Conard County--Traces of Murder Read online

  “We train in the mountains,” was her only answer.

  Good enough, he supposed. He drained another shot. “I like this.”

  “Have another.”

  He was agreeable. Other than running, having a drink was the most pleasant thing he’d done recently. Too focused on Allan. It was a wonder he had any friends left, and he wasn’t too sure about that.

  She turned the conversation back. “As to Guy Redwing, well, he surprised me.”

  “Me too. I’ve been feeling pretty much alone since the inquest. I had no idea that anyone didn’t think I’d gone nuts.”

  “I don’t think you are nuts. You have legitimate questions about what happened.”

  “And no evidence.”

  He poured himself another drink. He liked the caraway undertone to it. And a hint of something else he couldn’t identify. “I wonder if he’ll learn anything.”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t learned it yet. But perhaps he’ll look harder now.”

  Trace wondered about that, then his mind wandered back to that man they’d seen twice. It might be odd; it might be nothing at all. Now he wished he’d taken a closer look.

  “That man,” he said.

  “Yes. It seemed strange, but this is a small town. No reason to think it wasn’t just coincidence.”

  No reason at all except that uneasy crawling along his neck that often warned him he was being watched.

  She spoke. “We might find something in those papers and emails. Allan seemed to think them important.”

  “He must have known I’d be reluctant to go through them, though.” But the passwords. He kept coming back to them. “Hell. Spending all our time in that office is uncomfortable.”

  “We will just keep running.”

  That almost made him laugh. Running from what? A boring and endless task?

  “Is it your dinnertime?” she asked after a while.

  “I’m flexible.”

  “We have to be, don’t we? But I need something to do.”

  He could sure understand that. “I suggest a walk around town tonight. Maybe folks will talk with us.”

  “At least out of curiosity.”

  “That much, anyway.” He watched as she preheated the oven and spread a large piece of foil on a baking pan. Then she took the fish from the fridge and placed it skin side down on the foil. Next came quite a bit of dried dill and some fresh lemon juice. Over the top she sprinkled bread crumbs. At last she wrapped it all in the foil.

  “Looks good,” he said.

  “Even the dill?” she teased.

  “Even the dill.”

  “Now I need something to go with this. The fish won’t take long, maybe eighteen to twenty minutes, but anything else might take longer.”

  “I thought you didn’t know how to cook.”

  She laughed. “This I think I can remember.”

  Her laugh was such a pleasant sound, filling the kitchen in a way he very much liked. Some kind of cheer needed to return to this house. To his heart.

  “This house needs two ovens.”

  That startled him. “Why?”

  “Because I bought frozen french fries. I didn’t want to peel and slice potatoes. And the frozen fries take a different temperature than the fish.”

  “Oh, the problems.”

  She laughed again. Activity seemed to make her happier. He watched as she brought broccoli from the freezer. “This will do in the microwave. I hope you like buttered dark bread.”

  Hillary was making his mouth water. “Now I’m starving.”

  That pleased her. From out of nowhere, a desire to please her all the time struck him. No go, he reminded himself. Soon she’d be thousands of miles away again.

  * * *

  HILLARY HADN’T COOKED dinner in a while, although she’d misled Trace a bit. When she and her father were home at the same time, she often cooked, and she enjoyed doing it now. Scents wafting from the oven made her homesick and brought back good memories.

  The wooden cabin where they lived together, by no means small, with a steeply sloped roof so snow would fall off. The nearby village, brightly lit in the long, dark nights. Welcoming.

  The nights that lasted three months were among her favorite things about her home. Even having lived there all their lives, some grew irritable before the end of the darkness. Not Hillary. Those days were a time for gathering with friends when she wasn’t on duty. For sitting beside a dancing fire on the hearth.

  After supper, they headed out for their walk, bundled up against the icy night.

  Trace spoke. “That was the most delicious dinner I’ve had in a while.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she answered drily.

  He laughed. “Where do you live in relation to the Arctic Circle?”

  “North of it.”

  “Kinda cold and dark. I’m not sure I’d like it.”

  “I do.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he joked.

  “Because I haven’t moved south?”

  “How would I know? I have no idea where you started.”

  The weather hadn’t grown cold enough yet to drive the evening crowds indoors. Freitag’s Mercantile was still open with plenty of customers. She had liked shopping in there.

  People greeted Trace as they walked, and he seemed surprised. “I guess I’ve been too obsessive about Allan to think anyone wanted to speak to me anymore.”

  Curious looks came Hillary’s way, but only a handful paused to talk to them. To them, Trace introduced her as Brigid’s friend.

  Everyone expressed their sorrow at Brigid’s passing, often with a nice memory of her. Hillary got the feeling they had truly liked her.

  But some also mentioned Allan. Those that did seemed reluctant to bring him up, as if they knew that Trace still wasn’t convinced it was suicide. And among them were people who said they didn’t believe it was suicide, either.

  “Damn shame,” said one man. “A blot on his memory, and I don’t think Allan deserves that. He was tough enough to get through anything, including the death of his wife.”

