Quinn Security

by Dee Bridgnorth

  “I’ve lost everything! Everything!” she cried, overwhelmed with sudden emotion. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to do with myself! Jake was all I had and my store was my pride and joy! I have nothing!”

  Adelaide collapsed into a hunched ball of tears and Dean placed his hand on her quavering shoulder to soothe and comfort her.

  “I’m inclined to believe,” Rachel stated in a kind tone, “that whoever killed your son also set the fire. I need to know, Adelaide, if anyone has it in for you.”

  Dean spoke, advocating for his client’s state of emotion. “Can we continue this another time? She’s in no shape to talk.”

  Conor watched Rachel press her mouth into a buttoned, frustrated line.

  “Of course,” she told him, having tempered her own emotions. “Would you call us if she thinks of anything? Anything at all?”

  “I will,” he confirmed, and Rachel again apologized for Adelaide’s loss and then started through the little, homey cottage.

  When she and Conor got outside, she said, “Something tells me that exploring the insurance angle is going to reveal critical information. I just hope Friendly hasn’t beaten me to the punch.”

  ***

  Inside of his office at the stationhouse, Rick gritted his teeth, molars clenching hard, as he stared down into his desk drawer where the key to Adelaide’s souvenir shop should have been.

  It wasn’t there. There was a ring of dust outlining where the key should’ve been, and he tried to recall the last time he’d seen it.

  Detective Eddie Friendly whipped open his office door and Rick barked, “Ever heard of knocking?”

  Eddie ignored him, closed the door, and angled his light eyes glaringly down at the sheriff as he neared the desk.

  As Rick glared right back at the man, he saw Eddie’s eyes darken into black pools of evil.

  “Midnight tonight,” his detective reminded him. “You know where.”

  “Yes, I know where,” he snapped, hating that he was apparently under the damned watch of someone who should be his subordinate.

  “You’re doing well, Sheriff.”

  Rick would like to tear the guy’s throat out, but he balled his large hands into fists beneath the desk instead.

  “You’ve always wanted to run this town and you will, in a very special way.”

  If Rick clenched his teeth together any tighter he’d crack a tooth. He watched as Eddie left his office, closing the door behind him.

  He didn’t want to see how huge Dante Alighieri’s army of the damned had grown, but that’s exactly what he would be forced to do…

  …tonight at midnight on the old Halsey land.

  ***

  As Rachel plugged in a number, tapping the LCD screen of her cell phone in the passenger’s seat of Conor’s pickup truck, she mentioned, “We can hit Best Buy in Jackson Hole, then I’m thinking I can pick up the essentials at WalMart, maybe hit the Gap after.”

  “You got it,” he told her as he accelerated onto Highland Highway.

  They’d grabbed breakfast to-go, which Rachel was now juggling with her phone, stealing bites of her egg muffin here and there. Conor plucked the to-go cup of coffee that was standing in the cupholder on his dash, took a gulp, then returned it.

  “Yeah,” she said into her cell. “This is Officer Clancy from Devil’s Fist. Can you email me the arson report as well as a copy of the insurance on the shop?”

  As she went on to provide her email address and asked a number of off-the-cuff questions, Conor stole glances at her from the driver’s seat, as the grand, blue Wyoming sky stretched out before the great plains. It looked like the sky was touching the horizon. This surely was a beautiful place and he couldn’t have asked for a more beautiful woman to be sitting beside him.

  Rachel was perhaps the strongest woman he’d ever met, and yet it was because he could also detect her gentle vulnerability that it seemed his heart swelled with affection every time he looked at her. He wanted this for her. For her to usurp the homicide-arson investigation and finally make detective. She had a heart of gold. The fact that she’d never given up her dream all these years despite being met with nothing but adversarial friction at the station endeared her to Conor. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such strength, not even in his own brothers who he’d served with in the military. Rachel had overcome obstacles of constant sexism and still had managed to do her job effectively, resistance that Marines didn’t have to deal with.

