The kettle began to whistle and Tiff handed the box of Sleepytime tea to her mother. She heard the door to the study open, then a male voice in the hall.
Though the tone was hushed, it sounded like Dr. Pittman was angry.
Marsha’s answering words were muffled, the tone soothing.
Then the front door opened and all was quiet.
“She must be walking him to his car,” Tiff surmised.
“I hope she put on a jacket. It’s cold out there.” Rosemary tried to remove the saturated tea bag from her mug, but her hand was too unsteady. Tiff reached over and did it for her.
“Let me carry this up to your bedroom.”
This time her mother didn’t argue.
Once her mom was settled in her room, Tiff came back downstairs and found her aunt in the kitchen, refilling the kettle.
“You okay, Aunt Marsha?”
“I’m fine, honey. Just tired.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.” Marsha’s voice was too bright. She wouldn’t meet Tiff’s gaze. “After I take your mom her tea I’m going to bed.”
“Mom made her own tea tonight and she’s already in bed.”
Tiff thought her aunt would be relieved; instead she frowned.
“If you weren’t here she would have waited for me.”
“But isn’t the point of me being here to take some of the pressure off you?”
Her aunt took a deep breath. “It may seem silly to you. But your mom and I have been living on our own for a long time and we have a routine.”
“Yes, but—”
“I’m sorry if I’m cranky. Clark never should have come by the house so late.”
“It must have been something important.”
Her aunt made no reply, merely turned off the kettle.
“Aunt Marsha, are you sure you’re okay?”
“Good night, Tiff. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Sunday, November 26
Zak waited fifteen minutes at the beginning of Tamarack Trail on Sunday morning before Luke Stillman drove up.
“Sorry, man. Things have been crazy at our house. I swear no one’s stopped talking since we found out about Grandma’s will Friday morning.”
Zak was curious about the will, but he was also damned cold. He stamped his feet and swung his arms. “Ready to start? I’ve got to get moving.”
“Sure. Hang on, let me grab my hat.” Luke reached into the truck to pull out his black wool cap and gloves.
Less than a minute later they were loping on the snowy path at a slow, warm-up pace. Luke turned on his Garmin watch as they ran. “Hang on. It’s not kicking in yet...oh, wait, there it is. Good to go.”
Zak waited until they rounded the first switchback and his body warmed up. Already his spirits were lifting. After three days on his own it was good to have company. And something interesting to talk about.
“So. What’s the problem with the will?”
“What isn’t? Grandma had a few tricks up her sleeve. First she divided the shares in the farm in such a way that all of us—except Vanessa—have an equal share.”
“That sounds fair...except for Vanessa, I guess.”
“Not really. My dad and uncle expected they’d be running the show.”
“Did your grandma tell them that?”
“No. They assumed. As for my aunt Vanessa—she’s always hated the ranch. She uses any excuse she can to get away on a girls’ holiday or to visit her folks in Portland. But the fact that she was excluded means Uncle Clayton and Nikki only have two shares, to my family’s four.”
“So you’re saying your family could outvote your uncle Clayton’s family on key decisions about the farm’s future?”
“Yeah. It’s possible. But the real issue dividing us right now is what to do about an offer we have to sell fifty acres of our nicest riverfront land.”
Zak decided against telling his friend he already knew this. “Who’s in favor?”
“My dad and brother and Uncle Clayton. They all want the cash—and trust me, it’s a lot of money. We’re talking two point five million.”
“The rest of you don’t want to sell?”
“My mom, Nikki and me, we see things differently, more like Grandma did. We view ourselves more like stewards of the land than owners. It’s up to us to protect it as much as possible and pass it on to the next generation without causing too much damage. We’re ranchers, sure. But most of our land is wild and we want to keep it that way.”
“I like the way you think.”
“Thanks. But there’s going to be some real hard feelings if we don’t bow to the others and let this sale go through.” Luke exhaled heavily, releasing a cloud of vapor. “That’s not even the strangest thing about the will.”
Zak’s heart rate ratcheted up faster than his pace demanded. “Oh?”
“Turns out Grandpa left the house to Grandma only for as long as she was alive. After that it goes to—you’re not going to believe this—Cora Christensen.”
Zak skidded to a stop. “Our old teacher?” He studied Luke’s face to see if he was joking. “Why the hell would he do that?”
“That’s what everyone in my family is asking. Dad says he remembers hearing rumors at school that his father sure was friendly with the principal. But hell. None of us can believe Grandpa Jack actually had an affair.”
“And why would he pick Miss Christensen?”
Luke shrugged. “She’s old to us. But Dad says when she was younger she was pretty. And she used to dote on the parents. I could see my grandpa liking that.”
“I guess.” She doted on some parents. Luke, as one of the favored students, had a much different view of the old bag than Zak did. Old Cora had made his life hell always comparing him to his stronger, more confident brothers. It didn’t matter that his grades were among the top in the class—she still managed to make him feel smaller than he already was.
By mutual accord Zak and Luke resumed running. Once he had a good pace going Zak asked, “Do you think your grandmother knew about the affair?”
“What else could she have thought about the life tenancy on the house? Poor Grams. It must have made her so angry.”
