FIFTEEN
Mercy liked Tilda Brass on sight.
She felt right at home with the elegant, mannered woman who wore men’s overalls and rubber boots and spoke in a kind voice. Tilda poured her a cup of tea and Mercy declined the milk, opting for a wedge of lemon. She’d asked Tilda to reschedule their tea to midmorning and Mercy was glad she’d already had her hit of caffeine for the day. Tea wasn’t her poison of choice.
She’d woken with a stiff neck, but a hot shower and some ibuprofen had made short work of it. Eddie had picked her up, stopped at Starbucks, and then dropped her off at a rental agency, where she’d waited impatiently behind two groups of tourists who couldn’t decide what type of vehicle to rent. Each time the twentysomething clerk glanced aside and caught Mercy’s stare, he seemed to completely lose his concentration and had to ask the customers to repeat themselves. Forty minutes later she was on her way in a Ford SUV, feeling as if she were cheating on her Tahoe.
Truman’s words from last night were fresh in her head. In fact, they’d ricocheted in her brain for most of the night. He was willing to risk a broken heart for her.
She wasn’t ready to risk one for him. Yet.
There’s nothing wrong with needing more time.
She sipped her tea and admired the intricately carved wooden mantel of Tilda’s fireplace. Photos and pictures littered every surface in the formal living room. Mercy liked the contrast of the delicate doilies and crocheted afghans with the attire of her hostess, because she firmly believed in dressing to be comfortable. “How long have you lived here?” Mercy asked, knowing Truman had written twenty years in his report. The home no longer resembled the small house her childhood friend had lived in on the property. It appeared to have been expanded several times.
“Over two decades,” Tilda answered. “I was nearly sixty at the time, but I still had more energy than most twenty-year-olds. Buying this big farm didn’t seem like a big deal, but after a dozen years or so it became a bit much for my husband. He was ten years older than me and had slowed down quite a bit.” She eyed Mercy over the rim of her teacup. “I hear you’re sleeping with that good-looking police chief who interviewed me the other day.”
Mercy nearly spit out her tea. Tilda might have lovely manners, but apparently she said whatever she felt like.
“Don’t look so shocked. I’ve heard it from two different sources in town. People talk, you know.”
“I thought you didn’t get to town much,” Mercy said faintly.
“I don’t. But I have a phone. Still like to talk and catch up on some things. Who’s sleeping with who is always a topic my girlfriends want to discuss. They seem to approve of the two of you.”
“Uh . . . that’s good.”
“I like being able to put a face to the names I hear about, so I was plumb delighted when you called and wanted to get together.” She looked Mercy up and down, assessing and nodding as if she liked what she saw. “I bet you’re nearly as tall as him, aren’t you?”
“Almost.”
“That’s good. I was taller than my first husband and it never bothered me that much, but when I remarried, I realized how nice it was to be able to look eye to eye with my second husband.”
“I understand.” Mercy did. She’d been taller than a majority of the guys she’d gone to high school with. Few were willing to take an interest in a girl they had to look up to.
“Doesn’t really matter in bed, though, does it?”
Mercy kept a straight face. “I guess not.”
“Your police chief reminds me of my second husband. Tall and dark with kind eyes and a nice smile.”
Her own smile spread across her face. “Yes, that’s Truman.”
“You’ve got that look about you,” Tilda said thoughtfully, scanning Mercy’s face. “When you said his name, I could see how important he is to you. You looked like a woman in love. I remember that feeling.”
Mercy caught her breath. She and Truman still hadn’t said those three little words to each other. Several times she’d felt as if he was waiting for her to say it, and she’d been convinced he was going to say it during their discussion last night.
He hadn’t. Was I disappointed?
A bit. Part of her wanted to hear it, and the other part screamed that she wasn’t ready.
Because if he said it, then she should too. Right?
Am I ready?
She recalled the bit of taped cotton she’d ripped from the crook of her arm in the shower a few hours ago. She’d led Truman to believe the blood draw was intended to check her nonexistent alcohol level. But when Mercy couldn’t swear she was not pregnant in preparation for the X-rays, the doctor had ordered the quick test. “Better to play it safe,” the doctor had said.