  “He’ll email it over to me in an hour or so,” she informed him as she set her cell phone in the console of the passenger’s side door. “We shall see.”

  “You really think Adelaide could be behind all this?”

  “Given that the sheriff had a key—and I know for a fact he doesn’t keep his office locked—now I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “But unless the arsonist benefited from the fire, he wouldn’t have set it. Something tells me Adelaide isn’t so hated that someone would destroy her store out of pure revenge, but then again, if anyone did, it could have been Harry.”

  “You think Harry would kill his own son?”

  “Why are you second-guessing everything?” she challenged. “Everyone close to Adelaide is a suspect, including Adelaide. That’s just the way it goes.”

  Conor felt a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t know why, but there was something about seeing Rachel get a little hot and short tempered with him that made him smile. He liked that she didn’t hesitate to stand up to anyone who questioned her.

  “Eyes on the road, Mister,” she warned.

  They drove in comfortable silence for a bit, Conor sipping his coffee and Rachel devouring the muffins they’d also bought at Angel’s Food.

  “Dante Alighieri is also a suspect,” she allowed, voicing the notion from out of the blue. “Do you and your brothers have any idea how many residents he’s turned?”

  “No. None,” he told her honestly then grumbled, “unfortunately.”

  “I’d like you to talk to the werewolf expert that Rick brought in,” she told him. “Maybe we can catch him when we return to the Fist.”

  When they reached Jackson Hole, Rachel bought a simple laptop and mourned the loss of her MacBook, then they headed to another store so that she could pick up a few necessities, Conor pushing the shopping cart and Rachel breezing quickly up the aisles in an efficient effort to gather what she would need. He was tempted to push her into agreeing to stay with him, but he was starting to understand that Rachel would only dig her heels in if he tried. He found that doing something as mundane and domestic as shopping felt incredible and it was only because he was doing it with Rachel. He could see many more shopping trips with her, waking up with her every morning, engaging with her in the joys of a simple life.

  Maybe he should talk to Troy…

  Lastly, they stopped at a clothing store and Conor was surprised to discover that he didn’t dread it. Rachel seemed to hate trying on clothes and fussing over what to buy to the extent that she didn’t. She walked briskly through the various displays, made fast work of eyeing a garment, and then threw it in her shopping basket without further consideration. When all was said and done she had two pairs of shorts, one pair of jeans, five tee-shirts of various colors and fits, and a few skirts and dresses just in case.

  When they returned to the Fist, they drove straight to his cabin so that she could deposit everything she’d bought.

  Inside, she changed into a skirt and tee-shirt, sighed upon remembering her mother’s jewelry that she wouldn’t ever again be able to put on, and grabbed her cell phone from the bed as soon as it vibrated once.

  “It’s the email,” she said with her cell phone in hand. She sat on the bed and Conor joined her, angling over the phone as she opened the email attachment that had come in. “Oh my God,” she said, and Conor strained to see what had caused her reaction. “Look,” she said. “Harold Marple.”

  “As the beneficiary of Devil’s Advocate?” he asked, alarm
ed.

  “It was changed two weeks ago. Adelaide was the previous beneficiary. Now it’s Harry.” Rachel locked eyes with him and said, “That’s what I call motive.”

  Chapter Ten

  RACHEL

  “Sheriff! Sheriff?” she said into her cell phone as soon as Rick picked up. His voice sounded worn thin. “Rick, can you hear me?”

  “What it is, Clancy?” he snapped, coming more fully into himself from the other end of the line.

  Rachel and Conor were seated at one of the high tables at the window inside of Libations as the blazing afternoon sun cut through Main Street, casting the length of The Fist in an orange glow.

  “I’ve been trying you,” she complained.

  “Well, you’ve got me,” he barked. “What is it?”

  “We need to get an APB out on Harold Marple—”

  “Don’t tell me you defied my orders, Clancy, I’m in no mood.”

