Kitabı oku: «Corralled», sayfa 2

That reckless spirit is going to get you into trouble one day. You mark my words, girl.

Wouldn’t her mama love to hear that she’d been right. But mama was long dead and Jennifer Blythe James was still alive. If anything, that girl and the woman she’d become was a survivor. She’d gotten out of that dirty desert trailer park where she’d started life. She would get out of this.

“WHO’S THE VICTIM?” Sheriff Buford Olson asked, sensing the Grizzly Club general manager hovering somewhere at a discreet distance behind him.

“Martin Sanderson,” Kevin said. “It’s his house.”

Buford studied the larger bloody footprint next to the body. At a glance, he could see that it didn’t match the soles of the two security guards or the general manager’s, and unlike the other smaller print, this one headed not for the door, but in the opposite direction.

As he let his gaze follow the path the bloody prints had taken, Buford noted that the man had tried to wipe his shoe clean of the blood on an expensive-looking rug between the deceased and the bar where he was now lounging.

Buford was startled to see the man making himself at home at the bar with a drink in his hand. How many people had those dumb security guards let in?

“What the hell?” the sheriff demanded as he pushed himself up from where he’d been squatting beside the body. The “club” gave him a royal pain. He moved toward the bar, being careful not to step on the bloody footprints the man had left behind.

Buford didn’t need to ask the man’s name. He recognized Jett Akins only because his fourteen-year-old granddaughter Amy had a poster of the man on her bedroom wall. On the poster, Jett had been wearing all black—just as he was this morning—and clutching a fancy electric guitar. Now he clutched a tumbler, the dark contents only half full.

The one time his granddaughter had played a Jett Atkin’s song for him, Buford had done his best not to show his true feelings. The so-called song had made him dearly miss the 1960s. Seemed to him there hadn’t been any good music since then, other than country-western, of course.

“Mr. Atkins found the body,” Kevin said from the entryway.

Jett Atkins looked pale and shaken. He downed the rest of his drink as the sheriff came toward him. Buford would guess it wasn’t his first.

“You found the body?” he asked Jett, who looked older than he had on his poster. He had dark hair and eyes and a large spider tattoo on his neck and more tattoos on the back of his hands—all that was showing since the black shirt he wore was long-sleeved.

“I flew in this morning and took a taxi here. When I saw Martin, I called the club’s emergency number.” His voice died off as he looked again at the dead man by the fireplace and poured himself another drink.

Buford wanted to ask why the hell he hadn’t called 911 instead of calling the club’s emergency number. Isn’t that what a normal person would do when he found a dead body?

He turned to Kevin again. “How many people were in this house?”

“Mr. Sanderson had left the names of six approved guests at the gate with the guard, along with special keys for admittance to all the amenities on the grounds,” Kevin said in his annoyingly official tone. “All of those keys have been picked up.”

“Six people? So where are they?” the sheriff demanded. “And I am going to need a list of their names.” Before he could finish, Kevin withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and stepped around the sunken living room to hand it to him.

“These are the names of the guests Mr. Sanderson approved.”

Buford read off the names. “JJ, Caro, Luca, Bets, T-Top and Jett. Those aren’t names.” He had almost forgotten about Jett until he spoke.

“They’re stage names,” he said. “Caro, Luca, T-Top, and Bets. It’s from when they were in a band together.”

Stage names? “Are they actors?” Buford asked, thinking things couldn’t get any worse.

“Musicians,” Jett said.

He was wrong about things not getting worse. He couldn’t tell the difference between women’s or men’s names and said as much.

“They were an all-girl band back in the nineties called Tough as Nails,” Jett said, making it sound as if the nineties were the Stone Age.

“You don’t know their real names?” Buford asked.

“They are the only names required for our guards to admit them,” Kevin said. “Here at the Grizzly Club we respect the privacy of our residents.”

Swearing, Buford wrote down: Caro, Luca, T-Top and Bets in his notebook.

“What about this JJ?” he asked. “You said he picked up his key yesterday?”

“She.”

Buford turned to look at Jett. “She?” he asked thinking one of these women account for the woman’s cowboy-boot print in the dead man’s blood.

“JJ. She was also in the band, the lead singer,” Jett said.