Mercy had spent the next few minutes in fear that she was pregnant.
She wasn’t.
“But then there’s times where you want to hit them in the head with a shovel and bury them deep in the back pasture because they pissed you off,” Tilda continued with a grin. “That usually leads to makeup sex. And then everything is better until you want to brain them again.”
Mercy took a drink of her tea, still at a loss for words.
“But you’re not here to talk about your man, you want to know if anything else has occurred to me about that fire.”
Relief swamped her. “Yes. Anything new?”
“Nope. Nothing.” Tilda took a big swig of tea. “I remember when your parents moved to town, you know. We lived out their way for quite a while. In fact, my man helped your dad dig fence post holes one year.”
“I didn’t know that.” Tilda needs some gossip time, not an opportunity to talk about the fire. She wondered how to steer the conversation back to the crime.
“I remember them being young and motivated and out to protect themselves from the world.”
“That sounds like my parents.”
“They weren’t nutty like some preppers are. Never saw them practicing drills with gas masks or digging a bunker to protect against radiation. They seemed to want to get back to a simpler time when people relied on themselves.”
“That was exactly what they wanted to do.”
“They were good neighbors. We moved to the other side of town right after your mama had her first baby. My husband liked to move a lot. It was always a pain in the ass. Seemed like I always had to do most of the packing and unpacking.” She sighed. “I guess it’s time to do that again. Maybe I’ll hire some strong young arms to do that part for me.”
“You’re moving?”
“I’ve had a good offer for this property.”
“I didn’t realize it was for sale.”
“It’s not. But when someone knocks on your door and offers money for your home that has been feeling way too big, you take it as a sign from the good Lord above.”
“Where will you go?”
The woman tipped her head and looked off in the distance. “I think it’s time I find myself one of those old-people homes. The ones where you live on your own, but someone is always available to help you when needed. Sort of like an apartment complex, but specially run for us old biddies. I know how old I am. I’ve thought about what could happen if I slipped and broke a hip. I think that offer for my property came at a good time, and I intend to follow up on it. I hope he understands it’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
“You already told him you wouldn’t sell?”
“I did. I admit it was an emotional reaction. I didn’t care for him marching up to my front door and talking to me like I was some infirm old woman. I sent him packing. He came back a few days later and was politer, but I still wasn’t interested. He left his phone number. I’ll mull it over a few more days and then give him a call.”
“Only if you’re ready. And get the property appraised. He might believe he can get it for a steal.”
“No problem on that front. I’ve got a grandnephew who’s a Realtor. He’ll take care of me.”
Tilda’s earlier frankness had thrown Mercy for a loop, but talking real estate had helped get her brain back on track. “I read over the notes from your first interview, and you mentioned that the only person who’d come to the door recently was looking for a lost dog. How long ago did the man make the offer for your house?”
Tilda’s eyes widened. “Well, aren’t you a sharp one. You’re absolutely right. I forgot to mention that visitor to your man and that other FBI agent. The buyer first stopped by at the beginning of November. I remember because he commented on my fall wreath on my door. I’d already taken down the Halloween cat that’d been hanging there for a decoration.”
“Would you mind sharing the name of who made you the offer?”
“Not at all. I’ll find his card.” She stood stiffly but strode out of the room with the energy of a younger woman. Mercy glanced at the picture of the German shepherd on the fireplace, remembering how Truman said she’d claimed at the beginning of their interview that the dog was alive. She seems sharp as a tack today.
“Well now, I’m not sure where I put that number,” Tilda said as she returned. She scanned the room, looking for the offending piece of paper. “I swear I left it right by my phone. I threw it away at first, but I fished it out of the garbage thinking I might change my mind at some point.”
“Do you remember his name?”
Tilda tapped a finger on her chin as she thought. “I don’t. It was on the card. I hadn’t met him or heard of him before.”
It probably isn’t relevant. But it niggled at her. Arson had occurred on Tilda’s property after she’d refused to sell. It warranted a closer look.
“I’ll keep looking.”
Ready to leave, Mercy pulled out her card and handed it to Tilda. “Don’t lose this one. Call me when you find the other. I want to know who your eager buyer is.”
“You don’t think he set the fire to scare me away, do you?”
