by Rachel Grant
LIBBY CRIED HERSELF TO SLEEP—something she hadn’t done since she was a child and her father had once again left her brother, sister, and her alone with their increasingly cold mother. Now she’d been abandoned by another man, and for the first time she understood her mother and the bitterness she directed at her children because the real cause of her hurt was out of reach. She understood, but she didn’t want to be like her. She didn’t want to embrace the bitterness and block her ability to love even those who were closest to her.
She wanted to rise above the pain and the petty desire for revenge, but she remained human, and black anger surfaced every time she thought about the humiliation of being arrested in front of her employees, or considered Amy Seaver’s calculating lies.
And she didn’t know what to think of Mark.
Simone was right: Mark was a victim, too. He’d been manipulated. Whoever had framed her had toyed with Mark’s sense of justice—and as a cop, she knew his sense of justice ran deeper than most.
Still, he’d made a choice when he found her guilty without even talking to her. He’d said repeatedly that he had to explore every option, couldn’t rule anyone out as a suspect, yet she had a feeling he’d followed the evidence to her and…stopped.
She had a new day in front of her, and no idea how to face it. Simone left early for the site. Life—and the project—had to go on.
She deactivated the alarm long enough to grab the morning paper from the front porch and retreated back into the house. The Seattle Times had nothing about her above the fold. A ship was being deployed to the Persian Gulf. The shellfish harvest would be down this year. Below the fold was a different story. A small blurb—“Archaeologist Digs Attention. Allegedly Fakes Attack After Finding Bones of Missing Woman”—was followed by instructions to read the full story on page A-8.
She groaned and threw the paper aside, not ready to read the article.
The phone rang. Caller ID said Seattle Post-Intelligencer. She unplugged the landline and turned on her cell phone. Anyone who really needed to reach her had the number.
She leaned on the small table and stared at the heavy, black, rotary-dial phone, a relic from the days when this was Angela Caruthers’ house. She and Jack had a home in Seattle, but her dissertation topic meant spending several days at a time in Coho, and Libby had learned she’d claimed the Shelby house as her own. The house had remained in Jack and Jason’s control after her disappearance. Libby was the first tenant since the early 1970s.
Angela had used this phone, this table. She’d sat in the bay window. For all Libby knew, Angela had argued with Jack in the kitchen much as Libby had with Mark. Libby couldn’t do anything about her disastrous situation, but she could bury herself in someone else’s problems. She made a pot of coffee and then headed upstairs with a full mug in hand. Angela’s papers waited.
She took notes as she read, detailing Angela’s areas of interest and jotting down avenues for further research. Angela’s ethnographic study had been broad, but she’d focused in on a few key areas: the effect mill development had on tribal customs and practices, Millie Thorpe Montgomery’s relationship with the tribe, and the change in mill/tribal relations after Lyle took over.
Libby’s own focus was fractured. Several times she caught herself staring off into space, lost in the disturbing memory of having her mug shot taken or facing Mark inside the interrogation room. When she realized she’d read the same page of notes for the third time—and remembered nothing—she flopped back in her chair in frustration.
She surged to her feet and headed downstairs. She had to get her head in her work. She paced the living room and then stopped abruptly in front of the stereo. The cassette copy she’d made of Angela’s interview with Frances Warren sat on a shelf next to the stereo. She put in the tape, hit play, and settled on the cushion in the bay window.
Frances Warren began by telling stories of the Kalahwamish, tribal tales passed down for generations. In Indian culture, an elder telling a story was considered a gift of the highest value. Libby took refuge in the elder’s voice, receiving the gift as Angela had, with awe and reverence, thankful beyond measure for Frances’ gift of distraction and escape.
Thirty minutes into the interview, the tape player shut off, returning Libby to the present. She flipped the tape over and sank back into her seat, ready to once again settle into a different culture and time. The focus of the interview shifted and Frances spoke of Millie Thorpe and Lyle Montgomery, eventually coming to the topic of Millie’s death. A ripple of surprise ran through Libby. She’d read the story in the newspaper but no one in Coho had ever mentioned Millie’s death in an interview. Strange that the story should come from an Indian, not the deceased’s own children.
“Millie came to the reservation the day she died. She was wound up, afraid. She said Lyle was going to kill her. Soon. The sheriff, he wouldn’t do anything about Lyle’s beatings. He was in Lyle’s pocket. Everyone was. It wasn’t until later, after the union came in, that there was anyone to stand up to Lyle.
“The last time I saw Millie, she said she wanted to be sure Lyle never owned the mill. She knew if her children inherited TL&L, then Lyle would control them the same way he’d controlled her. She said she’d just been to her lawyer, and she’d made a new will. In it she left everything—the mill, the town, the hotel, the store, all of TL&L—to the Kalahwamish people. Her life was a nightmare, she said, but her death would mean something. She found justice in the idea he’d lose the mill to us, the Indians he hated so much.
“I was scared for Millie, scared for all of us. When Lyle found out what she’d done, he’d be dangerous. Of course, I never thought for a moment her will would hold up in court—even though the mill was legally Millie’s—I was sure Lyle would have the will overturned.
