Читать книгу Odd Man Out - B.J. Daniels, B.J. Daniels - Страница 9

Pete slowed on the outskirts of town. At first glance, West, as the locals called it, appeared abandoned. They drove down the main drag, past the Dairy Queen, a row of T-shirt and curio shops and Denver’s camera shop. All were still boarded up behind huge piles of plowed snow. A melting cornice drooped low over Denver’s storefront. Out of a huge drift peeked a partially exposed homemade sign. See You In The Spring!

The only hint of spring was in the rivers of melting snow running along the sides of the empty streets. Dirty snowbanks, plowed up higher than most of the buildings, marked the street corners they drove by. Everywhere, a webbing of snowmobile tracks crisscrossed the rotting snow still lingering in the shadow of the pines. Down a muddy alley sat a deserted snowmobile, its engine cover thrown back, falling snowflakes rapidly covering it.

Only a couple of gas stations had their lights on. Near a mud puddle as large as a lake, two locals sat visiting, with their pickups running.

It was April. Off-season. Snowmobiling was over for another winter and the summer tourist trade wouldn’t officially begin until Memorial Day weekend. Denver usually cherished this time of year, a time for the locals to take a breather before the tourists returned. But today, the town seemed to echo her lonely, empty feeling of loss.

“I’m going to get you something hot to drink,” Pete said, touching her arm.

Since the near accident with the semi, she hadn’t been able to quit shaking. Pete pulled up to a convenience store and came back a few minutes later with two large hot chocolates. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he said, motioning toward the falling snow. “I love this time of year.” His gaze turned from the storm to her. “And I love you.”

“Pete, don’t—”

“When are you going to stop fighting it, Denver? I love you.” He put his finger to her lips when she tried to protest. “I know you don’t love me. At least not enough to marry me. Not yet. But you will, very soon.”

As she looked at Pete’s handsome face, she wished he were right. Marrying Pete was safe, and Max had made no secret of the fact that he had liked Pete for that very reason.

They finished their hot chocolates and drove farther on into town, finally stopping in front of a house on Faithful Street. The place was typical of the older West Yellowstone residences: rustic log with a green metal roof, surrounded by lodgepole pines.

“Let’s get this over with,” Pete said as he parked in front of Maggie’s house.

* * *

J.D. STOOD AT THE WINDOW of his room in the Stage Coach Inn, watching snowflakes spin slowly down from the grayness above. He blamed his restlessness on being back in West Yellowstone after all these years, on the weather, on Max’s burial service.

Jeez, Garrison, you’ve been lying to yourself for so long, you’ve started believing it. He stepped away from the window and went to the makeshift bar he’d set up on the dresser. It’s seeing Denny again that’s thrown you. He frowned, still surprised at his reaction. Denver. He swore under his breath as he ripped the plastic off one of the water glasses and poured a half inch of Crown Royal into it.

All these years he’d remembered Denny as the little freckle-faced girl he’d had water fights with on the beach and beat at Monopoly. Not that there hadn’t always been something about her that made her special to him. A fire in her eyes and a spirit and determination that had touched him. But she’d been just a kid. Now he couldn’t help wondering about the woman he’d seen at the cemetery—the woman Denver McCallahan had become. How much was left of the girl he’d once shared his dreams with?

The window drew him back again. His dreams. He sipped the whiskey and looked out at his old hometown. It was here he’d picked up his first guitar, a beat-up used one. He’d fumbled through a few chords, a song already forming in his head. It had always been there. The music, the knowledge that he’d make it as a singer—and the ambition eating away inside him.

He stared at the town through the snow. It had been here that he’d performed for the first time, here that he’d dreamed of recording an album of his own music, here that he’d always known he’d end up one day. But not like this.

Nine years. Nine years on a circuit of smoky bars and honky-tonks, long empty highways, flat tires on old clunkers and cheap motel rooms. Somewhere along the way, he’d made it. Even now, he couldn’t remember exactly when that happened, when he realized it was no longer just a dream. J. D. Garrison was a genuine country and western star. Grammys and Country Music Association awards, his songs on the top of Billboard’s country charts. Since then, there’d been more awards, more songs, more albums, more tours. And better cars, better bars, better motel rooms.

But one thing remained the same. That distant feeling that he was drifting off the face of the earth, that he’d become untethered from life. A few weeks ago, he’d awakened in a strange motel room and forgotten where he was, and when he’d looked at himself in the mirror, he realized he’d forgotten who he was, as well. He was losing the music. The songs weren’t there anymore—and neither was the desire to make them.

