Читать книгу Redemption - B.J. Daniels - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

SHERIFF FRANK CURRY had always prided himself on his patience. He was used to the state crime lab being backed up for weeks, if not months. Investigations took time. Some arrests weren’t made for months and didn’t go to trial for years. Justice moved slowly, as most of Montana wasn’t automated. Things were done the way they’d been done for years, especially fingerprints.

Only a few cities in Montana had the electronic system. Otherwise, prints were taken the old-fashioned way and sent to the crime lab. He had no doubt that the victim’s prints would be in the system, since he was betting the man had done prison time somewhere, possibly even Deer Lodge at some point. Which could explain how he had the photograph in his possession, if he’d crossed paths with Cullen Ackermann before his death.

“It looks like a map,” Lynette had said of the faded marks on the back of the photo.

Maybe at one time it had been a map, but the drawings were indistinguishable now. Still, before he died Cullen could have given the photo and map to one of the boys. If any of the boys had survived. And if these marks on the photo were a map, was it to the fabled hidden gold?

Frank had learned to live with the slow pace investigations often took.

That was, until this one.

He couldn’t help feeling anxious. He had to know what he was dealing with, starting with the dead man he had cooling his heels in the fridge down at the local mortuary.

It’s that damned photograph. His gut instinct told him that the man on that slab at the morgue was connected to the Ackermanns. Maybe he’d made Cullen’s acquaintance in prison. But why then was the rope, according to Jack, not one that was hitched at Montana State Prison, where Ackermann had been confined for the past thirty years?

Frank knew his fear ran much deeper than that. Hadn’t he been afraid for years that Cullen Ackermann would release his vengeance on Beartooth, just as he’d promised all those years ago?

Cullen’s dead. All the Ackermanns are dead.

Were they? He told himself that if any of the children had survived all those years ago, they would have turned up long before this. All four boys, and the little girl had been presumed dead more than three decades ago. But the remains of only one of the boys had ever been found back up in the Crazies. Who was to say that one or more of them hadn’t survived? And had just now turned up.

But if so, why now?

“Because their father died,” he said to his empty office. “Cullen’s death triggered whatever is going on.”

He knew he was jumping to conclusions, which also wasn’t like him. But Assistant Coroner Charlie Brooks had estimated the dead man’s age at somewhere around forty-five. The boys in the snapshot ranged in age from about twelve to seventeen. This photo had to have been taken about thirty years ago, which meant that the dead man could conceivably be one of the boys.

Frank felt as if a clock had started ticking the moment Cullen Ackermann died. He had to know who the dead man was. Or wasn’t, he thought as he studied the photo again.

When he couldn’t take it any longer, he picked up the phone and called a local artist he knew. “Have you ever done a sketch of a dead man?”

“You mean like a police artist’s sketch?” his friend asked.

“Exactly.”

* * *

NEWS OF THE BODY found by the river shot through the county like a high-powered rifle report. But since the dead man was found near the Yellowstone River twenty miles away and no one was missing from Beartooth, the news died down quickly.

That was until the sketch of the dead man came out Saturday in the weekly Big Timber newspaper asking if anyone could identify the man.

“Probably just some bum off the interstate,” Jack heard people saying. He hadn’t seen the paper. He’d been too busy on the W Bar G. Nor was he interested. All his attention Saturday morning at the café was on Kate LaFond.

“Some homeless guy. Or a hobo,” he heard people saying.

He smiled to himself. Were there still hoboes who rode the rails?

The Branding Iron Café was packed this morning. Not because of the news about the dead man being found by the river a few days ago, but because the Sweetgrass County Spring Fair was this weekend in Big Timber.

Everyone looked forward to the fair. It was a sign that spring had finally arrived. The fair had everything from a rodeo, cattle auction and carnival, to arts-and-crafts booths and a swap meet. Plus it was a great excuse come spring to see everyone you hadn’t seen over the winter.