The sheriff turned to the club manager again. “I need full legal names for these guests and I need to know where they are.”

“Only Mr. Sanderson would have that information and he … All I can tell you is that the five approved guests picked up their amenities keys yesterday. This gentleman picked his up at the gate today at 1:16 p.m.,” he said, indicating Jett.

“Which means the others are all here inside the gates?” Buford asked.

Kevin checked the second sheet of paper he’d taken from a separate pocket. “All except JJ. She left this morning at 10:16 a.m.”

Buford glanced over at the body. 10:16 a.m. That had to be close to the time of the murder, since the dead man’s blood was still wet when a woman wearing cowboy boots appeared to have knelt by the body, then sprinted for the front door.

Blythe pressed her cheek against Logan’s broad back and breathed in the rich scents on the cool spring air. The highway rolled past in a blur, the hours slipping by until they were cruising along the Rocky Mountain front, the high mountain peaks snow-capped and beautiful.

The farther Blythe and Logan traveled, the fewer vehicles they saw. When they stopped at a café in the small western town of Cut Bank along what Logan said was called the Hi-Line, she was ravenous again.

“Not many people live up here, huh,” she said as she climbed off the bike. A fan pumped the smell of grease out the side of the café. She smiled to herself as she realized how much she’d missed fried food. All those years of dieting seemed such a waste right now.

“You think this is isolated?” Logan said with a chuckle. “Wait until you see where we’re headed. They say there are only .03 people per square mile. I suspect it’s less.”

She smiled, shaking her head as she tried to imagine such wide-open spaces. Even when she’d lived in the desert there had been a large town closeby. Since then she’d lived in congested cities. The thought of so few people seemed like heaven.

Blythe could tell Logan wanted to ask where she was from, but she didn’t give him a chance as she turned and headed for the café door. She’d seen a few pickups parked out front, but when she pushed open the door, she was surprised to find the café packed.

One of the waitresses spotted her, started to come over, then did a double take. She burst into a smile. “I know you. You’re—”

“Mistaken,” Blythe said, cutting the girl off, sensing Logan right behind her.

The girl looked confused and embarrassed. “I don’t have a table ready. But you look so much like—”

Blythe hated being rude, but she turned around and took Logan’s arm. “I’m too hungry to wait,” she said as she pulled him back through the door outside again.

“Did you know that waitress?” Logan asked, clearly taken aback by the way she’d handled it. “She seemed to know you.”

She shook her head. “I must have one of those faces or that waitress has been on her feet too long. I didn’t mean to be abrupt with her. I get cranky when I’m hungry. Can we go back to that barbecue place we passed?” She turned and headed for the bike before he could press the subject.

“You sure you’ve never been to this town before?” he asked as he swung onto the bike.

“Positive,” she said as she climbed on behind him. It wasn’t until he started the bike that she let herself glance toward the front windows of the café. The young waitress was standing on the other side of the glass.

Blythe looked away, promising herself that she would make it up to her one day. If she was still alive.

She shoved that thought away, realizing she should have known someone would recognize her even though she looked different now. It was the eyes, she thought, and closed them as Logan drove back to the barbecue joint.

It wasn’t until later, after they’d settled into a booth and ordered, that she tried to smooth things over with Logan. She could tell he was even more curious about her. And suspicious, as well.

“When I was a little girl I used to watch old Westerns on television,” she said, hoping to lighten both of their moods. “I always wanted to run away with a cowboy.”

“So you’re a romantic.”

She laughed softly as she looked across the table at him. There were worry lines between the brows of his handsome face.

“Or was it the running away part that appealed to you?” he asked.

“That could definitely be part of it. Haven’t you ever wanted to run away?”

“Sure.” His Montana blue-sky eyes bore into her. “Most people don’t have the luxury of actually doing it though.”

“Good thing we aren’t most people,” she said, giving him a flirtatious smile.

“Oh? You think we’re that much alike? So tell me what you’re like and I’ll tell you whether or not you’re right about me.”

“No big mystery. I like to dance, drive fast, have a good time and I’m always up for an adventure. How else could I have ended up living that little-girl fantasy of running away with a cowboy?”

“How else indeed,” Logan said, but he was smiling.

