Читать книгу Her Montana Man - Laurie Paige - Страница 8

Chelsea didn’t want to be at his house, Pierce realized when she announced she should get back to the other cabin. She didn’t want to be around him, period.

For some reason that made him angry. It also stirred up a demon that made him want to make sure she was as aware of his presence as he was of hers.

He cursed long and silently, but it did no good. All the old feelings she’d once evoked in him were on a rampage. He wanted to kiss her, to yell at her, to…to… Hell, he didn’t know.

“You can’t leave,” Kelly insisted. “We have to stay for the fireworks.”

“We’ll have to move closer,” Pierce said. “The trees screen us from the east side of the lake.”

His sister had an answer for that. “Let’s go over to Chelsea’s place. It has a perfect view of the entire lake.”

Before anyone could protest, Kelly was on her feet and leading the way. Pierce gritted his teeth. He knew his sister when she was in her full-speed-ahead mode.

“Another beer?” he asked Jim.

Jim cast him an amused but sympathetic glance. “Yes, thanks.”

Pierce retrieved a couple of bottles from his fridge and followed the other three across the stepping stones in the creek to the other house that was basically a smaller version of his own. He didn’t know what Kelly and Chelsea were planning, but he wanted no part of it.

Eight years ago she’d chosen a residency in forensic pathology at a prestigious university hospital back east over a future with him. Who could blame her?

For a moment he recalled how she’d looked—her eyes shining and filled with awe that she’d been accepted in the program. Then had come an expression of uncertainty, as if she didn’t know what to do with him. He’d wished her well and made it clear he’d never been interested in a long-term relationship with her.

So what was she doing back in Montana? Knowing his sister, the answer wouldn’t be good news for him.

Heaving a rough sigh, he carried the beers over to the deck bordering the lake and settled in a chair already in place for him…next to Chelsea.

“Good timing,” Kelly said. “The fireworks are just starting.”

Seeing Chelsea slap at her arm, he recalled that she seemed to attract every mosquito for a mile around and developed big lumps from their bites. “I’ll get some bug spray,” he told her.

“I have some.” She went into the cabin and returned in a minute, smelling of citronella. She waved the spray can at them. “Anyone else?”

Kelly held out a hand. “Yes. Honey, I’ll spray your back, then would you do mine?” she said to Jim.

Pierce observed while the couple took care of each other. When he glanced at Chelsea, she, too, was watching, a quietness about her that was unsettling.

Huh. She’d chosen her career over all else. If she regretted it, that was just too bad.

Pleased that he was able to maintain the right psychological distance from her, he relaxed, took a swig of beer and enjoyed the first burst of fireworks over the lake.

Chelsea woke fully alert and ready to get on with the day. She had three hours before the nine o’clock meeting in Pierce’s office. Plenty of time for a swim and workout.

She donned a bathing suit and headed out the back door to the deck. The lake wasn’t deep enough to dive in at this point, but she could wade out to waist deep, then swim some laps. She set her waterproof watch for twenty minutes.

The air was already comfortably warm, an indication that the day would be another scorcher. What had happened to those cool Montana nights?

She waded into the lake, then laughed as chills raced along her thighs. The water hadn’t warmed up. She plunged in up to her neck, sighted a cottonwood as a marker and swam steadily up and down the shore between the deck and the tree for twenty minutes.

Finished, she raced for the deck and the towel she’d left behind. “Oh,” she said softly upon seeing Pierce standing there in snug jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

He tossed her the towel, his gaze colder than the icy water of the lake.

“Good morning,” she said, determined to be cheerful around him. It was time to get over the past and move on.

“That is the skimpiest bathing suit I’ve ever seen,” he told her.

She looked at her two-piece suit. It was cut high on the legs as all of them were, but it wasn’t a string bikini or anything like that. “Surely not,” she said airily.

Uh-oh, wrong thing to say. He looked as if he would like to choke her.

“That outfit might be modest for the city, but around here, folks dress more circumspectly.”

She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

Pierce glared at her.

She laughed harder. “I’m sorry,” she finally managed to say, not at all sincerely. “It’s just that you sound so pompous and indignant, not at all like the Pierce who dared me to go skinny-dipping in the pool at my apartment building at three o’clock on a January morning.”

