“I’m sure they’re busy enough as it is,” he said finally. “And what are they going to do? A little vandalism won’t warrant some big investigation.”
“I think there’s more to all of this than just that.” She regarded him for a long moment. “Since I moved to town, two deputies and a teacher have hinted that I should be worried about living here. I ignored them, because I think you and your sister seem like nice people. But now Robbie and Danny’s mom acted like she didn’t want them to ever come out here, no matter what. So what’s going on?”
No wonder she hadn’t packed her bags and fled to town after her first day here. She didn’t know.
“Well?”
He felt the old, familiar weight of sadness and regrets crush his heart. “Probably because everyone in the county, barring a few jurors, still believes I murdered Sheryl Colwell.”
FOUR
“W-who was Sheryl Colwell?” Carrie stared at Logan, still not believing what he’d just said. Murder?
That he’d been tried in a court of law meant there had been evidence. Good evidence. And that the sheriff’s department and district attorney had been convinced of his guilt. From the oblique warnings she’d received, at least two deputies still believed he was a dangerous man. Had she been living this close to a cold-blooded killer? Chatting casually with a man capable of violence?
And he knew exactly how alone she was out here, on these long, cold Montana nights.
Logan’s expression turned stoic, as if he knew she was judging him and had already found him guilty. “Sheryl was a nice lady, far as I know. Thirty-two, with a husband and son.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “Is her son Noah Colwell?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve had him in class a whole week and didn’t know anything about it. Poor boy—I have yet to hear him say a word in class. I just thought he was shy.” She felt her heart squeeze at the thought of all Noah had been through. “No wonder he’s so withdrawn.”
“His father has been intensely protective of the kid ever since. His sister came to live with them, since he has to travel quite a bit. He’s sometimes gone for weeks at a time.”
“That’s awful.”
Logan stared off at some distant point on the horizon, his voice flat and emotionless. “It was all part of the prosecution’s summation—how an innocent young child lost his mother due to one heinous act of violence, and has an even more disrupted family life because of his dad’s absences as a long-haul trucker. The attorney made it clear just how traumatized the boy was—to the point that he had barely spoken after his mom’s death. And maybe that was all true. But someone else killed her.”
She searched his face, trying to find the truth in his words. Wondering what she should believe. “If you were acquitted, why would those deputies still think you’re guilty?”
“Frankly, I don’t know why they ever thought so in the first place.”
The logical, practical side of her urged her to grab her keys and flee to the safety of Granite Falls. A growing feeling in her heart told her that this man couldn’t possibly be guilty of such a terrible crime. “But it’s over now, right?”
“Not at all.” He wearily shook his head. “I think the sheriff figured it was an easy, high-profile case, and expected it to wrap up with a nice, tidy conviction just before reelection time. Instead, my lawyer proved reasonable doubt and made him and his department appear inept. Which was true.”
“And the locals…”
“Some still figure this was just one more case where a crooked lawyer managed to set a killer free. Small-town gossip just doesn’t die.”
“I know. I grew up near a small town like this one, and memories run deep. As in, ‘Jane Doe? Oh, yeah—she’s the one whose mother had the affair with that doctor over in Evansville back in 1982.’” Carrie faltered to a stop as heat started creeping up the back of her neck. Way to go…now you’re babbling. “Uh, well…some things just brand you for life in a small town.”
As if he didn’t already know that from recent, bitter experience—a fact that he’d made perfectly clear. Even more embarrassed, she clamped her mouth shut.
He met her gaze squarely, as if he’d just read her thoughts, a muscle ticking along the side of his jaw. “If you want to tear up your lease contract, I’ll refund the deposit. But if you have any questions that could help set your mind at ease, fire away.”
“How well did you know Sheryl?”
“We ran into each other on Main Street now and then, and she came out for a couple of float trips. Once with her boy, then she came again alone. That’s it. End of story. We were just casual acquaintances. And on both raft trips there was a full load of passengers—tourists from all over the country, so neither trip included the intimate interlude that the prosecutor implied.”
“You were the guide?”
“Just by chance, both times. Tina hadn’t finished her training and safety certification yet.”
“So…what was Sheryl like?”
“As I said, she was a nice lady. Quiet. I don’t think she asked a single question during either trip. In fact, she seemed a little scared of the water. And when we beached the raft at our midway point for a riverside lunch, the other passengers took a hike up to Badger Peak rather than take time to eat. She was the only one who stayed behind, and she read a book the whole time. Said she didn’t like heights.”
“I suppose the other passengers were questioned, and said you two had…plenty of time alone together.”
“Right. The prosecutor tried to prove it was the start of an ongoing affair, if that’s what you’re getting at it.” Logan snorted. “So given the supposed affair, she later committed suicide? Or I killed her in a jealous rage because she wouldn’t leave her husband? None of that makes sense.”
“And if there was no proof—”
“Oh, there was ‘proof’ all right. An imprint of a Chaco sandal near where she fell off the cliff. In my size…as if most outdoors enthusiasts around here don’t wear that kind of sandal.”
“That’s it?”
