Danger in Deer Ridge (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

EP: Sorry I’m late.

  She barely breathed as she waited for a reply. Grace had explained the system. Although they could chat live, messages would be stored, so if either of them wasn’t available, they could pick up what they missed. And she had to trust Grace’s assurance that they were the only two people with access to this system, as long as she didn’t reveal her password. Had Grace waited? She exhaled when the screen flashed that Grace was typing.

  GE: Understood

  Maybe nobody else could see the messages, but Elizabeth tried to compose her questions and responses so they appeared to be casual conversation.

  EP: Is everything going well?

  GE: Yes, fine. 2 job possibilities lined up.

  So soon? She was barely settled in. But a normal single mom, unless she had an outside source of income, would have to work. She thought about the shoebox with the treasures she’d hidden away. Should she mention them to Grace? She would know how to handle it. But the last thing Elizabeth needed was to set off red flags. Red skyrockets, more likely.

  EP: Can’t leave Will until school starts.

  GE: Part time. You should be able to work out details.

  Elizabeth copied down the information Grace provided, and arranged for another chat in three days’ time. She was about to log off, but the screen indicated Grace was typing another message. Elizabeth waited. Will was in concentration mode, pencil to paper, top teeth biting bottom lip.

  GE: Remember: Do things you wouldn’t have done before. Break patterns.

  EP: I’m trying.

  GE: How is Will’s health?

  EP: Fine. Why?

  She couldn’t imagine why Grace had asked, unless it was part of the trying-to-look-like-everyday conversation thing.

  GE: Possible connection. Unlikely, but be aware.

  Elizabeth realized she was chewing her lip the way Will was. She wiped her mouth with her napkin, hoping she’d hid the gesture. Another habit to break. She stared at the screen for a moment, then cast her eyes around the café. Everyone seemed engrossed in their own meals and conversation. Enough of being cryptic. She started typing.

  EP: You mean someone might be looking for a boy who had heart surgery?

  GE: Long shot, but possible. Medical records should be confidential.

  EP: What do I do? He’ll need checkups, and what if he gets sick? I can’t deny him a doctor’s care.

  GE: Of course not. For now, remind him not to share that information with friends. Children talk.

  Elizabeth promised to do so, then signed off. She remembered to clear her browsing history and powered off the laptop. “Time for lunch, Will. What did you decide?”

  As if she needed to ask.

  She stood in line waiting to order a grilled cheese sandwich for Will and a turkey club for herself, once again noticing how cheerful the staff was despite the lunch rush. But this wasn’t one of the job prospects Grace had given her. Of course not—if Victor knew one thing about her, it was that she loved cooking and was damn good at it.

  She placed her order. When she turned, Will was talking to a man she didn’t recognize. He was bent over the table, apparently discussing whatever Will had drawn. A red knit watch cap was crammed into the hip pocket of his jeans.

  Somehow she managed to refrain from racing across the café, knocking over everything in her way. She strode to the table and stuck a normal mom expression on her face. Nowadays, a mom had a right to be concerned if her child was talking to a stranger, right? She cleared her throat. The man turned and smiled.

  “I hope you don’t mind, ma’am. This your boy? I was admiring his artwork.”

  “He said he’d let me draw his truck someday, Mom.”

  “Butch Logan.” He reached for his pocket and Elizabeth stiffened. He handed her a business card. “I’m new here. I’d be happy to give you a free consultation. No obligation, of course.”

  She turned the card over in her hand several times before reading it. Logan Landscaping.

  “Um … Thank you. We’re renting, but I’ll let the owners know.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Between the water restrictions and the deer eating everything, most folks seem to ignore their plants. I hope I can show them there are ways to work with nature, not fight her.”

  She finally allowed her gaze to rise. Keeping her head down wasn’t exactly the best way to be observant. She smiled as she took in his features. Light brown eyes. Tanned skin. Sun-bleached hair curled around his ears. Wide mouth, easy grin.

  “I’m sure you’ll do well, Mr. Logan.”

