Saving the Bride

by Kira Blakely

  The detective puts the picture back in his pocket. “I’m the detective, miss. I’ll ask the questions.”

  I place my hand on my chest. “Sorry. I got worried. There are only of a few us here and I’m well aware the ranch isn’t well-guarded.”

  “I did notice that you don’t have an electric fence.”

  “My dad doesn’t like it.”

  “And that your gate is in need of repair. You might want to fix that.”

  I nod. “I know.”

  “Well, don’t you worry about Chester Donahue.” He takes out his wallet and hands me a card. “If you see him, give me a call, and I’ll pick him up before he causes any trouble.”

  I accept the card. “Sure.”

  “Well, good day.”

  He smiles as he tips his hat then goes back inside his car.

  “Take care,” I call after him, waving.

  He waves back then drives off.

  I go back inside the house, sticking the detective’s calling card on the fridge. Then I rush upstairs, turning on my laptop and immediately typing the name Chester Donahue in the search box.

  I get plenty of results, most of them about different men. One, though, has the same photo Detective Allen showed me.

  Chester W. Donahue, 29, passed away last Tuesday, May 22, of injuries sustained while hiking in the Pryor Mountains. He is survived by his mother and was predeceased by his father, Walter Donahue. Funeral services will be performed at the Silvermist Memorial Park on Monday, May 27.

  I blink. An obituary?

  Closing the page and the laptop, I toss away my apron and head to the bathroom to shower.

  It’s time for me to find the truth about Chase.

  Chapter 8

  Chase

  I lean forward in the driver seat of Isaac’s old pickup truck and adjust the rearview mirror.

  A man with dark sunglasses looks back at me, a pair of big headphones over the black cap and a mustache and a scrawny beard, grown naturally over the course of the past few weeks, coating half of his face.

  I’m wearing a striped, dark blue shirt and a pair of white golf shorts with a black, leather belt.

  It’s not much, but it’s the best disguise I’ve got.

  I used to hate golf and striped shirts so no one I know will suspect me to wear them.

  I peer through the windshield and then out the window.

  It’s a weekday and everyone’s already gone back to work after lunch so the sidewalk isn’t crowded. I don’t see anyone I recognize, either.

  The coast is clear.

  “Here goes nothing.”

  I get out of the truck, close the door and walk to the spot, head bent and hands in my pockets. There isn’t any music coming from the headphones. It’s there because based on my experience, it dissuades strangers from talking. The fewer people I talk to, the better.

  I spot McCormick Café with its blue storefront, posters glued to its glass windows, and potted plants hanging over them.

  I push the wooden door open and step inside, lowering my sunglasses enough to scan the place for my old friend, James. He’s in the corner all the way across the room. I check for anyone I might know. No one.

  Only a few of the other tables are occupied and all by people well over thirty, some men in dress shirts and slacks discussing work, a man in more casual clothes doing something on his laptop, a pair of women with toddlers having a late lunch and an old couple enjoying their coffee.

  Not exactly the crowd I used to hang out with.

  I head over to James across the polished wooden floor, glancing at the menu on the huge pieces of chalkboard on the wall. I pass by the display of fruits and pastries as well, black and silver thermoses, a stack of white mugs, and a gleaming gold coffee machine on the counter.

  I pull out the wooden chair beside James – it faces the wall – and sit down.

  James leans in. “Chester?”

  I slide the headphones down so that they’re hanging around my neck and lower my sunglasses. “It’s me, pal.”

  “Shit,” he mutters. “You look… so uncool.”

  I chuckle. “You’re still as honest as you used to be. And you look great.”

  Compared to me, he does. He’s wearing a gray vest over a white shirt and khaki pants, his black hair still wet from a shower and neatly combed.

  James shrugs. “Well, if you told me to wear a disguise, I would have. I could have borrowed my cousin’s clown costume.”

  “No need for that. All I need to know is that you weren’t followed.”

  “Why would they follow me? Dude, they think you’re dead.”

  Do they? Have I fooled them? Haven’t they discovered that the F-150 is missing from the cabin? Has no one seen it in that ditch where I left it?

  “Besides, we haven’t seen each other in years. We’re not friends on Facebook since I don’t have one and I didn’t even go to your funeral.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Sorry about that.”

  I sit back. “No worries.”

  “Let me get you some coffee. You look like you haven’t had a decent cup in months.”

  I snort.

  “Do you want something to go with it?”

  I look at the menu on the table that’s identical to the one on the chalkboard.

  “Steak and eggs.” I push the menu aside. “I’m starving.”

  “I bet you are.”

  James leaves the table to place the order.

  I pick up the copy of the Billings Gazette on the empty chair and scan the pages.

  There isn’t much in the news – the same ol’ shit about politicians bickering, incidents of hunters attacked by bears or kids getting lost at parks, innocent people robbed and killed, local attractions jazzing up for the summer, local colleges offering summer programs. Nothing new.

  One headline in the business section catches my eye.

  Glacier Pharmaceuticals Seals Partnership with Lincoln Laboratories

  My father disliked that company’s CEO, Harry Lincoln. What did he say? Something about Harry not having any code of honor and sucking at golf?