  Trace nodded, refraining from reiterating his opinion. Hillary imagined he thought they already knew it. He must have made quite the uproar.

  Apparently the instant the seeds of suspicion had been planted in Trace, they’d grown fast and sturdy. Suspicions always did. But she had begun to believe he was right. The only difficulty was solving the problem.

  Trace spoke to a few more people, and more than one said they thought he was right. It appeared both Allan and Trace had some good friends in this town. They’d stand by Trace no matter what.

  Hillary spoke, thinking of good friends as they turned back in the direction of the Mannerly house. “My father was often away, so I had a nanny.” The memory came with easy grief. “She has been gone for years, but she was good to me and became my friend. I always wondered why my father did not marry her. Then as I got older, I realized Pa didn’t spend enough time at home to grow another love inside himself.”

  “Our lives are much the same.”

  She scanned the street continuously, a habit learned from being in the military. Always know your surroundings, where people are, where buildings are, what’s the best cover or escape route. Even here in this quiet town it wasn’t something she could quit doing.

  And with her awareness came a subtle tension.

  Then she saw the man again. He might be trying to be invisible, but the way he held his head... It was him.

  She kept walking but said quietly, “You see him?”

  “Yes.”

  Matters were rapidly growing more interesting. And making her just a bit concerned.

  * * *

  “OKAY,” TRACE SAID when they got back to the house. “I’ve got to find out who he is. Twice could be coinc
idence, but three times?” Tension coiled him tight as a spring.

  He looked at Hillary and saw her nod. She said, “It’s not likely even in a small town.”

  “You feeling hunted?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn it!” He didn’t bother to moderate his voice. Along with the tension came anger, a lot of anger. “But if he’s trouble, I have to be careful about how I poke around.”

  “Are you trained to gather intelligence of this kind?”

  “Like this? Not exactly.”

  “Neither am I. My training focused on urban interface and gathering intelligence from women.”

  He lifted a brow. “Why women?”

  “Because they will talk more freely with another woman.”

  “I can see that,” he admitted. “Especially in some regions of the world where a woman can be killed for talking with a strange male.”

  “Yes.” Then she shook her head again. “I feel this could get bad.”

  So did he. That feeling of being hunted was all too real to ignore. He’d felt that way more than once when on a mission, but never before in this town.

  “Hell,” he said, expressing his anger once again. When he looked at Hillary, he saw a spark in her gaze. Anger? Maybe. She’d lost Brigid, after all. And he didn’t think a Valkyrie was feeling nervous. Nope.

  They spent a long night going through files and papers. Trace kept feeling he was on the cusp of a discovery, but it eluded him. Once again he felt seriously annoyed by the way Allan had mixed all this up. No question but that he’d been trying to conceal something.

  A small stack of handwritten letters grew beside Hillary. All the envelopes had been opened, but she didn’t pull out the letters. Not yet.

  She did say, as she had thought already, “It’s odd that they handwrote so many letters. In these days, email has replaced that.”

  “Yeah. Let’s leave them, though, until you finish sorting. If the letters contain something, it might be easier to fit all the pieces when we look at them in sequence. Which is more than I can do with these files.”

  He sighed and got back to work, convinced all over again that Allan had wanted him to find something. But what?

  Chapter Eight

  The next afternoon, after some sleep, they were interrupted several times. Trace was surprised as relationships that he’d ignored began to knit themselves back together. Evidently he was being welcomed back into the fold.

  But where had these people been during the inquest, or right after? Had they been hoping for a different decision? Or maybe Guy had been right. They didn’t want to look like fools in front of their neighbors.

  Among the flow of people who stopped by, claiming they wanted to see how Trace was doing, came one who surprised him because they’d been acquaintances but never close.

  Edith Jasper, a woman who might have been in her late sixties or early seventies, stopped by with her harlequin Great Dane, Bailey. A frail-looking woman, everyone wondered how she handled that dog. She managed, considering that she and the dog could not be parted. Nor had Edith ever suffered an injury.

  Bailey’s huge head reached above Edith’s waist, and Trace was sure the dog would totally dwarf her if he stood on his hind legs, but Bailey was also polite. He had what Edith called house manners. He leaped on no one, but when he sat and grinned, he still looked gigantic.

  Trace invited them both in, and after introductions he watched Hillary fall in love with the dog. She knelt on the floor, Bailey sat down and the two of them immediately began to cuddle.

  “Well, that’s the seal of approval,” Edith remarked.

  Trace smiled. “Can I get you something, Edith?”

  “It’s cold out there, but Bailey needs his walks. Anything hot or warm will do, thank you.”

  Hillary looked up. “There’s an unopened bottle of cider in the kitchen closet. Warm it up with a cinnamon stick.”

  Trace went to follow orders. Behind him he heard Hillary laugh and Edith chuckle.

  Later, as they settled in the living room with hot cider, the subject of Allan and Brigid came up.