J.D. spread his fingers across the cold windowpane. The white flakes danced beyond his touch; a tiny drift formed on the sill. “Oh, Denny,” he whispered. There was no doubt in his mind that she would try to find Max’s murderer. The question was how to keep her safe. And how to keep Pete away from her until he could sort it all out.

But he knew one thing. He’d do whatever he had to do. Like hell. You’re looking forward to coming between the two of them. But is it because you believe Pete might have changed so much in these nine years that he could kill someone? Or is it simply that you don’t want Pete to have Denny?

He frowned as he remembered the woman he’d glimpsed at the cemetery. Denver McCallahan was definitely a woman worth fighting for. And if he were Pete Williams, he’d fight like hell for her.

* * *

MAGGIE MET PETE and Denver on the screened-in porch in worn jeans, an old flannel shirt that could have been Max’s, and a pair of moccasins. She hadn’t attended the burial, saying she preferred to remember Max the way he was. A bag of groceries rested on the step, and from her breathlessness, Denver guessed she’d just come from the store.

The buzz of the going-away party spilled through the door behind her as she hugged Denver. “You okay?”

“I need to talk to you,” Denver whispered.

Maggie handed Pete the bag of groceries and asked him to take them inside where friends had already started Max’s party—their version of an Irish send-off.

“What’s the matter?” Maggie asked after Pete was out of earshot. “Pete isn’t pressuring you again, is he?”

Maggie was always quick to blame Pete. She disapproved of him, not because he was a musician with the band he and J.D. had started, the Montana Country Club, but because he’d never gone beyond that. “He’s as talented as J.D. but he lacks J.D.’s inner strength,” she’d said. “Behind all that charm is a very disappointed, angry young man.” It was one of the few things Max and Maggie had ever argued about.

Denver wished Pete and Maggie could get along, especially now that Max was gone.

“Pete’s fine. It’s about Max,” Denver said. More guests arrived. She’d known Max made friends easily, but Denver was astounded at the number of people who’d come hundreds of miles to pay their respects to him.

Maggie told Denver to go on through the house to the kitchen, where the noise level was lower and the temperature definitely warmer, and wait for her. “Cal Dalton was here earlier,” Maggie said. Since the party was an all-day kind of thing, people kept coming and going. “I just got back so I don’t know if he’s still here or not.”

“Thanks, I need to talk to him.”

Denver worked her way through the guests, stopping to accept words of sympathy and visit a moment with friends. She didn’t see Cal. In the kitchen, she stood watching the snow fall and thinking of Max. She didn’t even hear Maggie come in.

“Has Deputy Cline found some new evidence?” Maggie asked hopefully.

“No.” Denver pulled off her hat and coat, and hung them on a hook by the back door. She wandered around the familiar kitchen, too keyed up to sit. “Cline is still convinced Max was killed by a hitchhiker.”

Max’s body had been found at the old city dump; according to Sheriff’s Deputy Bill Cline, he’d been stabbed once in the heart. Cline was looking for a hitchhiker Max had bought lunch for at the Elkhorn Café earlier that day.

Maggie sat down at the kitchen table, her eyes dark with pain. “I can’t believe Max was killed by someone he helped.”

“I don’t think that’s what happened.” Denver bit her lip, watching for Maggie’s reaction. “What if it was connected to one of his cases? Maybe an...old case.”

“You aren’t suggesting it might be—”

“No.” Denver fought off a chill. “Even Max had given up on that one.” The one old case that had haunted Max for years was the unsolved murders of Denver’s parents. Denver stopped beside the table, settling her gaze on Maggie. “I’ve been having the nightmare again.”

“Oh, Denver.” Maggie took her hand. “Max’s death must have brought it back.”

It had been years since she’d had the nightmare, not since Max had brought her to live with him in West Yellowstone. She’d been five at the time and could remember very little of her life before then. Except for images from the nightmare of fear and death from that day at the bank. She’d been with her parents the day the bank robber had killed her father and mother. Her father had just gotten off duty; he was still in his police uniform. Max said that was what had gotten him killed—walking into the middle of a robbery in uniform.

“I thought maybe Max might have mentioned a case,” Denver said, changing the subject.

“You know the kind of work he did, small-time stuff, insurance fraud, divorce and child custody, theft—nothing worth getting murdered over.”

“What if he’d stumbled across that once-in-a-lifetime case he’d always dreamed of?”

Maggie smiled. “I wish he had, honey. But you know Max. He couldn’t have kept that a secret from us.”