  I read the first paragraph of the article, finding that my uncle, Terrence Donahue, has taken over the company. Well, even when my father was alive, he was the one at the helm. Still, he respected my father’s wishes and mine. There’s no need to do that now since he thinks we’re both dead.

  I put away the newspaper as James returns to his seat, stuffing his change of bills inside his wallet.

  “Thanks,” I tell him. “I’d pay, but I’m strapped for cash right now.”

  “You don’t say.” He puts his wallet in his pocket. “Chester Donahue, broke?”

  I hold a finger to my lips.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it.” He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It’s about time I pick up the tab.”

  Still, I can’t help but miss the days when I had access to all my bank accounts and could use all my credit cards.

  James is the man I used to be, he has the life I used to have. And damn, I miss it.

  Sure. Life at the ranch has been good. The peace and solitude are relaxing and rejuvenating for the mind and soul. The reprieve from the constant parties and the endless gadgets has given me a chance to think about my life. The fresh air and home-cooked meals are good for the body, the daily tasks more effective than my old routines at the gym.

  It’s a good life. But it’s not the life I chose.

  I’d rather be free, not living under a different name.

  The waitress arrives, setting down my cappuccino and the huge plate of my medium steak with scrambled eggs, toast, and a side of roast potatoes. The beefy aroma wafts into my nostrils and makes my mouth water. I tuck in, starting with a roast potato.

  “Have you found out who tried to kill you?” James whispers.

  “No.” I move on to the eggs, fluffy just how I like them with the right amount of salt. “But I have an idea who.”

  “Who?”

  I show James t
he article I’ve been reading. “Terrence Donahue, my uncle.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “Your uncle?”

  I nod after taking a sip of coffee. “He’s taken over the company. Not only that. He’s been making a lot of changes – deals, partnerships, policies…”

  “He’s giving the company an overhaul.”

  “An unnecessary overhaul,” I remark as I try the steak.

  As soon as I start chewing, its juices explode in my mouth and I grunt.

  Damn. I miss eating steak.

  Isaac may have a herd of cows but he doesn’t eat them. Ironic. I might as well be a cow – I eat mostly vegetables on the ranch.

  “I see what you mean.” James puts the newspaper away. “You’re supposed to own a third of the company, aren’t you? Since your father’s, er…”

  He stops, concern etched into the lines on his face.

  “Suicide,” I supply the word, wiping my mouth with a napkin.

  My father jumped off the balcony of his study a few months ago after having had one glass too many of his favorite Scotch, his final glass shattering with his bones.

  No one can say for certain why he did it since he wasn’t kind enough to leave a note, but my mother and I both concluded that he was probably too stressed from work.

  “It’s okay,” I add. “It’s the truth anyway. And no, I don’t own a third of the company. That’s the thing. I don’t have any shares in the company. My father didn’t trust me enough to leave me with those.”

  “Sorry.”

  I shake my head. “My mom owns half of the company, though, and she was planning on giving her shares to me. She said she didn’t want anything to do with my father’s business when he was alive so why would she now that he’s dead?”

  “I can understand that.” James nods. “So, you were going to own half?”

  “We were still discussing it.” I try more of the steak, with eggs this time. “But if I found out about the deals he made, I would have agreed to take my mother’s shares even if it was to stop him.”

  “So, you’d be in his way?” James takes a sip from his own mug of coffee and leans back in his chair, lifting his hands. “Maybe he found out. Maybe that’s why he tried to kill you.”

  “I’m not sure, though,” I say. “He and my dad were so close and he was more a father to me than my dad was. He was the one who taught me how to ride a bike.”

  James shrugs. “Maybe it was all an act.”

  I shrug. “At any rate, I can’t come back until I know for sure. I need more information.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’d like to find out how my mother is doing, though,” I add. “I’m sure it must be tough for her, losing her husband and now, believing her son is dead. Have you heard anything about her?”

  James pauses, scratching his chin. “Come to think of it, I haven’t.”

  “You haven’t?” My eyebrows furrow.

  He shakes his head. “Not a thing.”

  “That’s strange.” I stop eating, tapping a finger on the table. “It’s not like her to be quiet.”

  She’s always loved parties. Maybe that’s something I got from her. Of course, her parties are classier, with richer, more important people, even celebrities, and more expensive liquor.

  “Wait. Let me do a quick check.”

  James takes out his phone, tapping the screen several times with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “Nope. There isn’t anything recent about Elsa Donahue. No Tweets or Facebook posts, either.”

  I cock my head to the side. “You follow her on social media?”

  “My sister does. She’s a fan, says Elsa Donahue wears the most glamorous clothes.”

  “That she does,” I agree.

  Even at Dad’s funeral, she was wearing a chic black and white dress by Valentino, though I can no longer remember what she wore to mine.

  James puts away his phone. “Sorry, bro, but there’s nothing about her.”

  This isn’t like her. Something’s happened.

  “Maybe she’s mourning,” James suggests.