“A scout troop saw me in the area earlier, while they were out working on a hiking badge.” He heaved a sigh. “I was out hiking myself. And since I was up in the mountains alone most of the day, I had no alibi for the hours in question. A witness claimed Sheryl said she’d been seeing me on the sly. There was more, but none of it was true.”
Carrie had watched enough old Law & Order reruns to know that some serial killers possessed enough charm to gain their victims’ confidence. But if Logan was lying about this, he was incredibly good at it. Even with her gaze riveted on his face she hadn’t seen so much as a flicker of guilt or deceit.
“I guess…I just don’t know what to say,” she said finally.
“All I know is that I’m innocent, and that I’m not going to stop searching until I find the guy who did kill her.” A corner of his mouth lifted wryly. “Though there’s a saying about how there are no guilty prisoners on death row, so I guess you’ll have to decide for yourself just what you want to believe.”
Before talking to Logan on Saturday, Carrie would’ve automatically believed the sheriff’s department over a claim of innocence by a man she barely knew.
Yet she’d already seen Logan’s gentleness with the local kids and his teasing banter with Penny. His wry, self-deprecating humor and quiet sense of honor. She’d been drawn to him for those very reasons, and that feeling had grown with every passing day.
Those surely couldn’t be traits of a killer.
All day Sunday she’d been able to think of nothing else. Wavering from one hour to the next as to whether or not she’d be wise to just leave. Praying for guidance.
And then, in the evening, she’d happened to look down from her apartment window to find Logan sitting on the open tailgate of the company pickup with his head bowed, one arm draped around the dog sitting at his side. Penny was there, too, her hand on his shoulder and her own head bowed.
; Carrie had no delusions about the fact that even the worst of sinners might pray for forgiveness. And should. Yet the closeness of that scene, and the obvious love Penny had for her brother, touched Carrie’s heart in a way all of the logical thinking in the world had not.
If Logan had been shunned by this town for something he hadn’t done, how could she do the same?
She jerked her attention back to her classroom, hit the off button on the TV remote, and popped the DVD out of the player. It was her favorite—a depiction of the American cowboy as portrayed in paintings and sculpture by Remington.
“So,” she said with a smile, “how did Remington’s subjects differ from the ranches and cowboys we see today?”
Seven pairs of eyes stared blankly at her, quiet and obedient, while in one corner of the room, Noah Colwell silently stared down at the top of his desk, his thin shoulders hunched. In the other back corner, the Nelson twins looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
“Austin?”
That earned a guilty glance from the twin who seemed quieter, and snickers from his brother—who was her most likely candidate as creator of the violent drawings left on her desk on Monday, and again today.
“Dylan?”
His snickers died as Dylan silently lifted his chin in subtle defiance.
“Does anyone here live on a ranch?” She scanned the room. Two girls raised tentative hands. There were at least four others, out of the twelve students in her class, but no one else volunteered a hand. “Well, I’ll bet all of you have seen ranchers and cowhands come into town. Are their hats just the same now as they were back in the days of the Wild West? How about their chaps, and their saddles?”
The students seemed to collectively slide down in their chairs and avoid meeting her eyes. Not unexpected, she realized with an inward smile. Middle school was such a tender time for being easily mortified by unwanted attention or, worse, saying something that might make classmates scoff.
“Well, our next project will be creating either a watercolor or acrylic painting in the style of Remington, but with the cowboys wearing modern-day apparel and using present-day equipment. So think hard on it overnight, and we’ll see you here tomorrow.” All twelve students scrambled to their feet and bolted for freedom.
One, a beautiful Latina with shimmering hair that swung down her back to her waist, hesitated when she reached the door. “I won’t be in class the rest of the week,” she said with a shy duck of her head. “Can I do a makeup assignment for anything I miss?”
“No problem, Isabella. We can talk about it when you get back.”
The girl flashed a smile and joined the melee of students in the hallway.
Marie Colbert made her way through the crowd to join Carrie. “Is it only Monday? I, for one, need to find a place to put my feet up for a while.”
“More experiments?”
“Every day.” She blew at the bangs drooping over one eye. “I need to keep the scalawags occupied or there’ll be an uprising. How about you?”
Carrie glanced over her shoulder toward her own classroom. “Do you have a minute?”
Marie shrugged and followed her inside. “What’s up?”
“Hold on.” Carrie walked the perimeter of the room, scanning the counters, bookshelves and desktops, her heart lifting with relief. All clear.
But at her desk, she sighed and reached for an unfamiliar sheet of paper that had apparently been left facedown on one corner while her back was turned. “Another. I’d hoped there wouldn’t be.”
“Another what?” Marie joined her, craning her neck to see the paper Carrie held in her hands.
“I got distracted by Isabella’s question and I didn’t see who left this, but this makes three of these pictures so far. Two of them today. I have yet to figure out who the artist is.”
Marie gave her a curious look. “It still looks like the usual boy stuff, to me. Weapons. Mayhem. Explosions.”
“Right. But look closer at the nightmarish quality. The suffering. Just like the first one I showed you.”
