Conard County--Traces of Murder Read online

  For nights when they’d drunk a little too much at the kitchen table. For nights when they’d been having so much fun that it had startled them to realize it was nearing dawn.

  God, he missed them both. Brigid’s death had nearly gutted him. Allan’s had finished the job. So he’d sit on his butt to make sure that neither of them had come afoul of someone or something.

  It was nice, however, to come back to his SUV with Hillary. A comrade. A companion. Another soldier. Someone who understood.

  But the more he dug into his suspicions, the emptier the horizon appeared.

  Man, he was sick of spinning his wheels. Allan’s death hung over him like a dark cloud, almost suffocating. Crying out for a resolution. Any kind of resolution that convinced Trace more than the inquest had.

  Yeah, Allan could have died by suicide. He’d faced that much even if it had flown in the face of Allan’s nature and his words. Allan would never surrender, even though Trace had been worried about his drinking. But what if he had?

  Then Trace would have to learn to live with it.

  The liquor store sold both pilsner and aquavit, the latter surprising him in such a small store. He’d often wanted to try it, but just in case he didn’t like it, he bought a bottle of bourbon for himself.

  When they exited with their paper bags, the breeze had escalated into a cold wind. Winter’s breath forced itself down his neck like sharp needles. Not long and the snow would start falling.

  As they strode toward his vehicle, he nearly paused. Wasn’t that the man who had been watching them from the road earlier? Some instinct warned him not to make a misstep or to look with more than a casual glance.

  Who the hell was it? Over the years he’d gotten to know nearly all the longtime residents around here, but there were still new people he’d never met, mostly from the community college.

  He slid into his truck next to Hillary, and she said, “Did you see him?”

  “The guy? I did. I also couldn’t be sure it was the same man. I didn’t look hard enough.”

  “Me either, but he troubles me.”

  Situational awareness. Drilled into him bone-deep by training and experience. Sometimes it just paid to be on high alert.

  * * *

  “DAMN IT, ALLAN,” Trace grumbled several hours later. “My butt is killing me from sitting in this chair. I have to move around.”

  Hillary apparently agreed. She rose and bent over to stretch her glutes and hamstrings. Next were her shoulders, then she shook her arms as if to release the last tension. His moves weren’t very different.

  “You’d think,” Trace groused, “that he could have labeled the folders somehow. But worse, the emails inside them aren’t in chronological order. Like he took a mixer to them.”

  Hillary nodded as they strode toward the kitchen.

  “I used to love this room,” he remarked. “Good times in here. Now it feels... I dunno. Annoying? Like a prison? Confining. God!”

  When he’d thought about starting this search, he hadn’t thought about turning into a library rat. Stuck in a chair for hours on end. Those two had emailed each other at least once a day, sometimes more, and the emails went back for years.

  “I tried a search,” he told Hillary as he made yet another pot of coffee. Then, changing his mind, he got a couple of beers out of the fridge, giving her a pilsner. “The damn search algorithm won’t go by dates on the emails.”

  “Frustrating,” she agreed. She began pacing through the house, evidently as tired of sitting as he was.

  Much as he had avoided the living room, he could avoid it no longer. The empty space where Allan had once sat wrenched him. The rest of the room was familiar, now feeling too familiar. Stuffed with good memories, now drowned by ugliness beyond words. But hell, he’d deal with it.

  Maybe he was crazy now, but he’d been crazy for the last two months with the conviction Allan hadn’t killed himself. He was going at the problem the only way he could think to do.

  And it was nuts. They could spend a week going through all this and find nothing. There had to be a better way.

  Hillary stopped pacing when they returned to the kitchen, and she sipped more of her beer. “Allan mixed them up for a reason.”

  “I already figured that out. But if he was so damn worried about something in there, why didn’t he share with me? With anyone? And then leave me all his passwords in a will?”

  “We agreed it was some kind of message.”

  “Yeah, but what kind?”

  Her lips quirked. “Did you expect to parachute in and conduct a quick reconnaissance?”

  At last he relaxed enough to laugh. “Too impatient, huh?”

  Hillary shrugged. “Perhaps. And perhaps you haven’t considered how dangerous this could be.”

  “I have, actually.” He waved a hand. “If Brigid and Allan are linked, if both were murdered, then we’ve got a huge problem by the tail. Especially if word gets out what we’re doing here.”

  She half smiled. “So maybe it’s best you haven’t told anyone I’m a soldier, too. Just being Brigid’s friend may bring enough attention.”

  True. Once again he thought of that guy in the parking lot and alongside the road. Had he been watching? Or was it coincidence?

  She spoke, reaching beyond the anger that drove him. “Brigid was killed by an RPG. At least according to the after-action report.”

  Trace looked at her. “And so it ends?”

  “If anything was going on, yes.”

  His spine stiffened. “Do you know what you’re suggesting?”

  “Oh yes.” He watched as her face hardened. “It’s impossible anymore to know who fired a shot. Too many US weapons out there among insurgents. Too many Soviet weapons out there. The RPG was probably US.” Her face darkened even more.

  “Are you thinking friendly fire?” he asked.

