Dead Between the Lines (15 page)

C
HAPTER 17

T
uesday morning, I woke to two pairs of feline eyes staring intently at me. Banshee was sitting on my head, doing his version of the Snoopy vulture pose, no doubt imagining me as roadkill. Tsar lay sprawled on my stomach, purring and kneading my chest, which explained the hot dream I’d been having about Jake, me, and a hotel room.

Groaning, I glanced to my right and discovered that my bedroom door was ajar. I must not have shut it tightly enough the night before, and the devious duo had managed to get it open.

I cautiously moved Tsar off me, then patted the comforter and crooned, “Here, kitty, kitty,” trying to persuade Banshee to join him.

The Siamese made a sound halfway between a trill and a click and didn’t budge. I lay perfectly still, trying to think of a way out of this situation that didn’t involve me becoming scratched and bloody.

Finally, when “Sue Me” blared from my nightstand, I bit the bullet. Reaching up, I grabbed Banshee around the middle and lifted him off my skull at the same time as I sat up. He hissed, dug in his claws, then leapt to the mattress.

“Hey, Boone.” I fingered the bleeding grooves in my scalp as I answered the phone. “Where are you? Are you having fun on the cruise?”

“I’m having a fabulous time,” Boone answered, his words a little slurred. “I’m in San Francisco. We got here yesterday afternoon and the ship stayed in port overnight. Right now I’m on our balcony, since I can’t get a cell signal inside the suite.”

“Great.” I was happy to hear the sparkle back in Boone’s voice. This trip was just what he needed. “What’s your next stop?”

“Santa Barbara. How are things at home?”

“Okay.” I did a little quick mental math, not easy at six in the morning, and realized that it was four a.m. in California. “What are you doing up so early?”

“I haven’t gone to bed yet.” Boone giggled. Yes. He actually giggled. “My buddy and I have gotten friendly with the entertainers on board and we’ve been partying with them all night.”

“Why am I not surprised?” I remembered the after-the-play bashes we’d had in high school. Boone had always been the last to leave.

“How’s Tsar doing?” Boone asked, then crooned, “Does my little kitty miss me?”

“I’m sure he does, but he’s fine.” I turned my head and saw the Russian Blue curled up with Gran’s cat. “Would you believe he and Banshee are getting along? They are actually grooming each other.”

“That’s terrific. I always said Banshee wasn’t as bad as you made out.” Boone paused, and I could hear him take a drink of a beverage that I seriously doubted was coffee or orange juice. “Does that mean Tsar’s staying at your house instead of the store?”

“Yes. And it’s a good thing.” I paused, considering just how much to tell him about what had happened since his departure. Knowing Boone would be upset if I kept anything from him, I spilled it all—the police search of the dime store, Nadine’s revelation about Quistgaard and her possible heart attack, my nose-dive down the stairs, and the letter on my windshield. When I finished my tale of woe, I took a breath and added, “So, Jake and I are investigating everyone who was trashed in ‘The Bend’s Buzz.’”

“Are you nuts?” Boone’s tone implied his question had been rhetorical. “Why don’t you just butt out, like the note said?”

“I can’t.” I stopped to ask myself exactly why I was willing to risk my life. Oh, yeah. I was ticked off and tired of being pushed around. “Someone used
my
display,
my
store, and
my
trash. The killer made it too personal for me to ignore.” I stroked Tsar’s soft gray fur. “Then to shove me down the stairs and threaten me—that’s just not something I can tolerate.”

“I know.” Boone’s voice sounded a lot more sober than it had in the beginning of our conversation. “Whoever did it doesn’t know you very well. There isn’t a less effective way to make you back off than to provoke you and tell you to mind your own business.”

I agreed with Boone’s assessment of my character. We exchanged a bit more chitchat; then I heard someone calling for Honey Boo Boo to return to the party, and we said good-bye.

Snickering at Boone’s new nickname, I attempted to get out of bed.
Ouch!
Every muscle in my body shuddered with exhaustion and abuse. Maybe I should just go back to sleep. Except that I couldn’t. No workee; no payee.