He looked rather taken aback that she would bring up the passionate past, but she’d realized last night that they couldn’t pretend it didn’t exist.

“I’m not here to discuss the past,” he informed her. “I have other things to do than watch out for you.”

“No one asked you to look after me.”

Gesturing toward her outfit, now hidden by the towel, he stalked toward her. “If some of the guys working here see you like that, they’ll take it as an open invitation to visit. I won’t have them distracted by a siren from the city.”

Chelsea rubbed the end of the towel over her dripping hair. She’d never been called a siren before.

“If it’s for my benefit,” he continued, “you’re wasting your time. I have more important things to do than get mixed up with you again.”

Astounded at this proclamation, she stared at him. The situation was no longer amusing. Anger flamed. “Pompous and egotistical,” she murmured loud enough for him to hear. “You have changed in eight years.”

His gaze drifted all the way down to her feet and back to her face. “You’re on my turf now. Watch yourself.”

With that sage advice, he strode off, heading back to his house in a manner that suggested a charging bull. She leaned against the railing and frowned at his back, her temper unappeased.

“You’d better watch yourself, too,” she called to him. “City sirens are hard to resist.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he stalked on.

Feeling that she’d gotten the last word in, she shivered and hurried inside to a warm shower. The day was off to a good start. She could hardly wait to see how the rest of it went.

“I don’t believe it. Miss Martel?” Holt Tanner said when Chelsea related her findings.

“Nevertheless, it’s true.”

“Four months,” he repeated. “Who was the father?”

“He didn’t leave a calling card.”

Pierce shot a warning glance at her flippant remark. He still wasn’t very happy with her. Fine. She could live with that. In fact, it made things easier. There would be no more dreams of hot kisses and roaming hands—

“And you can definitely rule out suicide?”

She nodded to the lawman.

Holt paced to the window. “I don’t want the news of a pregnancy to get out. It’s the only thing we know that the killer also knows. Maybe he’ll slip up sooner or later.”

Chelsea was pleased that the deputy was on the same mental track with her. “He’s local.”

“Yeah, I realized that as soon as you said she was pregnant. Do you think she was blackmailing him—demanding money for her silence?” The lawman stared into the middle distance, deep in thought.

“Or demanding marriage,” Pierce suggested. He rubbed a hand over his face. “What else don’t we know about the mysterious Miss Martel, gruff and reclusive librarian that she was?”

Holt turned a chair around and straddled it, his forearms crossed over the back. “I’ve been checking her records and accounts. By Rumor standards, she was rich.”

“Harriet Martel?” Pierce was obviously startled at this new disclosure.

Holt nodded. “She’d been investing her money for years. There’s a sizable inheritance.”

“Who gets it?”

“I don’t know if there’s a will. The only relatives are her sister, Louise Holmes, and Louise’s son, Colby. Gossip has it that Colby is denying his aunt would have killed herself.” Holt frowned. “The thought of murder makes people nervous.”

“It could scare off the tourists, too. The city council is planning another event after the success of the Crazy Moon Festival last month. It’ll be a bust if no one shows up for it.”

Chelsea listened quietly as the men discussed the case and the consequences for the small town that depended on tourist dollars for cash flow. Murder spread a wide ripple across a narrow pond in a community such as Rumor.

Holt snapped his fingers. “In a murder case in one town, they tested every male’s DNA. We could do that.”

Chelsea grimaced. “The perp paid another man to take the test for him, so the results didn’t do any good.”

“Not until the man’s conscience finally got the better of him and he confessed. The perp was then tested and found to be guilty,” Holt reminded her.

Pierce dismissed the idea. “The court would have to agree it was necessary, too, else it’s an invasion of privacy. I don’t think a judge in the county would condone widespread testing.”

The men were silent as they sought another avenue to pinpoint the murderer.

“Chelsea, can you help out?” Pierce asked.

“Of course. What do you have in mind?”

“Holt, do you mind if Chelsea looks over all the evidence? I can vouch for her discretion,” he added when the lawman shot her a troubled glance. “You can take her out to Harriet’s house and let her poke around. Maybe she’ll find an angle we’ve overlooked.” He smiled grimly. “Harriet was murdered on Saturday night, during the last weekend of the festival. Six days ago. We need this case wrapped up.”