  “Just hear me out, Sheriff!” she insisted as she widened her eyes at Conor who was listening in. She shook her head as if it was a wonder she’d ever closed a case in her life considering how much resistance she was consistently met with at the station. “I got my hands on the business insurance for the souvenir store. The beneficiary was changed two weeks ago, listing Harold Marple as the sole beneficiary.”

  Rick groaned through the line and warned, “That’s Detective Friendly’s investigation.”

  Rachel ignored his admonishment and demanded, “Have you seen it? Has he? Because I studied it. This is serious, Sheriff. It gives Harry a solid motive to have wanted Adelaide’s shop to burn to the ground. Now, I talked to the insurance adjustor—”

  “You did what?”

  He did not sound pleased, but Rachel didn’t pause to consider what that might mean for her in terms of punishment. “The adjustor told me that a man—a man, Sheriff!—had called to update the paperwork and the adjustor allowed it because he used Adelaide’s social security number and also the Fed-Tax ID of the store, therefore legitimizing himself as an authorized administrator of Adelaide’s store. Don’t you see? Harry did this!”

  Again, Rick groaned and grumbled through the line then asked, “Did you inform Friendly?”

  “I’m informing you, Sir.”

  “It’s not my investigation.”

  Why was he being so combative? “Friendly hates my guts,” she told him.

  But the sheriff balked, “He wanted you on the case!”

  “I don’t have time to explain,” she cut him off as Professor Gaylord Geer III entered the quiet bar. He looked cheery and enthralled as ever and gave Rachel an excited little wave as soon as he spotted her. “I’m telling you, we need to get an APB out on Harry, locate him, and bring him in for questioning.”

  Rick sighed and finally agreed to do just that then warned, “Your next call better be to Detective Friendly or else I’m going to write you up.”

  “Fine,” she compromised, making a conscious decision to omit the part where she clarified to him that getting written up for keeping her nemesis out of the loop would be just fine with her. She hung up and set her cell phone on the table. “Professor, thank you for coming.”

  The professor gave Conor a big, inquisitive smile, thrilled to meet his acquaintance.

  “This is Conor Quinn,” she introduced as the men shook hands.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Professor,” he said. “Can I get you a drink?”

  “Splendid!” said Gaylord as he climbed up onto the vacant chair at the table. “I’d love a rich, robust Tempranillo.”

  Conor looked as though he had no idea what that was, but it didn’t matter. Rachel told the professor, “How about Merlot? I doubt Libations has such a rare wine.”

  “Very well,” he agreed, seeming pleased enough, as Conor set off to order at the bar. “Libations,” he mused. “What a clever name for a bar. I’ve noticed that a lot of the businesses around here are cleverly named. Angel’s Food after the owner’s name. Delightful! And Devil’s Advocate for the souvenir shop, like it’s advocating for the whole town, ha! Oh, but isn’t it so terribly awful what has become of it?”

  “It surely is,” she agreed. “You know, I was renting the apartment above it.”

  “No,” he gasped. “How tragic. I sincerely hope they rebuild. I bought a snowglobe there the other day. A truly lovely store.”

  “Professor,” she said, angling to shift the conversation. “I’m going to tell you something that’s highly, highly sensitive and you must promise to keep it confidential, okay?”

  Gaylord’s aged eyes widened with intrigue and he leaned in, whispering, “You have my word.”

  Rachel leaned in as well as Conor turned from the bar with two glasses of red wine in his hands. Before he returned, she confided in the professor, “Conor is a werewolf.”

  He froze. His breathing fell. His eyes were wide as saucers. Then, slowly, his mouth gaped open with gradually dawning astonishment.

  “You don’t say,” he breathed.

  Rachel nodded and straightened up as Conor neared the table and set the wine glasses down.

  As Conor sat, Gaylord drank his entire glass down in a fast series of nervous gulps then burped.

  “What’d I miss?” asked Conor when it seemed the professor had been stunned to virtual petrification, staring at him and turning pale.

