by Sherry Lewis
“You said she had irons in the fire. I asked you what irons. What fire?”
Ramsey rolled his eyes. “It was a figure of speech,” he said as if Fred was a slow-witted child.
“Really?” Fred let sarcasm drip from the word, but Ramsey had already lost interest in him and shifted his attention back to Kate.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I can’t help you.”
“Then you don’t know of any reason why my sister might have killed herself?”
“None. But then I didn’t know her all that well.”
“Well enough to know about her investments,” Fred pointed out.
Ramsey shrugged. “Rumor. Hearsay. Whatever you want to call it. Look—Joan was a nice lady and I’m sorry she’s dead, but I really don’t know anything about her.”
Kate looked resigned. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Ramsey. I suppose I’ll have to contact her bank in Boston. Which one did you say it was?”
Ramsey supplied a name and Kate jotted it down on the back of a business card. Replacing his pen in its stand, she said, “You have a very nice office.”
Ramsey preened like a peacock behind his desk.
She ran a finger along the edge of the desk. “What kind of wood is this?”
“Cherry,” Ramsey’s chest puffed out until his buttons strained almost beyond the point of endurance.
Fred leaned back in his seat and waited for the story that inevitably went along with the desk. Something about Logan’s grandmother and a steam engine. He’d heard it a thousand times.
Kate leaned forward and practically caressed the wood, which only cranked up Fred’s irritation. What on earth did she think she was doing? If he’d known she planned to discuss interior decorating, he’d have stayed home.
Just as he decided he ought to ask the questions himself, Kate settled back in her chair and hit him with a new question, “I’m sure you know my brother-in-law. Has Brandon given you any indication why Joan killed herself?”
Fred would have said something, but Kate shot him a look intended, he supposed, to keep him silent. She turned back to Ramsey with a buttery smile.
Ramsey smiled grimly and pulled the pencil from behind his ear, studying it silently for a moment. “He would hardly confide in me, I don’t know him that well.”
Fred grunted. “But do you believe that cockamamie suicide story?”
Ramsey frowned. “Cockamamie?” He snorted a laugh. “Why shouldn’t I? If Brandon says she was upset about something, that’s good enough for me. I mean, he’s the one who ought to know, right? And I didn’t know her well enough to—”
Enough was enough. Fred couldn’t stand it any longer. He shot out of his chair. “What are you talking about? This is Cutler, not Denver.”
“Even in Cutler, some families are better acquainted than others,” Logan insisted. His thick lips twisted into a smile. “For instance, I am probably better acquainted with the Cavanaughs than I would be with, say, someone in a lower social bracket. Small towns aren’t really so different in that respect.”
Good to know. “If that’s the case, when was the last time you saw her?” Fred challenged.
Kate arched her eyebrows at him and shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Fred did a magnificent job of ignoring her and kept his eyes locked on Logan’s.
The pudgy man’s back stiffened and his face darkened. He laughed shortly. “What is this, Fred? You trying to be Dick Tracy?”
“I’m just helping the lady out.”
Ramsey stood and stared out the window behind his desk. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you—if I can remember. Like you said, Cutler is a small town. I might have seen her any time.” He paused to watch a truck drive slowly down the alley behind the bank. “I guess the last time I saw her was one day last week when she came in to cash a check—Wednesday or Thursday, maybe. I don’t remember which.”
“Not since Wednesday or Thursday?” Fred asked. “You didn’t go to their party Sunday night? You being so close and all.”
Even from this angle, Fred could see the color creep into Ramsey’s face. “How did you know about that?”
“Everybody who shops at Lacey’s knew about it,” Fred said. Janice Lacey spread news faster than anything Fred had ever seen.
“It wasn’t a party,” Ramsey said defensively, “just a few people for drinks and dinner.”
Kate looked interested. “Were you one of the guests?”