Denver ran her fingers along the edge of the kitchen counter. “He could if it was too dangerous or confidential or...” The word illegal sprang into her mind. Surely Maggie had heard the rumors.

“The last time he mentioned a case, he was tailing a husband whose wife thought he was having an affair,” Maggie said. “I remember because Max was keeping odd hours. He wouldn’t get in until the wee hours of the morning.” She laughed. “I asked him if he was having an affair.”

“How did the case turn out?” Denver asked.

“He never told me.” Maggie looked past Denver, her gaze clouded. “There is one thing, though. A few days before he was...before he died, he brought some file folders home from the office. Old ones.”

“Where are they now?” Denver asked as she sat down across from Maggie.

“He burned them.”

“He what?” Denver couldn’t believe her ears.

“That night we were sitting by the fireplace. He was sorting through some things. That’s when I saw the folders—right before he tossed them into the fire.”

“Did you see what they were?”

Maggie frowned. “I wasn’t paying much attention, but a newspaper clipping fell out of one of the files. I don’t even remember what it was about, just that it was old. I’m sure that’s why Max was throwing the files away.”

“Still, that doesn’t sound like Max. He never threw anything away.”

“I didn’t think it was strange at the time....” Maggie’s voice trailed off. “You know, he did keep one of those files. I guess he took it back to his office.”

“There are too many strange things. Like Max’s will. Not even his lawyer’s seen it. It seems Max drew it up himself and said he’d put it in a safe place.” Denver shook her head. “I wonder what Max would consider a safe place? Probably the middle of his kitchen table.”

Maggie laughed softly, her eyes misty with private memories of Max. “The police didn’t find it in either Max’s apartment or office. Do you think he could have left it at your cabin?”

“I haven’t looked yet,” Denver said. “And Max’s gun is missing, too. Deputy Cline says the killer must have taken it when he took Max’s wallet. But you know Max hardly ever carried a gun.”

Maggie brushed at her tears. “Max would have given that hitchhiker money before the guy could even ask, and given him his shirt and shoes, as well. Even his car.”

“That’s just it, Maggie. Why didn’t the guy take Max’s car? The keys were in it.” Denver turned and was startled to find Pete standing just inside the kitchen doorway. She wondered how long he’d been there, listening.

“I thought we’d already settled this.” He glared at her, his gaze hard with anger. “You were going to stay out of the murder investigation and let Cline do his job.”

Denver drew in a deep breath. Obviously she hadn’t made herself clear when they’d argued about this earlier. “I can’t stay out of it. How is the killer ever going to be caught when Cline isn’t even looking into Max’s cases?”

“What cases?” Pete demanded. “Come on, Denver. You’re clutching at straws. It was a hitchhiker. You know how bad Max was about picking up strays.”

No one knew better than she did just how Max was about helping people in trouble, she thought as she fingered her mother’s gold locket at her neck. Fortunately, Max McCallahan had been that kind of man.

“No, it simply doesn’t make sense,” Denver said, standing her ground. “Maggie said he burned some old files right before he was killed. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

Pete raked his fingers through his hair, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “So what are you going to do? Go after this murderer by yourself?”

“Pete’s right,” Maggie interrupted, surprising them both, since she seldom agreed with Pete on anything. “Listen, honey, Max wouldn’t have wanted you getting involved in this. Obviously it’s dangerous. I think you’d better leave it to the deputy sheriff.”

Denver stared at her. It wasn’t like Maggie to tell her to run from trouble; Maggie had always encouraged her to join Max in the investigation business. It had been Max who wouldn’t hear of it, who had insisted she stick to photography, even though she’d helped him by taking photos on some of his cases.

“I’d better get back to my guests,” Maggie said, slipping past Pete.

The tension in the kitchen dropped a notch or two in the moments after Maggie left; Denver knew it was because Pete thought he might be able to dissuade her. She looked out the window. The day had slipped away into dusk.

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, crossing the kitchen to put his arms around her. “I know you’re upset about Max. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

The worry in his eyes startled her. If he believed Max had been killed by some stranger passing through town, why would he be so afraid for her? Clearly he didn’t believe it any more than she did.

“Just promise me you’ll stay out of this,” Pete whispered into her hair. “I want to help you get through it, if you’ll let me.”