  “Nothing,” Rachel stated, pointing her response at Gaylord so that he would know not to openly discuss what she’d just clued him in on. “Here,” she said, sliding her own wine glass over to the professor. “The professor has been attempting to track werewolves out on the old Halsey land,” she told Conor as if making light conversation. “We nearly dehydrated ourselves the other day out in that field.”

  Rachel nudged the professor, urging him to respond, so he said, “Indubitably.”

  “You have to be careful in this heat,” he advised.

  “Professor,” she said as she angled into the reason she’d invited him to Libations to talk, “I was hoping you could do a little research project for me since I’m sure your resources are far better than those that I have available to me at the local library.”

  “Yes?”

  Rachel locked eyes with Conor then returned her gaze to Gaylord and continued, “Do you have access to any real-life accounts of werewolves in Wyoming? Even if they’re centuries old, I was hoping you might have predecessors who’ve written about and documented living werewolves.”

  “I could certainly start digging,” he assured her. “Mind you, all written testimony I’ve ever come across has always been veiled in the terminology folklore. You have to understand that this is a highly controversial field. It has, in the past, been detrimental to scientists and scholars to state that werewolves do, in fact, exist. My work has been considered radical for this fact because I’ve stood my ground and I’ve refused to muddy my findings in the territory of labeling it folklore.”

  “I see,” she said, considering the information. “Whatever you bring me will be internal, between us. I don’t expect to need it for my investigation or a potential trial.”

  “Well, in that case, I could bring you a wealth of accounts. What, specifically, would you like me to look for?”

  Again, Rachel cut her eyes to Conor, this time taking a long moment to study him. Would he appreciate the professor hunting through his wide array of resources to find the “folklore” stories that ultimately made up his family tree? Probably not. But Rachel had a feeling that such information would shed a great deal of light on their current predicament.

  “You would be looking for any accounts about a patriarchal pack where an unwed woman became pregnant by a mortal man and had a half-breed who was disowned or exiled from the pack.”

  “Rachel,” Conor objected, but she pushed her reasoning through to its farthest conclusion.

  “I’d like to know who that mortal birth father was, his name and occupation, any information you might be able to find. And also, the specific reasons that the pack cas
t a baby out into the world alone.”

  Gaylord had produced a leather-bound notepad and handsome ink pen to jot down all the details.

  “I’m also interested in the bloodline of that mortal father. Did he have other children? Are any of them still living in the Fist?”

  “I see, I see,” said Gaylord as he made detailed notes.

  “Another round?” Conor offered. The professor declined with a little wave of his hand as he continued to write, but Conor was insistent. “Rachel, can I talk to you at the bar?”

  Playing it cool—she didn’t want to make a scene in front of the professor—she obliged him and when they reached the bar counter, Conor having chosen an area where no customers would overhear them, he said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I think that no one has been able to stop Dante,” she stated frankly, “and I think that could be because we don’t have enough information about him. It doesn’t make sense to me that a so-called half-breed could best an entire pack of werewolves at every turn. He’s smarter and more powerful than all of you, and the police don’t have a prayer of catching him. The sheriff dropped the case and if I’m being honest, I suspect that Dante influenced him into doing that. Where do his powers come from?”

  “There’s someone else you should talk to,” he said, but he didn’t seem happy about it.

  “Who?”

  He sighed and appeared to mentally debate whether or not this would be a good idea.

  “Conor, if I should talk to someone else then you’re going to have to tell me who,” she pressed.

  “Dante’s mother,” he told her. “Sasha Quinn.”

  “Your grandmother?”

  “She’s refused to tell any of us anything. It was only recently, in fact, that Troy pushed her and made her reveal that Dante was her son. Me and my brothers only learned of this months ago when Dante first started attacking the residents of this town.”

  “She won’t tell her own family, but you think she’ll tell me?”

  “You’re good with people,” he complimented. “It’s worth a try.”