“Yes. That is, I was invited, but I couldn’t stay. I had to go to Denver that evening. I did stop in for a few minutes, so I guess I did see her that night. I’d forgotten.”
He’d forgotten? Death, by whatever means, was always a major event in Cutler. The last death they’d had, Mabel Shelby’s passing just two weeks after her eighty-fourth birthday, had kept the town buzzing for weeks. If Ramsey said he couldn’t remember seeing Joan the night before she died, he was lying.
Kate must have reached the same conclusion because her face turned to stone. “You forgot?”
“I’m a busy man,” Ramsey argued. “It certainly wasn’t the only thing on my calendar last week.”
“If you can remember,” Kate said, “how did she seem that night? Was anything bothering her?”
Ramsey turned away from the window quickly and faced them, his face agitated. “Of course not. What could there have been?”
“That’s what she’s asking you,” Fred pointed out.
“Did she seem upset to you?” Kate asked. “Would you say she was suicidal?”
Ramsey shook his head noncommittally. “I don’t know.”
Kate stood and placed both hands on his desk, leaning toward him slightly for emphasis. “Then let me rephrase the question, Mr. Ramsey. Were you surprised to hear that she’d committed suicide the next morning?”
Ramsey gripped the back of his chair unsteadily. “I didn’t hear about it the next morning. I told you I left early and drove to Denver. I didn’t get back until yesterday morning.”
Kate persisted. “Then were you surprised to hear about it yesterday?”
Ramsey didn’t answer, his face reddened and he broke out in a sweat. He was obviously upset.
Grasping at straws, Fred asked, “Did she argue with anyone at the party?”
Ramsey’s shoulders tensed. With visible effort he smiled, but his eyes stayed hard. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Fred, but I think I’ve been wrong to encourage you.” He moved around his chair and lowered himself into it.
“Just tell me whether she argued with anybody at the dinner party Sunday night. And tell me who else was there unless you have some reason you don’t want to talk about that night.”
Ramsey shrugged broadly and tried to look relaxed. “Just a few people.” He tilted his head as if searching his memory. “There were a couple of people from Denver. Winona was there and Tony Striker. I don’t remember anyone else.”
“What people from Denver? Can you give me names?”
“I don’t think I’d remember them. I was only there for a minute or two.”
Fred didn’t believe him. “You weren’t introduced?”
“I don’t know. If I was, I don’t remember who they were. Ask Brandon—it was his party. Look,” he said shakily, “if you’re looking for answers, you won’t find them here.”
“Where will we find them?”
“You’re asking the wrong man. Joan and I weren’t that close. I didn’t know her well enough to even begin to speculate about what was going on in her life. Nobody knows what happened.”
“Except the person who killed her,” Fred mumbled.
Ramsey turned toward Fred, his face puckered into a frown. “If somebody killed her. If Brandon says it was a suicide, I believe him.”
Fred pushed himself to his feet and faced Ramsey squarely. “It’s pretty hard for me to believe she committed suicide when nobody can tell me a blasted thing she was upset about.”
Ramsey busied himself with a stack of papers,
but Fred refused to be dismissed. “You know something, Loan. You’re a terrible liar. Always have been. So what was it? What was she upset about?”
“How the hell would I know, Fred? It was probably her marriage or maybe that art store of hers.”
Kate’s face took on a funny expression. “Her marriage?”
As if aware that he’d said something he shouldn’t, Ramsey flushed and shifted his glance from Fred to Kate. “Rumor is that there’s been some trouble lately. Brandon wasn’t always the best husband, if you know what I mean.”
“Probably,” Kate said coldly, “but why don’t you tell me anyway.”
Ramsey hesitated. “He . . . that is I’d heard that he was seeing—”
“He was seeing someone else?” Kate demanded. “Brandon was cheating on Joan—is that it?”
“Well,” Ramsey began and stopped again, flustered. He swallowed deeply and said quickly, “I guess I thought she must have heard the rumors and that was why she committed suicide.”
