Conard County--Traces of Murder Read online

  He led her around a corner and down a street to a large, old building. Surprisingly few people were about on the streets, but to everyone they met Trace gave a nod.

  The Mercantile held the musty smell of an old building. Wooden floors creaked beneath their feet. Trace led her to a section of women’s clothing. Part of her resented that, because she often bought men’s clothing, and part of her recognized that she needed something to fit her smaller frame. None of the frilly stuff, though, and she hated pink.

  Her first choice was the watch cap she’d thought of earlier. Then she found a white and navy down vest that fit well enough, followed by a dark blue windproof winter jacket. Layers.

  Insulated gloves as well. She paid with a credit card, asked the clerk to remove all the tags then pulled on her new acquisitions. “Ready.”

  He nodded. They strode out of the store with purpose, nearly a march, and took a turn toward the nearer mountains. Their pace was brisk, determined. This was necessary exercise, not a casual stroll.

  Unconsciously they fell in step, their strides matching perfectly. Training. Practice. Custom.

  As the ground began to rise a mile or so beyond town, Hillary felt ready to run. Rising land beneath her feet was always a cue. But her run wasn’t all-out. It was measured for maximum endurance. Long runs couldn’t be taken at top speed.

  She felt light as a feather without her full complement of combat gear. This was easy, maybe too easy. Trace trotted alongside her. Before long, their breathing became as synchronized as their footfalls.

  The slope continued to steepen, but not so much it was a serious challenge. The road became dirt, easier on the knees than pavement, but harder on the ankles because it was uneven. Pine scents filled the air. A few late wildflowers dotted the roadside.

  When at last they reached the top of a rise, Trace called a halt. “Stretched out?” he asked.

  “For now.” Turning, she looked back down toward the valley and saw the town, resembling a model that could have fit in a display case. Then she looked at Trace. He was no more out of breath than she.

  “How,” she asked, “do you intend to find this killer?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea. Allan and Brigid left me their house. I haven’t wanted to go in there yet, but it’s crossed my mind I might find a clue. A direction. Or maybe the grapevine will whisper in my ear.”

  He sighed heavily and paced, bending occasionally to stretch. Hillary followed suit. Her jacket was plenty warm, as was her vest beneath it, and the run had heated her legs.

  His plan was amorphous. Clutching at straws. Not that she blamed him, not when he thought Allan had been murdered.

  No one could leave that alone.

  But it didn’t seem like there was any good starting point. A quixotic quest?

  He spoke again. “How did your parents meet?”

  The question surprised her, coming out of the blue. Another diversion from the impossible?

  “My mother’s father was the British ambassador to Norway. They met at an official function and married rather quickly. I was born quickly, too.”

  He stared out over the valley. “This doesn’t sound like a happy ending.”

  “It wasn’t,” she admitted. “They separated when I was eight. Mother went back to England, and I chose to stay with my father. Of course, I visited my mother every summer and some holidays, but I was Norwegian in my own mind. In my heart.”

  “Not a bad thing to be. What does your father do?”

  “Army special operations,” she answered simply.

  “So it runs in the family?”

  “It does now.”

  That brought a smile to his face, and she was glad to see it. Grieving didn’t preclude moments of amusement or even happiness. Not that she was feeling either right then.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked again.

  “Damned if I know. When we get back, let’s go to their house. I can’t think of anywhere else to start looking for clues. Especially since the whole damned town believes Allan offed himself.”

  She was agreeable, if only to help him over the emotional bump he was likely to face when he entered that house. He’d already said he was avoiding it. Memories must swarm there, ready to sting him like wasps.

  Jogging uphill hadn’t been difficult, but running back down was easier and brought them both to a quickened pace. The sound of their thudding feet, perfectly in time, felt so familiar to Hillary that tension unwound in her and deep relaxation followed. When they reached the town again, Trace suggested dropping by Maude’s, as he called the City Café, to recover their parked cars and pick up some food.

  “We’re going to need it after that run. Any preferences?”

  “Fish, but I didn’t see that on the menu. You choose.”

  The town was a bit busier now, and Hillary noticed the stares she received. She tried to return them all with a smile but figured by nightfall everyone was going to be wondering who she was.

  Well, let them wonder. She just didn’t want them to know the extent of her military background. That would probably raise a whole lot of questions. Not that she cared about the questions. She’d be gone tomorrow or the next day, and they could all enjoy speculating.

  Except that her desire to go back to her original plans was fading in the face of Trace’s concerns. What if Allan hadn’t died by suicide? What if there was still something she needed to do for Brigid?

  The question hung over her now, darker than the sky overhead.

  * * *

  MAUDE RAISED AN eyebrow over the size of Trace’s order, but she was probably wondering if he meant to eat it all himself. He didn’t bother explaining that two people who had just finished fifteen road miles needed to fuel up.

  Jegertroppen, huh? A truly elite group. Trace hadn’t let himself really think about that before, but he was impressed. He knew the kind of training he’d undergone to become Airborne, and he suspected hers had been as extreme. Up and down those Norwegian mountains in full battle kit, running or skiing. And that was just the beginning. They might well have taught the SEALs a thing or two.