  He extended his hand. She took it. His grip was firm. His hands were rough, like those of someone who worked with them.

  A server approached. “Grilled cheese and turkey club.”

  Elizabeth acknowledged the order. As the server set down their plates, Elizabeth gave Mr. Logan a polite, We’d like to have our lunch now, nod of dismissal.

  Grateful that he understood and left, she sat. Will carefully closed his drawing pad and set it away from his food. Elizabeth took a sip of her lemonade to moisten her dry mouth. And three deep breaths before she spoke to Will. She kept her voice low against potential eavesdroppers. “What were you doing? Have you forgotten about not talking to strangers, especially when I’m not here?”

  Will’s eyes popped open. He stopped mid-bite and put his sandwich down. Her volume might have been low, but he hadn’t missed the intensity behind it. “He liked my picture, Mom. I had to say thank you, right?” A bit of eight-year-old defiance crept into his expression. “And I didn’t tell him my name. Or where I live. I know the rules. But aren’t we supposed to be polite?”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  Will took a bite of his sandwich. Chewed. She saw his mind replaying everything. He swallowed. Wiped his mouth. She tamped back her impatience.

  “I was drawing. He came by and stopped for a second. Then he said, ‘That’s very good.’ I said ‘Thank you.’ Then he said, ‘Do you draw a lot? Can I see something else?’ So I showed him my other pictures. He saw the picture I tried to draw of his truck and said if I wanted, he would let me draw it from all around, and then you came over.” His eyes defied her to find something wrong in what he’d done.

  And she couldn’t. It was hard enough on him, having to live the lies of omission she’d drilled into him. “He didn’t ask where you lived, did he? Or offer to take you for a ride?”

  Will shook his head. “I know not to get in a car—or a truck—with a stranger. And he didn’t ask where I live. I thought he’d let me draw it while he was eating lunch. You know, in the parking lot. I was trying to draw it from here, but I can’t see it good—well.” He gazed at her with those round, puppy-dog eyes. “He’s a nice man, Mom.”

  “He probably is. And I’d love to see your pictures.”

  Will nodded, absorbed in his sandwich. She dragged the tablet across the table. Chatting with Grace had spooked her even more. Had Will drawn anything that might be a link Victor could follow?

  She flipped through the pictures she’d already seen. Deer. More deer. An attempt at birds. Beneath that was the picture of Reggie she’d suggested he give to Dylan, apparently forgotten. The last drawing was indeed a pencil sketch of a pickup truck. She couldn’t tell one type from another—one more thing to learn, since half the vehicles around here were pickups, and most of the rest were SUVs. But he’d drawn the Ford logo on the grill. She did another scan of the room and when she saw Mr. Logan in line, she looked out the window. His red truck was clearly visible from their table, and Dylan had done an excellent job capturing it. She closed the tablet.

  “Good job. I’ll bet when you add the color, it’ll look exactly like Mr. Logan’s truck, even without being close to it.”

  He shrugged. “I’d like to see it better.”

  “Another time, maybe. Are you finished?”

  Will crammed the last bite of sandwich into his mouth, then washed it down with the rest of his lemonade. “All done.”

  Elizab
eth didn’t see any indication she should bus their own table. Instead, she saw Mr. Logan seated behind her, watching. When he noticed, he quickly returned to his meal.

  She wondered if Grace could do some kind of a background check, or whatever you did to find out who someone really was.

  She stopped short at the realization that she had described her own situation. What if Victor had someone like Grace hunting for her? Collecting her thoughts, she hurried after Will. They were going to have a serious discussion on the ride home.

  * * * * *

  Grinch plopped a bowl of SpaghettiO’s in front of Dylan. When the boy picked up a spoon and started shoveling lunch into his mouth, Grinch grabbed his phone and punched in Jinx’s number.

  “Jinx. Forgot to ask about the plate. Did you get anything?”

  “Yes and no. Or good news, bad news. How do you want it?”

  Grinch glanced at Dylan, who was eyeing him with a You’re ignoring me gaze. “Either way. Cut to the chase.” He poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table across from Dylan. “I’m having lunch with my kid.”

