CHAPTER FOUR
Beth stood in front of the Brubaker Arms and watched Ty drive away. The moment his truck turned the corner, she spun on her heel and headed across the town square toward her Honda. Even without a spare, she was driving out to Rick Heppel’s farm.
She glanced at her watch, then at the sky. She had about two hours of daylight left if she was lucky. The rain had stopped, and patches of blue broke through heavy clouds, though she’d heard on the radio that they were under a tornado watch. Having grown up in Illinois, she had a healthy respect for violent spring weather.
Unfortunately, it also made her restless as hell. She had to keep busy tonight. This would be one of those nights. A vulnerable one. A night when comfort sounded like the clink of ice against glass and smelled like the acrid aroma of bourbon. No matter what happened, she couldn’t give in to weakness.
Ty had said Heppel’s place was due east of his. She should be able to find that. Shouldn’t she?
Okay, so she’d stop at Gooch’s to see when her new spare would be ready, and ask for directions. No testosterone on board to prevent her from a simple safeguard like that. The wisdom to ask directions was one of the virtues of womanhood, in her humble opinion.
She drove the short distance to Gooch’s Garage, where she found the father instead of the son in charge this time. Lester Gooch was easily the skinniest man Beth had ever seen. She figured the reason he wore overalls was probably because he couldn’t find jeans small enough to stay put around his scrawny hips.
“My boy told you earlier the tire would take a couple weeks to get in, li’l lady,” he drawled, shifting an unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
Little lady? Beth bit her tongue.
The guy’s bald head glowed in the fading afternoon sun as he looped his thumbs through the bib of his overalls. “Month at the outside.”
Month my ass. She’d be long gone before then, and she definitely knew bullshit when she smelled it. Gooch’s excuses reeked. “Thanks, Mr. Gooch, but—”
“Just Gooch, ma’am.”
“Just Dearborn, Gooch.” She flashed him her belle smile and batted her lashes.
The man threw his head back and guffawed, his cigar falling to the pavement. “All right, Dearborn. What can I do for you, since your tire ain’t here yet?”
“I need directions to Rick Heppel’s farm.” Beth watched with interest as a scowl replaced Gooch’s grin. “You know where it is?”
He stooped to retrieve his cigar stub, wiped it on his overalls, and shoved it back between his teeth. “Yep.” He swung around to face her again. “What in tarnation you wanna go see that no-account for?”
“Business.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’m investigating the disappearance of Lorilee Brubaker-Malone.”
“Ah.” Gooch stroked the gray whiskers on his chin, which far outnumbered the hairs on his head. “Disappearance, is it?” He snorted.
One of those.
“I’d appreciate directions to Heppel’s farm, if you don’t mind,” Beth urged. She wanted to take advantage of the remaining daylight. “I figured you would know everything there is to know, so you’re the first person I asked.”
Gooch puffed up a little at that and finally gave her the damned directions. Beth thanked him and left before he could launch into his opinion of what had really happened to Lorilee. His snort had given her a pretty fair impression of that already, and now she was even more curious about Rick Heppel than ever.
Heppel’s house sat near the creek that bordered the Malone farm—the property line, more or less. She parked her car next to a metal barn easily more than twice the size of the house.
It was little more than a cabin. The porch sagged, the roof had been patched with tar paper, and heavy plastic covered two of the windows. Beth glanced back at the high-tech metal building. Interesting.
A black and tan hound scurried out from beneath the porch and barked a warning. His tail wagged furiously, though, so she figured the mongrel was more friend than foe. “Hey, fella,” she said. The old dog stopped barking and melted against her leg, tail still wagging. She couldn’t resist scratching him behind the ears.
The front door of the cabin squeaked open and the largest, hairiest man she’d ever seen materialized on the threshold. He could easily have passed a screen test for Sasquatch.
The overall-clad monster stepped out onto the porch and stared. Wiry gray hair hung to his shoulders, and a bushy beard fell halfway down his barrel chest. “Yeah?” He folded his arms and kept staring.
