Deathmarch (Broslin Creek Book 7)

by Dana Marton

  She wore a shapeless dress that completely hid her figure, topped with a hand-embroidered apron. With her gray-streaked hair pulled back in an old-fashioned bun, she looked a lot like Allie’s favorite cartoon grandmother. All she was missing was a yellow bird in a cage and a cat named Sylvester.

  “Wait,” she said, holding up her index finger. “No. That’s Allison Burano. You were in the same class, weren’t you?”

  “Two classes above me.”

  “I remember now.” The grandmotherly smile disappeared. “You ran off. That’s right. Just disappeared one day. No note, no anything. You know, I was quite concerned.”

  “I’m sorry.” Allie had mowed the lawn around the B and B from time to time, when her father had been too drunk to show up for the job, but it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone would miss her, let alone worry about her.

  Shannon waved away the apology. “I figured it had something to do with Tony.” She gave a heavy sigh, then waved that away too. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Five years? Oh, goodness, no. It must be closer to ten. You’ve grown up. You look like your grandmother, God bless her soul.”

  Allie had no idea what to say to that. She’d never known either one of her grandmothers. Her only family had always been her father.

  Shannon crossed the foyer to the stairs, beckoning. “I started a fire in your room.”

  Allie could have kissed her. And also, Shannon was the first person so far not to judge Allie for her spurs or ask her about her horse, just accepting her as crazily dressed as she was, which Allie appreciated.

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Brian. Do you need me to sign in? Give a credit card?” Although that would have to wait until Harper showed up with her purse.

  “You can sign the guest book in the morning. You should warm up first. And you’re all paid up. The Historical Society took care of that already.”

  One of the reasons Allie had taken the booking. She never refused a job if they comped her lodgings. And besides, she’d just had a cancellation. And Broslin had been on her way.

  She followed Shannon up the stairs, and that was when she came across the first jar of glass eyes, on a shelf. Oh God, she’d forgotten the jars full of eyes all over the place.

  Shannon caught her gaze and sighed, stopping for a second. “I don’t have the heart to throw them out. The guests don’t seem to be bothered.”

  The first time Allie had been inside the house, the eyes had scared her. Then Shannon had explained that her father had been a glassblower who specialized in glass eyes for the US Army, for vets who were injured in war. Every eye the man created was patterned after the eye of someone in his family. The blue ones were Shannon’s, but there were also hundreds that were the eyes of her mother, her brothers, her sisters. When Shannon’s father had died and his equipment was sold, the buyer didn’t want the eyes. Neither did the Army, which had switched to machine-made by then, ones that matched the actual patient and weren’t generic.

  “One young couple who stayed here before Christmas took a bunch of pictures of them,” Shannon said.

  “You’d better watch it or you’ll end up an Instagram celebrity.”

  “I wouldn’t mind if it brought me more guests.” Shannon started up the stairs again with a little groan and a limp.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Took a tumble this summer. All healed up, but at this age, things don’t go back to being the same.”

  She showed Allie into the room at the top of the stairs, where a welcoming fire crackled a greeting. The four-poster bed in the middle of the spacious room could have been transported straight from a fairy tale. And the bathroom that waited beyond… Yes, yes, yes. This was worth the death march through the valley of Broslin’s hopeful greetings.

  “I gave you my best room. You’re my only guest this week.” Shannon shuffled farther in. “Business is slow this time of the year. You should be able to have a quiet, relaxing night.”

  Allie hung her buffalo coat on the peg by the door that squeaked but upheld the weight. “I’m sure I will.”

  “You should take a hot bath.” Shannon led the way.

  White hexagonal mosaic tiles covered the walls all the way up to the ceiling, the space dominated by a claw-foot tub that called Allie’s name. She wasn’t about to play hard to get.

  Shannon straightened the towels. Double-checked the little herbal soaps, shampoos, and conditioners. Then she gave a satisfied sigh as she patted her apron and turned to Allie. “Is your luggage in your car, dear? Do you need help with your suitcases?”

  “I slid off the road. Harper Finnegan is towing my car in. He should be here any minute. He can just leave my keys and purse downstairs. I think I will take that hot bath. I don’t need to talk to him.”

  “I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.” Shannon rested a hand on Allie’s arm, so sweet and kind, if Allie blocked out everything else, she could almost fool herself into believing her homecoming would be just fine. “How would you feel about a cup of lavender tea and some cookies? I suppose it’s too late for caffeine.”

  “Lavender tea would be great. Thank you, Mrs. O’Brian.”

  As soon as Allie was alone, she plopped onto the edge of the tub and turned on the faucet. And when hot steam rose off the water, she closed the bathroom door to keep all the heat in there. Then she sat on the closed toilet lid and pried off her boots at long last.

  Whether the town would make her return easy or difficult didn’t matter. She was going to slug through it. She wiggled her half-frozen toes as she sloshed lemon verbena bath salts into the water. The lemony-fresh scent that rose with the steam enveloped her in a sense of instant well-being.

  “God, I needed this,” she said as she stripped.

  Then she was finally, finally, sliding into heavenly bliss, sighing with true happiness, not something she’d expected to find that day.