  “Got it. Sorry. Not used to you being a parental unit. We got a hit on the plate. That’s the good news. The bad news is that it’s a rental. And we can’t go any further without a warrant, which we have no grounds for, even if we were actually law enforcement, which we’re not.”

  “In other words, a dead-end.”

  “Sorry. Keep an eye on your email. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Aware of Dylan’s skeptical gaze, Grinch put the phone in its cradle, dumped the rest of the pasta rounds into a bowl and sat. “Good stuff.” In fact, compared to field rations or foraging for lizards and snakes on an op gone south, it was damn good.

  Dylan smiled and went back to eating.

  “So, sport, what do you want to do after lunch?”

  Grinch cracked the cap of a beer and parked himself in front of his computer. Maybe he and Dylan were making some headway with their new relationship. They’d engaged Chester in some serious ball retrieval, had searched the property for evidence of deer—a new talent acquired from his hour with Will—and had worked on some football skills. He smiled. The kid had potential.

  And now Dylan was in his room building something with his Lego set. Grinch had suggested that they each needed some “private time,” and was gratified when Dylan agreed cheerfully. Or had it been the promise of going out for a burger and ice cream later? Didn’t matter. The boy’s entire demeanor was shifting, and Grinch had two hours to himself. A thirty-six-year-old man couldn’t spend his entire day with a five-year-old. Or vice-versa.

  He opened the emails from Jinx and hit print. Taking the printouts and his beer to the couch, he turned on the television. Fifth inning. The Rockies were behind, six-two. He turned the volume down and started reading.

  The medical records turned his stomach. Elizabeth’s scumbag husband had apparently used her as an outlet for his frustrations, whatever they happened to be. His short time with her had convinced him she hadn’t deserved any of the twelve visits to ten different emergency rooms in four cities. And who knew how many injuries had gone unreported.

  He clenched the beer bottle and flipped to the next page. A summary of newspaper and magazine articles, along with photos. Victor Vaughn, prominent businessman. Playing tennis. Holding awards. Shaking hands with local politicians and other prominent businessmen. Doting wife at his side.

  Grinch squinted at the photos, trying to see the society woman as Elizabeth Parker. Based on these pictures, he’d never peg the women as one and the same. His curiosity piqued, he went to his computer and followed the links to better versions of the images.

  If Grace Ellsworth was responsible for the transformation, she’d done an excellent job. He doubted he’d believe Elizabeth had once been Julie Ann. Short, with her expensively styled strawberry blonde hair wisping around her face, impeccably made up, dressed to show off her petite yet curvaceous figure.

  He visualized the woman he’d met as Elizabeth Parker. No makeup, brown hair pulled back or tucked under a cap. Nothing remarkable, nothing to attract attention one way or the other. It would take a trained eye—a very trained eye—and a very up-close-and-personal look at Elizabeth to suspect she was the woman in these old photos. Exactly the way to disappear.

  According to what Jinx provided, Julie Ann Vaughn had run away from her husband, taking their son, Will. She’d gone totally off the radar until she’d shown up at Grace Ellsworth’s house and left as Elizabeth Parker.

  He checked his printouts. The public records told another story.

  An obituary. Julie Ann Vaughn and her son Will, according to reports, had been involved in a car accident. A car registered in her name had careened off the road on the coast highway in northern Oregon. Both occupants had drowned.

  Jinx had sent copies of the police reports. Mangled, bloated bodies, but enough evidence to identify them as Julie Ann and her son. Knowing Blackthorne’s ability to spin things, Grinch wondered if the report had been … enhanced.

  Vaughn had claimed they had gone to visit relatives. For a brief time, he’d been a suspect, but local law enforcement had gone through the motions and accepted his story. The bodies had been released to the husband, and they’d been buried in the Vaughn family plot.

  Nobody turned a new identity around overnight. Not for a naïve woman and an eight-year-old. He wondered how long Julie Ann had been gone before her so-called accident. And when she’d shown up at Grace Ellsworth’s. And how she’d gotten there. It wasn’t like she’d wandered into a Blackthorne safe house on her own.