“HAS ANYONE LOOKED IN this house for the four approved guests who are unaccounted for?” the sheriff demanded.

Kevin was reaching for his phone to check with his security personnel when Buford caught a glint out of the corner of his eye. Turning toward Sanderson’s body, he saw something glittering on the lapel of the dead man’s robe that he hadn’t noticed before.

Stepping over to the body again, he crouched down next to Sanderson and inspected the lapel. Someone had attached a safety pin to the left-hand lapel of the dead man’s robe. As Buford looked closer, he found a tiny piece of yellow paper still attached to it.

The killer had left a note? Or was it possible that Sanderson had left a suicide note?

The thought took him by surprise. He’d been treating this like a homicide. But what if it had been a suicide, complete with note?

If so, then why would anyone take it? To protect Sanderson? To purposely make it appear to be a homicide?

A history buff, Buford thought of a famous death that perplexed historians still. Captain Meriwether Lewis of the famed Lewis and Clark Expedition through Montana had suffered from depression that was thought to be the cause of his apparent suicide. But there were still those who believed he’d been murdered.

Very perplexing, Buford thought as he moved to a small desk in the kitchen. On it was a yellow sticky note pad. The top sheet had been torn in half horizontally, leaving the glued piece and a ragged edge. The paper was the same color as the tiny scrap still caught on the safety pin.

A blue pen lay beside the pad. Unfortunately there was no slight indentation on the pad. Whoever had written the note had ripped the scrap of paper off first before writing the note.

“Did anyone remove something that had been pinned to the deceased’s robe?” he asked. Both Kevin, the two guards and Jett swore they hadn’t. From their surprise at the question, Buford suspected they were telling the truth.

But someone had taken the note.

Chapter Three

“So tell me about your life in this isolated place where you live,” Blythe said, steering the conversation away from her as they waited for their barbecue sandwiches.

Clearly Logan was itching to know who he’d let climb onto the back of his bike. Not that she could blame him. But she wasn’t ready to tell him—if she ever did. Better to split before that.

“Not much to tell,” he said, as if being as evasive as she was. “I spend most days with cows. Seems I’m either chasing them, feeding them, branding them, birthing them, inoculating them or mending the fence to keep them in.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

He laughed. “You obviously haven’t worked on a ranch.”

The waitress brought their orders and Blythe dived into hers. As she stole a look across the table at him, she thought about how he’d come looking for her at the Grizzly Club, how he hadn’t batted an eyelash when she’d suggested going with him, how he hadn’t really asked anything of her—not even what the devil she was doing taking off across Montana with a stranger. He probably thought she did this kind of thing all the time.

A thought chilled her to her bones. What if it was no coincidence that he’d come into her life last night?

No, she thought as she studied him. The cowboy had no idea who she was or what he was getting himself into.

She jumped as her cell phone blurted out a song she’d come to hate. Worse, she hadn’t even realized she still had the phone in her jacket pocket. She’d thought she’d left it along with her purse and the keys in the car.

Logan was looking at her expectantly. “Aren’t you going to take that?”

She had no choice. She reached into her pocket. As she pulled out the phone, the scrap of wadded up yellow note paper fell out. It tumbled under the booth.

The first few refrains of the song began again. She hurriedly turned the phone off without even bothering to check who was calling. She had a pretty good idea, not that it mattered.

The song died off, the silence in the café almost painful, but she saw a girl at the counter looking at her frowning slightly as if trying to either place the song—or her. The girl, Blythe had noticed earlier, had been visiting with the cook.

“What if that was important?” Logan asked.

“It wasn’t.”

She picked up her fork and began eating again, even though she’d lost her appetite. She could feel his gaze on her. She thought about the scrap of notepaper she’d dropped and what had been written on it. She had shoved it into her pocket earlier and forgotten about it.

“Won’t someone miss you?”

“I really doubt it.” She moved her food around her plate, pretending to still be interested in eating, and fortunately he let the subject drop. As soon as she could, she excused herself to go to the bathroom. When she returned, Logan was up at the counter paying for their meal.

The girl at the counter was staring at her again as if it wouldn’t take much to place where she knew her from. She had to get that stupid song off her phone.