Carrie handed her the picture and leaned over to retrieve a manila folder from her top left desk drawer. She opened it and spread the other two drawings out on her desk. “The child still leaves them secretly, so I won’t know who it is.”
“Strange gifts,” Marie admitted.
“They aren’t gifts. Not really. I’m afraid they’re a message—like a call for help, or something.”
Marie rolled her eyes. “And I think you might be the one with the overactive imagination. Believe me—I see this kind of stuff doodled on assignments all the time.”
“I have, too. But look at all these slashing lines and the detail. And why are they being left anonymously for a teacher? I’m worried that they’re either from a child who’s living in a violent situation, or even a child filled with a lot of rage.”
Marie pursed her lips. “I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“Why would a child spend so much time on them and then leave them for me to find, if it wasn’t some sort of message? I know young boys like to draw stuff like this. But not to this extent.”
“Maybe this kid is just proud of his drawings and wants recognition.”
“If that was the case, he’d sign them.”
“Unless he’s a little shy. Maybe he’s waiting to see a positive reaction before coming forward.”
Carrie suppressed a shudder. “I don’t think that’s it.”
“I’d forget about it, if I were you.” Marie patted Carrie’s hand. “Toss them all and forget about it.”
“Maybe Principal Grover—”
“Just drop it. I know the kids in your class. Some come from broken homes. A few have had some troubles, and a few tend to cause it. But there’s nothing to get all ruffled over and I’m sure Ed would say the same thing.” Marie’s voice lowered. “And honestly, he gets impatient with inexperienced teachers because he’d rather not be bothered with all of this inconsequential stuff.”
Inconsequential? Carrie bit back a sharp reply. “I think I need to start going through some of their school files, and wonder if you can give me some ideas on where to start. Noah seems like my best bet. What do you think?”
“Just because he lost his mom? No…he was a very quiet child before her death, and he’s got a very protective dad and an aunt who moved into the family home to give him more stability.” She fiddled with the ring of keys in her hand. “They’ve had him in counseling ever since, or so I’ve heard…so he should have a lot of support. Anyway, I can’t see a shy boy like him getting into all of this…this artistic carnage.”
“The Nelson twins, then? And Ashley has a surly attitude like no other. Maybe I’m wrong, but the others just don’t seem like possibilities.”
Marie’s mouth flattened. “Look, hon. I’m trying to tell you something here. This isn’t a big deal. And we’re teaching ‘summer enrichment,’ not part of the formal school calendar. Far as I’m concerned, we’re providing free child care and entertainment for the summer.”
“But—”
“Normal kid stuff. Nothing more.” Marie waggled her fingertips as she headed for the door. “Just a word to the wise, as they say—especially since you’re new on board. When it comes time for contract renewals every spring, well…squeaky wheels sometimes end up rolling right out of town.”
“Squeaky wheels. Was that why there was an opening for a teacher here? Someone else cared enough to buck the system in some way and found herself packing?”
Marie turned back at the doorway and glared at her. “Whoa. You aren’t the only one who cares about these kids, and you’re taking this way too far.”
“I…I’m sorry. Of course you care. I didn’t mean to slam everyone here.” Carrie bit her lower lip. “But I just have to wonder if this is one way that school violence takes place—when no one bothers to watch out for the troubled kids who need help?”
“If that were the case here, but it’s not. When you get a few years under your be
lt, you’ll have a more balanced view, believe me.” Marie held a hand up and fluttered her fingertips and she left the room.
Gripping the edge of her desk with both hands, Carrie watched her leave, and then she dropped her gaze to the pictures. Marie was wrong.
In two of the pictures, bare tree limbs clawed at a turbulent sky, rising from a dead tree. A raging, crimson river—of blood?—slammed against its rocky banks and shot over massive boulders in its path. There seemed to be some sort of war scene on the other side, with people fighting with cannon and swords and guns, and mutilated bodies strewn on the ground.
Someone had taken hours to achieve this degree of detail, and she’d stake her teaching certificate on the fact that he was a troubled child reaching out for help.
She closed her eyes and reviewed those last few moments of the class period when the students had charged for the door, and tried to picture who might be the most likely suspects.
Marie hadn’t appeared concerned about anyone in the class, but the Nelson twins were certainly a rambunctious pair. The wicked gleam in Dylan’s eyes promised trouble and she could easily guess that his more timid brother was probably on board with whatever Dylan dreamed up. Their mother didn’t exactly look like the other parents who waited in cars outside the school, either, with her Gabby’s Tavern T-shirts, frowsy blond hair and the tattoos crawling up both arms. To have that same T-shirt in several colors probably meant she waitressed there, and she certainly looked like she could take on someone in a bar fight and hold her own.
So what kind of home life did she provide for her boys?
Then there was Ashley—who sat silently at her desk, making minimal effort and exuding the air of a child who wanted to be any place other than school. Yet her perpetual sulky pout and frequent bored sighs didn’t seem like the attitude of someone who would draw violent scenes and hide them around the classroom.
Murder at Granite Falls Page 5