After a long moment, I heaved myself to my feet. As Gran always said, in order to succeed in this world, no matter how bad you feel, you need to get up, dress up, and show up. Limping into the bathroom, I turned on the shower.

Once the water had warmed past its initial glacial temperature, I stepped into the bathtub and pulled the curtain closed. While I let the spray stream over me, I thought about last night. Despite the death threat that had ended our date, I’d had a good time with Jake. A really good time.

I loved his dark sense of humor, and I was amazed by how much his concern for my safety meant to me. No one had been my protector since my dad went to prison and Noah walked out of my life. I smiled at the thought of Jake as my knight in faded denim and a cowboy hat.

What I really liked about Jake was that he knew when to let me fight my own battles. He seemed to recognize when I needed him and when I didn’t. Or if he didn’t figure it out on his own, he got the hint fairly quickly.

As I squeezed citrus and white ginger bath gel on my loofah, I admitted that what I truly liked about Jake was nearly everything. He was ruggedly handsome, fun to be around, and too damn sexy for his or my own good. He was almost the perfect man—except that he lived five hours away, regularly risked his life, and worked with his ex-wife. But, hey, all those things could be fixed.

Yeah. Right.
Who was I kidding? The only one who could remedy those things was Jake himself. Short of moving to St. Louis, hiring a bodyguard for him, and shooting his ex, there certainly wasn’t anything I could do about them. And none of the above options seemed like a good choice.

Sighing, I finished washing, dried off, and got dressed. Determined not to be caught looking like crap again, I tamed my curls with a flatiron, applied some bronzer, a little concealer, and a sweep of mascara, then grabbed a silk sweater to change into after work.

I hadn’t had a chance to talk to Gran much in a couple of days. When she’d gotten back from her casino trip Sunday night, she’d been pooped and had gone straight to bed. Then yesterday morning, I left for the store before she was up, and she hadn’t come home from the
Bonanza-
and-chili marathon at Tony’s last night until after I was asleep. I planned to spend a little extra time with her this morning.

Lately, Gran seemed to be doing a lot better. Her memory appeared to be sharpening. I thought about calling her doctor to discuss her improvement with him, but ultimately decided against it. As my grandpa used to say, don’t mess with something that ain’t bothering you none.

I figured that with me being around more, Gran’s renewed friendship with Tony, and the good news about my father, maybe she was just happier and more focused than she’d been in a long, long time. It was a count-your-blessings moment, and I was determined to enjoy the sensation.

While Gran and I chatted over our bowls of oatmeal, I filled her in on the past few days. I omitted my fall down the stairs and the threat to my life, since those tidbits would just worry her. What was the use of upsetting her about situations she couldn’t control?

Once I finished bringing her up-to-date, Gran told me about her evening. For someone with memory problems, she amazed me by telling me the plot, setting, and outcome of every
Bonanza
episode she’d watched the night before.

When I thought I’d go crazy if I heard the sentence
Little Joe got on his horse
one more time, I interrupted her and asked, “You read ‘The Bend’s Buzz,’ right?”

“Every week.” Birdie nodded. “I wouldn’t know what they were talking about at bingo if I didn’t. I can’t figure out how the writer finds out all that stuff about everybody’s dirty laundry.”

I told Gran that the dead guy behind my store was the author, then asked, “Do you recall reading anything really juicy in the column recently?”

“Hmmm.” Birdie cleared the table. “There was something a month or so ago about that girl you’re friendly with, the one who runs the B and B . . .”

“Veronica Ksiazak,” I supplied. Names were still a problem for Gran, but, then, they were often an issue for a lot of people.

“Right.” Birdie put the dishes in the sink then opened the junk drawer. “I remember wanting to tell you about that. I tore that piece out to show you, but you know I can’t abide a mess on my counters, so I put it away and forgot it.” She pawed through the drawer’s contents, then slammed it shut. “Nope. It’s not there. Where could I have put it?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I patted her shoulder. “Jake is getting hold of all the columns today, so I’ll look for the one about Ronnie when he brings them over after work.”
Oops!
I hadn’t meant to mention Jake to her. She was already too encouraged by our date the night before. Our evening together had been the first thing she’d asked me about this morning.

