Thirty-five
“What do you know about Baldwin?” Cassidy demanded when Chase hobbled into the kitchen the next morning. He’d refused to talk to her last night, just left her in the den and headed for his bedroom, but she wasn’t going to be put off again. The Times was open, a picture of Marshall Baldwin on the front page next to Bill Laszlo’s column.
“You were there. You heard me.” Chase glanced at the newspaper and scowled. “So the vultures are already circling.”
“Bill’s just doing his job.”
“Right. It’s just a piss-poor way to make a living.”
“The same way I do.”
He ignored that and leaning on one crutch, he poured a cup of coffee and found a straw.
“I heard what you told the detective. Now I want to know the truth.”
“You think I’m lying? God, Cass, give it a rest.”
“Not just me. The detective thinks it, too. Knows it. He may talk like some country boy who just fell off the hay wagon, but he’s sharp, Chase. Sharp, dedicated and relentless. Rumor has it that he wants Floyd Dodds’s job as county sheriff. All he needs is the right kind of publicity—this kind.”
“Well, he’s not getting it from me.” Ignoring his coffee, he tried to pass but she lodged her body firmly in the door. Her chin thrust out, determination stiffening her back, she glared up at him. “Move, Cass,” he ordered.
Trembling inside, she tried to rein in her emotions. Be professional. Take yourself out of this. Keep your distance and study the situation objectively. Without emotion. As if you were on camera reporting a story. Impossible. With Chase, she was always riding the gut-wrenching back of emotion. “Look, Chase, if we’re going to start over, we’ll need to begin by telling the truth.”
“Like you’ve always done with me.”
“I’ve tried—”
“Like hell, Cassidy.” He tried to swing by her, but she wouldn’t budge. His chest was rising and falling, his skin flushed with rage. “Besides, I never said a word about starting over. I think I agreed to cohabit with you as long as you left me alone. I believe I agreed to ‘try again.’ No promises. No strings attached.”
“We can’t do that unless you’re honest.”
“That goes two ways, Cass. You haven’t exactly been straight with me.”
“What do you—”
“I know you’ve been conducting your own little investigation. Calling around, collecting seventeen-year-old information about the fire at the gristmill. About Angie’s death. About Brig’s sudden disappearance. That’s what this all boils down to, isn’t it? Brig.” He spat his brother’s name as if it tasted foul. His nostrils flared in rage. “Don’t try and act so innocent. I know why you’re trying to solve this damned mystery; so that you can have the scoop of the century.”
She felt as if he’d kicked her. “I never—”
“I’ve seen the file, Cassidy. Read your notes on the computer. I’m starting to wonder if you wanted us to ‘work things out’ so that you could spend your days trying to drag information out of me and end up the town hero by solving the crime.”
“You’re crazy. I’m not working on a story. Laszlo’s been assigned to the fire.” She hitched her chin toward the open newspaper.
“And you’d love to show him up, wouldn’t you? This should be your story. It’s about your family. I can see it in your eyes, Cassidy. You’re pissed that Laszlo, just because he’s a man, got this little plum.”
“For the love of God, Chase, you can’t really believe that I’m in this for the glory.” He didn’t respond, just looked down his broken nose at her. Sick inside, she whispered, “You think I wanted you to stay here so I could further my career.”
“Why else?”
“Because…” She stopped just short of saying the dangerous words that wanted to fall from the tip of her tongue. “Because…” I want to fall in love with you screamed through her brain though she wasn’t certain she could ever love him or that he would love her. They’d become so used to wounding each other, to expecting another emotional blow, that they couldn’t trust each other, not even a little.
“By the way, he called.”
“Who?”
“Laszlo. Early. While you were out swimming,” he said and she was surprised that he’d known her whereabouts at six in the morning. “Sounded desperate to talk to me. It was almost as if my wife had egged him into it. I didn’t pick up, just let him blabber into the recorder, but he’s anxious to get some facts for his next column.”
“I told him to stop trying to pump me for information. If he wanted answers from you, he’d have to call you himself.”
“Great.” He didn’t make a move for the door, just stared at her with such an intensity that she could barely breathe, hardly think. Close enough that his breath was warm against her face. “Anything else you want to discuss, or are we going to stand here all day?”
She asked him the question that had been nagging at her ever since the fire—something about his attitude. “What is it you’re afraid of, Chase?”
He hesitated.
“What is it?” The seconds ticked by and she refused to wither under his stare. His chest rose and fell as quickly as hers and she heard the soft rush of air as it escaped his lungs.
“You,” he whispered and she barely heard the single, damning word. “I’m afraid of you, Cassidy.”
“Me? Why?”
“I don’t want to get too close to you again,” he admitted. “It’s just not safe.”
She gazed at him silently, heart thudding.
The muscles tightened in his neck and he looked away. “Damn it, Cass.”
“You’re going to leave, aren’t you?” she guessed, aching a little.
A flicker of regret crossed his face. “I won’t have a choice. Now, get out of the way, Cassidy. Don’t make me a prisoner.”
“Chase…”
He pushed past her. “Stop trying to make something out of nothing. I agreed to your charade. To live with you. Stay in the same house. Hell, I even decided I could pretend that we were happy. For your parents. For the police. For the whole damned town, if that’s what you want. But when we’re alone, I expect you to leave me the hell alone.”
Her reflex was instant. She raised her arm, wanting to hit, to scream, to kick her way past the shield he’d put up between them.
He laughed. A dark, sarcastic sound that rippled wickedly through the room as she slowly dropped her hand. “Can’t hit a cripple, Cass?”
“You self-pitying bastard!”
“Now, that’s more like it.”