Blythe glanced toward the booth. She couldn’t see the scrap of notepaper. Nor could she get down on her hands and knees to look for it without raising all kinds of questions.

Not to worry, she assured herself. The note would get swept out with the garbage tonight. What had she been thinking hanging on to it anyway?

That was just it. She hadn’t been thinking. She’d just been running for her life.

BUFORD CAUGHT JETT MAKING a call on his cell. “Hey, I don’t know who you’re trying to call, but don’t. You’ll get a chance to call your lawyer, if I decide to arrest you.”

“Arrest me?” Jett said pocketing his phone. “I didn’t kill him.”

Buford heard a noise from down a long hallway toward the back of the house. He turned to see three women headed toward the sunken living room—and the murder scene.

He moved quickly to cut them off as the tall blonde in front glanced at his uniform and asked, “What’s going on?”

“I’m Sheriff Buford Olson,” he said introducing himself and shielding the woman from Martin Sanderson’s body. “Where did the three of you come from?”

“The guesthouse out back,” the blonde said frowning. “Where’s Martin?”

“I need to speak to each of you.” Buford turned to the club’s general manager, amazed Kevin and his security force hadn’t thought to search the house, let alone the guesthouse out back. “Kevin, can you suggest a place I can speak with these women?”

“Mr. Sanderson’s library. Or perhaps his office?”

The sheriff motioned for Kevin to lead the way. They backtracked down the hallway toward the back of the huge house, the same way the women had come. Buford left the general manager in the plush library with instructions to say nothing to the other two women, while he took the blonde across the hall to Sanderson’s office.

“What is this about?” she wanted to know.

“If you would have a seat,” he said. “I need to ask you a few questions, beginning with your name.”

She sat down reluctantly and looked around as if searching for something. At his puzzled frown, she said, “I was hoping there would be an ashtray in here.” She pulled out a pack of cigarettes, seemed to think better of it and put them back into her jacket pocket.

Buford studied her as she did so. She said her name was Loretta Danvers, aka T-Top because of a hairdo she’d had ten years ago when she played in the band Tough as Nails. She was thirty-something, tall, thin and bleached blond. In her face was etched the story of a hard life.

“So what’s this about?” she asked again.

“Martin Sanderson is dead,” he said and watched her reaction.

She laughed. “Isn’t that the way my luck goes? So the reunion tour is off? Or was it ever really on?”

“The reunion tour?”

“He was putting our old band together for a reunion tour. At least that’s what he said.” She pulled out her cigarettes, shook one out and lit it with a cheap lighter. “Guess he won’t care if I smoke then, will he.” She took a drag, held it in her lungs for a long moment and then released a cloud of smoke out of the corner of her mouth away from him. “With JJ onboard, we could have finally made some money. I knew it was too good to be true. So who killed him?”

“Do you know someone who wanted him dead?”

She laughed again. “Who didn’t want him dead?”

You, apparently, Buford thought, since with Sanderson gone, so apparently was any chance of a reunion tour.

LOGAN DIDN’T START HAVING real misgivings until after Blythe’s phone call. He hadn’t even realized that she’d brought her cell phone until it had gone off. It wasn’t until then that he’d recalled that she’d said she would have someone pick up the car she’d left beside Flathead Lake, but he hadn’t seen her call anyone. In fact, he’d gotten the impression when the phone began to play that song that she hadn’t even remembered that she had the phone with her.

Who had been calling? Someone she hadn’t been interested in talking to. Even the ring tone with that pop-rock-sounding song didn’t seem like her. Was it even her phone?

He’d realized then too that Blythe hadn’t only left an expensive sports car convertible behind. She’d apparently left her purse, as well. What woman left behind her purse in a convertible beside the road? Or had she left it at the Grizzly Club?

After recalling the way she’d come flying out of club, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe she wasn’t as freewheeling as he’d originally thought—and instead was running from something serious. What did he really know about this woman he was taking back to Whitehorse with him?

Every time he’d started to ask her anything personal, she’d avoided answering one way or another. When he’d seen her reach for her cell phone, he’d noticed that she’d dropped something under the booth. He saw her look for it, then, as if changing her mind, go to the restroom. He had waited until the door closed behind her before he’d retrieved what she’d dropped.

