Paige MacKenzie Mysteries Box Set

by Deborah Garner

  “Mighty pleased to have you here, Ms. MacKenzie.” Jeb straightened up and tipped an imaginary hat, accompanied by a subtle wink.

  “Just 'Paige' is fine, Mr. Barkley.”

  “In that case, just call me 'Jeb.' We're not that formal around these parts.” Jeb indicated a cowhide couch with overstuffed throw pillows in muted earth tones. Paige and Jake moved to the sitting area. The crackling fire in the fireplace was a welcome sight after the dark drive out from Cody.

  “What brings you out this way? Showing Ms. MacKenzie...I mean Paige...your old stomping grounds?” Jeb threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh before turning toward Paige. “And let me tell you, this guy did some stomping in his time.”

  “OK, Jeb, we probably don't need to go down that particular road.” Jake's voice interrupted Jeb's statement, but he took the light-hearted teasing well.

  “Oh, I think we do,” Paige said quickly, grinning at Jake mischievously. “I'd love to hear a few stories.”

  Jeb settled back in his chair and rubbed his forehead in a mock gesture of mentally dredging up the past. It was clear he had a good stash of material. It was only a matter of choosing between episodes. Jake, resigned to what was coming, leaned back and waited for the inevitable.

  “Well now, Jake's father – may he rest in peace – and I go back a long ways. He was the first friend I made when I moved out here from Nebraska as a boy. Taught me a lot about the Cody way of life. Made me feel welcome.”

  Jeb paused, if for no other reason than to make Jake wonder what was coming next. Jake didn't have to wait long.

  “Back then, Jake was just a little tyke, about five years old. Cute as a button and determined to be a real cowboy. And...he had quite the dramatic streak in him, too, a regular John Wayne in miniature.”

  Jake winced. Paige knew whatever was coming must be good. She smiled at Jeb and motioned with her hand for him to go on.

  Jeb looked smug and pleased with his captive audience, not to mention his kind-hearted position of control over Jake. He paused again, for effect.

  “Go on, Jeb,” Jake said, “get it over with. There's no stopping you once you get started. I knew I was taking my chances when I called about coming out here.”

  “You're right about that,” Jeb said. He laughed as he turned back to Paige.

  “So, you probably know our town here was founded by Buffalo Bill Cody. He was a man of vision and a great entertainer, formed a marvelous show that traveled all over the world, just about.”

  “Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, right?” Paige interjected.

  Jeb shook his head. “Almost right. It was called 'Buffalo Bill's Wild West.' People just tend to add the word 'show,' but it was never part of the name.”

  “Like Smokey the Bear,” Paige offered.

  “Exactly,” Jeb nodded in approval.

  Seeing Jake's confused look, Paige explained. “It was always Smokey Bear, never Smokey the Bear. But people get used to hearing and saying things one way and it sticks.”

  “Anyway,” Jeb cleared his throat to bring attention back to the story. “Little Jake was enamored with Buffalo Bill and was convinced he was going to grow up to be just like his idol. He collected pictures of him and kept a scrapbook. He practiced posing like those pictures, standing in front of the mirror and putting on his best Buffalo Bill face. Made everyone call him Buffalo Jake. He was darn cute, that little wannabe cowboy.”

  “I'm sure he was.” Paige loved the look of resignation on Jake’s face. It made him all the sweeter.

  “Well, all that pretending wasn't enough,” Jeb went on. “Jake decided he needed to have a show, just like Buffalo Bill. He gathered kids from other ranches and assigned roles, thought up little skits and rehearsed them. He was very serious about it. And he had that entrepreneur spirit of Buffalo Bill's, too, drawing posters to advertise the shows. Of course, they couldn't use any horses, being little tykes like he and his friends were. But they used ranch dogs and got them to do tricks. It was quite impressive.”

  “How I’d love to see a video of that,” Paige laughed.

  “I'm glad there isn't one.” Jake shook his head, ready for the story to be over.

  “What eventually happened to this illustrious show?”

