Hunting Ground

by Meghan Holloway

  “Jeff.” I did not hide the razor’s edge from my voice. I know you were there. I will not be afraid.

  He smiled that smile that hinted at a shared secret. But his words were not what I expected. “You found her.” It took a moment for his words to register. He seemed to sense my confusion, because he stepped closer and breathed, “You found her.”

  I took a quick step back and my elbow caught the stack of books Susan had deposited on the desk. They toppled, sliding over the edge of the desk and falling to the floor in an avalanche of heavy thumps.

  I stared at Jeff, breath caught in my throat, mind racing.

  “Everything okay here?”

  I dragged my gaze away from Jeff and found Susan approaching, her glance bouncing back and forth between us. The fallen books had crashed against my ankles and I knelt to gather them in my arms.

  “I’m sorry.” My voice came out shaky, and I cleared my throat. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Susan knelt beside me and gathered the rest of the books. When we straightened and deposited the books on the desk, Jeff was gone.

  Susan caught me glancing around. “Was Jeff able to help you find what you were looking for?”

  You found her. I swallowed and scrambled to recall what had brought me through the doors. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about the book club. I saw the flyers.”

  Her face lit with enthusiasm. “We have three going on right now. They all meet at different times. My mystery group meets every Tuesday night. There’s a popular fiction club that meets every other Thursday. I also have a romance group that gets together every third Saturday of the month. Do any of those interest you?”

  You found her. “What…what are you reading in the mystery group right now?”

  She rattled off the title of the latest release of a big-name author. “We usually read a book a week in that group, but don’t worry if you haven’t read the book. We’re not tyrannical about it.”

  I forced a smile. “That’s a relief.”

  “I provide wine, and everyone usually brings an appetizer or dessert, but of course it’s not required. It’s mainly women, and it’s a small group but a fun one. We’d love to have you join us.”

  “What time do you meet tomorrow evening?

  “Seven. We usually break up around nine or so.”

  You found her. “I’ll be here. Do you have any copies of the book in stock?”

  After purchasing a copy of the novel, I hesitated on the sidewalk in front of the bookshop. My knees felt weak, and I put a hand against the exterior of the building to steady myself. I wondered if I should go to the police. But I knew what they would say. Are you certain? Could you be mistaken? He’s really a nice guy. Completely harmless.

  I took a deep breath and strode back through town, stopping into the supermarket once more. This time, I filled my basket and left with enough staples to see me through the week. Back at the inn, I put my groceries away on an empty shelf in the refrigerator and then retreated to the den.

  A computer was set up in the corner, and Faye had told me there was internet connection if I ever needed to use it. The guest login password was written on a piece of paper and taped to the desk by the mouse. I logged in, pulled up the internet browser, and searched for Jeff Roosevelt.

  There were social media profiles for a number of men with the same name, but I clicked through all of them and never found one that matched the too-handsome face. I searched for the bookshop’s website and on the About page of the website, I found Susan listed as the owner with Jeff labeled as the manager and rare book dealer. There were no photos of them on the website. Just their names and occupations.

  I powered down the computer and moved to the windows. The lane in front of the inn was quiet. The woods that hemmed the inn on either side were dark. But I was not certain they were empty.

  You found her. As if he had known what awaited me at the cabin by the river. As if he had placed her there for me to find. A shiver swept over me, and I placed a palm against the cold glass to steady myself.

  I retreated to my room and locked the door, striving for a sense of normality as I unpacked the cardboard box and placed the keepsakes on display. I wound up the music box and hummed the lines to the old folk tune as I watered my philodendron.

  I toed off my boots, grabbed the book club read I had purchased, and curled up against the pillows. I read the synopsis on the back cover and flipped to the opening scene. I did not get very far into the mystery, though, before an uneasy sleep pulled me under.

  In my dreams, I crept through shadowed hallways with women swaying at the end of ropes in the yawning doorways while Greensleeves played haltingly somewhere in the darkness.

  ß

  I woke early the next morning, but when I came down the stairs, the sounds of quiet conversation were already filling the dining room. Almost every table was occupied. A group of older women sat around the table closest to the fireplace. Three men had claimed the table near the window. There were various couples and families at other tables. I recognized one face. Ed Decker and a woman wearing a knit cap sat at the table closest to the fireplace. Ed smiled when he saw me and lifted a hand in greeting.

  I slipped around the tables and headed toward the kitchen. The fragrance coaxed me forward even before I reached the doorway, and when I entered, I found Faye standing at the cabinet-top burners. Sam sat at the table methodically working his way through his breakfast.

  “Is today pancake day?” I asked.

  She darted a smile over her shoulder at me as she flipped the cakes sizzling on the griddle. “It is indeed. Would you like some?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve heard about these pancakes.” I glanced around. There had to be at least twenty people in the dining room, but she was alone here in the kitchen. “May I help you with anything?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t need to do that. It’s mainly a self-service breakfast. I put out pitchers of water and carafes of coffee, I only serve one thing, and it’s first come, first serve.”