It was nothing more than a crumpled scrap of paper from a yellow sticky notepad. He felt foolish for picking it up from under the booth and, as the waitress came by to clear the table, he’d hastily pocketed it without even looking to see if anything was written on it.

He’d been at the counter paying for the meal when Blythe had come out of the restroom. He saw her glance toward the booth. No, glance down as if looking under the booth to see what she’d dropped? Or hoping to retrieve it?

The woman intrigued him. Not a bad thing, he told himself as they left the café and climbed back on his motorcycle. He’d take her to Whitehorse and, if he had to, he’d buy her a bus ticket to wherever she needed to go. All his instincts told him that she needed to get away from something and he was happy to oblige. Chisholm men were suckers for women in trouble.

As she wrapped her arms around him and leaned into his back, he started the motor and took off. He tried to relax as the country opened. He felt as if he could breathe again. Whatever was up with this woman, he would deal with it when the time came.

A few hours later when he crossed into Whitehorse County, he’d forgotten about the scrap of paper in his pocket. He was too busy breathing a sigh of relief. He liked leaving, but there was nothing like coming home.

He breezed into the small Western town, thinking it would be a mistake to take her out to the house until they’d talked. At the very least, shouldn’t he know her last name? He had always preferred not to take a woman to his house. Actually, he’d never met one he liked well enough to take home.

It didn’t take but a few minutes to cruise down the main drag of Whitehorse. The town had been built up along the railroad line more than a hundred years ago. He waved at a few people he knew, the late afternoon sun throwing dark shadows across the buildings. He pulled into a space in front of the Whitehorse Bar and cut the engine.

“Could we just go to your house?” she asked without getting off the bike.

He looked at her over his shoulder. She had the palest blue eyes he’d ever seen. There was something vast about them. But it was the pain he saw just below the cool blue surface that took hold of him and wouldn’t let go.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

She held his gaze and nodded. “Haven’t you ever just needed to step out of your life for a while and take a chance?”

He smiled at that. Born a cowboy, riding a horse before he could walk, and now astride a Harley with a woman he probably shouldn’t have been with. “Yeah, I get that.”

She smiled back. “I had a feeling you might.”

All his plans to get the truth out of her evaporated like a warm summer rain on hot pavement. He started the bike, flipped a U-turn in the middle of the street and headed out of town, hoping he wasn’t making his worst mistake yet.

BUFORD ASKED FORMER DRUMMER Loretta Danvers to return to the guesthouse for the time being until he could talk to the others. Then he called in the next woman.

“Which one are you?” he asked the plump redhead.

Bets turned out to be Betsy Harper. He quickly found out that she’d played the keyboard in the former all-girl band and hadn’t been that sorry when the band broke up. Now, the married mother of three said she played the organ at church and kept busy with her sons’ many activities.

She looked relieved more than surprised when he told her that Martin Sanderson was dead.

“Then there isn’t going to be a reunion tour,” she said nodding. “I can’t say I’m sorry about that. I was dreading being away from my family.”

Both women had mentioned the tour. “You don’t seem upset by Mr. Sanderson’s death,” Buford said, surprised since of the three, Betsy Harper had a more caring look about her.

“I feel terrible about that,” she said. “But Martin wasn’t a nice man.”

She didn’t ask how he’d died, nor did she offer any suggestions on who would want him dead. Her only question was when she would be able to return to her husband and kids.

Buford sent her back to the guesthouse and brought in Karen “Caro” Chandler, former guitarist and singer.

She was a slim brunette with large soft brown eyes. She was the only one who looked upset when he told her that Martin Sanderson was dead.

“How did he die?” she asked, sounding worried.

“He was shot.”

She shuddered. “Do you know who …?”

“Not yet. It’s possible he killed himself.”

She looked so relieved he questioned her about it. “I was just worried that JJ might have … done something to him.”

The elusive JJ. “Why would you say that?” he asked.

“Everyone in the business knew she was trying to get out of her contract.”

The business being the music business, he guessed.

“Then there were those accidents onstage during her most recent road tour,” Karen said. “Martin made it all sound like it was a publicity stunt, but I saw JJ interviewed on television. She looked genuinely scared. I was worried about her.”

“You kept in touch with her over the ten years since the band broke up?”