  Jeb sighed in mock sadness. “The ensemble was torn apart by the start of the school year. Young actors and actresses were scattered in all directions, taken hostage by the town's first-grade teachers. Show biz gave way to education. It was a cryin' shame.”

  “Indeed, it was,” Jake proclaimed. “As was telling this tale to begin with, Jeb.”

  Jeb stood up and stretched, pleased with himself. He tucked the book he'd been reading before their arrival under his arm.

  “I'm glad you're here, Buffalo Jake. And you too, Ms. Paige MacKenzie, newest fan of Buffalo Jake's Wild West. But it's time for this old rancher to call it a night. Jake, you know the layout. There aren't any other guests here tonight. It's been slow this off-season. So you have your choice of rooms. Feel free to give Paige a tour and settle in wherever you want. There's beer and wine in the kitchen and firewood out back. I'll whip something up for breakfast in the morning. Just don't expect any of that fancy bed and breakfast type cuisine.” Jeb tipped his imaginary hat once again and was gone.

  The spacious room felt oddly silent once Jeb was gone, and Jake and Paige were left on their own. Without their host's jovial personality, an uncertain silence hung in the air. To break the tension, both Paige and Jake spoke simultaneously.

  “I'll get firewood from the back.”

  “I'll bring those notes in from the meeting today with Lambert.”

  Heading in opposite directions, they met up again in front of the fireplace. Paige sat and flipped through her notes while Jake tossed new logs on the fire and adjusted them with the poker.

  “How does a glass of wine sound?” Jake stood back to admire the growing flames.

  “Sounds great.” Paige looked up from her notes and smiled. As it had many times before, the sight of Jake's lean, relaxed body stoked her feelings. The reflection of the fire settled on his tanned face with a deep, warm glow and danced through his hair like fireflies in the night.

  “Red or white? I'm sure he has both.”

  “White would be perfect.” And it might calm my nerves, Paige added silently.

  Jake sauntered to the kitchen, his cowboy boots clicking casually against the Circle B Ranch's wooden floor. He returned with two chilled glasses of Chardonnay, handed one to Paige and sat next to her.

  “I thought you were more of a beer drinker,” Paige said as they brought the shimmering glasses together in a toast.

  Jake laughed and gave Paige a look she couldn't quite decipher. “You're right, but wine seemed more in line with this evening’s atmosphere: the luxury ranch, the fireplace, you, here with me.”

  Paige caught her breath. Had she been afraid of this, coming back out west? The draw that she had felt toward Jake originally, in Jackson, was only growing stronger. Two thousand miles separated them most of the time, Wyoming and New York worlds apart. Other than the series of western articles for work, there was no way to know when they’d be able to see each other.

  Jake was just inches away, and Paige decided to push aside her conflicted feelings. She sipped her wine. Time and distance might be obstacles in the future, but at that moment, one thing was certain: tonight there were no obstacles between them.

  * * * *

  Hours later, Paige leaned against a log post on the ranch porch, sleepless but happy. Through her plush, terrycloth robe, the solid wood of the post reminded her of Jake’s strong, but gentle, hands caressing her face. She hardly felt the snow flurries that fell on her cheeks. Was the snow in New York the same as this? Or did Wyoming have its own secret winter formula? The wispy flakes were so light, so free. They sparkled in the night air, backlit by the faint glow of the lodge's exterior lighting. They swirled upwards, sideways, downwards, like tiny, transparent ribbons. Windswept, they b
rushed against her skin like a waterfall's mist and melted. She closed her eyes and listened to the night: wind, an owl’s hoot, the distant howl of a coyote. All so quiet yet the potential was nearly audible

  Potential. Yes, that was it, the reason the snow seemed different from the snow back home.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The morning drive back to Timberton seemed short despite the many miles. Paige had always been able to organize her thoughts when she drove long distances. But this time, she couldn’t focus on the new information they’d acquired from Lambert. Memories of last night pushed everything else aside. When she remembered the warm tones in Clive’s painting, she thought of the flames in the Circle B Ranch’s fireplace. The colors of the painting’s cool, blue sky reminded her of Jake’s eyes. She had become a hopeless romantic.

