The door was locked and Zak had to wait for a turn. Once he was inside, he took a quick look around then opened the medicine cabinet above the sink.
The contents were sparse and dull. Toothpaste, deodorant and a few small vials of makeup on one shelf. Below that was a box of Band-Aids, a tube of ointment for dry hands, and a bottle of cod liver oil tablets.
The medicine cabinet of a healthy person. He wasn’t finding any answers here.
Justin brought flowers to the Stillmans’ house the night of the potluck. Eugene and Clayton would have appreciated a bottle of bourbon more, but he wasn’t sure their wives would deem that gift appropriate. Nikki greeted him at the door and took the flowers, and then Tom invited him into the kitchen for a drink and some food.
Justin wasn’t much older than Lacy’s grandchildren—who ranged in age from mid-twenties to thirty-one—but they seemed so much younger to him.
So far not one of them had gone to college or married let alone had children. Lacy had complained about that a lot during their regular meetings to discuss her will and other ranch business.
He’d told her things were different for this generation. Millennials weren’t in a rush to do the whole marriage and children thing.
“Well who’s going to run the Lazy S fifty years from now?” Lacy had demanded. “That’s what I care about.”
It was a valid question, one Justin wished she had an answer to before she’d gone to her grave. He still couldn’t quite believe she was gone. He kept expecting to feel her hand on his arm, thanking him for coming, or hear her voice offering him a drink.
But it was her daughter-in-law, Em, pouring libations this evening. She had a crowd around her at the moment, so Justin veered toward the family room where he found his father in conversation with Zak by the fireplace.
Watching from a distance he noted his dad’s gray complexion and the dark bags under his eyes. For years his father hadn’t changed. Lately he’d begun showing his age. Justin wondered if he ever thought about retirement—or wished his son had studied medicine so he could take his place.
But if he did, he never spoke those thoughts aloud.
Justin dreaded the effect the news about his cancer was going to have on his dad. Unfortunately there was no way to spare him this time. His dad would have to be told, and soon. As would Geneva. And his clients. And his friends.
The prospect was utterly depressing.
“Hey, Dad. Zak.” He rested his left hand on his father’s shoulder and reached out to shake Zak’s hand with his right. “Looks like you’re having a serious conversation.”
Zak Waller was an enigma to Justin. He was too bright for his administrative job as dispatcher, yet seemed in no hurry to apply to be a deputy. Justin knew his father liked Zak. In fact he credited him with solving the Riley Concurran homicide case a few weeks ago.
“We were talking about Lacy,” Justin’s father said. “Zak said it was nice that she died without suffering, and it’s true, a heart attack is a faster way to go than, say, cancer.”
Cancer. The word hit him like a punch to the heart and Justin froze, a look of indifference to his face like a tight mask, so his expression wouldn’t give him away.
“Did she die in her sleep?” Zak asked.
“I’m pretty certain she did. One odd thing though. She was still dressed in her regular clothes, even though she was under the covers. I’m guessing she felt too unwell to change into her nightgown when she went to bed.”
Zak frowned. “She wasn’t sick when I had a beer with her after her checkup with you. She seemed very healthy then.”
“That’s true. She was. But you can never tell when a person gets to be that old.”
Justin studied the painting over the fireplace. It was a beautiful oil of a rancher on his horse, next to a herd of long-horned cattle. You never can tell when a person is young, either, he wanted to say.
“I wonder how the family will cope now that she’s gone?” Zak said.
“Lacy had her own ideas about ranching. I’m sure Clayton and Eugene will want to modernize,” Justin’s father said.
“I’d bet money on it,” Justin agreed. Maybe Lacy’s family truly was grieving her loss, in their own way. But both Clayton and Eugene had called him within an hour of Lacy’s death to ask about the will. He had suggested waiting until after the holiday weekend before the official reading.
But they balked at postponing the reading until Monday, so now they were meeting the day after the holiday. And perhaps it was appropriate that Lacy’s will would be read on Black Friday.