“Rick Heppel?” Beth straightened from petting the dog.
The man didn’t move. “Depends who’s asking.”
Oh, goody. “Beth Dearborn.” She approached him, her right hand outstretched. When he didn’t reach for it, she dropped it to her side. Well, no Southern gentleman here, or risk of being treated like a little lady. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Lorilee Brubaker-Malone.”
His eyes widened, then narrowed to dark slits. “Why? What’s your interest in Lorilee?”
“I’m an insurance investigator.” No point in hiding that fact. “The Malones want Lorilee declared legally dead.”
Heppel chewed his lower lip for several seconds and stroked his beard. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“Did you know Lorilee?”
He blinked once. Twice. Moisture collected at the corners of his brown eyes, and he looked beyond her at something she suspected only he could see. Then he drew a deep breath and met her gaze, all evidence of emotion carefully masked. “Everybody around here knew Lorilee.”
He’s hedging. “Some better than others.”
His beard twitched as one corner of his mouth lifted upward. “Lorilee treated me decent.”
He narrowed his eyes again and set his lips in a hard line. “I won’t stand here and listen to you badmouth a fine lady like Lorilee.” He turned toward his house.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you or Lorilee.” That much was true, though her suspicions about the relationship between Heppel and Lorilee had just escalated tenfold. “Her family and Avery Mutual are looking for the truth. Maybe you can help us find it.”
He stood with his broad back to her for several seconds. His head lowered, then he sighed and turned to face her again, lifting his chin to meet her gaze. “I was in the middle of fixin’ supper.” He looked the length of her. “You don’t appear vegan to me.”
And you do? Beth blinked, biting back the smart-ass comments that came to mind. “I’m more the burger-and-fries type.” She lifted a shoulder. “Guilty.”
“If you expect me to answer questions about Lorilee, you won’t be eating flesh tonight.”
She grimaced and shook her head. “Well, that’s a…graphic way to put it.”
A sad smile split his beard. “That’s a fact.”
Eating dinner alone with this odd man didn’t rate high on her list of wise ways to spend her first evening in Brubaker, but she needed to hear about Lorilee. “Thanks for the invitation.”
Without speaking, he motioned for her to follow, then turned and lumbered into his house.
Beth glanced down at the hound and whispered, “If I’m not out of there in one hour, run for the sheriff, Lassie.”
The dog licked her hand and ambled back to the porch, circled three times, then dropped with a contented sigh.
Beth stepped over the hound on her way to the screen door. “Big help you’re gonna be.”
The inside of Heppel’s cabin came as a surprise. It was immaculate, first of all, and furnished with bentwillow and log furniture. Some of the tables had intricate carving, and after a few minutes, she realized all the pieces were handmade—not the type found on a showroom floor.
She brushed her hand along the back of a rocker with a gorgeous grapevine motif. “You make all these?”
“Keeps me off the street.” He flashed her a sheepish grin that had “gentle giant” written all over it.
This guy is a pussycat. And an artist. “It’s beautiful. I hope you charge a fortune for it.”
“I get lucky now and then.” He pulled out a chair at the table.
“Can I help?”
“Set the table if you want. Plates are in there.” He pointed to a cabinet near one of the plastic-covered windows. Beth didn’t ask the questions that sprang to mind—at least, not yet.
Rick Heppel was a walking, breathing contradiction. The scents of onions, garlic, and ginger filled the room as he stood stir-frying vegetables and spices in a hot wok at the small stove.
They sat down to eat a spicy mixture of wild rice, greens, seeds, and sprouts that made Beth’s mouth water. She took one bite and moaned. “This is delicious, even without meat.” She refused to say flesh. “Wow. You make furniture, you cook, and this place is neat as a pin. You’d make someone a great wife.” She grinned, hoping to soften him up a little.
Rick’s expression grew solemn as he ate his food and sipped his herbal tea. “You might as well know I was in love with Lorilee,” he said at last.
