be so incompetent? Whoever Sloan had brought over to log onto Johnny’s computer obviously hadn’t known what to look for. Once again, they’d been anxious to grab onto any clue—even a cleverly manufactured one—in order to close the case quickly.
Callie heard a car engine coming up the driveway. Her hands shaking, she quickly closed the file, then shut down the computer. It wouldn’t do for anyone to catch her in here. She had to get away, then she had to contact Sloan. There was no doubt in her mind that Johnny had been murdered, and the murderer had taken the opportunity to create some handy evidence once all eyes were off the death scene.
But who? Any number of people had been at the house after the death, to pay their respects. And the family had all been here, of course.
She hightailed it out of Johnny’s office just as the front door opened. Wheeling around the corner, she came face-to-face with Will Sanger.
“Oh, you startled me,” she said breathlessly. Another ten seconds, and he’d have seen her coming out of that office.
“Same here. What are you—”
She held up Beverly’s wedding dress as evidence of her innocent intentions. “Your mom said I could try on her wedding dress. It fits, so I’m borrowing it.”
“Oh. Uh-huh.” He looked uncomfortable, tunneling his fingers through his short brown hair. Would he be able to tell she’d been snooping? Had she left some trail behind her? She wasn’t a computer expert by any means.
“Well, guess I’ll be going. I watered the plants.”
“Oh. Good. Mom asked me to, but I forgot, what with all the other stuff there is to do around here.”
Like manufacturing evidence? “Um, I’ll just be on my way.”
“Okay. By the way, congratulations to you and Sam.”
“Thanks.” She couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
As soon as she was a good mile away from the Sanger place, she pulled over and used her cellular phone to call Sloan. Amazingly, she caught him in his squad car.
“I just pulled up to the mall to handle a shoplifting incident, and I’m kind of in a hurry,” Sloan said.
“It’s important.”
“All right, all right. Meet me in the food court at the mall in twenty minutes. I’m almost off duty anyway.”
“But, Sloan—” It was too late. He’d disconnected.
She didn’t really want to go to the mall right now. Sam and Deana were driving in from D/FW Airport, due in a half hour or so, and she’d told Sam she would be home when they arrived. But she supposed her absence couldn’t be helped. She had proof—proof—that Johnny had been murdered. This wasn’t something she could sweep under the rug.
And Will had seen her at the house. She might actually be in danger.
She made it to the mall with ten minutes to spare. Which store had Sloan been called to? she wondered. She walked from one end of the mall to the other but didn’t see him. Now she wished she hadn’t left: her cellular in the car. If Sloan was detained, he might try to call her and let her know not to wait for him.
By the time she reached the food court, it had been almost twenty minutes. She sat down to wait, something she wasn’t very good at. She fidgeted, feeling definitely paranoid.
That’s when she saw Tamra, walking briskly toward the food court as if she were on some important mission. Callie started to wave and call out to her future sister-in-law, then abruptly shrank back when she saw the table toward which Tamra was headed.
Nicole Johnson was already sitting there, waiting.
Now, what kind of business did those two have?
Intrigued, Callie moved to a table that was mostly concealed from the rest of the food court by a potted tree, then peered between the leaves at the two women. Neither of them had bought anything to eat or drink, which made Callie suspect this wasn’t exactly a social meeting.
Callie couldn’t stand it. She was dying to know what those two women were talking about. You can take the girl out of the newspaper, but you can’t take the newspaper out of the girl, she caught herself thinking.
Before long, it became apparent that Tamra and Nicole were arguing. Although Callie couldn’t understand the words, she could hear the shrill tones drifting across to her every so often. And Nicole’s body language, especially, was telling. She was leaning forward aggressively, her attractive face spoiled with an ugly scowl. From time to time she shook a finger at Tamra.
After about five minutes of this Nicole stood up, shoved her purse strap over her shoulder, and flounced away.
Tamra sat very still, her head in her hands, the picture of dejection. But slowly her head came up. She stared after Nicole’s retreating form, as if mesmerized. Then, suddenly, she stood up herself, and with a sense of purpose etched into every line of her small, dainty face, she followed.
And Callie was right behind, her heart beating like a drum from a Sousa march. She had a feeling something important was going on here. She wanted to wait for Sloan, but if she did, she would lose her quarry. From a safe distance she followed, praying that both women were focused enough on their own problems that they wouldn’t notice her.
Nicole went to her car, an older but well-maintained Cadillac—red, of course. Tamra lost herself in a crowd of teenagers, looking around furtively, ducking behind vans and lampposts like a third-rate secret agent.
Geez, Callie thought, why didn’t the woman simply announce her presence with a bullhorn?
Callie kept the other two cars in sight as she unlocked her door, grateful they’d all three parked in the same lot. She started the engine, screeched out of her parking place, and stomped on the gas.
Tamra had turned right onto Revere Parkway, but now her beige Escort was out of sight. Callie chanced a look at her watch. Shoot, Sam was due to arrive any minute at her house.
Well, he’d just have to wait a bit.
She caught sight of Tamra’s Escort again, stuck at a light. There was the red Cadillac too. Good. Callie pulled the cellular phone out of its case, lifted the hand-set, and dialed her home number. She got her answering machine.
“Sam? Sam, if you’re there, please pick up.” He didn’t, so she continued. “I’ve been, um, unavoidably detained. Please just make yourself at home, raid the refrigerator, and I’ll get there when I can.” Impulsively she added, “I love you, Sam.” The words, still so new and fresh, gave her a thrill.
She hung up, feeling guilty for making him wait. But if Tamra or Nicole was somehow involved in his father’s murder, he would want someone to find out about it. He’d once said so, anyway.
Next she dialed the number of Sloan’s cellular, but got no answer there. So she dialed the police station. She’d memorized both numbers during the last few weeks.
“I think Officer Bennett’s off duty now,” the operator said. “Did you try his cellular number?”
“No luck. How about Danny Fowler?�
� Callie asked.
“I’m sorry, he’s off today.”
Damn. “Okay, thanks.” She disconnected, then dialed one last number—Sloan’s answering machine at home. If he headed there after getting off duty, he might pick up the message.
“Hello, Sloan? It’s Callie. Sorry I missed you at the mall. I saw Tamra Sanger and Nicole Johnson arguing. Now Tamra is following Nicole and I’m following Tamra. Please, if you get this, call me on my cellular.” She gave him the number, her approximate location, and the direction she was headed. “Oh, and Sloan? I have proof that Johnny Sanger was murdered.” There. If that didn’t prompt him to call her back in a hurry, nothing would.
Sam pulled into the driveway and all the way back to Callie’s carriage house. This last week without her had been pure hell, and he felt like a kid about to ride the roller coaster at the thought of seeing her again—excited, happy, and a little scared.
Their engagement had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it almost didn’t seem real. They’d had only a few days to come to terms with it before Callie was boarding a plane for home so she could plan the wedding. They’d spoken several times on the phone, and Callie had sounded excited and not the slightest bit unsure about their upcoming marriage. Still, he wouldn’t lose the slightly queasy feeling in his stomach until he laid eyes on her again and knew for sure that all of their plans were still on.
She’d told him she was out of the running for the job at The Washington Post. He wasn’t sure whether he was grateful about that or not. More than anything he’d wanted Callie to be sure of her decision to marry him and live on Roundrock, and if she still wanted to after a stint in D.C., then he would feel pretty confident that she knew what she was doing.
Then again, he didn’t want to wait six months or a year for her. He wanted her back at the ranch with him and Deana. He wanted to start living the rest of their lives. He wanted to devote himself to making her happy. So from a purely selfish perspective, he was overjoyed at her continued unemployment.