  Paige pulled up in front of the hotel, turned off the ignition and set the parking brake. The light snow of the previous Wyoming night had evolved into a sunny Montana afternoon. She needed to focus on the sapphire article and on helping Mist, Clive and Betty.

  The lobby was vacant when she entered the hotel. Upstairs, Paige soon had her overnight bag unpacked, and within minutes, she was seated at the desk, reviewing notes from the meeting with Lambert. Although the new information about the painting didn’t provide anything conclusive, at least it was something to report to Clive.

  As for the sapphire article, she had nothing new for Susan. Her side trip to Cody had cost her twenty-four hours, an indulgence that put added pressure on her for finishing the article. Her rough draft was done, but it was rough.

  Two hours and three cups of coffee later, she had made little progress. She stood, stretched and moved to the edge of the bed, pulling out the partial diary. Reading over the few pages again only fueled her curiosity. With the hotel still quiet, she could try to search the room below hers. She stepped out in the hallway, eased the door shut behind her and went downstairs.

  The door to the laundry area was propped open with an over-sized, canvas hamper. Two washing machines, lids resting open against the wall, edged the room. Scratches on the enamel surfaces recounted decades of activity. On the adjacent wall, one of two dryers hummed as linens tumbled inside the glass door. Wooden shelves above held laundry supplies. Faded curtains framed the sole window, which was covered with condensation. Clusters of lint dusted the floor. Brooms and mops leaned against a corner.

  A wave of humidity and the scent of fabric softener enveloped Paige as she stepped inside the room. She glanced up, noted the ceiling and the distance between the doorway and the walls. The room was a straight fit below the one she occupied as a guest. She gathered her bearings and determined the location that would be directly below the radiator in her room. Just to the left of the rumbling dryer – that was the likely spot. She placed the palm of her hand flat against the wall's surface. Warmth reflected back against her skin, as if greeting her with a familiar friendship.

  She tapped the wall lightly with her fingers, hearing a hollow echo within. Her eyes followed the wall upward, stopping at the point where it joined the ceiling. Looking to the side wall, she estimated the distance. This had to be where the torn portion of the diary had fallen, directly below her room.

  She searched the wall's surface for an opening, but found nothing. There were no built-in shelves or cabinets that might have an interior board or panel to pry loose. Pressing the side of her face against the wall, she inspected the area behind the dryer. A crumbling patch of wallboard looked promising, but revealed only splintered wood and cobwebs inside. And the dryer vented off to the side. Even if she were to remove the vent and search behind it, the location was too far away. It was unlikely anything falling inside the wall could have angled sharply off a straight downward path. Short of breaking right through the wall itself, she was out of luck.

  “Have you lost something?”

  Paige jumped at the sound of Mist's voice behind her. She straightened up too quickly, and her head smacked the low shelving and sent a jug of liquid detergent crashing to the floor. Surprisingly, the container did not explode into a soapy flood. It merely bounced with a dull thud and came to rest, rocking slightly, beside Mist, who glanced at it so casually, it might have been a feather falling from the sky. Mist turned away, occupied with loading a basket full of kitchen linens into one of the washers.

  “No,” Paige stammered. “I was just...looking for...” What could she say she was looking for? She turned toward the shelving to stall for time, pushing back a bottle of bleach that was teetering precariously on the shelf's edge.

  “Extra towels are over there.”

  Mist pointed to a cabinet beside the window, its doors open to reveal several rows of shelves.

  Piles of neatly folded towels sat side by side, freshly laundered and ready for another round of use in guest rooms. Paige picked two from the top of the closest stack, hugged them to her chest and smiled a meek thank you. She left the room as quickly as Mist seemed to have arrived.

  Paige took the stairs two at a time to her room, closed the door behind her with a soft click and a twist of the lock. She stacked the towels on top of two others just like them, still unused, and sat at the desk. Staring out the window, she took a quick mental inventory of the day, not satisfied with the results: too many towels, too little information.

  As it stood, she couldn't be sure the missing diary pages were inside the laundry room wall. Just because they were out of arm's reach didn't mean they had fallen that far. After running into Mist, she’d had to abandon her search of the laundry room. But there was nothing stopping her from double-checking her own room. The question was how.

