Take Me Back (Paradise, Idaho Book 4)

by Rosalind James

  Hallie barely heard her, because Cletus had turned his considerable attentions to her now, was wagging his feathery tail furiously, smiling like a loon, and asking her to scratch behind his ears. So she did.

  “What a great dog,” she said. Cletus had rolled over now, his tail still going like mad.

  “Yeah,” Eileen said, but she sounded despondent.

  Hallie looked up from where she was crouching, rubbing an ecstatic Cletus’s furry belly, and said, “What?”

  “I have to get rid of him,” Eileen said.

  “Oh, no. Why?”

  “My landlord. That’s why he’s in my car, because I have to take him to the . . . the shelter, but I keep putting it off. And my kids are just—” Eileen’s thin shoulders sagged. “Crushed. My little boy—he’s four—he said this morning, ‘You’re the meanest mommy in the world.’ He doesn’t get it, and my daughter—she just cries. I told them Cletus would find a new home, that a new family will want him, but—” She was on her knees, now, rubbing the dog’s silky ears again. “Cletus is eight, so I’m worried that the pound will just put him down. He’s such a great dog, but I’ve asked everybody at church, and—he’s eight.”

  “So what?” Hallie said. “So he’s eight. So what?”

  “Everybody wants a puppy. A young dog. They think it’s going to be easier, or that it’ll be better, because an older dog will die. Well, of course he’ll die. If you have a dog, it’s going to die. But if you have a great dog, you’re glad you had him. That’s the point.” She broke off. “Sorry. You don’t care about this.”

  “No,” Hallie said. “I do. Oh, your poor kids. Poor you.”

  “You know what’s terrible?” Eileen said. “I know I should feel more horrible about your—about Henry. And I do. Every time I think about it—the whole thing—I’m sick. But what makes me cry is . . .” Her voice broke. “Cletus.” The dog looked up at her from his upside-down position, wagged his tail again, and smiled harder, and she buried her face in her shoulder. Her thin shoulders heaved, and after a second she said, “It’s my fault, really. The landlord said thirty pounds max when we moved in last year, and I lied, because I couldn’t find anyplace else I could afford that would take dogs at all. I told myself that it was OK, because the landlord never comes around, and if he ever saw Cletus by accident, he’d realize he’s better than some yappy Chihuahua that’s going to bite people. He doesn’t bark much—I mean, if he’s not in the car and worried—and he’s quiet, and clean, and friendly, and—but the landlord didn’t care,” she finished. “Cletus isn’t thirty pounds.”

  “No,” Hallie said. “He sure isn’t. So are your kids in school?”

  “My girl is. First grade. My boy’s in day care.”

  “I’ve got this crazy thought,” Hallie said. It was impulsive, but so was everything else she’d done for the last two weeks. “How would Cletus like to come live with me? And then your kids could come visit. I’ve got that fenced area off the—the family room.” Where her swing set had stood, once upon at a time. Her dad had grumbled about putting up the simple wooden fence, because he said it spoiled the view, but for once, Hallie’s mom had insisted. “You could even bring your boy with you,” Hallie added in a burst of inspiration. “Let him play with Cletus on Thursdays while you clean. How about that? I’d really, really like to have a nice big dog. I’d like this dog.”

  “I don’t think he’s a guard dog,” Eileen said dubiously.

  “I don’t care.” Hallie had another thought, an even crazier one. She was going to go with that, too. Sometimes you didn’t have to think things out. Sometimes you didn’t have to plan. Sometimes life handed you the answer. “He’s perfect. He’s a ghost chaser.”

  COVERING THE BASES

  Jim hadn’t seen Hallie again all that week and into the next one. All he’d had was a text message from her on Monday.

  Deposited the money order. All quiet on the Western Front. Got that shotgun by my bed, though. Don’t come around in the middle of the night without calling first, because I’m armed and dangerous. Ordered my pool table, too. Wait till you see my new room.

  Which was a pretty interesting message. Either she was all buzzed and happy, or . . . He’d thought a minute, then texted back, I’ll call first, then. He hadn’t heard from her again, so it had probably been a bad idea, but how much temptation could a man take?