Denver buried her face in his shoulder. She felt protected in his arms. Maybe Pete was right. She was a photographer—not an investigator. But that knowledge did little to cool the fever burning deep within her. She had to see Max’s murderer behind bars; she owed Max at least that. And after all those years of hanging around him, she’d picked up a little something about investigative work. She wasn’t going after the killer blind; she knew of the danger. But the danger didn’t scare her as much as the thought that her uncle’s murderer might get away.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” she said, lifting her cheek from his shoulder. “I can’t make that promise.” She felt him tense. He dropped his arms and stepped back, his expression one of disappointment and anger. “I’m going to find Max’s killer if it’s the last thing I do.”

Pete nodded. “It just might be.”

* * *

J.D. COULDN’T SHAKE the feeling that Denver was already in trouble, more trouble than just being involved with Pete—a possible killer.

He picked up the phone and dialed Maggie’s number. Someone pretty well sloshed answered. A moment later, Maggie came on the line. “Is Denny all right?” he asked, feeling foolish.

“She’s fine,” Maggie said. “She’s here and Pete just left.” Her voice sounded muffled as if coming from inside a closet. From the party noise in the background, he guessed she probably was.

“Good. I won’t worry about her for the moment anyway.” He hung up and reached for his coat, trying to shake off the ominous feeling he had.

His options were limited. Confront Pete with what little “evidence” Maggie had against him and have Pete just deny it? Or try to talk to Denver about him. Maggie hadn’t taken that route for two good reasons. One was that Denver knew Maggie had never liked Pete, and adding suspicion of murder to that list would only alienate her. The other was that the Denver he remembered would fight to the death to defend a friend, let alone a lover. And it was obvious she and Pete were very close.

J.D. cursed the thought. Nor did he doubt what Denver would do if he told her his suspicions. She’d go straight to Pete. Head-on. That was the way she operated. He assured himself Pete would never hurt her. At least, not the Pete he used to know. He considered Maggie’s evidence against Pete flimsy at best. But Maggie’s obvious fear for Denver made him think twice about dismissing it. If for some reason Pete had killed Max, then what would he do if he thought Denver suspected him? It wasn’t a chance J.D. was willing to take with Denver’s safety. And sitting around a motel room wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed.

* * *

AFTER PETE LEFT HER ALONE in the kitchen, Denver stood staring at the snow falling in the darkness outside, thinking of Max. The need to avenge his death tore at her insides, holding her grief at bay most of the time. Except tonight. Tonight she felt alone and frightened.

As a girl, when she’d been afraid, she’d fantasized about J.D. rescuing her. Nothing quite as dramatic as being tied to the railroad tracks with the train coming—but close enough. Always at the last minute, J.D. would appear and save her. But this wasn’t a fantasy now. Max was dead. Not even Pete was on her side this time. And J.D. certainly wasn’t coming to her rescue.

The noise from the other room had reached a rowdy pitch, music blasting. Denver heard the kitchen door open behind her only because it increased the volume. At first, she thought it might be Pete coming back.

Cal Dalton closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

He reminded her of a coyote, a wild look in his eyes, his body poised for flight. And instantly she wondered what he had to be afraid of; he frightened her much more than she ever could him. Everything about him was cold, from his graying pale blond hair to his icy blue eyes. He had to be hugging fifty but he hung around the bars with men half his age. Cal was known in town as a womanizer and a mean drunk, always getting into fights. One jealous husband had even shot him, and Cal liked to show off the scar, according to local scuttlebutt.

“I’m trying to find out what cases Max was working on,” she said. For reasons Denver could not fathom, Max had befriended Cal in the weeks before his death, something she could only assume meant Max was on a case.

“You think I hired your uncle?” Cal scratched his neck. “What would I need with a private eye?” Good question. “Max and I were just drinking buddies.”

“He didn’t mention a case he might have been working on?” she asked. “Or maybe hire you to do some legwork for him?”

“Legwork?” Cal shook his head. His gaze took her in as if he realized for the first time she was a woman and certainly no threat. “Speaking of legs, yours aren’t half-bad,” he said, making her feel as if he’d just peeled off her black slacks.

This had been a mistake. “Well, I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Max did talk a lot about you,” he said.

She found that more unlikely than their being drinking buddies. “If you’ll excuse me, Pete is waiting for me.” She tried to get past him, but he blocked her way.

“I don’t think so. I saw Pete leave.” He was close now. She could feel his breath on her face, smell the reek of beer.

Pete wouldn’t leave without telling her, would he?

Cal leaned his hands on either side of her, trapping her. “I’m afraid Pete’s thrown you to the wolves, darlin’.” His eyes traveled over her with a crudeness that turned her stomach. “How about a little kiss for old Cal?”