Yeah. But had she found out after her husband died when she learned the terms of his will...or before? “How did your grandpa die?”
“It was an accident. He and Grandma were rounding up cattle from the foothills in the fall. He’d gone looking for a couple of missing calves. Grandma found him about an hour later... He’d fallen off his horse on a steep mountain ridge. The horse was okay, but he’d gone over. Died instantly.”
“Gruesome.”
“It shocked the entire family. I was sixteen at the time. I’d just gotten my driver’s license. My folks got so paranoid about safety, they wouldn’t let me drive alone for another year after that. And when we were out working on the horses, we had to stay in pairs.”
Even after all these years, Luke was still so outraged by what he saw as excessive parental caution that his pace went to hell. Zak slowed, waiting for his friend to recover. He could tell it hadn’t even occurred to Luke that his grandfather’s death might not have been an accident, that his grandmother could have been involved.
They could have been arguing. Maybe she pushed him, never intending him to fall.
It wasn’t an impossible scenario.
Archie Ford had been sheriff back then, running a sparse, two-man office. Which meant either he or Butterfield investigated the death.
In the basement at work were boxes of old files. Somewhere in all those musty papers was a copy of the accidental death report. Had Cora Christensen been interviewed at the time? He bet she had some of her own ideas about Jack Stillman’s accident.
One way or another he was going to find out.
Chapter Seven
Sunday morning Tiff woke up to bright sunshine, a pounding headache, and the smell of something burning. She bounded out of bed and raced down the stairs to the kitchen.<
br />
Her mother sat at the table with her head nested in her arms. Smoke furled from the oven.
Tiff turned off the oven and grabbed a towel. Inside the oven were a dozen black disks. She pulled out the tray and set it on a trivet.
Disaster averted, she turned to her mother, who hadn’t moved or said a word.
“What’s wrong?” She put her hands on her mom’s shoulders and gave her a small hug.
“I feel so...I can’t...I don’t know.”
The kitchen counter was cluttered with bowls, measuring spoons, open canisters of flour and sugar. Normally her mother was a tidy baker.
“When did you get up?”
Slowly her mother straightened. She looked rough. Pupils dilated, skin puffy. “I’m not sure. It was still dark. I wanted to bake cookies. So many families are going to be coming to get their trees this week. We can’t run out of cookies.”
Tiff knew for a fact there were at least twelve dozen cookies of assorted kinds in her mother’s downstairs freezer. “You’ve already baked a lot. We won’t run out for at least a few weeks. Maybe you should go back to bed for a bit. Have you eaten?”
“I’m not sure. Marsha made me some tea before she left for Hamilton.”
Tiff hadn’t heard her aunt leave the house. “She goes there a lot, doesn’t she?”
“When she isn’t working she likes to visit her friends from her nursing days.”
Yes. Tiff had heard that explanation before. But when you factored in the two days a week Marsha worked at the clinic—not to mention her yoga classes and book club meetings—that left a lot of alone time for her mother.
Tiff didn’t begrudge her aunt her social calendar. But the isolation couldn’t be good for her mom.
“Want to go for a walk after breakfast?”
“Maybe later. I should make some more cookies. But I’m so tired...”
“Let me do it. What’s your easiest recipe?”
Her mom gave a faint smile. “You could handle the whipped shortbread. The molasses almond cookies are straightforward as well.”
An hour later Tiff was dropping dollops of dough onto a cookie sheet, while her mother napped in the family room with How the Grinch Stole Christmas playing softly in the background. On the surface it was a perfect holiday moment.
From the window Tiff watched a steady stream of vehicles driving along the lane to the barn. They all left with a bundled tree tied to the roof or in the box of their truck. No doubt they had sampled the free cookies and cocoa. Some, hopefully, had purchased ornaments for their tree in the little gift shop.
As kids she and her brother had loved working in the gift shop. They looked forward to the day when they’d be old enough to lead the horses for the hayrides.
But Casey hadn’t lived that long. And the dream had died for her with him.
Once the cookies had baked and cooled, Tiff put a few on a plate for her mother to sample. But Rosemary was fast asleep on the sofa, so she left the plate on the side table. She stacked the rest in a basket, and then slipped on her boots and coat so she could take them to the barn.
At this time of year the workers’ jobs changed from bulk harvesting and shipping trees, to dealing with individuals and families who wanted to select their special tree. At Raven Farms the customer could select the tree they wanted. A staff member would cut it down and tie it to their vehicle while they enjoyed a snack around the fire pit. Christmas lights and music contributed to making the experience festive and memorable.
For those wanting to prolong the event, there were hayrides along Christmas Tree Lane, a twenty-minute circuit that allowed guests to enjoy the magic of the forest in the winter. Though the rides were offered continuously during business hours, Tiff thought they were most enjoyable in the evening, when the world was dark, and senses were heightened. Even the air smelled more intense in the night.
“Those cookies for us?”
She hadn’t seen Kenny, but suddenly he was right in front of her, balancing an eight-foot baled tree on his left shoulder. In his plaid quilted jacket, jeans and steel-toed boots he looked the part of a Christmas tree farmer so perfectly it was difficult to remember that just a year ago he’d been one of Montana’s foremost mountain guides.