“Why did you assume that?” Fred asked, genuinely curious about the last part.
“Because when I got to their house on Sunday night, they were arguing. I felt uncomfortable, so I left right away.”
Finally something he could hang his hat on. Anxious, Fred leaned forward. “What were they arguing about?”
“I don’t think—” Ramsey stopped and looked pointedly at Kate.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You can say it in front of me.”
“It’s not that,” Ramsey protested feebly. “I just don’t want to stir up any trouble. I have to live in this town and I don’t want to be responsible.”
Now there was a lie if Fred had ever heard one. Ramsey might not want to do a lot of things, but stirring up trouble or controversy had never been one of them.
When he obviously thought he’d made them wait long enough, and just as Kate began to gather her purse as if she intended to walk away, Ramsey raised his eyes and gave a fair impression of a man in torment. “I shouldn’t say anything about this to anybody, but—” he lowered his eyes again, “they were having a terrible argument about Winona Fox.”
eight
Fred stood beside Kate outside the bank, facing into the wind. Logan Ramsey had darted out of his office just moments ago, claiming he’d suddenly remembered an important appointment. Fred didn’t believe him, but he’d made no effort to stop him. Fred could tell that Ramsey’s parting shot had upset Kate. Color suffused her face and she spoke so softly, her words were nearly carried away by the wind.
“Who is Winona Fox?”
“She was Joan’s partner,” Fred said. “They owned this little shop just down the street. Sold art stuff, some original paintings, I think. Phoebe used to go in there from time to time.”
“I see.” Kate closed her eyes briefly, chewing on that bit of news, Fred thought. “If we talk to anyone else,” she said after a long pause, “I’d appreciate it if you’d let me ask the questions.”
Fred leaned down to rub the ache out of his left knee. “If I’d left it to you in the bank, we’d still be sitting there admiring Logan’s desk.”
“I wasn’t admiring his desk,” Kate said. “I was taking a look at the files he had on the top of it. What’s Shadow Mountain?”
“Piece of property about six miles outside town. Nothing much on it. Why?”
“There was a file on Ramsey’s desk with Joan’s name on it labeled ‘Shadow Mountain,’ and another one marked ‘Reclamation’. What’s the connection?”
Fred shook his head and tried to find one. “Reclamation at Shadow Mountain? Now? I don’t think so. There’s nothing there but an abandoned surface mine that’s needed cleaning up for years. The state did a little with it right after the mining company pulled out, but as I understand it, the owners have primary responsibility for the reclamation and it’s not a pretty sight. It would take a fortune to get it back in condition to be used for anything. Nobody around here has that kind of money.”
“Except my sister. Who are the owners?”
Joan had that kind of money? Fred thought hard about Kate’s question. “I don’t know,” he admitted. There had been a scandal when the mining company first pulled out and left the land degraded, but the fizzle had died over the years and most people were used to the scarred mountainside now. “I haven’t heard anything about Shadow Mountain in years. Last I heard, some company headquartered in Colorado Springs owned it.”
“It might be worth going to the county recorder’s office to verify the current owners,” Kate mused. “You haven’t heard any talk about Joan being connected to the mountain?”
“No, and I think I would have unless she was trying to hide it for some reason. You don’t suppose she owned it?”
“It should be easy to find out.” The wind blew another icy blast around them and Kate shivered. “Did you know about that? What he said in there about Brandon?”
Fred looked away, reluctant to admit it. “I’d heard rumors.”
“And you didn’t bother to tell me?”
“I didn’t know if they were true. You know how talk is. I’m not sure I believe it myself.” Even though it would give Brandon a motive for murder.
She gave him a look. “You should have warned me. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed hearing it from that odious little man.” Turning away, she walked a few steps up the boardwalk, then came back and jabbed her finger at his chest. “You probably thought you had good reason not to tell me about Brandon, but as far as I’m concerned, if he was having an affair, it just proves what Joan’s frame of mind was the night she died.”