“Millie told me she’d hidden the will with someone safe. She planned to tell everyone about leaving TL&L to the tribe, hoping that would protect her. Lyle wouldn’t dare kill her if he knew the mill would go to us. She left here intending to go to the mill store. She said she’d make a big announcement right there in dry goods, telling everyone what she’d done. But she never made it to the store.”
“What happened that night? How did my grandmother die?”
“She took a back road from my house—the old private road that runs by the ancestor’s village. Her car went off the road near the old dry riverbed on George Warren’s property and burst into flames. Of course, there was no reason for her car to go off the road or to burst into flames. The sheriff put out the story that she had probably swerved to avoid a deer. Too convenient, if you ask me. Lyle ran her off the road and torched the car. He probably assumed the will was with her.”
“Lyle knew about the will?
“I think the lawyer who wrote up the will tipped off Lyle, then Lyle chased her down and killed her. It’s the lawyer’s fault Millie was killed that night.”
“What happened to the will?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t the one that was read after she died. Her lawyer, Mr. Banks, used a will that had been signed five years before her death. That will left everything to her children.”
“Did you tell anyone about the will? Did the sheriff investigate?”
“I tried. But I was an Indian speaking against Lyle Montgomery. That wouldn’t work today, much less 1940. The sheriff accused me of being a money-grubbing Indian trying to steal a business I had no right to. Of course, that’s why Millie couldn’t leave the will with me in the first place. Nobody would believe or accept the will if it came from me or any other Kalahwamish. There was no one to turn to. We never found out who she gave the will to, or what happened to it, but I think it still exists.”
“You don’t think it was destroyed in the fire?”
“If she’d had the will with her, she would have shown it to me. She didn’t. She said she hid it with someone safe. I think it’s still hidden... and I think you can find it.”
Goosebumps formed on Libby’s arms. So simpl
e and yet mind blowing. Angela and Frances spoke to her from the grave. This conversation explained both the focus of Angela’s research and the paucity of results. Now Libby understood. Angela’s ethnographic study was a cover for her real investigation—she was searching for her grandmother’s will.
From Frances’ description, it sounded as though Millie had died on or near the archaeological site. In 1976, Angela had sought out George Warren and purchased that property. Why? Were Angela’s actions sentimental? Lyle was alive then; how did he react when Angela bought the land where Millie Thorpe Montgomery died?
Millie had been murdered—probably by her husband—because she made a will leaving TL&L to the Kalahwamish tribe. Did her granddaughter suffer the same fate, by the same man, for the same reason?
Libby shook her head at the wild speculation. Angela’s murder was so far removed from Millie’s. They couldn’t be related.
In two days, Thorpe Log & Lumber would be sold to create a living history museum. Libby didn’t know the selling price, but she did know the estimated value of all TL&L’s holdings was well over one hundred million dollars.
If the will were found now, more than sixty years after Millie’s death, what would happen? Would the will be honored?
If there was a connection between Millie and Angela’s murders, was there also a connection to what was happening to Libby? Was someone trying to stop her from completing the search Angela had started?
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SIMONE STOOD OUTSIDE the police station, debating whether or not to confront Mark. She’d made a mess of things. Would speaking with him make the situation worse?
She entered the station and was told the chief wasn’t available. She opted to wait and sat in the lobby for an hour and a half, alternating between fuming and being determined to outwait him. She called the site three times. Alex assured her the excavation was going smoothly.
Mark finally stepped into the lobby. He stood and stared at her for several seconds, before he said, “Come on,” and led her to his office. He sat behind his desk and watched her. His chilling silence unnerved her.
“You’ve made a huge mistake,” she finally said.
“I know. Yesterday I corrected it.”
She had never seen anyone so cold. Gone was the charming man who’d pumped her for information on Libby a week ago. “Don’t be obtuse. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do. But I disagree about what my mistake was. It’s inappropriate for me to speak to you at this time; this is an open investigation with pending charges.”
“Why are you doing this? Why are you being this way?”
He merely stared at her.
“Fine, then speak to me as a witness. I was the one who received that call on Tuesday morning. There is no way in hell Libby would make a call like that to scare me.”
He shrugged. “You’re in on it with her. I’m still considering charging you as an accomplice.”
“You can’t scare me. Libby hasn’t done anything wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong. You know what does scare me? Libby was bound and gagged and doused in gasoline. Then the sonofabitch turned on the gas. One spark and she could have been killed. That’s what scares me. It should scare you, too.”
He flinched.
Hope flared. He had feelings for Libby. “And now that you’ve turned on her, she’s in more danger than she was before. Aaron is crazy.”
His eyes hardened. Shit. She shouldn’t have mentioned Aaron. “I don’t believe she has a stalker. And I don’t believe she had one three years ago.”
“Then let’s talk about motive. No one knows Libby’s finances better than I do. I helped write that proposal.”
“Then you should work with Libby’s lawyer to clear her name. That’s not my job. Her case has been remanded to the courts.”