Jack was finishing his coffee when Kate came by to refill his cup. It was the first time he’d been to the Branding Iron since he’d started work at the W Bar G. Since Destry had given everyone the day off to attend the fair, and he’d taken advantage of it, he decided to treat himself to breakfast. At least that was the story he told himself.

As Kate had done days before, she seemed to make a point of not looking at him. But when she came by to refill his cup, he pushed it closer to make her job easier and her fingers brushed his. She jerked back. Hot coffee sloshed onto the table and she let out an unladylike curse under her breath.

He reached for the napkins. “Here, let me—”

“I’ve got it,” she snapped, her gaze coming up to meet his. In the alley, her eyes had appeared dark, like her hair. Now, though, he saw with delight that they were wide set and the color of good whiskey. Her hair was the same color, with strands of gold woven through it, and fell to just below her chin.

He drew back his fingers and watched as she snatched the handful of napkins from him and cleaned up the mess. The shock of her touch still warmed his blood. She, on the other hand, appeared to be fighting hard to hide her reaction.

As the café began to clear out, she hurried to ring up patrons at the till and help Bethany clean the tables. He watched her. The woman could flat-out move when the café was busy. He had to admire her work ethic and her efficiency. He guessed she’d waitressed before buying the cafe.

“Ever been to a branding?” Jack asked as Kate came by a second time to refill his coffee. She shook her head, not looking at him. “There’s going to be a big one out at the W Bar G starting Monday. You should come. Get to know some of your neighbors, you know, socialize a little.”

She raised her gaze to his again. He saw anger spark like a Fourth of July firecracker.

“That’s right, you don’t need anyone.” He softened his words with a grin. “Especially the likes of me, huh.”

Some of the fire died back in her dark eyes. “Especially.”

“I just thought you’d like to see some of the real Wild West before you leave Beartooth.”

“Who says I’m leaving?” she challenged.

“Aren’t you?”

She looked away for a moment, then said, “I suppose I could bring out some cinnamon rolls. I heard neighbors bring food.”

His grin widened. “That would be nice and neighborly.”

She let out an amused chuckle as she left his table. He watched her, too interested in her for his own good.

As she started to gather up dirty dishes from a large table, he saw her freeze. Curious, he watched as she picked up what appeared to be a folded piece of paper that had been stuck under the edge of a plate.

She turned her back as she unfolded the note to read it. He saw her shoulders slump. She grabbed the edge of the table as if suddenly needing the support. For just an instant, he almost went to her. But she quickly straightened, tucked the note into her apron pocket and picked up the dirty dishes.

Jack tried to remember who had been sitting at that particular table. He couldn’t recall. He’d been too busy watching Kate to notice anyone else in the café.

So what could be in the note that would have had such an adverse effect on her? As she headed in his direction, she showed no sign of having been upset. He idly wondered where she’d learned to hide her feelings so well as she swept past him without a glance.

* * *

SHERIFF FRANK CURRY stepped out onto his porch. The morning was bright, the air brisk, the scent of the new spring growth on the breeze.

A member of the crow family who lived on his ranch called to him from the clothesline wire next to the house. A half dozen of the birds had gathered, only part of what he considered his extended family.

He’d made a habit of studying the crows and found them fascinating. This family had taken up residence on his ranch and included not only a mother, father and their “kids” but also some nephews, brothers and half brothers related to the mom and dad, he was guessing. Fifteen birds in all made up this little family.

Like some human families, the crows formed close nuclear families. Often the “kids” stayed around for more than five years. Sometimes the mother and family even adopted kids of unrelated neighbors.

The irony of crows easily forming a close-knit nuclear family unit, although he’d never been able to, didn’t escape Frank. He’d been married once a long time ago, after Lynette had broken his heart. He’d thought he’d gotten Lynette out of his system. But in truth, he’d gotten married on the rebound, a terrible mistake that he hadn’t had the sense to end even quicker than he had.

Poor Pam. She’d tried so hard to make him happy. Once she’d realized he was in love with Lynette, she’d turned his life into a living hell.