  “That’s quite a setup.”

  “It’s simple, but it works.”

  She plated the steaming pancakes from the griddle, and I held out my hands for the tray. “I can take them out if you’ll tell me which table.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I’m offering. With an ulterior motive. I know I’m at the end of the line, and I’m starving. This will speed things up.”

  She chuckled and relinquished her hold on the tray. “Very well, then. This is for the Walshes, the family of five in the corner.”

  The tables were already set. Dishes of butter and gravy boats of what I was certain was homemade syrup were already on each table. With Faye staying on the griddle and me serving the plates of pancakes, we were at the last table within fifteen minutes.

  Soon, she was handing me a plate piled high with four pancakes.

  “Do you mind if I eat in here with you?”

  She placed another pancake on Sam’s plate and glanced at me, surprise evident on her face. “No, not at all. I just need to check on everyone, and then I’ll be back. Don’t wait for me to eat.”

  I sat across from Sam and added a dollop of butter to the top of my stack of pancakes before drizzling huckleberry syrup over the plate. “I keep hearing how good your mom’s pancakes are.” I took a bite and had to bite back a groan. “They’re even better than everyone says.” I glanced across the table to find the boy smiling.

  Faye joined us a few minutes later. She ate quickly and then returned to the griddle. “I think a few tables are going to want seconds. Any plans for the day?”

  “I have some research I need to do today for the work I’ll be doing at the museum. And this evening I’m going to attend a book club.”

  “At Book Ends?”

  “Yes, their mystery novel club.”

  “That sounds like a lot of fun.”

  There was a wistful note in her
voice that made my attention sharpen. I had a feeling we shared the commonality of being alone more often than not. I did not know what her isolation was born from, but I could tell it was at least due in part to shyness.

  “Come with me,” I invited.

  Her gaze darted to mine before it fell away and focused on the pancakes she was flipping. “Oh, I don’t know…”

  “I’d rather go with a friend to something like this.” We were not friends, but I thought, given time, we could be.

  She glanced at her son. “Sam would have to come with us, and I’m not sure—”

  “It looked like they had a nice children’s section.” I could sense her automatic refusal wavering. “I’d feel a little awkward going by myself.”

  Her lips quirked, and when she met my gaze, the knowing smile in hers said she saw straight through my lie. “Okay. I’d love to go. I’ve seen the flyers around town and thought it looked interesting.”

  “Excellent.”

  I spent the day reading the material the museum had sent me on the tribes that lived around the Yellowstone territory. The artifacts I would be studying had unknown provenances and there were few, if any, records on the collection. I would need to reach out to tribal elders and work closely with them throughout the project. And to study the artifacts I needed to first know the history of the people who had called this region home long before settlers ventured west.

  Four tribes were local to the region: the Crow, the Blackfeet, the Shoshone, and the Bannocks. But it was also possible some of the artifacts I would be handling could be from the flight of Chief Joseph and his Nez Perce Indians across the Yellowstone territory in 1877.

  I was keen to talk with the tribal elders and hear their versions of their own histories. I used the inn’s computer to research cultural objects from each nation, and by the time the sun was sinking low and casting deep shadows through the great room, I thought I had at least a slight grasp on what each nation would have left behind in artifact form.

  We arrived at Book Ends that evening just before seven. Sam paused in the entryway and stared, mouth agape. Faye put a hand between his shoulder blades to urge him forward. “I’m going to get him set up in the children’s section.”

  I took the container of cookies from her and nodded to one of the side rooms where I could see a group of women gathering. “I think we’re going to be over there.”

  I wandered in that direction but was waylaid when I heard my name called. I turned to find Jeff approaching. His words were still resonating in my mind, and anger flayed away my caution in that moment.

  I stepped toe to toe with him when he reached me. “Did you lead me to that woman?” My voice was a harsh whisper.

  His gaze roved my face, and his smile was slow, full of edge and charm. “I’m glad to know you’re paying attention, Evelyn.”

  I took a quick step back, staring at him. The memory of the woman swaying at the end of the rope pushed into my mind, and the intensity of his gaze felt like a physical touch.

  “Evelyn?” I turned to find Faye standing nearby. “I think they’re about to begin.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Jeff was already walking away, and I stared after him for a moment before moving to Faye’s side.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt like that,” she said. “But you looked uncomfortable.”

  “Thank you. He—” My voice trailed away.

  “He’s a little…intense.”

  I glanced back, but he was no longer in view. I think he killed a woman and made certain I was the one to find her.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s grab seats.”

  I followed her into the adjoining room, and we took seats at the fringes of the group. Faye angled her chair to be able to see the children’s section across the store. The woman sitting closest to us turned with a welcoming smile. “Hello. You’re both new to the group. I’m Amanda.”

  Faye and I rounded out the group to thirteen women. Pleasantries and greetings were exchanged readily, and I recognized the woman who introduced herself as Joan as the receptionist at the police department. A table had been set up in the corner. When Faye added her cookies to the assortment of food, there was an exodus from the couches and chairs to the table.