“This is quite the house.” Zak ran his hand along the mantel of the massive castle rock fireplace that was the main feature of the room. His gaze traveled up the wall to the Charlie Russell painting. “Is that an original?”
“Sure is.” Lacy had made special provision for it in her will, leaving it to her granddaughter Nikki, so Justin was aware of its substantial value.
On either side of the painting were some exposed holes. Zak pointed to them. “I wonder what happened there? Did someone misjudge the size of the painting?”
“The painting has only been in that spot for about ten years. Before that a huge moose head was mounted on the wall. Right, Dad?”
“Yup. Lacy pulled it down after Jack died. She had no issue with hunting but hated displaying trophies of dead animals. She took her time searching for the perfect piece of art to replace it. And she sure did find it, though I guess it wasn’t large enough to cover all the holes.”
The pinprick of disbelief Zak felt when he’d first heard about Lacy’s death had expanded after hearing Doc Pittman’s comments about the death scene. Why would Lacy go to bed with her clothes on? She’d been perfectly fine when they parted ways at the Dew Drop around five-thirty on Monday. Why, a few hours later, was she feeling so badly she’d slipped under the covers with her clothes on?
The room was packed. No one would notice if he slipped away for a bit. Pretending he was off to the toilet again, he returned to the hallway. This time he surveyed the three closed doors beyond the bathroom. Their exteriors gave nothing away.
With a mental floor plan in his head, he tried the door at the end of the hallway first, and his instincts proved correct. He stepped into the master bedroom, leaving the door ajar. The overhead lights were on a dimmer switch and he used the lowest setting.
The room was tidy, except for the bed. The quilt was pulled over the pillows haphazardly and hung unevenly over the edges of the four-poster oak frame. He guessed Eugene had straightened the bedding after the paramedics removed his mother’s body and no one had been back in the room since.
Across from the bed was an oak bureau in a matching golden stain. On display were some framed photographs, most of them horses.
No wedding photo, Zak noted. That was unusual. In his experience most married people, even if they’d been widowed, displayed their wedding portraits in the bedroom.
A flannel nightgown was laid out neatly on the far corner of the bed. Lacy seemed like the type to put her nightclothes away in the morning, so she must have been in the process of changing for bed when she’d been overcome with...what?
How had she felt in the minutes—or hours—leading up to her death? Most people felt some sort of pain or dizziness according to his research. Wouldn’t that lead a person to phone for help rather than go to bed fully dressed?
He turned back to the bed, noting a table with an old-fashioned alarm clock. Lacy would have slept on that side of the bed. He lifted the bedding. Seemed to him he could still see the imprint of her body in the mattress. He wondered if she’d always slept on this side of the bed, even after her husband died.
He raised the covers higher and that was when he noticed a small bandage. It was a different brand than the package in the bathroom. From the pocket of his chinos he pulled out a pair of gloves and a vial. Carefully he transferred the bandage to the vial. In so doing he noticed a speck of blood on the gauze.
As he capped
the vial, he heard a soft creak behind him, then a waft of warm air hit his skin. Adrenaline charged through his body at the certain knowledge he was no longer alone.
He turned, half expecting to find one of Lacy’s sons with a gun pointed at his head.
Instead he saw Tiff...laughing at him.
“Hello, Sherlock. You planning to go all CSI every time someone dies in Lost Trail? Even if they’re ninety-one years old?”
Chapter Three
Tiff watched Zak calmly slip the vial into his pocket. He then pulled off his disposable gloves and shoved them in the pocket too.
“I’m aware this looks ridiculous,” he said.
“Are you practicing for when you’re finally a bona fide deputy?” Zak had impressed her—a lot—when he had diplomatically manipulated the sheriff into figuring out who killed Riley Concurran a few weeks ago.
But what was he doing now?
“Don’t tell me you suspect Lacy Stillman was murdered?”
Zak gave her a look like the ones she used to get from her father when she interrupted him at work.