Beth coughed. She’d suspected something, but having him come right out and say it shocked the hell out of her. “I…see.” She took a sip of herbal tea, though she was more the black-coffee type, and mentally patted herself on the back for trusting her instincts enough to drive out here this evening. It would be dark before she headed back to town, but she was a big girl.
“So…does Lorilee return your feelings?”
Rick took a long drink of his tea before answering. His soft brown eyes held a wealth of sadness. Why? Unrequited love? Or had they been lovers, and Lorilee had left him, too?
“Oh, Lorilee loved me all right,” he finally said. His smile was sad, distant. “She did—like a brother.” He sighed. “Ty was the only man for her.”
“Ah.” A tangle of emotions warred within Beth. Disappointment. Relief. Jealousy? She couldn’t quite define them, but they all irritated her, and that pissed her off.
Time to get back to work, Dearborn. “Do you know where Lorilee is, Mr. Heppel?” she asked.
His fork clattered to the table, making Beth jump. His dark eyes glowered at her. “Lorilee is dead. Period. End of discussion.”
Beth swallowed the glob of stir-fry stuck in her throat, washed it down with tea. Yep, a walking contradiction. Gentle one minute, almost violent the next. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, but her martial-arts training would help even the odds. Theoretically…
Not to mention the knife in her boot and the Glock in her backpack. She nudged the bag with her foot, where it rested on the floor beneath the table.
Calmly, she rested her hands in her lap and kept her expression bland. “No, Mr. Heppel, it isn’t the end of the discussion. Lorilee’s family wants, needs, and deserves answers.” She drew a deep, steadying breath. “And from a practical standpoint, I have a job to do. An insurance claim has been filed. A large one. And there’s no proof that Lorilee is really dead. An investigation is standard procedure. That’s all there is to this. Really.”
His shoulders relaxed, dropping at least two inches as he shook his head. “I—I’m sorry.” His cheeks reddened and he ran his beefy fingers through his long, gray hair. “I just get so all-fired pissed off when somebody speaks ill of Lorilee.”
Beth took another sip of the flower-and-twigs brew to hide the relief that oozed through her. He didn’t have to know she’d almost peed her pants when he dropped that fork and yelled at her. Detective training or not—Glock or not—she was a woman alone with a giant of a man, a long way from anything remotely resembling backup.
“I stopped at the library today.” Proceed with caution, Dearborn. “I read some of the nasty things people wrote after she dis—”
“Lies. All lies.” He seemed more disgusted now than angry.
“I was surprised by how quickly the townspeople turned on Lorilee.” Beth paused, leaned forward, hoping to encourage him. “Just a few months before her disappearance, an article called her the town’s ‘guardian angel,’ or something like that.”
“Nothin’ but a bunch of damn hypocrites.”
“Seems like.” Beth took another bite of stir-fry. Time to change the subject. “I’d love to have this recipe, if you have it written down.” Keep him off guard, mellow, friendly…“I had no idea vegetarian meals could be so tasty, Mr. Heppel.”
He smiled—really smiled. “Call me Rick. We broke bread together, after all.” He passed her the basket of muffins to punctuate his point. “These are made from flax meal.”
“All right. I’m Beth.” She took a muffin, broke it open, drizzled molasses over it. She’d already been informed that vegans didn’t eat honey, since it came from bugs. “So, Rick, I know you believe Lorilee’s dead. We’ve established that.” She peered at him from beneath her lowered lashes, noting that he still seemed mellow enough. “What do you think happened to her? Really.” She took a bite of muffin, letting the warm, chewy sweetness fill her mouth and soothe her.
Rick steepled his fingers on the table in front of him and drew a deep breath. “I honestly believe Lorilee was murdered.”
Beth stiffened, her homicide-detective antennae on alert. Ty hadn’t actually used that term to describe his wife’s fate. Why? Or maybe, Why not? was the right question. Did he know something he didn’t want Beth to know?