  “I liked them both, have since I taught them in seventh grade,” Edith said. “A very pleasant young couple, and they seemed truly happy together. At least when they were together.” Then she frowned at Trace. “Do you know that I wanted to see you ever since Allan died? Only you were too busy chasing your own tail. When I was out and about, you’d always vanished somewhere.”

  Trace nodded. “I guess so. I did a lot of running.”

  “Eating those miles up. Like I do with Bailey. Dog keeps me young and healthy.”

  “And he doesn’t give you any trouble?” Hillary asked.

  “Not a bit. Folks used to worry that he’d pull me off my feet, but he’s never tugged once. It’s like he senses I’d wind up on the pavement.”

  “He is an angel,” Hillary replied.

  On the floor, Bailey lay with his head between his front paws, but it was clear neither his nose nor his eyes were missing a thing.

  “When angels start visiting me,” Edith answered, “I’ll begin to worry.”

  She turned again to Trace. “About Allan.”

  Trace felt his shoulders begin to tighten. His stomach started feeling like a hollow pit. Again. “Yeah?”

  “He was a good man. One of the best. But I was concerned about him after Brigid died.”

  “He was drinking a lot,” Trace remarked, his voice heavy.

  “But not that much. Too much, but not enough to make him stagger.”

  “You think he was depressed?”

  “Of course he was depressed,” Edith said sharply. “Who wouldn’t be? But it wasn’t his drinking that bothered me. That’s just a man’s way of dealing with too much emotion.” She cocked a brow at Trace. “Men need to learn how to cry.”

  He smiled faintly. “Maybe so. But about Allan?”

  “Yes, Allan. He was ripped up, but he’d have come through it. And you insisting it couldn’t be suicide. Unless I’m sorely mistaken, that man didn’t have quit in him.”

  Trace tensed even more. “I don’t think he did.”

  “A lot of people heard you. Made everybody a little nervous about what you might do.”

  “As in?”

  “Ripping this town apart from end to end.”

  Hillary smiled faintly but said nothing.

  Edith continued. “Then you went into that shell and didn’t seem to see anyone. Folks stepped back. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

  Trace frowned. “Not a pretty picture, Edith. Did I make you feel that way?”

  “Not about ripping the town apart. I’ve known you since I taught you math. I figured you wouldn’t even put your fist through a window. Too sensible.”

  “I hope so.”

  Edith nodded, appearing satisfied. “I was right. Seventy-odd years have taught me a few things about human nature. Anyway, I wondered if you were right about Allan.”

  Trace drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. He was growing impatient, feeling as if Edith might know something. If so, she had a roundabout way of getting to it.

  Edith sipped more cider. “Regardless, my old brain began to rattle around in my head. It does that every so often, and when it does things pop out, useful or not. I suspect Allan wasn’t just grieving Brigid. He was bothered by something.”

  Jolted, Trace leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, thinking about those passwords. “By what?”

  “I wish I knew. He never said, and I guess he never told you. It was just a feeling I got. I can’t be sure, Trace. Just a sense.”

  Edith set her cup aside and rose. “I’ve got to get Bailey back to his walk before he starts whining like a baby.”

  She started toward the door, Trace accompanying her. Before she stepped out, she looked up at h
im. “I really am inclined to believe he didn’t commit suicide. Period.”

  After Trace closed the door, he discovered Hillary right behind him. She looked uneasy.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “That Edith might be right. But we already considered the possibility.”

  “I know. But she validated it.”

  Trace closed his eyes briefly, thinking over what Edith had said. She had only a sense that Allan had been troubled by something other than grief. But her sense was good enough for him.

  “Let’s go for a run,” he suggested. “I need to work out all this tension. You?”

  “I’m always ready. Then we’ll dive in again.”

  Hillary was clearly hooked.

  * * *

  THE MOUNTAINTOP WAS PEACEFUL. After stretching, Hillary sat on a boulder and looked down at the town below. Brigid’s death had been bad enough, but this growing belief that it might have been murder was twisting her insides into knots.

  That someone might have plotted to kill Brigid seemed impossible, but the impossible now stared her in the face, growing more possible by the minute.

  Her sorrow deepened. What had always felt like a waste now grew into something bigger. She looked at Trace and thought about his fight against the idea that Allan had died by suicide. About the intensity of his drive for months.

  Now she felt the same intensity. Edith’s words had stamped the need into her heart. If it was murder, Brigid must be avenged. Anger twisted around her grief, stronger than it had been in the immediate aftermath.

  She noticed the shadows were deepening, warning of the approach of early night. She rose, stretching a few times, then said, “Let’s go before we stiffen.”

  Not that Trace had been likely to do that. While she’d been sitting morosely on a rock, he’d kept moving.

  She ran faster than before on the downslope, taking a big risk on the rutted track. She needed that risk, needed to feel her head clear, needed the adrenaline rush that came from danger.

  Trace, on the parallel rut, kept pace with her. Not a word about this being hazardous on such uneven ground. The dirt before her was pitted, full of rocks, utterly uneven. She knew she was foolish to do this without a threat chasing her, but she didn’t care, relying on her boots to protect her ankles.