“There isn’t now, and never will be, an investigation into Lacy’s death. I’m just curious about a few things.” He glanced behind her at the door she hadn’t quite closed. “We need to get out of here.”
“No kidding.” She ventured into the hall and immediately locked eyes with one of the town’s wildest gossips, Gertie Humphrey.
Gertie stepped back from the bathroom she’d been about to enter. Her gray eyebrows rose high, then higher.
Tiff stopped so abruptly Zak bumped into her. Spinning around fast, she grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him.
Zak’s body and lips were as responsive as a block of concrete.
And then he loosened up. Warmed up.
The pretend kiss turned into the real thing. Zak could curl a girl’s toes. Interesting to know. Gently she eased back until a quarter inch of air separated them. “Is she still there?” she whispered.
“Gertie’s gone. Does that mean you’re not going to kiss me anymore?”
She slapped his shoulder lightly. “At least we gave her an excuse for the two of us being in Lacy’s bedroom.”
“Yes. Fast thinking. Well done.”
Tiff narrowed her eyes. “You better not be thinking you liked that, Zak Waller.”
“You want me to think you’re a bad kisser?”
“Get real.”
He laughed and then placed his hand behind her elbow and guided her to the family room. “Want a drink?”
“Maybe. Let me check on Mom first.” Tiff scanned the room and found her mother at the far end of the buffet. Alone, holding a plate containing a single slice of corn bread, she looked lost.
“I don’t think she’s comfortable here,” Zak commented.
That was an understatement, and such a shame considering her mother was surrounded by people she’d known her entire life. How had her mother become the outsider? Was that what happened when you lost a son, a husband?
Why hadn’t the opposite happened? Why hadn’t the community rallied around her instead of treating her like a leper?
Tiff thought she knew the answer.
There was a time limit on grief, and the amount of effort people were prepared to offer someone in mourning. Rosemary was about fourteen years past that limit.
Tiff herself was guilty of being impatient and frustrated with her mother. She was also hurt. Yes her mother had lost a husband and a son. But she still had a daughter. Didn’t that count?
Zak followed Tiff as she made her way to her mother’s side. A moment later Sybil, dressed in black but with a pink scarf holding back her sandy-colored curls—came up to them with a cheerful smile.
“I hoped I would see you here, Rosemary. Isn’t this weather dreary? When I die, I’d like it to be in the spring when the trees are budding.” Sybil removed the unwanted plate from Rosemary’s hands and then gave her a hug.
The relief on Tiff’s mother’s face was instant. After the hug, she kept one hand on Sybil’s arm, as if she needed the contact to keep her balance.
Relieved that her mother was being taken care of, Tiff decided she had time for a beer. “Zak and I are heading to the kitchen for a drink. Can I get you guys anything?”
Both women shook their heads no.
She and Zak wound their way through the crowd to the kitchen. Em Stillman was sitting at the kitchen table she’d presided over earlier. She’d kicked off her heels and loosened the belt of her dress. Her son Luke was sitting beside her, holding her hands, murmuring something.
Zak grabbed two light beers and handed Tiff one. His gaze turned to Em, and Tiff saw his expression soften with compassion. Giving them space, he gestured for Tiff to follow and they moved on to the living room.
As they brushed by Tom and a group of his friends, including a very pretty young woman with straight blonde hair who was clinging to his arm, Tiff noticed her aunt Marsha in an intense conversation with Dr. Pittman. There was too much background chatter to hear what they were saying, but it was obviously a personal conversation, judging by how close they were standing and how focused they were on one another.
She’d often wondered if there was something romantic going on between her aunt and Justin’s father. Her aunt had worked as a nurse in Dr. Pittman’s clinic for decades. She’d never married and Doc Pittman’s wife had died when Justin was a small boy. So it would hardly be a surprise if they’d fallen in love. But if they had, why keep the relationship a secret?