  Slipping back down to the hotel lobby, she stepped behind the registration desk and fumbled through the back cabinets, keeping an ear out for sounds of other people. The first cabinet door revealed only haphazard file folders and memo pads. The second was empty, save for boxes of packaged sugars and creamers for morning coffee. But the third cabinet offered a handyman's jackpot. Suddenly a newly formed plan emerged. She gathered a loose bundle of twine, a roll of duct tape and two hammers and tiptoed back up the stairs to her room. It was a crazy plan, but worth a try.

  Paige spread out the borrowed goods on her bed. She set the two hammers side by side, facing opposite directions, and wrapped them in layers of duct tape. The end result was an elongated, massive wad of tape with a hammerhead at each end. Grasping one metal claw, Paige looped the twine around it, tied a square knot and proceeded to wind the thick string around the hammer in crisscross fashion until it held the contraption securely. She let the length of twine out and held it in front of her. The taped hammers hung suspended in mid-air. It wasn’t an engineering masterpiece, but it would do.

  Paige reopened the space behind the radiator and slipped her bulky creation inside, holding tightly to the twine. The taped hammers dropped little more than a foot before coming to an abrupt halt at the floor level. She pulled them back out and reached inside the wall with her arm, feeling for the rotted area she had felt before. If she could find the narrow section that had been wide enough for the slim papers to fall through, she could use the weight of the hammers to widen it.

  She prodded for a good thirty seconds before finding the gap in the floorboard. Pushing against it with her arm, the rotted segment of wood creaked and came close to giving in, but it wasn’t enough. Pulling her arm out, she reached back in with the taped hammers and pushed again. This time the wood gave way. She continued to break through until she’d cleared a path several inches wide.

  Dull thuds echoed back up as the hammers smacked against crossbeams. Each time Paige lowered and raised the makeshift tool, it brought up nothing more than rotted wood, and she felt ridiculous. Finally, she gave it one last try, letting the twine swing back and forth. Exhausted, she almost didn't notice when the swinging motion stopped. When she pulled the twine upward, she felt resistance. The claw of the lower hammer was caught on something.

  Flashbacks to her first attem
pt at removing the diary reminded her of the pitfalls of being impatient. Paige angled the twine differently, pulling gently. Still, the hammers would not budge. She debated finagling yet another tool in hopes it could detach the one already stuck, but let out a frustrated laugh. That idea was just as ludicrous as what she was already trying.

  She continued until she wore out. Legs shaking from hunching down so long, she didn't foresee the tumble coming. One minute she was leaning against the wall. The next, she was sprawled out on the floor, twine still wrapped around her hand. She glanced down. The fibers were cutting into her skin, but the weight against her hand had shifted. She began to reel in the twine, expecting to see only her crazy contraption at the end of the line. Instead, attached to the lower claw, was a cluster of papers. She knew the second she spotted it that it was another diary section.

  The first dated entry was more than a decade later than those she’d found before.

  March 8, 1955

  I have found an exceptional student. There is clarity in his work that reminds me of C. More pointedly, it reminds me of who I could have been, had C. been a teacher who knew what to do with talent like my own. The credit I have always deserved is long overdue. This young man, this impressionable artist, may be very useful to me, both to my monetary existence and to my legacy.

  After that, a section of torn pages followed and then two more entries.

  April 22, 1959

  Blessed miracle! A mishap today may have provided a solution for my recent fears. While trying to pry a nail from a cellar post, I lost my balance and fell backwards, sending the hammer flying over my head and into a wall. A crack resulted as the tool became wedged in the wall's surface. When I dislodged the hammer, the crack widened, and a chunk of wood fell forward. I could hardly believe my eyes – there was a space behind the wall! I grabbed the hammer and attacked the surface with a vicious fury. Surely, had anyone seen me, they would have thought me to be the maniac that my reputation around town claims me to be. But I hit the jackpot. Hidden behind that crumbling wall was a space large enough to hold a dozen paintings, if not more!