At least he’d been smart enough to end it, setting her free to find someone who loved her the way he loved Lynette. He doubted she would ever forgive him, though, not that he blamed her. Fortunately, she’d moved away after the divorce. He hadn’t seen her since.

But he’d lost his chance to have a family of his own. There was only one woman he’d wanted and Lynette had married Bob Benton. He wondered if she regretted not having a family or if he was alone in that.

One of the crows cawed at him. He smiled as more of them lined up along the clothesline as if coming to tell him good-morning. “Good morning,” he called back to them. After hours of studying the birds and their habits, he’d become somewhat of an expert on their behavior.

It was spring, so the birds had been busy building nests and courting. They were just like the cowboys and cowgirls who would be attending the spring fair today, he thought. They would preen, court and squabble, and there would be trouble. There always was.

He glanced at his watch and realized he had to get moving. He hoped he might see Lynette at the fair and mentally kicked himself for not inviting her. But he had to work, so he wouldn’t have made a very good companion anyway.

As he drove toward Big Timber, he thought about asking Lynette out on a real date. What was he waiting for anyway?

* * *

TUCKER WILLIAMS HADN’T read a book since high school and seldom even glanced at the local newspaper. But his wife, Mary, read it every morning to see who had given birth and who’d gotten divorced, died or been arrested, then passed on the goings-on around the county to him whether he was interested or not. This morning was no different.

“Some guy got murdered down by the river,” she said as she handed him a cup of coffee. She loved all those cop and forensic shows on television. “Didn’t have any identification on him, so they did a sketch and are asking if anyone knows him.” She turned the paper so he could see.

Tucker glanced at the sketch and let out a curse. “I saw him the other night. When I came out of the Range Rider, he was just getting out of his pickup. He asked me if I knew where he could find the woman who was running the café. I pointed him down the street....” He felt a chill.

“You were that close to him?” Mary asked, wide-eyed. “Then he ends up dead? You have to go to the sheriff.”

There were a lot of things Tucker had to do in his life. Work was at the top of the list. Tucker had been working construction for Grayson Construction Company for years—until recently, when his boss, Grayson Brooks, lost his wife, Anna, to cancer. Grayson had sold his construction business for pennies on the dollar to Tucker and left town. Now that Tucker was the boss, he couldn’t be late for work. “Maybe later.”

“Tuck, you can’t put this off. You might be the last person to see him alive—other than the killer.”

“Or Kate LaFond at the café was,” he said, and remembered seeing someone walking down the street that night as he’d driven past in his pickup. The cowboy had been right by the café—if he was the same person. Tucker hadn’t been paying any attention, just anxious to get home before Mary started calling the bar for him.

“You have to call the sheriff and tell him what you know.”

“I’m sure Kate’s already told the sheriff—”

“Tucker? Call the sheriff. Has anyone seen Kate since that night? What if something has happened to her as well?”

He sighed. “I’m sure if the café hasn’t been open someone would have noticed. But I’ll call the sheriff if it will make you happy, all right?”

* * *

SHERIFF FRANK CURRY had spent the morning at his office researching online for information about horsehair hitching, and waiting to see if the photo in the newspaper generated any clues.

Until it did, all he had to go on was the murder weapon—the length of hitched horsehair rope found about the victim’s neck.

Frank took out the evidence bag holding the horsehair rope. Could this length of hitched horsehair help him solve this murder? He sure hoped so.

Jack said he didn’t think the pattern was from Montana State Prison. Frank finally understood what Jack had meant. Apparently there were only four prisons where this old Western art form was practiced still: Deer Lodge, Montana; Rawlins, Wyoming; Walla Walla, Washington; and Yuma, Arizona; and each had their own designs and colors. The painstaking art was popular in prisons, where inmates had nothing but time.

From the bright colors used in the rope, it sounded as if there was a good chance the rope had been made in the Yuma prison. The colors apparently were the result of the Mexican influence at the prison there.

So if it was true that each prison had its own designs and colors and no two hitched ropes were ever identical, then the rope found around the dead man’s neck, along with his morgue photo, might be used to identify either him—or his killer.