  His mother hadn’t mentioned her, and neither had Cole. His brother seemed to have gone back to living his normal teenage life, which was good. He was probably checking out black Jeeps and red Corvettes online, but what fifteen-year-old boy wouldn’t have been? He hadn’t dropped out of Math Club, anyway.

  The bolt cutters had come back with some fingerprints that hadn’t lit anything up on the FBI’s database, which was interesting in itself. This had been amateur hour all the way, either local muscle recruited for a job or a few roughnecks from a job site who’d seized on an easy score. Jim would have bet, though, that the amateur muscle hadn’t been told they’d be burglarizing a cop’s rig. Which left him with the idea of a single brain behind the endeavor, someone who’d brought tools and labor and a plan for the job, knowing how much that safe might weigh and that it would probably be fastened down. Which was a lot of information.

  He’d passed along the names Cole had given him to Jesse Hartung, because it wasn’t Jim’s case and he couldn’t go looking up addresses of teenagers in an unofficial capacity. Jesse had uttered a dubious, “We’ll check it out. Do our best,” that told Jim what he already knew. Nothing had been stolen, the guys Jim had seen hadn’t been teenagers, and the Paradise PD had plenty to keep it busy.

  “I’ve got a couple possibilities I know personally,” Jim told him, “so I’ll do a little more poking around, pass anything I get along to you to follow up.”

  “No skin off my nose,” Jesse said. “Long as you keep it clean.”

  It wasn’t that Jim didn’t have enough to keep him busy. It was because those lowlifes had been in his driveway and inside his rig. And because Mac had been on the porch. And because he needed to know whether Hallie was in danger, and whether the tingle he’d felt at the back of his neck in Henry’s den had been the air-conditioning or something else. He’d owed his life and the lives of his squad to that tingle too often to ignore it.

  Lots of very good reasons.

  He stopped by Dale Cavanaugh’s place first. Six thirty, Monday night, a calculated time that worked out fine, because Dale came to the door still holding a pink cloth napkin and snapped on the porch light.

  “Jim Lawson,” Jim said, just in case Dale didn’t recognize him out of uniform.

  “Of course,” Dale said. “What can I do for you? Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, but I do have a couple questions for you and your wife.”

  “Come on in, then.”

  Faye turned in her chair at the dining-room table as the two men approached, asking, “Who was—” Her blue eyes widened at the sight of Jim. “Oh.”

  “Evening, ma’am,” Jim said. “I just have a few questions for you and your husband. Unofficially, as you see.”

  Faye’s eyes sharpened, and she started to say something, but Dale said, “What is this about?”

  He didn’t invite Jim to sit, and neither did Faye, which was interesting. “Well, it’s about those guns of Henry’s,” Jim said. “Hallie mentioned that she talked to you about them.”

  “She certainly did,” Faye said, but Dale made a faint motion toward her, and she subsided.

  “Has she reconsidered, then?” Dale asked. “I’m surprised she wouldn’t have discussed that with me. Where do you come into it?”

  Jim raised his brows. “I thought she’d mentioned to you that I offered to sell them for her.”

  “Right,” Dale said. “Sorry, I forgot. I was a little preoccupied at the time.”

  “Call it what it was,” Faye said. “You were devastated.”

  “Honey—” Dale said. “No. Disappointed, maybe, th
at’s all. But that’s life. Hallie did what she thought was best.”

  Faye huffed, and Jim said, “I’m wondering who else you discussed this with. The guns.”

  Dale paused, his gaze going somewhere beyond Jim, and finally shook his head. “Can’t recall that I discussed it with anybody. Like I said—I was disappointed. Didn’t want to think about it much. Why do you ask?”

  “Bob Jenkins, maybe?” Jim persisted. “If you thought you had a right to them?”

  “You know,” Dale said, “I never even thought of that. Maybe I should’ve. Henry always said I didn’t have enough of a ruthless streak to make it in business.”

  “How about you?” Jim asked Faye. “Who have you mentioned the guns to?”