  Hillary waited in her rental outside, and he supposed her eyebrows were raising like Maude’s as he stepped out with four plastic bags filled to the brim and a tray of four hot coffees.

  He manhandled them into his vehicle and drove slowly with her right behind him. Allan and Brigid had had a tidy little house at the western end of town, where most of the houses began to spread away from each other, leaving a nice-size lawn. Looking at it, he decided he really needed to get out the lawn mower. Thus far he’d paid a couple of guys to do the job, but it appeared they hadn’t been here in a few weeks. Not that there was much left to do. The grasses were turning brown and yellow in the face of the approaching winter. Still, a few green blades poked up bravely, reaching for sunlight that was getting too thin and watery.

  Or maybe he’d just let it go. Before long even the bravest greenery would give up the fight.

  Hillary was quick to help him carry the bags as he approached the front door with the tray of coffees. His steps grew heavier as he drew closer. The last time he’d entered, Allan had been there. That damn house was going to feel so very empty.

  Not only were his steps heavier, but so was his heart. The ache in his chest grew tighter, like a band that wanted to suffocate him. This wasn’t his first loss, but this one was closer. Much closer.

  He fumbled the key from his pocket and pushed it into the lock. A bit rusty, it resisted slightly but then turned. He pushed open the door.

  The house smelled stale now. Even the cleaning fluids from the people he’d hired to remove the stains of Allan’s death had evaporated into nothing. Empty. Every sense in his body noticed.

  Hillary followed him, her watch cap shoved into a pocket. Her steps sounded gentler, as if she felt she trod upon holy gr
ound. He turned. “Let’s put these bags in the kitchen.”

  She followed him. The counters had gathered some dust, but not enough that he felt inclined to wipe it away. Everything was familiar. Too familiar. He didn’t think he could bear to go into the living room, where he, Allan and Brigid had spent so many hours. The kitchen was bad enough.

  Beers at that table. Brigid or Allan sometimes pulling something sweet and tasty out of the fridge. But mostly it had been pretzels and nuts. Their own private little bar.

  He sighed, heard the break in his breath. He’d seen and felt plenty of sorrow over the years, but Allan was different.

  “We can go somewhere else,” Hillary said.

  He shook his head. “Time to face up to it all.”

  They ate out of foam containers because Trace didn’t want to see the familiar dishes. A bit at a time, he told himself. Just one step at a time.

  When Hillary sat across from him at the table, the air seemed to clear a bit. As if her mere presence were changing a mood, an aura. Relief eased the iron band around his chest.

  She asked, “This is your house now?”

  “Yes. I don’t know that I’d ever want to live here, though.”

  She reached for an onion ring. “I’m not sure I would, either.”

  Food, he reminded himself. Eat. That run had felt good, but it required fuel. He’d eaten in the worst conditions. He could manage it now.

  Food helped, bringing him back from the precipice. As his stomach filled and his cells responded, his mind responded, too, lifting his mood somewhat. He realized that Hillary’s presence was not only changing the aura in here, but it was recreating his mental image of this room. Earlier memories gave way a bit to this new one.

  He watched her look around the kitchen, as if she were trying to imagine Brigid in the room. He wondered if he should tell her that none of the three of them had been into cooking. When they gathered, it was almost always with takeout. Subs or frozen pizza from the grocery, baked goods from Melinda’s, big meals from Maude’s. Time spent down at Mahoney’s Bar, eating fried chicken over tall, icy glasses of draft beer.

  “Ah, hell,” he said quietly.

  Hillary looked up from the onion rings she was working on. “Memories?”

  “Of course. Good ones, but now they’ll be only memories.”

  She shoved food his way. “As you said, we need food after that run. And there’ll be another run before this day is over. Eat up, soldier.”

  That dragged a smile from him. “Feeling antsy?”

  “Antsy?” She frowned at the word.

  “As in restless. Fidgety.”

  She nodded. “All that training. I’m not exhausted yet.”

  “We’ll work on that.” But he also knew that while she might feel antsy right then, her training had taught her to remain as still as an ice statue when necessary. A different kind of tension.

  He reached for half a club sandwich. Time to answer necessity.

  * * *

  OUTSIDE, STAN WITHERSPOON stood wondering. Who was that woman Trace Mullen had taken into the house with him?

  Hanging around Conard City for the last couple of months had given him a familiarity with the local people. That woman wasn’t local. He’d never have missed that tousled blond hair. There wasn’t much of it since it was cut so short, but that color was remarkable.

  And here he’d begun to think that he would be safe if he left this county.

  He watched her carry the four big bags while Mullen carried a tray of coffees. He watched the man fish in his pocket for keys, watched him open the door, watched the woman follow.

  And now they were inside, beyond his ability to see what they were doing.

  Uneasiness stalked him, but that was nothing new. He’d stayed here, using up a sizable chunk of his stateside rotation from his job working for a major contractor in the Middle East, because he’d been told to. The work with the contractor was tough, so the company insisted that every employee spend six months at home every few years. They didn’t want any of them to “go native.”