I scrambled to change the subject, but before I could come up with anything, Gran said, “And before I forget, I got a call late yesterday afternoon.” She beamed. “Good news! Your dad will be released this coming Monday. He’ll be home by the time you get back from work in the evening. The three of us can have supper together.”

“Oh, my God! That’s wonderful. I had no idea it would be this soon.” I grabbed her by the waist and danced her around the kitchen. “Don’t we need to go pick him up?”

“No. Kern’s lawyer will go fetch him.” Birdie shook her head. “I know you’ve been raring to go see him since you found out he’s innocent, and that he’s said no, he doesn’t want you to come to the prison, since it upsets you so much.”

“I should have gone anyway.” The twinge of guilt I’d felt in my stomach ever since learning that I’d misjudged my father flared into a flaming ball of self-reproach. “I should never have doubted him. You didn’t.”

“Kern understood that you felt abandoned. You two were so close when you were growing up.” She patted my cheek. “But, sweetie, it’s best you just let him do this his way.”

“Sure, Gran.” I nodded, but how could I have not trusted my own father? “You’re probably right about letting him ease back into things.” An unwelcome thought flickered through my mind. Would my father’s presence change my life? How would it be with Gran, Dad, and me all living together? Would there be personality clashes? My father didn’t really know me as an adult. I pushed my misgivings aside and said brightly, “We’ll have to plan something special for his homecoming. Do you need any help getting his room ready?”

“Nope.” Gran plunged her hands into the hot soapy water. “I’m going to tackle that today. I thought he’d like some privacy, so I’m cleaning out the apartment over the garage for him.”

“Oh. I forgot about that space.” Before my grandfather died, back when the Sinclairs were prosperous landowners, the hired hand had lived in the garage apartment. “What kind of shape is it in?”

“We’ll soon find out.” Gran rinsed a dish and put it in the drainer.

“Call me if you need anything.” I glanced at the wall clock. It was eight forty-five. “I’d better get going. I probably won’t be home until late. I need to talk to some people after work.”

Grabbing my purse, my spare key to the store—Chief Kincaid had my regular one—and a change of clothes, I hopped into the car and broke a few speed limits getting to the store on time. It was one minute to nine when I unlocked the back door and stepped inside.

A note had been left on my desk by the crime tech who had processed the upstairs. It informed me that no evidence regarding my attacker had been found and my key would be dropped off sometime that morning. Even though I hadn’t expected any big discoveries, I was disappointed. On the upside, the fingerprint-powder mess was confined to the second floor this time, and I could wait for my cleaning lady to tidy it up, rather than have to do it myself.

As I was heading to the front entrance, my cell dinged, indicating that I had a text. It was Noah, so I stopped and read the message:
MOM OK, BUT CARDIOLOGIST KEPT HER IN HOSPITAL OVERNIGHT. SHE INSISTED I STAY W HER. JUST DROPPED HER OFF @HOME AND AM ON MY WAY 2 CLINIC. I’LL CALL U WHEN
I
’VE GOT A BREAK BTW PATIENTS.

I quickly texted back,
G
LAD SHE’S
OK
.
H
OPE YOU’RE NOT 2 ZONKED. TLK2
U
L8R.

I thought about it, then added,
C
AN U FND OUT WHERE
Y
ALE WILL BE AFTER 6PM?
I hated to bother Noah, but I didn’t know any other way to find out the physician’s assistant’s after-hours location.

Slipping my cell in my jean’s pocket, I opened up the store and concentrated on my business. On Tuesdays, I hosted both the Quilting Queens and the Scrapbooking Scalawags. Regrettably, neither group’s members nor any of my other customers yielded any good gossip about the murdered man. Still, none of the craft-group participants got into a screaming match, no guest speakers were killed, and no one threatened my life, so I deemed the day a success.