“I don’t really know what happened to us,” she said, refusing to back down, “but I believe it can be fixed.”
“Marriage isn’t like an old broken-down Pontiac, Cassidy. Both parties have to want it to work.”
“Fight me all you want, Chase McKenzie, but I’m not giving up on us.”
“You did once,” he charged, and she cringed inside. He was right.
“And for that you’ll never forgive me.”
“There are so many things between us we couldn’t start forgiving them all.”
“We could try.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say about hell freezing over.” He plunged his crutches ahead of him and swept past her, moving quickly, but awkwardly, through the house.
Despair stole into her heart, but she refused to give up hope. Damn it, she could be as stubborn as he. And she’d find a chink in his emotional armor if it killed her, though she was afraid that it was guilt, not love, that drove her.
“Tell me about Marshall Baldwin.” Bill Laszlo caught up with Cassidy in the kitchen as she was pouring herself a cup of coffee. She glanced at an early copy of the Times, identical to the one she’d seen on the kitchen table at home. Chase had left the house immediately after their fight, refusing to let her drive him, taking an automatic pickup that he somehow managed to maneuver into town.
“Baldwin died in the fire.”
“I know that much. Hell, I wrote that story,” he said, motioning to the short article headlined ALASKAN BUSINESSMAN IDENTIFIED. “But who was he, really?”
Cassidy stirred powdered cream substitute into her coffee. “I don’t know.”
“Sure you do. Hey, watch out, that stuff will kill you. It’s loaded with preservatives and crap like that. Notice the word ‘nondairy.’”
“Thanks for the tip,” she said, dropping her stir stick in the waste can.
“So come on. You must know something about Baldwin.”
“All I know is what I read in the papers, what you wrote. He’s an Alaskan industrialist. He owns some sawmills, a farm—potatoes, I think, a fishery and land. Gives a lot of money away to charitable causes.”
“That’s just his publicist talking.”
“Did he have one?”
Laszlo was undeterred. “What I want to know is the man below the surface. Who was he really? The way I hear it, he has no family; isn’t that a hoot? All that money and not an heir—not even a will?”
“Someone will claim his money.”
“I hope so; I’d like to know more about him.” He reached for a cup on an upper shelf. “What’s Chase say?”
Cassidy was cautious, but it didn’t hurt to tell Bill what she’d learned from Chase. “Just that Baldwin came down here to talk about having some lumber milled here.”
“You believe that? When we’re shipping lumber to Japan? Don’t they have mills in Alaska? Doesn’t he own his own?” Laszlo poured himself some hot water and dunked a bag of herbal tea into his cup.
He was asking the same questions she’d asked herself, but she wasn’t about to tell him about Chase selling out his interest in Buchanan Industries. Not yet.
“Come on, Cassidy. Don’t kid a kidder. I know that before the fire you were ready to walk. Chase is married to the Buchanan fortune, not to you. Now, all of a sudden, everything’s hunky-dory, your marriage is back on track, and you’re trying to protect him.”
Irritation edged her voice. “If you don’t believe me, call Chase.”
“I have,” Bill said. “He’s not particularly chatty.”
“Maybe it’s because his jaw is still wired together.”
“And maybe it’s because he’s got something to hide.”
She picked up her coffee and headed back to her desk. He started to follow. “Leave me alone, Bill, I’ve got work to do.”
“So do I.”
“Then do it, and stop pumping me for information I don’t have.”
He ignored her as she wove through the partitions to her own desk. Selma wasn’t in yet. Wheeling his chair over, Bill plopped down next to Cassidy as she turned her attention to her computer screen and tried to tune him out. Damn the man. He wasn’t a bad reporter and persistence seemed to be his middle name. Picking up her cup, she sipped the coffee—a little stronger than she liked—and pulled up a story she’d started the day before.
Bill dropped his wet tea bag in her trash. “Marshall shows up in Alaska in the fall of 1977.”
“So?”
“Less than two months after the fire here.”
“I’m still not following you,” she said, her heart hammering so loudly she was afraid he could hear the wild knocks.
“No family. No friends. Nothing. As far as I can tell, he didn’t have a dime to his name, not even a decent coat and he’s in friggin’ Alaska. Do you know how cold it is up there in November? He lands a job, gets credit at some company store so that he can buy some warm clothes and stays in the cheapest dive available. At the time he claims he’s twenty-two, but no one knows for sure. He could have been younger.”
“Or older, if he’s lying.”
“Don’t be obtuse.”
“What’re you getting at, Bill?”
“I’m working on the theory that Marshall Baldwin might have been Brig McKenzie.”
Isn’t everyone?
He watched her reaction, his gaze never leaving her face as he took a swallow of his tea.
“That’s a big leap.”
“I’d like to talk to Chase, face-to-face, and then to his mother. You know they think she was spotted up in the foothills?”
“What?” Cassidy nearly spilled her coffee. “Someone’s found Sunny?”
“Unconfirmed as yet, but two kids who’d been camping in the woods came home and told their mother they’d seen a witch; a gray-haired woman chanting in a small clearing. Now the kids could be lying, of course. I’m going to interview them when the police are through. And then there’s a farmer—Dave Dickey, lives out on his family’s homestead a few miles out of town. He admits to giving a woman with a cane—probably your missing mother-in-law—a ride. And guess where she ended up?”
“I can’t.”
“At your Mom and Dad’s place. That was the day she escaped; the day Marshall Baldwin died. I’m going to have a chat with Farmer Dave, too. Sooner or later the truth’s gonna come out, Cassidy, and the Times is gonna report it under my byline. So”—he stood—“if you find out anything, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know.”