  “I cannot ignore any possibility. Not now.”

  That was one thought that hadn’t occurred to him, mainly because Brigid’s death out there shouldn’t be linked with Allan’s here. Shouldn’t. But maybe it was. They’d both realized that possibility yesterday.

  “God, I’m starting to feel stupid,” he remarked. “Maybe it’s time to start thinking like the warriors we are and throw emotion out the window. At least me. I’ve been letting it govern me too much.”

  “That’s understandable. I have had longer to get used to Brigid’s death. To grieve her.”

  * * *

  AT THREE THAT AFTERNOON, before they could discuss only the barest bones of new ideas, a knock at the door surprised Trace.

  “Nobody’s stopping by here anymore,” he remarked as he went to answer it.

  It proved to be Deputy Guy Redwing, an acquaintance of Trace’s. A man in his early thirties, his face carried a hint of Native American heritage. “Hey, man,” Trace said. “What can I do you for?”

  Redwing smiled. “Just a check. This house hasn’t stirred since Allan died, and now it’s busy. And no one recognizes the woman who’s here. Put it down to nosy neighbors, but I gotta answer the call.”

  “Yeah, I know. Come on in. You might as well meet Hillary and put everyone’s mind to rest.”

  Hillary had come to the kitchen door and was smiling. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then come along. I’ll make some.”

  Redwing made the same comment Trace had made upon meeting Hillary. “You sound kinda English.”

  “Kind of,” Hillary agreed, offering no more. “I was Brigid’s friend.”

  “It’s all a sad, sad story,” Redwing said. “I’m Guy Redwing, by the way.”

  “Hillary Kristiansen. Nice to meet you.”

  Guy settled at the table while the coffeepot burbled and steamed. “Neighbors around here are nosy. You’ll have to get used to it, I’m afrai
d. Everyone’s looking after everyone else most of the time. And then there’s times like this when it’s none of their business but they still want to know.”

  Hillary laughed. “I lived in a town like that.”

  “Then you understand.”

  Trace poured coffee for Guy and brought it to the table. “Is it still getting colder out there?”

  “Enough that I can see my breath.” Guy turned his cup around a few times before taking a sip. “I’m not trying to stir anything up, but Trace knows I grew up here.”

  Trace replied, “Just a couple of years behind me.”

  Redwing chuckled. “You guys were always my heroes back then.”

  “Why the hell?” Trace asked. “We were just like everyone else.”

  “Except the three of you always knew what you were going to do. Wear a uniform. I guess I got mine.”

  “A good one, too.” Trace grinned. “So how’s it going?”

  “Sometimes busy, sometimes not. That Grace Hall investigation was something else. Imagine someone trying to drive her off her land and killing to do it.”

  Then Redwing eyed Trace. “I don’t think it was suicide, either.”

  A pin drop would have been deafening. Breaths grew louder in the quiet that seemed to fill the room. Not one muscle twitched among any of them.

  Trace eventually cleared his throat. “You don’t?”

  Redwing shook his head. “Never could stomach it, despite the inquest. I knew Allan. I talked to him more than once after Brigid was killed. Messed up? Yeah. But determined as hell to get through it. A matter of honor, I thought. And maybe for Brigid.”

  Trace nodded then drummed his fingers. “But nothing specific, I suppose.”

  “If there had been, the inquest wouldn’t have ruled it a suicide. But I’ve never believed that.”

  Trace unleashed a pent-up breath. “Everyone else does.”

  “I doubt it,” Guy answered, “but what’s the point of saying anything? The inquest settled it, and not many people want to argue with their neighbors or look like fools, either.”

  Trace and Hillary exchanged glances.

  “Then,” Guy continued. It was his turn to sigh. “Seems like Allan thought there was something fishy about Brigid’s death. But what the hell was he going to do about it? That happened thousands of miles away. Enemy fire. Why didn’t that ever sit quite right with him?”

  “I don’t know,” Trace answered slowly.

  “Anyway, it was just a feeling I got.” Guy smiled faintly. “I wasn’t going to shout about it the way you did. Not without decent evidence.”

  “I was freaking mad. Angry.”

  Guy sipped his coffee again. “It sucks,” he said frankly.

  Trace leaned forward, forgotten beer bottle in front of him. “Did you notice anything at all? Maybe some stranger acting oddly?”

  Guy’s expression turned wry. “Maybe you haven’t noticed because you’re away so much, but every summer and fall we get a new wave of students. Even faculty can change. No one sticks out, not with that college here. Besides, a whole lot of them act odd.”

  Trace smiled. God, he needed the humor, and his smile broadened when he heard Hillary laugh quietly. “I acted oddly at that age, too.”

  “Didn’t we all?” Guy asked. “I suspect marijuana causes some of it, but so far we haven’t detected signs of stronger drugs. The sheriff isn’t exactly worried about personal quantities of marijuana, though.”

  “What’s the point? He’d probably have to arrest half the students at the college. And maybe a bunch of high schoolers.”

  Guy chuckled. “It’s becoming legal through use.”

  Once again silence fell. Hillary went to get the pot to heat up Guy’s coffee. “Thanks,” he said. “I can tell you, Trace, I’ll keep my ear to the ground. Or the vine. Whatever.”