CH
APTER 18

I
t was late afternoon on Tuesday before Jake was free to go into town. As he drove, he noticed the green buds dotting the trees that lined the road. Spring was bursting out all over, and it was a particularly busy time on the ranch. Pasture season was in full swing, and Jake’s morning had started at five a.m., when he’d helped the ranch hands take the cows and their calves to the native grass meadows. The livestock would graze there until the beginning of October, when the young would be weaned.

There’d been a hurt week-old bull calf that he’d had to see to. The calf’s mother had accidently stepped on him and broken his leg. It had been gut-wrenching, seeing the baby struggling to follow its mama, but a fracture usually healed fairly easily. Too bad it had taken so damn long to catch the animal, get it to the vet, and have a cast put on his leg.

It had been noon before Jake got the calf back to its mother. Having been practically raised on a ranch, he knew that the cattle always came first. Their health and well-being were the rancher’s priority. But dealing with the animal’s injury meant that it was several hours later than he anticipated before he could head into the newspaper office. He just hoped it wasn’t closed.

Jake drove the speed limit, giving himself a chance to collect his thoughts and figure out a strategy for approaching the editor. He’d never met Grant Edwyn and wasn’t sure how receptive the guy would be to sharing information with a lawman. Journalists and cops weren’t always on the same side. Most of the time reporters thought the First Amendment was more important than putting away the bad guys and keeping people safe, while law enforcement felt exactly the opposite.

Even going a sedate fifty-five, his F250 ate up the miles into Shadow Bend, and he arrived at four fifteen. As Jake crossed the sidewalk and entered the building, he noted that the
Banner
’s office was typical for a small-town paper. A long counter ran the length of the back wall, with stacks of newspapers piled on the wooden surface.

The front two-thirds of the space contained racks holding various preprinted signs, reams of paper, ink cartridges, and printing supplies. A teenager bobbing to whatever he heard through his earbuds was sweeping the floor by the cash register.

Jake tapped the boy on the shoulder, and the teen jumped as if he’d been Tasered, then shouted, “What the hell, dude! You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“Sorry, man.” Jake bit back a lecture about being more aware of one’s surroundings. “I didn’t realize you hadn’t seen me.”

Glaring, the boy said, “We’re closed.”

“The door was open,” Jake pointed out. “Do you have a morgue with the past issues of the
Banner
? Or, better yet, is it digitized?”

“Yeah, it’s all on the computer.” The teenager leaned on his broom. “But it’s only available to the public from eight to four. As I said, we’re closed.”

“I see.” Jake knew that arguing with the hired help wouldn’t do any good. He needed to talk to the guy in charge. “Is Mr. Edwyn around?”

The teenager peered at him for a long moment, then said, “Who’s asking?”

“Jake Del Vecchio.” He held out his palm. “And you?”

The teenager tentatively shook Jake’s hand and muttered, “I’m Bobby.”

“Good to meet you, Bobby.” Jake smiled. “I’m visiting my uncle on the Del Vecchio ranch.”

“So?” Bobby couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he had the adolescent attitude down pat. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

The boy wore a gray hoodie with a pair of Hawaiian-print board shorts, and neon green flip-flops, and his dirty blond hair was spiked with gel. Since it was still a cool fifty degrees out, Jake thought he was rushing the season a little, but evidently fashion was more important than practicality to this kid.

“Can’t think of an answer, dude?” Bobby faked a yawn. “Tick. Tock.” He pointed to his watch. “I’m getting bored.”

The little bugger’s lame attempt at being a badass was getting annoying, and Jake thought about flashing his tin. Instead, he said, “Son, just get your boss.”

Bobby opened his mouth, then after staring at Jake’s unsmiling face, he seemed to reconsider and said, “Fine.” He shuffled off, yelling, “Uncle Grant, some big dude wants to see you.”

While he waited, Jake rested a hip against the counter. He really hoped Edwyn would cooperate. Devereaux would be disappointed in him if he had to come back to look at the papers tomorrow. Jake groaned. Since when did he care about disappointing a girlfriend? He shook his head. Man, he had it bad.