Fred gaped at her. “What on earth do you mean? If anything, it proves that Brandon had a motive for killing her!”
She stared at him as if he’d grown another head. “You can’t be serious.”
“Why not? You heard what Logan said. She and Brandon were arguing about Winona before the party. What if Joan found out that he was cheating on her and decided to divorce him? He panicked—after all, she’s the one with the money—and he killed her.”
“Interesting,” Kate mused, “but I’m afraid I can’t agree with you. Joan would never have kicked Brandon out. She wasn’t that type of woman. If you didn’t know that about her, you didn’t know her very well at all. She was absolutely desperate to be loved. Always. And even if she’d changed, even if she’d found the strength to stand on her own, Brandon wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill her. She was his meal ticket.”
“My point exactly,” Fred said. “If she knew he was seeing someone else—”
Kate shook her head vehemently. “Never. I know how she felt about Brandon. I know how she felt about divorce, at least when it came to her marriage.”
Fred had lived long enough to know that you could never say ‘never,’ but he didn’t argue the point. He just asked, “So does that mean you still believe she committed suicide?”
“Yes.”
That’s what he was afraid of. He didn’t know why Kate refused to recognize the truth, or what more she needed to make her see what had happened. He had no idea what he could do to convince her. He suspected she wasn’t an easy woman to convince of anything. If he said the sky was blue she’d argue that it looked green. Mention the cold and she’d say it felt unseasonably warm. But he had to do something, for Joan’s memory and for her daughter’s future.
He grabbed Kate by the arm and started walking. “Come with me.”
“Now what?” Kate twisted away and stayed put. “I’ve got my answers. I just want to leave here and go back home and get on with my life.”
“What answers did you get? That Logan Ramsey is hiding something? That Joan may have been involved with Shadow Mountain somehow? Those aren’t answers. I want to know who killed Joan.”
“Why are you so convinced somebody killed her? I still don’t get it.”
“I saw her. I found her, remember? And besides, I knew her. Not well, but well enough to know that she wasn’t the kind of person to do what
everyone is suggesting.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Kate demanded. “Everyone else believes it. You’re the only one who doesn’t. Shouldn’t that tell you something?”
It told Fred that Cutler was filled with a bunch of short-sighted people, but he just smiled tightly and stepped off the boardwalk into the street. “I think we ought to go to her art store. It’s only a little ways down the street.”
Kate let out a put-upon sigh. “Look, Fred . . . I think I made a mistake agreeing to come with you today. I think it would be best if I went back to your house and got my things together. I need to get home.”
“Sorry. You promised me a day and I’m going to hold you to it. If you don’t want to go to the art store, we ought to drive up so you can see Brandon—and your niece.”
“No! I won’t see Brandon.”
Her reaction seemed a bit strange, but Fred didn’t have time to puzzle it out. “So we’ll go to the art store.”
“No.”
Fred swallowed a frustrated growl. “Just what are you doing here, Kate? Did you really just come to find out about the money? Don’t you care what happened to your sister? Not some stranger. Not some long-lost acquaintance. Your sister! You don’t plan to stay for her funeral. You don’t want to see her husband. You don’t want to see your niece. I don’t understand you and I don’t understand why you came to Cutler in the first place.”
She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I needed to find out about my father’s trust fund.”
Anger made it hard for Fred to get a solid breath. His knees ached in the cold and his fingers were growing numb. “You could have asked Logan Ramsey anything you wanted to know over the telephone. Why did you come to Cutler?”
Kate stared at him without even the grace to blush or look away. Well, he’d had just about all he could take of her. Maybe he’d been wrong to include her in his plans in the first place. She had no softness, no flexibility, not a single feeling for anyone else.
But then he remembered hearing her cry last night while locked in her room. There was something soft there. If only he could reach it. If only he could find the trigger to her emotions, he could make her care about Joan—about Madison. He knew he could.