“I don’t care about her case. Jason will win it for her. I care about her heart, and what you’re doing to it!”
“She doesn’t have a heart.”
“Because she gave it to you, and you crushed it.”
“Look. If you’re so eager to explain everything away, explain to me why Bobby found Aaron’s work schedule in your possession?”
“Three years ago, Libby’s complaints fell on deaf ears. When her truck was stolen last week, you didn’t seem inclined to investigate. I wasn’t going to wait and see if you decided her story had merit. I wasn’t going to wait until after Aaron got violent to take action. So I decided to look into his activities myself, including tracking his work schedule.”
“Strangely enough,” Mark said, “every single stalking incident happened after six p.m. He switched to working days a few months ago. He’s off by four. Just enough time to get to Coho. Did you and Libby intend to frame him completely, or were you just using him to convince me she really had a stalker?”
“She does have a stalker. If Aaron doesn’t have an alibi, then it could be him.”
“But he does have an alibi. He couldn’t have attacked Libby on Thursday night.”
Stunned, Simone sat back in her chair. “But, if Aaron didn’t do it, who did?”
“Means, motive, and opportunity. That’s what we look for. When I look at all three, I come up with two names: Libby Maitland and Simone Atherton.”
“Me? That’s ridiculous.” She wouldn’t let him scare her.
“Not from where I’m sitting.”
“She’s being framed. Someone wants you to blame her.”
“If it looks like a duck, talks like a duck, and walks like a duck, it’s a duck. It’s not a Goddamn raccoon pretending to be a duck.”
Simone stood and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re wrong about Libby. I just hope you don’t realize that too late to save her from whoever really is stalking her.”
LIBBY ENTERED ROSALIE WARREN’S bedroom. The elder was sitting up in a hospital-type bed that was incongruous with the rest of her room, otherwise filled with a lifetime’s worth of cultural treasures. Every inch of wall space was covered with a piece of Indian artwork of one sort or another. Faces, whales, salmon, even the Sasquatch motif decorated wood, hide, paper, canvas, and rock. Eyes stared at her from hundreds of angles.
“My collection,” Rosalie said, seeing Libby’s interest. “I’m leaving it to the tribal school. I want the kids to be able to touch these items and understand the proud culture they were born into. But until I take my last breath, I want to be in the center of it and know my place in the world.” Another coughing spell consumed her. She caught her breath and continued, “I couldn’t stay in the hospital. I had no sense of the ancestors there.”
A lengthy and surprisingly comfortable silence ensued. Libby sensed the woman did not need awkward words of comfort. Rosalie Warren had accepted her fate. Libby wondered whether she’d ever find such grace.
Eventually Rosalie spoke. “I read about you in the paper.”
“Was the story flattering?”
Rosalie’s laugh was a deep, harsh bark. “Hardly.” She coughed. “You said on the phone you have a tape of my mother talking to Angela. I’d like to hear it.”
Libby played the tape. At the end of the interview, the elder stared at her, clearly stunned. “I didn’t know about the will,” she said softly.
“I think Angela and Frances were working together to find it.”
“Yes. That has the ring of truth. The will would have been proof, of a sort, that Lyle killed Millie. I know my mother always wanted to prove Lyle killed her.”
“And in 1979, Lyle was still alive. He’d have lost the mill and faced prosecution for Millie’s murder. That was Angela’s reason—you alluded she had a greater purpose when we first met—for documenting Lyle Montgomery’s treatment of the Kalahwamish.”
“I wonder if she disappeared because she found the will,” Rosalie said.
“I’m beginning to think that’s what happened. If the police listened to this tape in 1979, then they didn’t make the connection between her work and her disappearance.”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions there.”
“Let me think.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. A minute later, she opened them and said, “The will is the key. It’s your best bet to clear your name.”
“You think what’s happening to me is related?”
“Don’t you?”
Libby nodded. “The stalking started the day we found the burial—the day we found Angela.”
“Going back to that day, put yourself in the mind of the person who buried her in the site.” She paused. “Even without my request for a detailed background report, Angela’s research is relevant to your excavation. You were bound to find out about her ethnographic notes and use them for your report. If she was killed because she found the will, then her killer had to be very worried. Worried you would recognize she wasn’t Indian, and worried she left information on her search for the will in her notes.” Her brown eyes swept Libby from head to toe. “You found her and you were following up on her research. You must be her killer’s worst nightmare.”
“Which is why I’m facing jail time.”
“You heard that tape and called me immediately. Why?”
“Because the more I looked at her research, the more I was sure she had an agenda. She may have started off doing a basic ethnography, but after this interview”—Libby tapped the tape—“she had a new mission. She bought the property where her grandmother was killed. Her research questions focused more and more on tribal interaction with mill management and Lyle’s relations with the Kalahwamish. Millie’s connection to the tribe. She was looking for the will, trying to figure out who Millie might have trusted. And your mother, Frances Warren, knew what Angela was doing. That’s why Angela had unprecedented access to the tribe.”
“How long did you take to come to that conclusion?”