Holt stood. “Are you available now? I’m free this morning, but I have to present evidence at a hearing this afternoon.”

“Yes,” she said.

Pierce rose when she did. He glanced at his watch. “I have a council meeting shortly. Chelsea, can you join me for lunch at twelve sharp?”

Confused by the invitation, which sounded more like a command, she agreed to meet him. “Here?”

“At my place. I want to discuss your findings in private.” He turned to the deputy. “Have you turned in Chelsea’s report to the sheriff?”

“Not yet. I’ll be seeing him at five.”

“Tell him I’ll be at home this evening if he wants to come out and discuss it. I’d rather not say anything on the phone, especially a cell phone.”

The hair crept up on Chelsea’s neck at Pierce’s ominous tone. Noting his deep frown as she and Holt left his office, she realized he was worried about the town and its citizens. As mayor, he had to be. There was a killer loose in their midst, and right now, only the three of them knew it, plus one other….

Ten minutes later, the lawman muttered an expletive when he turned into a narrow drive on a quiet side street. Another vehicle was parked next to the white cottage with its dark green shutters and colorful flower boxes and yellow crime-scene tape stretched across the front porch.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“The nephew. Colby Holmes. I’ll wring his neck if he’s touched anything.”

The door was unlocked, eliciting another curse. Chelsea followed Holt inside. “Colby,” he yelled.

“In here,” a male voice called out.

Chelsea entered a room that was more an alcove than a full-size room, Holt on her heels. Bay windows let in the morning sunlight. Bookshelves lined every available wall, and a desk occupied the rest of the space.

A young man in his mid-to late-twenties sat on the floor in front of a bookcase. With brown eyes and hair and a restlessness that spoke of contained energy, the former rodeo star was attractive and determined as he returned the deputy’s glare.

“What the hell are you doing, crossing a police line and messing around in here?” Holt demanded.

“Looking,” came the reply.

“For what?”

“Proof that Aunt Harriet didn’t commit suicide.”

“Who said she did?”

The nephew narrowed his eyes at the deputy. “That’s the rumor flying around town. It’s a lie. My aunt may have been a recluse, but she wasn’t a wimp who couldn’t face life.”

“So what’s your theory?” the deputy challenged.

“She was murdered.” The younger man finished flipping through the book, put it on the shelf and stood. His eyes cut to Chelsea. “Who’s she?”

“Dr. Kearns. The medical examiner sent down from Billings.”

“Mom said the cops had ordered an autopsy. Have you done it yet?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” he said impatiently.

Chelsea held her temper with an effort. The men she’d met thus far in Rumor were an autocratic bunch. When she’d arrived Monday evening after working in Billings all day, the deputy had wanted her to start that night.

She’d refused. However, she’d spent all day Tuesday and most of Wednesday in the morgue. She’d checked and rechecked the evidence, which was in short supply. She’d promptly written up her report. Did that satisfy them? No way.

First the mayor, then the deputy had demanded firsthand information on the case. Now a third male was demanding to know her findings. She was tired of demands.

“Check with the sheriff,” she advised.

“No information is going out until we finish investigating the case,” Holt told the younger man. “If you’ve destroyed any evidence, I’ll have your hide in jail so fast it’ll make you dizzy. Stay out of it, Colby.”

“Then find out the truth.” He strode toward the door. “My aunt didn’t commit suicide.”

Chelsea and the lawman watched the nephew leave, then they turned back to the crime scene. “Where was her body found?” Chelsea asked.

For the next two hours they went over the cottage for any missed evidence. Chelsea noted the librarian had few personal effects in the neat little house. Other than a couple of pictures of Colby, plus one of his mother and the deceased woman, there was an absence of knickknacks.

However, there were plenty of books. Naturally. A librarian would have a passion for books. And for the man who’d killed her and the unborn child?

“Was the child his?” she murmured aloud. “Or had she gone to someone else, and that’s what made him so furious?”

“Good question.” Holt wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked tired and irritated. The temperature was in the nineties as predicted. He continued his inspection of the chair where Harriet Martel had died. It had already been combed for fibers and hairs.

On the table next to the chair was a novel. Chelsea read the title: Dangerous Liaisons. A bookmark near the end indicated the woman had been reading it prior to the murder.

An apt selection. The librarian’s liaison had proved very dangerous.