  She shut out all her problems and worries, like she shut out the howling wind outside, and visualized the life she wanted: successful business, at least two bookings per week, the conversion van that was her hope and dream but currently only the background pic on her cell phone, the kind that had seats in the back that folded down into a bed, and five times the storage of the trunk of her Chevy.

  She closed her eyes, rested her head on the edge of the tub, and hummed the I dreamed a dream part from Les Mis.

  Her blessed peace lasted at least five minutes before the old-fashioned phone in the bedroom rang.

  “Oh, come on.”

  She was constantly on the move, going from one show to the next. How would Zane even find her here? Then again, how had he found her everyplace else? Her stomach clenched.

  The ringing wouldn’t stop, so Allie sloshed out of the tub, wrapped herself in the mint-green robe that matched the soap dish and the shower curtain, then hurried to pick up. “Hello?”

  Nothing but ominous silence on the other end.

  “We’re over, Zane,” she said slowly and clearly, leaving no room for interpretation. “Deal with it. If I see you following me one more time, if you call again, I’m getting a restraining order. Do you hear me?”

  And then the power cut out, and the room went black.

  * * *

  Alone on the road and surrounded by darkness, he was the definition of an easy target, so Harper hurried as he marked the spot where the Chevy had been stuck in the snow, tying a length of police tape around the telephone pole. He would have to find the vehicle’s exact location again in the morning, search the ground in the daylight, in case he’d missed anything in the dark.

  He couldn’t sit out here all night in the snow, babysitting the Chevy. He was towing it to the police station and would process it there for evidence, inside their massive garage, out of the elements.

  He tapped his feet to keep them warm and took another minute to commit the scene, the angle of the car where it had rested, to memory. He’d already taken pictures with his cell phone, even some video, but he had little hope they’d be helpful
, not with this kind of visibility. He was going to have to make his own drawings.

  He was heading back to his pickup when his cell phone rang.

  “Computers are back on,” Leila said on the other end. “Let’s try this again.”

  The storm kept knocking out the power at the station. The generators would kick in, but she had to reset the Wi-Fi each time. They’d been having two-minute conversations for the past half hour.

  “Thanks.” Harper began walking back to his truck.

  “Is this related to the Lamm murder?” Leila asked.

  Harper could hear the clicking of the keyboard as she typed.

  “I’d bet good money on it.” Which was why he’d called Kennan to keep an eye on the woman in the buffalo coat and spurs.

  Which Kennan had done, texting a cryptic

  -What the hell?? You couldn’t give Mom a warning?-

  -She’s through the roof-

  -You better have a good explanation when you get here-

  Harper figured that meant someone from the PD had picked up “Abby” from Finnegan’s based on the information Harper had relayed through Leila. There had probably been some resulting upheaval at the pub. His mother had probably not appreciated an arrest in her fine establishment. Harper could deal with that later.

  “Okay,” Leila mumbled on the other end. “Here we go. Wi-Fi reconnecting.”

  “Thanks.” Harper reached his truck and jumped in behind the wheel. “I’m towing in the suspect’s car. On my way.”

  As he put his hand on the shift stick, a dark shape in the passenger footwell caught his eyes. “Abby’s” purse.

  Harper reached for it. “You said Lamm was shot?”

  “In the head,” Leila said.

  Harper set his cell phone on the dashboard and carefully opened the purse, then rifled through the contents with a gloved hand.

  No handgun.

  The only heavy, bulky thing in there was a woman’s wallet, full of change, judging by the weight. Fumbling some with the zipper with his thick winter gloves, he opened it. Then he used his flashlight to check out the driver’s license tucked into the plastic sleeve.

  He had to read the name twice to believe it, and even then he only believed it because the photo next to the name was unmistakable.

  “Okay,” Leila said on the other end. “I have the registration for the license plate you’re interested in. The car is registered to an—”

  “Allyssa Bianchi,” Harper said in a stunned huff at the same time Leila did, then he added, “Just found her wallet.”

  “You think it’s little Allie Bianchi?”

  Not so little now. “It is.”

  “Her father can’t be far behind,” Leila said in a heavy tone.

  Exactly what Harper was thinking. “Who picked her up? I think she’s being brought in.”

  “Hold on.”

  While he did, Harper kept staring at the driver’s license in his hand, myriad memories raining down on him, bringing a wide range of emotions he would need more than a second to sort through.

  Allie.

  Back in Broslin.

  The odd sense of familiarity he’d felt earlier made perfect sense. Allie’s eyes. Only he hadn’t seen them well enough in the cab’s dim light to immediately recognize them.

  Allie Bianchi. Back in town. With blood on her car and a hoard of gold in the trunk.

  And wasn’t that just perfectly on-brand?

  Harper muttered a curse. Over the years, when he’d thought of Allie past the X-rated images burned into his brain, he always hoped she’d made something of herself and hadn’t gotten dragged into her father’s bullshit.

  “Are you there?” Leila’s voice crackled through the phone.

  Harper brought it to his ear with his free hand to hear better, since it sounded like the reception was weakening. “Here.”