  And why had she shown up here? It seemed too damn convenient that she ended up five miles away from where he lived. Especially since he hadn’t lived here in years—this had been his parents’ place until they’d decided to abandon the homestead and hit the road. Or the seas. And the tracks. They’d sold the small rancho’s livestock and were now gallivanting around the globe. Last he’d heard from them, they were on some kind of a cruise around the Galapagos.

  They’d been delighted to hear they’d re-inherited their grandson, but not delighted enough to rush home to Colorado. He couldn’t blame them. No reason for them to cut short living their dream to bail him out. His ex had made it clear she wanted all ties to any part of his family severed, and he’d gone along with it—plus his work for Blackthorne had made home visits few and far between.

  Grinch scanned the pages again, then re-checked Jinx’s email. He slapped the papers into a file folder and picked up the phone. Jinx answered on the first ring.

  “Where’s the report from Grace Ellsworth?”

  “I told you, she stays on the sidelines. Or under the sidelines. Hell, Grinch, she was a spy in World War II.”

  “I need more. I want to talk to her.”

  “You think I have her direct number? Get real.”

  “Use whatever channels you have. Give her my number. Set up a message board. Ask her to set up a message board. Just get me in touch with her. If I’m supposed to be working, I’m not doing it without more information. Like am I a bodyguard or a babysitter? And why? And what else have you got on the husband?”

  The prolonged silence chilled Grinch to his toes. “There’s more, isn’t there?” More silence. Remembering Dylan, Grinch kept his voice low. “Either you tell me, the old man tells me, or Grace Ellsworth tells me. Or I’m finished. I said it before. If this is a genuine op, send in someone who can work it full time.”

  After cutting the connection, Grinch shoved the paperwork into a drawer, grabbed another beer and flopped on the couch in front of the television. Rockies were still behind, seven-five. Half an hour later, the Rockies had come back. Bottom of the ninth. Rockies at bat. Score tied, two men on, two outs.

  He almost ignored the ringing phone. One eye on the screen, he grabbed the handset. “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Grinciewicz? This is Grace Ellsworth. I understand you want to talk to me.”

  Chapter 9

  “Mom! So
meone’s at the door!”

  Elizabeth rushed up the stairs from the basement laundry room, calling, “Did you see who it is?”

  “No, I heard the knocking.”

  Which she hadn’t noticed over the sounds of washer and dryer. Was that a potential problem? Someone could sneak up and she wouldn’t know. “Don’t open it.”

  “M-o-m,” Will said. “I know, I know. Stay in my room.”

  She heard his door slam. They’d gone over the rules again on the ride home from lunch, but she wasn’t sure Will understood the consequences of even a small slip.

  She peered through the kitchen window and saw Butch Logan’s pickup truck at the bottom of the drive. A glance through the light pane on the front door revealed a large plant, apparently hovering in mid-air. She opened the door, and Butch Logan poked his head around the pot of greenery.

  “Hi,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by unannounced, but I wanted to give you this. Consider it a housewarming gift.”

  She fingered the oval green leaves and tiny yellow flowers. “What is it?”

  “A Siberian peashrub. Caragana arborescen, if you want to get technical.”

  “It’s lovely, but a gift isn’t necessary.”

  “My pleasure, although I’ll confess to an ulterior motive.”

  What motive? Her heart jumped. She shifted into what she considered her social mode. How many dreary events had she endured as the loving wife of Victor? She knew how to be polite, how to pretend to listen to boring conversation, and how to excuse herself when she couldn’t tolerate any more. Not that there was anywhere to go with Mr. Logan on her porch. She gave him a polite smile. “What would that be?”

  “If you’ll let me plant it—and a few more—it’ll be good advertising for my business.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a smart idea. I’m not much of a gardener. I’m afraid dead plants won’t have customers seeking your services.”

  He chuckled. “That’s not a problem. I specialize in xeriscaping.”

  “What’s xeriscaping? Sounds complicated.”