“That sounds a little extreme, don’t you think?” Mercy asked, hoping she was right.
“If they want me off the property, burning down that old barn isn’t the way to do it. I don’t miss that barn one bit. But try it on my house and they’ll be in for a surprise.” Tilda patted something in the baggy pocket of her overalls, and Mercy realized she’d been drinking tea with an armed woman.
Way to be on your toes, Kilpatrick.
Several sets of tires crunched on the gravel outside, and Cade stopped to listen. It was nearly 9:00 p.m. and he’d never worked so late before, but there was no point in rushing home, because Kaylie couldn’t meet him later anyway. Twice he’d had to pull apart work he’d completed because he’d made stupid mistakes. Both incidents were a result of him thinking about Kaylie’s aunt’s visit instead of focusing on his job. He’d decided he wasn’t going home until he had the damn thing right.
Multiple voices sounded outside, and he picked out Tom’s distinctive low rumble. The other voices sounded concerned and upset. Cade moved against the wall right next to the door of his bunkhouse and listened. Chip was mouthing off. Cade couldn’t make out the words, but his tone was higher-pitched than usual. He thought he heard “FBI” mentioned a few times. And Joshua Pence’s name. Tom answered in a soothing rumble, and footsteps sounded as the group headed toward the growing mess hall.
Cade exhaled, suddenly aware he’d been holding his breath as he tried to listen. No doubt Chip had conveyed the news of the FBI agents’ visit. Cade had nearly fallen over when Kaylie’s aunt showed up at his job. Finding his tongue to speak to her had been a hundred times harder than he’d imagined. It’d felt as if she knew all his secrets as she spoke to him, her green eyes penetrating his brain. He’d wanted to tell her that he knew Josh Pence. That the man had been working at the ranch before Cade was hired, and that he’d been kind and jolly but had gotten into arguments with some of the other men.
Then one day he hadn’t shown up for work. No one seemed concerned. Cade had asked Mitch, who’d simply shrugged and said, “Guess he found something better.” He’d noticed the quick exchange of glances between Mitch and Chip after the reply.
But now Josh had been murdered?
Cade tried to Google Josh’s name, wanting the details about his death, but the cellular service out at the ranch was temperamental. Tonight there was none. Nada. Zip. It’d have to wait until he got home. Wondering over and over what had happened to Josh had added to his distraction and faulty work.
Go eavesdrop.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Something happened to Josh, and they know about it.
Cade opened the bunkhouse door and spotted the men still walking toward the mess hall. The sun had set hours before, and the light was poor. In the weak light above the mess hall door, they were a group of silhouettes in the dark night. The two guys who had taken to going everywhere with Tom walked right beside him. Cade never saw Tom without them anymore. They seemed like guards.
Is Tom at risk like Josh?
Is that why he never goes anywhere alone?
His feet were moving before his brain acknowledged that he was following the group. Cade scooted to the far edge of the gravel lot, preferring to walk on the silent dirt. His breath hung in the air as his eyes adjusted to the bad light. He broke into a slow jog, keeping his steps as quiet as possible. He reached the mess hall and slunk around to the back, where Mitch and Chip hadn’t finished the back door that led directly to the kitchen. If he bumped into one of the kitchen women, he’d say he was looking for something to eat on his way home. The unfinished door easily swung open, and Cade stepped into an empty, dark kitchen. Relief made his knees weak. Voices sounded from the other side of the wall between the kitchen and the larger seating area.
He dug through one of the cupboards and grabbed two pieces of bread and slathered some peanut butter on them, squinting in the dim light.
A sandwich for my alibi.
He bent down and followed the long counter to the pass-through, which let some light into the kitchen from the mess hall. It was a large window at the far end of the kitchen where the cooks could put up food to be easily grabbed from the seating area. Cade crouched below the raised counter of the pass-through and listened.
“The Davidsons can’t stay in town anymore. They fucked up and caught the notice of the cops.”
I’m not sure who’s speaking.
“What were they thinking?” asked Tom McDonald.
“Dunno,” said the first voice. “Kimberly did something that set Wayne off.”
“Ten straight days’ KP for her,” ordered McDonald. “All meals.”
What’s KP?