  “I asked Bob about them right away,” she said. “I did,” she told her husband at his hastily muffled exclamation. “I wanted to make sure. He said there was nothing we could do. And I may have said something at the hairdresser’s on Friday,” she said, confirming Rochelle’s earlier suspicions. “And at coffee after my exercise class, now that I think of it. Of course I did,” she told her husband, the smooth lines of her face marred by the peevishness around her mouth. “Because you know and I know that those guns should’ve come to you, whatever Bob said. Hallie didn’t even offer you one of them, and that wasn’t right. You can say anything you like, and I’ll still say it. She’s ungrateful, and she’s selfish.”

  “Did you mention that I’d be taking them?” Jim asked her, ignoring the rest of it.

  She shrugged her shoulders, which caused her carefully maintained breasts in the snug pink wool to move not at all. “Probably. Your name may have come into it, one way or another.” She couldn’t entirely suppress a knowing smirk, and Jim had a feeling he knew in what way his name would’ve come into it.

  Hallie had been right. Kissing on the front steps was definitely out.

  “Well, they’re gone,” Dale said. “No point worrying about it now, I’d have thought. So what is this all about?”

  “Are they gone?” Faye asked. Her bright-blue gaze was back on Jim. “I think he’s over here to tell us they’re not. Hallie’s probably reconsidered, maybe because I did tell people, and now they’re talking, and it’s gotten back to her. I’ll bet she’s decided to give them to you after all, but she’s embarrassed to show her face here and tell you. She always was one to run away. So instead, she’s . . . recruited Jim to do it.”

  “No,” Jim said calmly. “She hasn’t recruited me, other than to sell her father’s guns, like she said. They are gone, I’m afraid. Somebody came to my house to steal them Friday night, not ten hours after I took them from Hallie’s, which is what’s got me wondering who knew they’d be there.”

  “Oh, no,” Dale said. “Well, that’s a real shame. A real shame. Seems like Paradise keeps getting more like the big city. We’ve got an element coming up north . . . but I don’t need to tell you about that.”

  “Up north from Mexico, you mean?” Jim asked.

  “I don’t like to be prejudiced,” Dale said. “But you can’t deny that things have changed. Never used to have to lock a door. Now, you’ve got to watch the job sites like a hawk or tools just walk away.”

  Faye didn’t say anything, but Jim had seen the ladylike gasp and then the smile she’d quickly suppressed. She wasn’t exactly brokenhearted.

  “Well, good news,” Jim said. “I said somebody came to my house. I didn’t say he’d left with the guns. I managed to chase him off.”

  “Oh.” Dale shook his head and gave Jim another little smile. “Guess you were just messing with us there. You got me good. Well, if I couldn’t have them, it’s better that Hallie gets the benefit of them, at least. Family’s family, after all. Did you happen to get a look at the burglar at all?”

  “We have a few leads we’re following up, yes,” Jim said.

  “That’s good, then,” Dale said. “Keep me posted, if you don’t mind. Let me know if you get any closer. I sure hate to think there’s somebody out there ready to pounce on any opportunity like that. Better keep the doors locked, honey,” he told Faye. “And set that alarm.”

  “I’m not the one who doesn’t set it.”

  That got another smile from Dale. “Guilty. Like I say—just can’t get used to changing times. It’s a whole new world.”

  “It can be,” Jim said. “I won’t take any more of your time. Thanks for your help.”

  The next day, he stopped by Bob Jenkins’s office. Covering all the bases.

  “Hi, Jim,” Pam Garrett, the receptionist said. “You looking for Anthea?”

  “Nope,” Jim said. “For Bob, if he’s got a minute.”

  Bob came out of the back five minutes later with a smile and a handshake and ushered Jim to an office dominated by a huge, old-fashioned wooden desk, with a backdrop of floor-to ceiling bookshelves filled with rows of matching law books. Anthea had told him that attorneys mostly looked things up online these days, “but the clients love the books. Makes the bill look less horrifying.”

  “Have a seat,” Bob said. “I’ve got a client coming in ten minutes, I’m afraid, but if it’s a quick question—something about Cole, I assume? I thought Anthea had it pretty much covered, but whatever I can do.” He shook his head of well-barbered gray hair. “Your sister’s a crackerjack, that’s what she is. A crackerjack.”