A few minutes later, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a basketball-size paunch marched out from the back. His muddy brown eyes were full of curiosity when he said, “You’re Tony’s nephew, right? The one that’s a deputy U.S. Marshal.”

“I am.” Jake shook the guy’s hand and asked, “Do you have a couple of minutes? I’d like to speak to you about ‘The Bend’s Buzz.’”

Hitting his palm with the pencil he was carrying, the editor examined him as if taking his measure, then said, “Follow me.”

Jake trailed him to a small desk stuck in a rear corner, where each of them took a seat and Jake explained his request to see back columns of “The Bend’s Buzz.”

“Are you working on a case, Marshal?” It was hard to read Edwyn’s expression.

“Not officially,” Jake answered. “Just checking out a hunch.”

“Chief Kincaid has already talked to me about Quistgaard’s tenure as our gossip columnist.” Edwyn crossed his arms. “But he wouldn’t tell me who informed him that Quistgaard was working for me.”

Jake twirled his Stetson in his lap. “If it was such a secret, the question would be, Who knew, and who would be likely to blab?”

“Only one person was aware of Anonymous’s identity.” Edwyn’s gravelly voice made it sound as if he were growling. “I regretted it the second she bullied me into telling her, but she had never revealed his name before and I can’t see her running to the police now.”

“Then maybe someone else recently found out.” Jake tilted his chair onto its back legs. “Say, someone was eavesdropping when you talked to him at the book club . . .”

“How did you know I spoke to Quistgaard about the column that night?” Edwyn demanded, jabbing a finger at Jake’s face. “There wasn’t anyone around when I warned him to keep his mouth shut.”

“Wrong.” Jake’s voice was cool. “And probably more than one person overheard you.”

“Shit!” Edwyn slumped. “The minute I saw that Quistgaard was going to be at the book club, I knew he’d cause trouble. That man speaking to a local group was like a boy swilling spiked punch at the high school dance. You know he’ll make a mess. You just don’t know whose shoes he’ll ruin. Quistgaard purely hated small towns.”

“Which is why you hired him,” Jake guessed. “Was it your brainchild for his byline to be Anonymous? So that people wouldn’t clam up around him?”

“Actually, the whole shebang was his idea, although I thought it was smart and didn’t want him to blow his cover at the book-club meeting. He’d never be able to gather the gossip he needed if everyone knew he wrote the ‘Buzz.’” Edwyn’s posture oozed contempt.

“I see.” Jake wasn’t sure if the editor’s scorn was for the columnist or the townspeople. “Did Quistgaard agree?”

“To a certain extent, but the real reason he didn’t want his name on the column was because he felt that that kind of writing was beneath him. He considered himself an artiste, not like the rest of us—and I quote—‘Hacks writing drivel for the masses.’”

“So why did he take the job?” Jake asked immediately, not giving the editor a chance to think and possibly clam up. “It sounds like the last thing he’d want to do.”

“As I said, Quistgaard proposed the column to me. He said he tended to work on his poetry at the bakery and at Brewfully Yours, and people were always disturbing him by gossiping with one another. So since he was broke, he might as well make some cash from what he overheard.”

“I see.” Jake thought out loud. “So Quistgaard hated the town, hated the people, and needed money. I wonder if extortion might be a part of his repertoire as well as writing a tell-all column.”

“That’s an interesting theory, but since Quistgaard always claimed that he was hurting for cash, if he
was
blackmailing folks, he was doing a piss-poor job of it.”

“Something to consider,” Jake agreed, then asked, “So, can I get those back issues of ‘The Bend’s Buzz’?”

“They’re yours if you promise to give me an exclusive when you solve the case.” Edwyn’s tiny Chiclet-like teeth gleamed.

“I can live with that.” Jake shook the editor’s hand. “You got a deal.”

As he waited for Edwyn to print out copies off his computer, Jake grinned. His heart revved up with the thought that he’d soon be on the trail of a bad guy. Hunting down crooks was what he lived for. Was he seriously contemplating giving it up?