  She put the pot back and returned to the table. Guy looked at her.

  “You’re pretty quiet,” he remarked. “You knew Brigid, though?”

  Trace felt her tense beside him. He couldn’t blame her for not wanting everyone to know she was a soldier, too. But maybe some things had to be revealed to put a lid on speculation.

  “They met in the war,” he said, leaving it at that.

  Guy pressed no further. “Then I’m doubly sorry,” was all he said.

  But Hillary was evidently prepared to share some things. “We grew close very fast. Brigid showed me a locket she never took off. Inside it was a photo of Allan.”

  Trace hadn’t heard that before. In fact, he hadn’t known about it at all. Apparently the Mannerlys had had a few secrets, even from their best friend.

  “That’s sad,” Guy said. “I mean now. Not at the time.”

  Hillary nodded. “At the time, I was touched that she shared it with me.”

  “Did it survive?” Guy asked.

  “No,” she answered. Very little of Brigid had survived, but she wasn’t going to tell these men that she’d been identified only by DNA. No one wanted to hear that.

  After a bit, Guy stirred. “Back to duty, I suppose. I’ll tell the neighbors there’s nothing going on here, that Hillary is just Brigid’s friend. Maybe that’ll shut down the gossip.”

  Maybe, thought Trace as he watched Guy drive away. But then they’d find something else to speculate about. Like why Trace was practically living here with Hillary.

  The curse of small towns.

  * * *

  WITHERSPOON WATCHED GUY REDWING drive away. The tension in his neck was beginning to strangle him. Law enforcement? What had those two found out?

  Maybe it was time to just pack up and go. Get out of here in case those two did discover something. Pretend he’d never found evidence of it. Would the boss believe him?

  But how could it lead to him? He’d been banging his head on that wall ever since this had begun. Had Brigid discovered his name somehow? If so, had she repeated it to anyone?

  Damn. But if she had, the rock fall of her revelation would surely have landed on his head. Stan Witherspoon would even now be facing a trial. Or would have been murdered at the hands of the man who had hatched the scheme. As far as Witherspoon knew, however, the big guy hadn’t discovered Stan’s fears.

  It wasn’t that Witherspoon was alone in his misdeeds. Plenty of contractor equipment got diverted, stolen or just never shipped at all. A military contract meant money, and more money if the company could find a way to cheat.

  Stan was only a small part of the problem, a man they would leave alone unless someone raised a ruckus. Then the higher echelons, having known this was going on all the time, would want to make an example.

  Either way, Witherspoon would find himself in a vise that might be fatal.

  No, he had to make sure he was never discovered, that no one linked to him was discovered. Especially now that he’d committed two murders.

  He probably should never have done it. Never let fear and threats guide his actions. All he had now were more serious problems.

  But fear drove him, and fear didn’t yield to reason.

  Chapter Seven

  Trace looked at Hillary. “What did you think?”

  “Guy seems like a nice man.”

  He snorted. “You know what I mean.”

  “I could use a shot of the aquavit, if you don’t mind.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Late enough for me.”

  “And I need to try to cook a supper for us. I don’t want that salmon to spoil.”

  “Hillary...”

  She smiled. “I know. I’m being difficult.”

  Difficult didn’t begin to cover it.

  “I found dried dill in the cupboard,” she remarked. “Fresh dill wasn’t available at the market, but dry will do. There are bread crumbs here, too. In this house, someone cooked.”

  Tra
ce had to smile. “Maybe I just wasn’t here when it happened.”

  “It’s likely. You were more fun.”

  He shook his head once. “I haven’t been fun lately.”

  She didn’t answer, just brought the aquavit to the table. “Do you want your bourbon?”

  “I’ll try yours first.” He rose and went to the cabinet where Brigid and Allan had kept the shot glasses. He rinsed and dried two of them, then placed them on the table while she peeled off the seal and opened the bottle.

  Then she poured two shots of clear liquid, saying, “I believe this label is infused with caraway. Others may have a dill undertone, or possibly other herbs.”

  “Do you like this one?”

  “I like caraway. It’s just a hint, but you will probably taste it. No surprises.”

  He had to smile as she joined him. “So it’s not vodka.”

  “It may look like it, but it is made mostly from grain and isn’t as strong as some vodkas.”

  She regarded him over the shot glass. “In the summer many of us drink beer. In the winter, more aquavit. Maybe it helps with the long, dark nights.”

  He laughed. “Makes sense.”

  “We are a sensible people,” she answered wryly.

  He thought more about her home country and what little he knew about it. “You have a border with Russia?”

  She nodded. “It is a difficult border. Mountainous, of course, but also too porous. We share part of the North Atlantic oil field with Russia, mostly in the North Sea but not entirely. That means we must patrol with our navy also.” Then she downed her shot of aquavit.

  It appeared to go down easily, so he tried his. It surprised him with its viscosity. “That’s good.”

  “As to the border, we train to defend it, although we judge the likelihood of Russian invasion to be small. But it makes our NATO neighbors feel more comfortable.”

  “Do you train for defending the border as well?”