  Crap. He hadn’t gone native. He’d merely found a way to make money on the situation. And that money stream had been threatened. Worse, his own life was in danger because his boss in this operation would kill him if the truth got out.

  He’d come to this godforsaken place explicitly to kill Allan Mannerly. For cover he used the community college as his reason for being here.

  He’d been afraid of leaving before matters calmed down after Allan Mannerly’s death. It hadn’t taken long for the authorities to declare the death to be suicide.

  Stan should have been happy with that. After all, he’d done a good enough job to mislead the authorities. As long as nothing else was suspected, Stan was in the clear. Right?

  He’d decided to stay in this place because he didn’t want to bug out too soon. Didn’t want to draw any kind of attention, even after the verdict. Careful. He had to be careful. As he’d so often been warned.

  Or maybe that was his conscience keeping him here, not the order. Regardless, he’d begun to hear that the Mullen guy didn’t believe the death to be suicide. Everyone shook their heads sadly when the subject arose, Stan among them, but they thought Mullen was being affected by his grief.

  “Out of his mind,” some said.

  God, Stan thought, walking away from the house. God. Would he have to kill that Mullen guy, too? He didn’t exactly have a taste for murder, but self-protection was a higher priority.

  And who the hell was that woman?

  Chapter Three

  After they finished eating, Hillary helped Trace store the large quantity of leftovers. Another meal at least.

  “You were too generous,” she told Trace.

  “I guess so, but I don’t do cooking, so it’s all good.”

  “I’m not going to volunteer to cook,” she said. “I have done so little in so many years that I can’t guarantee edibility.” Then she added a touch of humor. “I’m also unsure if I still know how to use a pot when it’s not on a campfire.”

  He shrugged. “Being a bachelor, I was fond of the chow hall and local restaurants when I was stateside.”

  She imagined that Trace, like she, had spent quite a bit of time eating with friends when they weren’t training or on a mission. She had a lot of good memories from such times.

  But what now? she wondered as she dried her hands on a towel. There were still two cups of coffee in foam containers, and it would be rude of her to just leave it. Making a decision, she sat down once again and reached for one of the coffees.

  Trace settled across from her and took the remaining beverage.

  “This is awful,” Trace said eventually. “You came here to visit Brigid’s grave and maybe speak to Allan. Instead you find out he’s dead and you meet me, a guy who is just making you sadder.”

  “Stop,” she said mildly. “It is what it is, I believe the saying goes. I don’t regret meeting you. I’m glad you told me about Allan—well, not glad, but I think you know what I mean. I needed to know, and all I can believe is that at least he’s not suffering.”

  “Which is better than I can say for the two of us.” Again that crooked, mirthless half smile. “We make a sorry pair.”

  “Sorry pair,” she repeated. “I may have a British mother, but I’m not familiar with all colloquialisms. My mother had a proper education in all the best schools. I suspect I may have missed quite a bit of common English.”

  His smile widened a shade. “I bet you know more Norwegian colloquialisms than I ever will. Sorry pair means sad pair.”

  “Der er ugler i mosen.” She looked almost impish. “There are owls in the bog.”

  He raised his brows. “Meaning?”

  “I believe you would say something is not quite right.”

  That at last drew a chuckle fro
m him. “I’d never have guessed, but that’s a good description.” His face tightened. “Also quite true right now.”

  “You sincerely believe this about Allan.” It felt uncomfortable to ask, but she needed to know this conviction wasn’t momentary, born from grief.

  “I do,” he replied. “I absolutely do. I realize you never had a chance to know him, Hillary, but I knew him all my life. Even in the midst of this, he wouldn’t have quit. Drink himself into oblivion most nights? Sure. But he would have kept going. Allan didn’t have quit in him.”

  But Allan, perhaps, had never met a grief quite this big. On the other hand, looking at Trace, she knew he believed it.

  “Want to go for another run?” he asked abruptly.

  Part of her wanted to, but part of her had to recognize her need for rest or she’d be useless to anyone tomorrow. “Jet lag,” she told him. “I flew directly from Norway. I think I need a hotel.”

  “You might feel a little like you’re on a mission if you stay in our motel. Listen, you should stay here in the guest room. That’s where Allan and Brigid would have put you. If you won’t be bothered by sleeping here.”

  “No, it won’t bother me. Are you sure?”

  He rose. “Absolutely. Brigid would want it. I believe there are sheets on the bed, but I’ll go check, then I’ll be on my way.”

  A short time later, after she brought in her duffel, she watched from the window as he drove away. Was he going on another run? She wished she didn’t feel as if the world was beginning to spin, because she would have liked that, too.

  He’d said he’d be back in the morning, and then maybe she’d discuss the kernel of an idea that was growing within her. After some time to think it over. She did very little on impulse.

  Being alone gave her an opportunity, though. Hillary could wander through rooms and imagine what this house had been like when the Mannerlys had lived here. She had no clear image of Allan, except for some photos Brigid had shared, but she had a pretty good idea.