Chelsea reached for the book, then stopped. She wasn’t wearing latex gloves, so she was hesitant to touch anything. “Has everything been dusted for prints?”

Holt was now on his haunches studying the carpet. “Yeah. We didn’t find many, and what few we did find belonged to Harriet or her family. A few others were too smudged to reveal anything. The whole place was wiped down before the perp left.”

“Did you check the drains for hair? Are there any toothbrushes that are different?”

“We did all that.”

Chelsea stepped nearer the chair. A sense of intense cold caused her to shiver.

The times when she was requested to attend a murder scene bothered her for days afterward. Maybe it was imagination, but she seemed to feel the anger and the agony, the tragic death scene that had resulted from uncontrolled emotion. A psychic she’d once met on a case had assured her it was real, that the energy caused by strife and grief lingered long after the deed.

Chelsea felt it now—the hot fury, then the cold, calculating anger, the sudden fear of the woman, the need to protect the child—

“It was for the child,” she said. “Whatever started the conflict, it was for the child. The victim wanted to protect her baby.”

“From what?” Holt asked, giving her a curious look.

“Scandal, perhaps. Or maybe he wanted her to get rid of it and she refused.”

As soon as Chelsea said the words, she knew they were true. The cold in the room drove right down to her soul. It lingered near the chair where the librarian had died, like a ghost hovering there, silently imploring them to discover the truth and thus find her killer.

She stared at the worn chair. For a wealthy person the woman had lived very simply. The chair, table and lamp indicated this was her favorite reading spot.

A small stain marred the upholstery, but that was the only evidence of the violence that had taken place. Since the bullet hadn’t exited, there was little bleeding and no splatter on the walls and floor.

A very neat murder with a small-caliber weapon such as a woman might have in the house to protect herself from intruders. The man would have known about the gun. Maybe he gave it to her.

“You ready to go?” the deputy asked.

Wrapping her arms across her chest, she nodded. “Yes, I’m ready.”

The return trip was short. The deputy parked on Main Street in front of the sheriff’s office. After he went inside, she realized she had a half hour before she met with Pierce. Seeing a diner up the street, she went there and ordered a cup of coffee.

A newspaper had been left on a chair at the table. She picked it up and read the headline: Suicide in Rumor.

The story recounted Harriet Martel’s life in the town and how she’d transformed the library into a quiet oasis of learning. She’d instituted several story hours for different age groups and arranged for tutoring sessions between volunteers and students who needed help.

All in all she appeared to have been a good person, apparently dedicated to her job. Who had made her forget her basic values? Who was the man she had so foolishly loved?

Colby Holmes slid into the chair opposite her. “I want to talk to you,” he said.

“Mr. Holmes, you have my sympathy about your aunt, but the work I do in a case like this is strictly confidential. You’ll have to ask the sheriff—”

“In a case like what?” he interrupted.

She gazed at him without answering.

“If it was suicide, why all the secrecy? Coffee,” he practically snarled at the teenage waitress, who scurried off in the face of his anger. He turned back to Chelsea. “Why an autopsy in the first place? Why call in the state’s top forensic expert to perform it?”

She took a drink and watched him warily over the rim of the thick white cup.

The waitress plunked a mug and a cream pitcher on the table and departed.

“Murder, that’s why,” he answered the questions he raised. “What have you found out? I know you know more than you’re telling. She was my relative. I have a right—”

“What’s going on here?” Pierce asked in a low tone. He stopped by the table and leaned over Colby. “Holt Tanner says you’re interfering in the investigation and possibly tampering with the crime scene. That could earn you several years in the pen.”

Colby gave the mayor a sarcastic grin. “I didn’t tamper with any evidence. I was looking for some. Holt must have missed something.”

“Why do you say that?”

Colby tapped the newspaper headline. “Because Aunt Harriet was too strong-minded to do something like that. I wasn’t around my aunt a lot, but she was a forceful woman. Look how she straightened this town out on how to run the library. When she said jump, the city council did.”

Pierce studied the younger man for a long twenty seconds. Chelsea stilled herself for a confrontation. Pierce surprised her when he placed a hand on Colby’s shoulder.

“I agree. She was one determined woman, practical and fair-minded. Suicide seemed out of character to me, too. I asked for Dr. Kearns to do the autopsy and lend the sheriff’s department a hand because she is the best. Let the law do its job, okay?”