“Murder is a strong word, Rick.” Beth pushed her empty plate aside and took another sip of tea. “Why do you believe that?”
“She would never leave her babies.”
Those words echoed, verbatim, what Ty had said. “Yet…we both know there are others in Brubaker who believe Lorilee abandoned her family.”
Renewed anger flashed in Rick’s eyes. “I told you, they’re wrong.” He rose and started clearing the table.
Beth followed, carrying her empty plate and cup to the sink. “What about that letter from England?”
Rick didn’t look at her, and his words were barely audible. “Find the bastard who sent that letter, and he’ll lead you to Lorilee’s killer.”
Ty had said, Whoever wrote that letter knows what happened to my wife. Again, he echoed Ty’s opinion, though the word killer had never left Ty’s lips.
Why did that omission disturb her?
Beth shoved the thought aside. Right now she needed facts, not speculation about Ty Malone’s guilt or innocence. Beth had been in this business too damned long not to trust her hunches, and she had a hunch Rick Heppel knew things about Lorilee her husband might not.
She needed to stay in Heppel’s good graces. Somehow.
Make nice.
“Dinner was great, Rick. It was really nice of you to invite me.”
“It really is about damned time someone found out what happened to Lorilee,” he said. “Past time.”
His words sounded genuine. Beth nodded. “Let me help wash these dishes.”
“Nah, it’ll only take me a minute.” Thunder boomed outside, and lightning flashed outside the window. “You oughta head back before the storm.”
A chill swept through her. “I hate storms.”
“Storms are in my blood. I’m from Kansas,” he said through a grin. “But I can’t fly in weather like this, so I hate ‘em, too.”
“Fly?”
“Chopper pilot.”
“Oh, so that’s what’s in the metal building.”
“Yep.” He grinned again. “Truth is, I earn a lot more money hauling water and hay with my chopper than I do selling my furniture and carvings.”
“That’s a shame.” She glanced around the cabin again. “Because this stuff is gorgeous.”
He blushed above his gray beard. “Thanks.” His tone softened. “Lorilee thought so, too. You know she was an artist—a painter?”
“I saw some of her work at the house.” Beth saw genuine grief in this man’s eyes, but he still seemed more than a little unstable. “Guess it takes an artist to know one.”
He muttered something unintelligible, and lightning flashed again. “You’d best get goin’.”
Beth wished she could stay longer, draw him out more. But there was a storm coming, and she sensed that if she pushed too hard too fast, this man could very well withdraw completely. She needed his trust and cooperation. One step at a time.
“I’d like to meet—have met—Lorilee,” Beth said.
Rick nodded. “She had her…problems, but she sort of took me under her wing after I got here, encouraged me to keep up my craft, even though I’m quite a bit older than she was.”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re from Kansas, huh?”
“Still a damn Yankee to these folks.” He walked her to the door. “And they don’t approve of my socalled hippie lifestyle either. Stir-fried sprouts are sinner’s food.”
Beth chuckled. “Even so, you’re a sprout-eating veteran.”
Rick stiffened. “Who told you that?”
She studied his expression for a few seconds. “Ty must have mentioned it.”
Rick’s gaze dropped to the floor, and he shook his head before looking up at her again. “I reckon Lorilee told him.”
“Why don’t you want people to know?”
His nostrils flared slightly, and she heard him swallow. “I try not to think about Nam. The only good thing the army taught me was how to fly a chopper.”
“I won’t mention it.” It was hard not to like this guy. She could easily see how he and Lorilee had become good friends. “Here’s my card with my cell number, and I’m staying at the Brubaker Arms. If you think of anything I should know that might help solve Lorilee’s case, give me a call.”
“Will do.” He tucked her card in his bib pocket, then opened the squeaky screen door and held it. The wind picked up, and lightning flashed in the dark sky. “I don’t think you’re gonna beat that storm back to town.”
Beth drew a shaky breath. “Won’t be the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Country dark and city dark were two entirely different beasts. Once she’d left the comforting glow of the security light on Rick’s hangar, Beth drove through black ink, broken only by intermittent flashes of lightning.