  “Joe just called in. He went to pick her up at Finnegan’s. According to your mother, Allie had dinner, then walked right out. Nobody knows where she’s gone.”

  Harper dropped Allie’s wallet back into her gaping purse next to him, then put his truck in gear.

  “Tell Joe not to worry. I know where she is. I’ll bring her in.”

  Chapter Five

  “Absolutely. I have videos on my website you can check out,” Allie told the school administrator, who was still working for some reason, calling her cell phone. “I can email you a list of references.”

  Right after her car and her laptop arrived. For now, Allie sat in front of the fireplace with the lavender tea Shannon had brought up along with a generous plate of macadamia nut cookies.

  Since the client started into a lengthy description of exactly what the school was looking for, Allie grabbed a cookie and bit in, grateful that the power had come back on.

  “And if you could wear a longish skirt instead of buckskin pants,” the woman was saying. “The majority of our parents are very conservative. We can’t have foul language at all either.”

  “I can definitely do that,” Allie mumbled as she grabbed another cookie, sprawling in the generous armchair and stretching her toes toward the fire, settling in for an evening of blissful relaxation.

  “If I asked the cafeteria to make up some campfire biscuits, would you be willing to hand them out?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And then the day after Jane, you could do Annie Oakley?”

  “With pleasure.” She liked Annie but rarely had the chance to assume the persona, and never for school gigs where guns and shooting were usually taboo topics.

  “I was thinking the week before summer break.” The woman gave a range of dates.

  “That should work for me, but the sooner you make the booking, the better. We’re just a few months away.”

  “Let me talk to the teachers again, and then I’ll email you?”

  “That would be great.”

  “I almost forgot,” the woman said. “I was told you do songs?”

  “For every character, if requested.”

  The three-hour, extended version of her Calamity Jane script, for example, included teaching Old West campfire songs to the participants. “Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie,” “The Gal I Left behind Me,” “Out Where the West Begins,” and others. Allie liked to give people their money’s worth. Also, she enjoyed campfire songs, personally.

  Her best memories of her teenage years were hanging out with Harper at the frequent bonfires in the backyard. Bonfires were cheap entertainment. At her house, they certainly hadn’t been able to afford cable.

  Bonfire and beer for her father and Harper—she didn’t like the taste, too bitter. Then, after her father had gone to bed drunk, bonfire with just Harper and her, making love under the stars, in the grass.

  Not something Allie was going to think about while she was on a work call. “If you have any other questions, you can call me at any time.”

  “I think I have what I need, but thank you.”

  “I hope I get to meet you and the kids. They tend to love anything Wild West.”

  Another booking, fingers crossed. Allie stretched in her armchair as the call ended. She needed two bookings per week to make it, a hundred or so gigs per year. She had only seventy-four scheduled so far, thanks to school budget cuts, which meant she would have to hustle up more work at regional fairs and town festivals. Something she would work on another day, because she’d earned some serious relaxation tonight.

  She let out a long breath and settled into enjoying the meditative quality of the dancing flames, but a knock on the door interrupted.

  Shannon with more cookies? She really was sweet.

  Allie sat up a little straighter and wrapped her robe more securely around herself. “Come in.”

  Then she pulled her belt tighter yet, when, instead of Shannon, Harper Finnegan stepped through the door.

  He wore the same quilted jacket and hat as earlier, but he had a police badge hanging around his neck, and his open jacket revealed a holster at h
is hip, confirming that his mother had been telling the truth about him.

  “Well, slap my ass and call me Sally. Harper Finnegan, officer of the law. Doesn’t that beat all?”

  Allie channeled Jane, smirking to cover up her discomfort with Harper being in her bedroom when she was close to naked. She would not let him see her rattled. Especially because he did rattle her, and that was the pitiful truth.

  His badge wasn’t the only change from ten years ago. Now that Allie could see him better… He was a fully grown man and then some, clearly having fulfilled the promise of his youth. Wider shoulders, a more pronounced jaw, the beginnings of laugh lines around his startling Irish Sea eyes. Well built, a body that clearly saw plenty of exercise. As he tugged his hat off and shoved it into his pocket, his thick hair got mussed a little, but it was short enough so that his appearance still qualified as clean-cut.

  Oh God. Harper Finnegan was the town hot cop!

  So damn unfair. Why couldn’t he have reappeared in her life with a beer belly and a double chin? Was thinning hair too much to ask? A discreet bald spot?

  No woman wanted to see the ex who’d betrayed her looking better than ever. What any normal person would want to feel in this situation was: thank heavens I didn’t end up with that.

  She wanted to see…warts.

  Why did he have to look like this, dagnabbit, while she looked… No makeup, limp wet hair, and twenty pounds heavier than the last time he’d seen her this close to undressed. Not that Allie was ashamed of her curves, because she was not. But the fluffy pale-green robe made her appear even bigger. She looked like Rose’s stuffed cabbage at Finnegan’s. The only thing she was missing was a dollop of sour cream.

  So of course, Harper wasn’t looking at her with anything near appreciation or desire. His eyes held sadness because she’d let herself go.

  Except instead of commenting on how he barely recognized her, he asked, “Where is your father, Allie?”