By the far windows a table had been set up with assorted desserts. Vanessa Stillman, cake knife in hand, was chatting with several of the local ranchers who were gathered around her like paparazzi. All you had to do was look at her hands, milky smooth with long, polished nails, to know she was different from any other rancher’s wife in the county.
Tiff was going to give the desserts a pass until she noticed Zak’s signature chocolate chip cookies. Quickly she detoured and grabbed two off the plate. Neither Vanessa nor her admirers paid her the slightest mind.
She handed one to Zak. “I haven’t had one of these since you used to bring them in for snack time in grade school.”
“I copied Mom’s recipe before they moved. Pretty much the only cookies I know how to bake.”
“The addition of crumbled Skor bars is a brilliant touch.” She took a bite of hers, savoring each hit of butter and sugar and chocolate deliciousness.
From here she had a view into the dining room and Sybil, bless her, was still loyally by Rosemary’s side.
Physically the two women were very different. Her tall, willowy mother was a natural beauty next to the round-faced and rotund Sybil. But Tiff would have given anything if her mother’s eyes held the same sparkle as her friend’s.
As if reading her mind, Sybil looked at her then. She raised her eyebrows, then took Rosemary by the arm and began walking in their direction.
Tiff and Zak met them halfway. “Ready to go home, Mom?”
The pinched lines around her mother’s eyes and mouth smoothed into relief. “Yes, that’s a good idea.”
“We’ll grab Aunt Marsha on our way out. She and Doc Pittman are right by the door. How about you, Sybil?” Tiff asked. “Do you need a ride?”
“The library stays open late on Wednesday so I just got here. I haven’t paid my respects to Eugene or Clayton, yet.” Sybil hesitated then added, “It’s so sad to see Lacy go, isn’t it? She was pretty much the last of her generation.”
Tiff’s mother tipped her head to one side. “Cora Christensen’s still alive...isn’t she?”
Sybil frowned at the mention of the woman who for so many years ran and taught at Dewbury Academy. The private school had been closed for sixteen years, but people still had strong feelings about Cora. Those who had been her pet students tended to love her. The rest hated her guts.
Clearly Sybil had been in the latter camp.
“Yes, Cora’s still with us...more’s the pity. But she wouldn’t
show up here. Lacy couldn’t stand her.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’d forgotten. Such a shame, all that business.”
“All what business?” Tiff looked from her mother to Sybil.
“It’s just old gossip,” Sybil said. “And this probably isn’t the right time or place to entertain it.”
Rosemary nodded, but the confused look had returned to her eyes. Tiff suspected she’d lost track of what they were talking about.
Which was a shame, because Tiff really wanted to know why Lacy, who had been too old to be one of Cora’s students, had disliked her so much.
And she could tell by Zak’s expression that he did too.
Tiff had offered to drive her aunt and mother to the ranch earlier, an offer she regretted once she was behind the wheel with her aunt next to her and her mother in the back. The darkness was so absolute in the country.
Tiffany focused on the road as her aunt began to chat, sharing some of the trivial gossip she’d picked up at the party. Apparently Vanessa was annoyed her daughter hadn’t worn a dress for the funeral or done something nice with her hair.
“It’s funny Vanessa and Nikki are so different.” Tiff kept her speed down, alert for signs of wildlife. She’d been told the accident that took her father’s life had been caused when he’d swerved to avoid a mule deer on the road. Others speculated her father’s depression after her brother’s death had been a contributing factor.
“Nikki is a lot more like her grandmother than her mom,” Marsha agreed. “I never understood why Vanessa married Clayton in the first place. She wasn’t meant to be a rancher’s wife.”
“Did Vanessa grow up around Lost Trail?” Tiff asked.
“No. Clayton met her when he went to college in Missoula. He must have promised her the moon and stars to get her to marry him. He didn’t count on his mother controlling the purse strings so tightly, though. From what I hear Vanessa’s spending habits are out of control. She and Jennifer Sparks have a trip booked to a health spa in California next week. You can bet it isn’t cheap.”
Bitter Truth Page 3