“Mom was worried you might run out. But this batch comes with a warning. I made them.”
“Is that so? For the sake of customer safety, I better sample one. Hang on a sec.” He placed the tree on the roof rack of a small SUV then expertly secured it with several loops of plastic-coated twine. Then he turned to her and pulled off his gloves.
She lifted the wrap off the corner of the basket and let him take his pick. He popped the entire cookie into his mouth.
“So? How is it?”
“Melted in my mouth so fast I couldn’t taste it. Better try another.”
She laughed and watched as he grabbed another two. “So business is good?”
“I don’t know what it’s been like other years, but we’re getting run off our feet.”
He walked along with her as she headed for the barn, opening the door for her then watching as she placed the basket on the table next to the gingersnaps. No sooner had she removed the wrap than someone was reaching for one of the cookies.
“You going to hang out here with us for a while?” Kenny asked.
She glanced around the room. Robin Wilson was behind the counter, ringing in a sale for a young woman with an infant strapped to her chest. One other customer waited behind her. Not exactly a crazy rush.
“I don’t think I’m needed.”
“You could come outside and help me cut down trees.”
“I doubt if you need my help, either.”
“No. But I’m guessing you need to spend a day outside, with the trees. It can be therapeutic.”
“I take it I’m not looking my best.” She wasn’t surprised it was all catching up with her. The sleepless nights, the worry about her mother, her uncertainty about where she belonged and what she was meant to be doing with her life.
“You look great. But also...stressed.”
The last time she’d worked “hands-on” at the farm had been as a kid, with her father. He would place a hand on the trunk of each tree and be silent for a moment before he started the chainsaw.
When she asked why, he’d reminded her trees were living things, that he’d raised them from saplings. No matter how many he harvested in a day he never forgot that.
And she’d promised him she wouldn’t either.
“I’ll grab a pair of work gloves and some steel-toed boots.” Kenny was right, she needed to reconnect with the land and the trees. And it would be a safe way to spend time with Kenny, try to sort out the confusing feelings he brought out in her.
Monday, November 27
Monday morning Zak went to work an hour early, prepared to grapple with dusty boxes and molding papers. Thankfully Rose Newman had skills beyond crocheting and in a mere ten minutes he found the accidental death report for Jack Stillman.
The report itself was a disappointment. Only Lacy had been interviewed and her version of events was summarized in two brief paragraphs, corresponding almost exactly to the account he’d heard from Luke on Sunday.
Photos had been taken of Jack’s body from the ridge looking down—a distance of about twenty feet—and also close up. From the skewed angle of Jack’s head, it looked as though his neck broke on impact. This was confirmed in the coroner’s report, signed by Doc Pittman.
Zak closed the file. Not much here beyond what he already knew. He put everything back where he’d found it and then headed up the stairs, passing one of the dentist’s patients on her way into the office.
One side of the middle-aged woman’s face was swollen. He grimaced in sympathy. “Good luck with that.”
He kept climbing to the second floor where he shuffled through his keys until he found the correct one. Inside he dumped his coat and made coffee. Remembering Nadine’s request for an extra day of vacation, he made a sma
ller pot than usual.
Why was he so interested in Jack’s death? The people involved were no longer living. The chance that events from that day could have somehow impacted Lacy’s own death were slight. Yet he felt compelled to keep digging.
A call to Doc Pittman went straight to messages. He left his name but didn’t specify what he was calling about. No sense incriminating himself.
Butterfield showed up at quarter past eight. Heavier, shorter and less verbally gifted than the sheriff, Butterfield spent as little time in his desk as possible. He’d been in his job almost as long as Ford and the two men shared an allergy to paperwork.
Whenever Zak was feeling magnanimous, or simply bored, he offered to write up his reports for him. After three years he was skilled at deciphering both Butterfield’s and the sheriff’s scrawls.
Today, though, he didn’t offer. He needed to figure out a way to talk to Cora Christensen. Since he had no legal authority he had to make the encounter appear casual and unscripted. Which would require planning.
When Sheriff Ford came in, about ten minutes after Butterfield, Zak eyed the man discreetly, gauging his mood. Scowl, red-tinged eyes, shuffling gait...not good.
“Damned in-laws. Supposed to leave Sunday, but Margo convinced them to stay a few more days.” Ford held out his hand for his messages. “Hope there’s something in here that’s going to require me to work late tonight.”
“Just routine calls, Sheriff.”
Ford grunted.
Some bosses might have asked about Zak’s holiday, but not this one. Ford directed a frown at the half-full coffee machine. “Bring me a cup.”
It wasn’t a question but Zak answered anyway. “Sure, Sheriff.”
This was his opportunity. He filled a mug and took it inside, closing the door enough to muffle sound but not enough to be obvious.
He set the mug down in a clear space. “Say, Sheriff, I was hanging out with Luke Stillman on the weekend. He was talking about his grandfather. Said he died in a ranching accident.”
“Fell off a mountain ridge. That was a long time ago.” The sheriff scratched out a signature on the report in front of him. Without looking up he added, “What of it?”
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