  “You’re right,” Jim said. “And I think I’m safe leaving all that to her. This is about something else. Hallie Cavanaugh says she told you that I was picking up her dad’s guns. I’d like to know who you told about that.”

  Bob’s expression grew more alert. “Is this an official visit?” He eyed Jim’s blue button-down and Levi’s.

  “No,” Jim said. “Off duty right now. Just a question. Somebody tried to steal those guns on Friday night.”

  “Really. Well, that’s a terrible thing, but I guess you and I both know that some people just run crooked. You said ‘tried,’ though.”

  “That’s right. They didn’t succeed. But you can see why I’d like to track down who knew I was picking them up.”

  Bob lifted his hands from the desk, palms down. “I don’t generally go around shooting my mouth off about my clients’ business. If Hallie already told you she asked me about it, though—yes, I can confirm that. She did.”

  “Did you discuss the guns with Dale Cavanaugh?” Jim asked. “Or his wife?”

  “I think that would fall under the category of ‘client privilege,’” Bob said. “As you’re talking about the division of estate property, and Dale and Faye are beneficiaries—and clients. Maybe you should ask them.”

  “I did that. But you didn’t discuss the guns with anybody else?”

  “Why would I? I can’t say they were of great interest to me.”

  “Really? Not even that Winchester? That’d run you fifteen grand all by itself.”

  Bob’s gaze sharpened. “That was the best gun in the safe?”

  “Why? Was there something else?”

  Bob laughed. “Well—Henry. He was always talking things up. And I probably wasn’t paying much attention, to be frank. I’m more of a golfer, myself. I save my blood lust for legal battles.” He looked at his watch. “So if that’s all—I’ve got that client coming.” Right on cue, the intercom buzzed on his desk phone. “Ah. There you go.”

  Jim didn’t get up quite yet. “Would that have been when you were drafting his new will? I noticed it was dated in this past year.”

  “I don’t recall whether that was the exact visit. Does it matter?”

  “Possibly. I’d like to know what changed in this one, and who knew about those changes.”

  “And that would be something else I couldn’t tell you.” Bob was still genial, but he was standing now. “That pesky attorney-client privilege, you know.”

  “A subpoena could take care of that,” Jim said. “Or you could go on and avoid the formalities and tell me now.”

  “Or I could wait until somebody in uniform comes into my off
ice with a piece of paper signed by a judge. Which I can’t imagine any reason for, so I don’t think either of us should hold our breath.” Bob smiled, and the moment of tension passed. “Hell, Jim. What do you have to worry about? Whoever tried to take those guns—and I can’t believe that was anything but chance, or rather, somebody with a loose grasp on the principle of private property seeing a gun safe sitting, nice and tempting, in the bed of a pickup—bottom line is, you stopped them. Meanwhile, your brother’s coming out of this thing set for life. Why would you worry about what any other will said? The last thing you want is to get any of the other beneficiaries stirred up and thinking they’ve got some kind of contestable grounds. You start talking about a court case, and that money gets eaten right up. Of course, I’d be the one eating it up, so I should be advising the opposite, but whatever you’re thinking—don’t. That won’t have a happy outcome. You wouldn’t want to put Cole or your mother through DNA testing, for example.”

  Bob was still looking pleasant, but Jim wasn’t. “Are you suggesting that DNA testing might bring back some sort of surprise result?” Jim asked. “That my mother was sleeping around?”

  “I’m saying don’t rock the boat,” Bob said. “Your brother’s set, and that’s what matters.”

  MOVING ON

  That was as far as Jim had gotten with the investigation. The guns were sold, Hallie had the money, and he had no real answers, only more questions. Meanwhile, a week later, life was back to normal. Work, home, no further word from Hallie, and no interest in anybody else. And on this Thursday in mid-October, open house at the middle school, which meant an early dinner before he dropped Mac at his mom’s and headed over there.

  They’d made spaghetti squash and tomato sauce with Italian sausage tonight, and he told Mac, “We did good on this.”