The two men eyed each other, one angry and suspicious, the other calm and certain.

At last Colby nodded. “I’d like to know what you turn up,” he requested.

“I’ll see that you get a full report,” Pierce promised.

After Colby left, Pierce tilted his head toward the street. “Ready to go? I have to get back for a meeting at two this afternoon.” He sighed and added, “I hate meetings.”

Instead of riding with him, she drove her own car to her cabin, then walked the short distance to his. She’d wondered what he was going to serve, then discovered he’d bought two lunches at the diner. That’s what had brought him in while she was being grilled by the nephew.

“Barbecued chicken, your favorite,” he said, setting the containers on the patio table. He’d also provided two large cups of iced tea, hers with lemon.

Taking a chair, she joined him in the meal, her mind going like a buzz saw. Pierce had asked for her help with the case. She hadn’t known that. He’d remembered that she took lemon in her tea.

Not that these tidbits meant anything, she reminded her suddenly buoyant spirits. She sighed quietly. Whatever they had shared was now long gone, but it had been a lovely time out of time while it lasted.

As soon as they finished eating, he asked, “Did you see anything interesting at Harriet’s house?”

Chelsea brought her wayward thoughts in line. “She was a neat person. Her house wasn’t cluttered. She liked flowers and she was fond of her sister and nephew. There were no signs of a past of any kind. Where did she go to college? Where was she born? What was she hiding?”

“I don’t think she was hiding anything. Her diplomas are in her office at the library. She has several. She earned a PhD after she moved here, but she didn’t like being called Dr. Martel.”

“It’s obvious she was very intelligent,” Chelsea said.

Pierce studied her, a questioning frown on his face. “But you see a contradiction in her actions?”

“Yes. How does a smart, independent and wealthy woman get mixed up with someone who would shoot her and try to make it look like suicide?”

“You’re the expert. You tell me.”

Chelsea hesitated, then said, “He was very controlling. I think he wanted her to get rid of the baby. She refused. That triggered the quarrel.”

Pierce leaned toward her, excitement flashing through his eyes. “Can you profile him for us?”

“I can give you some ideas on his personality.” She considered the evidence she’d seen and been given by the lawman. “He’s used to command, and he hates to be thwarted. He has a temper, which he’s generally learned to control.”

“But not always,” Pierce muttered.

“No, not always. He’s in his forties, maybe early fifties. Miss Martel was forty-three. At any rate, he was mature enough to control the first wave of panic and think through corrective steps. He wiped down his fingerprints, then set up the suicide. He was smart enough to use her gun.”

“There’s no record she had one,” Pierce said.

Chelsea shrugged. “The slug was a twenty-two, a caliber a woman would be comfortable with—not too big, but powerful enough for close range, say if a burglar was in the house. He probably gave her the gun and insisted she keep it.”

Pierce was silent for a long minute. “Anything else?”

“He would be drawn to positions of power. If in the army, he’d be an officer. In civilian life, he could be a cop or a CEO. If he owned a company, he’d be a tyrant. To attract a woman like Harriet Martel, he’d have to be intelligent. He’d also be charming. Both are good skills for public office. He’d more likely hold an elective office rather than an appointed one.”

“Why?”

“Self-preservation. Other men would be afraid of him. He’s ambitious and ruthless. Utterly ruthless.”

“A person would have to be without conscience to kill his lover and his child. Is that your conclusion?”

“Yes.”

Pierce grimaced. “I wish I knew what to think. I can’t conceive of a murderer walking around loose in my town. I know everybody within ten miles of the city limits and probably half the rest of the county, too. You and Holt say the man is local. I find that hard to believe.”

Anger blazed from his eyes as he glared at her.

She went on the defensive. “Believe what you wish.

Perhaps you’d like to bring someone else in on the case. I can give you a name. I trained under one of the FBI’s foremost forensic investigators my last year of school.”

“So Kelly said.” He waved a hand in dismissal of her suggestion. “You’re the best, or else I wouldn’t have asked for you.”

Her eyes met his and locked. For an eternity they gazed at each other, questions and awareness rushing in rivers of unappeased hunger between them.

“Damnation,” he muttered.

Then he reached for her.