  Maybe. But even after Dad died, she still went to visit her charities. She said they gave her comfort.

  “By the way…” He hands me a burner phone. “Here’s what you requested.”

  “Thanks.” I slip it into my pocket. “Do you think you can do one more thing for me?”

  “Yeah. Sure. What is it?”

  “Can you drop by the house and check on Elsa? I’m worried about her.”

  “Of course. I’ll call you and let you know all about it.”

  “Thanks, James.” I place a hand on his shoulder. “I owe you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I finish eating the rest of my food quickly, then I gulp down my coffee, wipe my mouth, and get up.

  “I have to go.” I pat James on the back. “But I’m glad we met up.”

  “Me, too.” James stands up and gives me a hug. “Take care.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  I walk toward the entrance, slowing down as I notice that there’s a new customer – a woman with oversized sunglasses and a scarf over her head, the lower half of her face concealed behind a copy of Vogue.

  I recognize her but shake my head. There’s no way an acquaintance of mine would be dressed like that or be in a place like this.

  I walk out the door and hit the sidewalk. Something familiar about her – what was it?

  Chapter 9

  Lauren

  I watch Chase walk out of the McCormick Café and put down the magazine.

  For a moment there, I thought he’d recognize me.

  It’s a miracle he didn’t walk right over to me and take off my sunglasses, which look even more ridiculous than his, but I’m glad he didn’t.

  I wipe the sweat from my brow and reach for my glass of freshly squeezed lemonade, take a gulp.

  My disguise worked, but I still feel stupid, maybe more so than when I first put on my mother’s old scarf.

  What on earth am I doing in this quaint little café in Billings dressed like an extinct movie star and acting like a poorly trained spy?

  I almost gave up. When I got to Billings and realized how big the city was, I almost headed back to the ranch. When I couldn’t find any sign of Chase after an hour of driving up and down streets aimlessly like some lost, little girl, I was ready to quit.

  But then Chase exited Dad’s truck and I steeled my nerves, followed him right into this café. I picked a table just a few feet away so that I could eavesdrop on whatever conversation he’d have.

  I didn’t hear much, the women at the table next to me too noisy. All I heard was the name Elsa Donahue, who I’m guessing must be Chase’s mother. The obituary didn’t mention a wife, after all, and I’m relieved.

  I set aside my feelings, though, try to keep my head straight.

  Donahue, huh? So that is his real last name.

  The guy Chase spoke to is busy on his phone. James. That was what Chase called him. He looks about the same age as Chase but he’s not as toned or as handsome.

  Who is he? A friend?

  If he is, then he must be someone Chase trusts because he came all the way here to meet him and he gave chase a phone. He definitely doesn’t look like a brother since his hair is dark and Chase’s is light, plus their features have completely different profiles, Chase’s sharper, more masculine. They could be cousins, though.

  He may have all the answers I’m looking for. But I don’t have the courage or the conviction that it’s the right decision and while I’m still trying to build both, his phone call ends and he stands up.

  Acting on instinct, I stand up and go after James. As he goes down the sidewalk, I walk behind him, keeping myself a short distance away, not too close as to arouse suspicion but not too far that I might risk losing him.

  He slips into the driver’s seat of his Honda Civic. I look across the street at my car, but it’s too far away. I hail a cab, tel
l the driver to follow it, instead.

  The driver, a man with silver streaks in his brown hair, hesitates but complies after I hand him a five-dollar bill.

  The cab follows the blue Civic down Montana Avenue and across another street. I sit in the backseat, gripping my purse in my lap and holding my breath.

  After a few minutes, the passing buildings beyond the window vanish, giving way to rows of cookie-cutter houses, each with a light gray facade, a dark gray roof, and a lone shrub on its tiny front lawn. The only difference is that some have pools in the front yard, kids splashing around in them. Others have grills while some have cars out in the driveway.

  I thought one of these houses belonged to James but apparently, I’m wrong, the suburbs soon fall behind us, tall trees on either side of the road. The traffic disappears as well, along with all the noise. All that’s left now is James’ car and the cab heading down a winding, desolate road toward the mountains, the leaves of the trees rustling in the breeze.

  Where are we going?

  Finally, after countless turns, the Civic goes down a private road, paved still but smaller.

  The cab stops.

  “I’m not going there,” says the driver, shaking his head. “The Donahues won’t take kindly to anyone who trespasses on their property.”

  My eyes grow wide. The Donahues?

  I lean forward. “This is the way to the Donahue residence?”

  The driver nods.

  I look out the window but all are trees.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Sure as hell,” he answers. “I read about them all the time in the papers. They’re the richest family in Billings, maybe one of the wealthiest this side of the Mississippi. Surely, you’ve heard about them.”

  I shake my head, my eyes still gazing into the distance. “No.”

  Chase is from one of the wealthiest families in America?

  “Well, are you going down or should I take you back to town?”

  “Do you think you could wait for me?”

  He turns to me, places his arm around the back of the passenger seat. “Listen, lady, I’ve got other places to be. If you need a ride home later, use Uber.”

  Right.