  This morning when I had mentioned stopping by the grocery store to pick up something to bring tonight, Faye had insisted she bake something. I had expected chocolate chip cookies. Instead, she had set about recreating the book’s cover in miniature several dozen times over. I was astonished. The woman was the very definition of artist, and with icing no less. I had argued that no one should be allowed to eat them. They should instead be framed. She had smiled and waved away my praise, her face turning pink.

  “These are astonishing, Faye,” Susan exclaimed. I knew I liked her when she said, “They’re too lovely to eat.”

  “Do you think you could teach us how to do this?” the woman who had introduced herself as Amanda asked.

  By the time we left the bookstore two hours later, Faye had been coaxed into teaching everyone the basics of cookie decorating. From the pleased flush on her face, I did not think she had needed much coaxing.

  “How did you learn how to do that?” I asked as we walked through town. Sam walked ahead of us, his face buried in the book he had gotten. “They truly were works of art.”

  She smiled. “It just takes a steady hand.” She went quiet, and we walked in companionable silence. “Actually,” she said, “I used to own a bakery.”

  The reluctance in her voice told me how hesitant she had been to give me that information, so I curbed my curiosity and forestalled my questions. “That sounds really neat.”

  “I attended the Institute of Culinary Education, their school of pastry and baking arts.”

  Her state-of-the-art kitchen made much more sense now. “So you literally have a degree in baking.”

  She chuckled, the sound followed by a waft of fog in the cold, crystalline air. “I do.” She darted a glance at me. “Are you okay? You were quiet tonight.”

  I had been preoccupied by watching the doorway to catch a glimpse of Jeff. When I had seen him leave an hour into the meeting, I had perched on the edge of my chair, debating whether I should follow him.

  “I’m fine.” I forced a smile as she unlocked the front door and Sam entered ahead of us, drifting away into the darkness.

  She switched on the lamp on the table by the entrance as I followed her in and locked the door behind me.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” she said. “I really do appreciate it. I think I’ll attend regularly.”

  “I’m glad you came. I’m planning to as well.”

  Sam came back to his mother’s side and leaned against her. She rested a hand on his head and smiled at me. “I should get him to bed. Good night.”

  “Night.” As I climbed the steps and passed down the hall to my room, I felt like I was on uneven footing. I’m glad to know you’re paying attention, Evelyn. I was not certain what I had thought he would say. I had expected a denial. Instead, I had received something that was not a confession, not even a warning, more along the lines of praise and encouragement. As soon as I had seen the footprints, I thought I knew what I was dealing with, what kind of threat I faced. But this was something else entirely.

  Deep in thought, I reached my door and turned the knob. The door swung open easily. Startled, I hesitated on the threshold, my hand tucked into my pocket in an automatic reach for my keys.

  I groped along the wall until I found the switch and flicked on the overhead light. My room appeared exactly as I had left it, but I pulled the canister of pepper spray from my pocket as I entered. I checked the bathroom first, shoving aside the shower curtain in a swift, violent movement. No one lurked behind its cover or in the armoire.

  I glanced around the room. Nothing seemed out of place. I moved to the door and locked it. I twisted the bolt back and forth several times and tried the do
or handle once it was locked. I turned the bedside lamp on before turning out the overhead light.

  In the bathroom, I went through the motions of getting ready for bed. My gaze continually drifted to the doorway. I checked the room once more before climbing into bed, grabbing the tube of hand cream I had picked up at the supermarket on the way. I rubbed it into my hands and elbows as I combed my memory. Perhaps I had not locked my door before leaving for the book club meeting.

  I replaced the cap on the tube of hand cream and placed it back on the bedside table, followed by my glasses. I leaned over to switch off the lamp and froze. My mother’s music box was missing.

  Twelve

  We’ve all got the power in our hands to kill,

  but most people are afraid to use it.

  The ones who aren’t afraid

  control life itself.

  -Richard Ramirez

  JEFF

  I placed my hand against the underside of the bed frame and listened to the quickening of her breath. I smiled, imagining that I could feel the quaver of her heartbeat, the movement of her chest as she breathed, through the mattress and wood separating us.

  I had gambled on the fact that she would not think to check under her bed. I was angled in such a way that I only had a glimpse of her feet, but I saw her hesitation when she opened the door. I felt giddy with anticipation as she searched the room, imagining her kneeling to check under the bed. I would reach out and catch her wrist, feel the leap of her pulse against my fingers. The opportunity never came, and I listened to the rustle of movement as she readied for bed. I hoped she wore a nightgown, long and white and demure.

  When she moved to the bedside, my fingers twitched. I longed to close the distance between us, to clasp that slim ankle, to cup the curve of her calf and feel the flex of muscle when she tried to run. I reached for her before I could check the impulse, but she moved out of reach, and I felt the shift of the mattress and frame as she settled into bed.

  I snatched my hand back and waited, curious to see if she would notice. It only took her a few moments. I heard the indrawn breath, the realization, and I could not quell my smile.