“No, and if you touch me—”

He moved closer. “I like feisty girls.” He bent to kiss her. Denver dived under his arm, shooting for the space between his body and the counter. He caught her, swung her into him and gave her a smelly, slobbery kiss that made her gag. “How’d you like that?” he asked, leering. “Better than that pansy boyfriend of yours, huh?”

She jerked her arm free and slapped him with a force that drove him back a step.

He rubbed his jaw; a meanness came into his eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that. All I wanted was a little kiss.”

Denver grabbed the first thing she could find as Cal moved toward her. A pottery pitcher.

“Denver?” Cal turned at the sound of the voice behind him, and Denver looked past him to see Max’s old friend, Taylor Reynolds, standing in the doorway. “Is there a problem here?”

Denver set down the pitcher and pushed past Cal to step into the big man’s arms.

“It’s okay,” Taylor said, holding her awkwardly. The old bachelor wasn’t a man used to a physical display of sentiment. “Buddy, don’t you think you’d better get back to the party?”

Denver heard Cal leave but she didn’t look up; she found herself crying, crying for Max, for herself.

“Hey, easy. This is my best suit,” Taylor kidded, then pulled back to look at her. “What was going on in here? If he’s bothering you—”

She stepped from the shelter of his arms, trying to regain control. “Cal was just being Cal.”

Taylor pushed out a chair for her at the table and pulled down some towels from a roll. He handed them to her and joined her at the table.

Denver took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with a towel and looked at the man before her. She remembered Max talking about his buddies from the army, but she’d never met this one before. Taylor Reynolds was a powerful-looking man much like Max had been. Only unlike Max, Taylor was soft-spoken and shy. He’d shown up right after Max’s murder.

“Max saved my life in the army—I owe him,” Taylor had said, standing with his hat in his hands on Maggie’s porch. “I’ll be staying at the Three Bears if you need anything.”

Denver had taken to him immediately, and so had Maggie. Denver knew it was because he and Max had been so close; in Taylor a small part of Max still lived.

“It’s tough, but we’re all going to get through this,” Taylor said now. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his big hands. He took a toothpick and spun it between two fingers.

“Who do you think killed him?”

Taylor’s face clouded. “A damned fool.”

“Do you think it was the hitchhiker Deputy Cline’s looking for?” She had a sudden flash of Max, the flicker of sunlight on the water behind him, the gentle lap of water against the side of the boat, the sound of his laugh floating across the lake. When she looked up, she realized Taylor had been talking to her.

“Denver?” He studied her, his eyes dark with concern. “You’re having a rough time with this, aren’t you, kid? Be careful. Don’t let Max’s death become more important than living.”

Denver looked away. The noise of the party seemed at odds with the silence of the darkness outside.

Taylor reached across the table and patted her hand, then quickly pulled back, obviously embarrassed by the gesture. He got to his feet. “I think that Cal fellow has had enough to drink. Why don’t I see he gets home where he won’t be bothering you anymore tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“We’re all going to miss Max, kid,” he said as he left.

For a few moments, Denver stood in the quiet kitchen, thinking about what Taylor had said. She knew he was right; Max would have wanted her to get on with her life. And he would have liked her to marry Pete.

“I want to know there’s going to be someone around for you when I’m gone,” he’d said the last time they’d talked.

Denver closed her eyes. And now Max was gone. Had he known there was a chance he might be killed?

The kitchen suddenly felt as if it were closing in on her. Denver took her coat and hat and slipped out through the side door into the night. A chilly wind spun a weathered wind sock on the end of the eaves. She ducked her head against the cold and pulled her coat more tightly around her. The snow had stopped; now it was melting, dripping from warm roofs and dark pine boughs along the street.

Cal had told the truth, she realized with a shock. Pete’s pickup was gone. “Men,” she groaned as she started the four-block walk to her car.

For days she’d told herself that it was all a mistake, that Max wasn’t really dead. Now as she walked the familiar streets, she acknowledged that he was gone. The truth came like a swift kick to the stomach. All the values she’d believed in, Max had taught her. She owed him her very life.

Her Jeep was parked in front of Pete’s apartment, where she’d left it earlier before the service. Pete’s pickup was nowhere to be seen. As she drove down Firehole Avenue, she realized how tired she was. All she wanted to do was go to the lake cabin and get some sleep. But as she looked down the dark street to Max’s office, she wondered again about what cases Max might have been working on, something Cline wouldn’t have recognized as a clue since he was so busy looking for a hitchhiker. Finding Max’s killer couldn’t wait, she realized. And nothing was going to stop her. Nothing. And nobody.