Frank had just left a message for the Yuma warden when Tucker Williams walked into his office.

“You’re sure it was the man in the sketch?” the sheriff asked after listening to what Tucker had to tell him.

“Positive. It was right behind the bar under that outside light, so I got a good look at him.”

“And he was asking about Kate LaFond?”

“Not by name.” He took off his hat and scratched his head as if trying to remember the conversation. “The man described her and said he’d heard she was running the café. Now that I think about it, I don’t think he knew she owned it.”

Frank nodded. “So you told him where he could find her.”

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t think anything of it, you know?”

He could tell Tucker felt badly about that.

“Is she all right? Mary’s worried.”

“She’s fine.” But now that he thought about it, he had noticed a bruise on her cheek that she’d tried to cover with makeup the morning the body was found. “Thanks for calling and letting me know. I appreciate your help.”

“I hope it helps.”

“It does.”

* * *

KATE COULDN’T WAIT until the café emptied out. She kept moving, afraid to stop, let alone reread the note in her apron pocket. She could feel Jack French’s gaze on her. Had he seen her pick up the folded sheet of paper from the table?

She’d felt him watching her all morning. But she couldn’t worry about that. She had much bigger worries than that long, tall cowboy. She had felt like such a fool when his fingers had brushed hers earlier. It had been a shock, like the time she’d gone swimming in the creek and had raced back to her father’s travel trailer. The moment her bare, wet foot touched the metal trailer step, electricity had shot through her. She’d felt that same kind of jolt when Jack had brushed her hand.

With relief she saw that he was leaving. As he walked over to the cash register, Kate motioned to Bethany to take care of him. She busied herself cleaning the last table until she heard the bell over the front door jangle.

She’d been threatening to get rid of that damned bell, but like the Branding Iron, it was apparently part of a long tradition started by the former owner, Claude Durham.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Kate asked Bethany as they both took off their aprons, dropping them in a bin next to the washing machine by the back door of the café.

“Seriously, you haven’t heard? The Sweetgrass County Spring Fair is today and tomorrow. Everyone in three counties will be there. It’s the biggest event of spring.” Bethany was looking at her as if to say, Do you live in a cave? “Didn’t you hear everyone talking about it this morning at breakfast?”

Kate had quit listening to the café chatter when she realized all anyone around this part of Montana talked about most of the time was cows, crops and weather. “Well, have fun,” she said, shooing Bethany toward the front door.

“You should come.”

“And leave Lou in charge of the café?” she asked, joking about the cook running the place. Lou was more reclusive than she was.

“I don’t think you’d lose any money if you just shut down for the rest of the day. Everyone will be at the fair.”

Kate nodded, actually tempted. She could definitely use an afternoon away from this place. And if everyone was going to be at the fair, this would be a great time to do some exploring on her own.

She watched Bethany drive off, seriously considering locking the door and putting out the Closed sign. Lou wouldn’t mind having the afternoon off, she thought as she turned toward the kitchen to talk to him.

Behind her, the bell rang and a draft of cool spring air rushed in. She gave a silent curse and plastered on her welcoming smile as she turned.

“Hey, Kate,” bellowed a large blond woman wearing a Western shirt and jeans with a pair of new red cowboy boots and a straw hat. In the woman’s arms was a stack of brightly colored quilts.

Kate’s smile broadened. Priscilla Farnsworth or Cilla, as everyone called her, was a breath of fresh air. Loud, full of life and with a laugh that was contagious, Cilla was a member of the Beartooth Quilting Society. The group of women, ranging in age from thirty to eighty, came in every Thursday afternoon for pie and coffee. Often they would bring some of their latest quilts to show her.

Kate had been invited to attend one of their meetings when she’d first hit town. Cilla and Thelma Brooks had come into the café her first week one morning after rush to ask if she sewed, if she wanted to learn and if she would buy a raffle ticket for a quilt they were selling to raise money for the one-room schoolhouse down the road.