“No,” she said quickly with a shake of her head. “I’m sure the others told you that we didn’t part on the best of terms. The band broke up shortly after JJ left. She was obviously the talent behind it.”

Both Loretta and Betsy had made it clear they hadn’t been in contact with JJ since the breakup, either.

“Not that I blamed JJ,” she said quickly. “Who wouldn’t have jumped at an opportunity like that if Martin Sanderson had offered it to them?”

BUFORD SENT KAREN TO THE guesthouse after the interview. All three had claimed the same thing. They’d all arrived by taxi together and had been together the entire time—except for when they’d gone into separate rooms in the guesthouse to sleep.

They said Martin had told them to relax and take advantage of the club’s facilities. He would meet with them the next afternoon at two. He had said he had other business to take care of this morning and didn’t wish to be disturbed.

All said they had come to Montana because Martin Sanderson was paying their expenses and promising them a reunion tour of their former band.

“What about this morning?” the sheriff had asked each of them. They had gone to bed early, had breakfast in the guest quarters and hadn’t heard a sound coming from the main house.

The blonde, Loretta, said she’d been the first one down to breakfast but that she’d heard the showers running in both rooms as she’d passed. The other two, Betsy and Karen, had come down shortly thereafter.

The three hadn’t been apart except to go to the bathroom since then.

Buford figured any one of them could have sneaked out to go to the main house and wasn’t ruling any of them out if Martin Sanderson’s death was found to be a homicide.

“Where is the other member of your former band?” Buford asked and checked his list. “Luca.”

“Dead,” the blonde said. “Talk about bad luck. Stepped out in front of a bus.”

“How does Jett fit in?” he’d asked Betsy.

“Didn’t he tell you? He used to hang around the band, flirting with all of us, but in the end, he left with JJ when she left the band. As far as I know, they’re still together. At least according to the tabloids I see at the grocery checkout. I don’t read them, mind you.”

All of them swore they hadn’t seen JJ and claimed they weren’t even aware that she had arrived yet. When he’d checked the other rooms of the house, he found a guest room at the far end of the house where someone had obviously spent the night. The room was far enough away from the living room that Buford suspected a gunshot couldn’t be heard.

He waited until the coroner and crime scene techs took over before he interviewed Jett Atkins. By then, Jett had had enough to drink that he was feeling no pain.

“So did one of them confess?” he asked with a laugh. “I didn’t think so. They know who killed Martin. JJ.”

“Why do you say that?”

Jett looked shocked. “It’s been in all the trades for months. JJ wanted out of her contract. Martin refused. We all knew it was coming to a head. Why else would he threaten to put her old band back together?”

“Threaten? I thought he flew everyone up here to make arrangements for the tour,” the sheriff said.

Jett howled with laughter. “There is no way JJ would ever have agreed to that. No, he was just trying to bring her back in line. Those women hate JJ. She not only broke up the band, she also became successful. I would imagine JJ went ballistic when Martin told her that either she played ball or he would force her into doing a reunion tour with women who would have stabbed her in the back just as quickly as looked at her.”

“Martin Sanderson could make her do that?”

“He owned her. He could do anything he wanted. The only way she could get out of that contract was to die. Or,” Jett added with a grin. “Kill Martin.”

“Do you think this JJ knew that Martin had already flown the band members to Montana?” Buford asked. All except Luca, whoever she had been.

“Doubt it, since apparently he had them staying in a separate guest house,” Jett said. “I can’t say I blame JJ for killing him. He really was a bastard.”

“What about you?” Buford asked.

“What about me?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Martin invited me.” He grinned. “More leverage. I’m sure he planned to leak it to the press. He wanted it to look like JJ and I were back together.”

“You weren’t?”

He shook his head. “It was just a publicity stunt. Martin loved doing them. But JJ and I would have had to go along with it, since he held our contracts.”

“So you were signed with him, as well. How does his death affect that?”

Jett smiled widely. “Freedom. With Martin dead, JJ and I are both free. Well, at least I am. I owe her a great debt of gratitude.”

When Buford was finished interviewing all of them, he asked them not to leave town. Betsy called for a taxi and the four of them left together, but the sheriff could feel the tension between them.