“Where are they going to sleep? We’re currently full.”
“They can stay in the bunkhouse that’s nearly finished and spread out some sleeping bags in there. The cold will be good for them,” declared McDonald.
Murmuring voices agreed.
“Now, Chip. Explain to me how we caught the notice of the FBI,” said McDonald.
There were a pause and a few boot steps as, Cade assumed, Chip stepped forward. From the volume of the voices, it sounded as if McDonald was a few feet from the pass-through while the other men stood in a group and faced him.
Except for his two shadows. Cade imagined them standing to the right and left of McDonald.
“I don’t know, sir.” Cade had never heard such a polite tone from Chip. “Somehow they connected Pence with the ranch. They had his picture and asked if we knew him.”
“What’d you say?”
“Mitch and I said we didn’t recognize him. Cade said he was unsure and then proceeded to mention that a lot of men come and go from the ranch.”
McDonald cursed, and another assenting murmur sounded from the small group. Cade wiped the sweat that had formed on his upper lip.
“The kid did okay.”
Cade perked up at Mitch’s words.
“For someone with two FBI agents staring at him, Cade played it cool,” continued Mitch. “I thought he seemed genuine. He acted how you would expect from someone who knows nothing but is trying to be helpful to the cops.”
The room was silent, and Cade hoped Mitch wouldn’t regret sticking his neck out in his defense.
“Watch him,” McDonald ordered. “I’m holding you responsible for keeping him out of sight and his mouth shut if they show up here again.”
“Yes, sir,” Mitch replied.
Cade’s spine relaxed a fraction.
“What about their questions about Pence?” asked the first voice.
“Answer them. We know nothing about him,” said McDonald. “And figure out why they think we do. Someone had to say something that led them here.”
“Are you going to call them?” Chip asked.
“What for?”
Silence.
“This is my property and I don’t owe them anything. Pretty soon we won’t have to put up with them anymore.”
The men made pleased sounds along with a few “Damn right” responses.
“You’ve all chosen to be here,” McDonald said in a solemn tone. “You’ve put your faith in me, and we have a common goal. I’m going to see we achieve that goal. Pence screwed up and he paid the price. It’s a lesson that we all need to keep our eyes on the prize. I see a grand existence in our future. The one we were supposed to have as Americans.”
More replies of “Damn right!” This time with volume.
“What about Owen?” asked a second voice Cade didn’t recognize. “His sister is one of the FBI agents.”
“I’ll handle Owen,” promised McDonald. “Don’t worry about him one bit. He can barely stand the sight of his fibbie sister.”
“I can stand the sight of her just fine,” muttered one man. Laughter shot through the group.
“She won’t be a problem. And don’t worry about having women to look at. They’ll be flocking here soon enough. You’d be surprised how women are strongly drawn to men in power. Deep down they want to be taken care of, and they’ll soon see that this is the place for that.”
Appreciative noises reached Cade’s ears. Along with the sound of the kitchen door suddenly scraping open. On his hands and knees he scrambled behind a stack of produce boxes, hoping the person wouldn’t turn on the lights. He leaned his back against the boxes, pulling his long legs as close as possible to his belly. A faint light came on and the boxes cast a shadow over Cade. He slowly slid his right boot out of the light that’d found his toe.
Please God, please God, please God.
The light blinked off and he realized someone had opened and closed the fridge. Boot steps walked behind him and to the door between the kitchen and mess hall. It opened and closed, and Cade buried his head in his knees in relief.
I need to get out of here.
He unfolded his legs and silently crawled back toward the door, his heart pounding in his ears. He was nearly to the door when the word dynamite reached him. He halted and listened, trying to hear past his heartbeat.
Laughter filled the mess hall. Whatever McDonald had suggested, it’d been hilarious.
Cade couldn’t think of anything hilarious about dynamite.
Fear drove him out of the kitchen and through the door. He hurled the sandwich into the brush, knowing he’d vomit if he ate. He jogged back to the bunkhouse, straightened his tools for the next day, and got in his truck. His limbs shook as he drove off the property, and he felt the weight of Special Agent Kilpatrick’s business card in the pocket of his coat.
Did McDonald order Joshua Pence’s death?