Both women had apologized for being so pushy. “It’s just that we get so little new blood,” Thelma had said, and Cilla had added with a laugh, “That makes us sound like vampires.” That was when Kate had fallen for the woman’s laugh. She’d bought a raffle ticket, said she didn’t have time right now to quilt—maybe later.

“We quilt and talk and eat!” Cilla had said. “Lord, how we eat. But what’s the point of getting together unless someone bakes something, right?”

Kate didn’t sew and didn’t have a clue about quilting, not that she told them that. Every woman in these parts sewed, gardened and canned—except for Kate.

“I had this great idea,” Cilla said as she bustled in now and dropped the stack of quilts into an empty booth. “I was on my way to the fair and I just swung right in here. Now, if you hate this idea, just say so. You won’t hurt my feelings. What do you think about us putting up a few of our quilts in the café?”

Kate opened her mouth, not sure what was going to come out, but she didn’t have to worry. Cilla didn’t give her a chance to speak.

“Okay, you hate the idea. I just thought these walls could use some color. No offense. Oh, me and my big mouth. You probably had plans to change the paint color and now I’ve gone and—”

“No, I don’t hate the idea,” Kate said. And plans? Her life had been moving so fast that her only plan had been to get moved into the apartment upstairs and reopen the café. She’d needed the money and hadn’t given a thought to sprucing up the place. If it had been good enough when Claude was alive, then she’d figured it was good enough now.

Also the Branding Iron was the only café in Beartooth, and she knew if it didn’t open again quickly after his death, the townsfolk would start going down the road to Big Timber. They were creatures of habit. She didn’t want their habit of hanging out at the Branding Iron to change.

“Why don’t you show me what you brought?” she said, realizing the walls definitely could use a coat of fresh paint.

The women of the Beartooth Quilting Society had made the first and only friendly overture anyone had made toward her since she’d arrived in town. She knew only too well how these small communities were when it came to outsiders. Which was just fine. She preferred her privacy, and anyway, she wouldn’t be staying long, now, would she? She thought of Jack French’s comment earlier about her leaving. What was it Jack thought he knew?

“Aren’t you worried that the quilts will smell like grease before long?” Kate asked, the scent of bacon permeating the air as she spoke.

“We’ll rotate them in and out,” Cilla said. “And we’ll do all the hanging and taking down. You won’t have to mess with any of it.”

Kate considered the walls. “I was thinking about painting first.” Well, she was now. “What color would you suggest?” That was something else she didn’t have a clue about.

“A nice neutral. You know, I have some extra paint from when I did my downstairs. Why don’t the girls and I swing by with it Monday after you close? It wouldn’t take us any time at all.”

“Cilla, that is such a generous offer, but—”

“Not at all. We’re glad to do it. Now, come take a look at these quilts and see what you think.”

Kate felt swept along, as if she’d fallen into the roaring creek that ran by town and was now on her way to the Gulf of Mexico via the Yellowstone, Missouri and Mississippi rivers.

“I think they’ll do this place wonders, don’t you?” Cilla said after she’d shown Kate an array of intricate and beautiful quilts.

“I love them all,” Kate said. “And I appreciate you thinking of me.”

Cilla smiled, a twinkle in her eye. “I can’t imagine what brought you to Beartooth, but I’m glad you’re here. I hope you plan to stay.”

“Thank you,” Kate said, and glanced toward the Beartooth General Store across the street. As usual, Nettie Benton was watching from the front window, determined to find out the truth about her new neighbor. Kate feared Nettie wouldn’t stop until she uncovered everything about her.

Kate remembered the note and felt a chill run the length of her spine. She’d put the note in her apron pocket and dropped the apron in the bin by the back door earlier when she’d been visiting with Bethany.

After waving goodbye to Cilla, Kate locked the door, flipped the sign in the window to Closed and told Lou to take the day off. The moment he left, she hurried to the bin with the aprons in it. As she pulled hers out and reached into the pocket, her heart took off at a gallop. Frantically she dug in one pocket, then the other.

The note was gone.