“Great, Dearborn.” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. “Just dandy.”
Her first day in Brubaker had turned into a marathon that would end in hell. And another thing—stir-fried sprouts didn’t mix well with violent weather.
Clenching her teeth, she steered her car along the curvy dirt road that led back to the highway. At least it had led from the highway to Heppel’s house. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed as far driving in the other direction in calm weather and daylight.
The road meandered along the creek, ducking into and out of the trees. Lightning flashed, transforming the blackness into a photographer’s negative. Blinded, she slammed on her brakes. Her heart thumped against her ribs, and she licked her dry lips.
It’s just a storm, you wimp.
“Just a storm,” she repeated aloud. Of course, they were never just storms for her. It had something to do with her freaky gift—something she’d failed to suppress, unlike her empathy with murder victims, because she couldn’t avoid Mother Nature the way she could crime scenes. Electrical storms affected her, sometimes violently. She felt them—either with a giddy sense of power, an overwhelming fear, or an almost sexual lust that reverberated through her until she thought she’d go insane waiting for the storm to pass.
Tonight, terror crept along the fringes of her sanity. The lightning flashes came more frequently, and the wind whipped the trees into a frenzy. Small twigs and leaves scraped across her windshield on their way to Oz.
“Where the hell is the yellow-brick road when you frigging need it?”
Finally, Beth found the highway, squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, and breathed a sigh of relief. She turned on her blinker, preparing to turn left onto the two-lane highway just as her cell phone played a few notes of theme song from Twilight Zone.
“Shit.” Beth grabbed her cell out of her backpack. “Dearborn here.” Sitting in a tin can during an electrical storm in the middle of nowhere, like an idiot, talking on a frigging cell phone.
“This is Sarah Malone,” a young woman said.
Whoa! Ty and Lorilee’s kid? “Yes? What can I do for you?” Ty didn’t want her to speak to the children, but Beth couldn’t very well stop them from contacting her. Could she?
“I—I heard you’re here to solve my momma’s murder.”
Oh, boy. There’s that word again. “Sarah, who told you that?”
“No one. You’re an investigator,” the girl said, the tremor in her voice audible even though the signal was breaking. “I just thought…”
“How did you get this number?”
“I found your card on my dad’s desk.”
More static garbled the line, and Beth glanced at her dashboard. Eight o’clock wasn’t late. “Then you know I work for an insurance company.”
“Y-yes.”
“Does your dad know you called me?”
“No. He went to town this evening. I’m the one who asked him to find out what happened to Momma.”
Suddenly, Beth had to talk to this girl. Tonight. “How old are you, Sarah?”
“Sixteen.”
Not an adult, but not a baby, either. Ty would have a fit. Lighting struck the ground somewhere nearby. Too near. Beth could smell it. Feel it. Hear it in her bones.
“I’m not far away from your place now.” Beth might regret those words, but she pressed onward. “Is it too late for us to talk?”
“No.” The girl sounded eager. “Come now. I’m babysitting my little brother and sister. They just went to bed.”
Common sense told Beth to turn left and head back to the hotel. Gut instinct told her to turn right and cross the bridge, turn right again, and return to the Malones’ house for the second time today.
“I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”
Beth disconnected and headed in that direction, mentally kicking herself as she made the necessary turns. The kicking didn’t help. She still had to risk this.
Fat raindrops pelted her windshield, and the storm rocked her tiny car. Lightning transformed the inky landscape to pseudowinter. Raindrops sparkled like eerie ice shards in the flash, then reverted to watery missiles landing on the hood of her car.
Beth clutched her steering wheel. A fierce blast of wind slammed into the vehicle, and she swerved on the graded gravel road leading to the Malones’ Victorian farmhouse. And shelter.
She hit the brake and stopped the car, pressed the heel of her hand against her breastbone. Her heart hammered frantically against it. “Easy. It’s only a storm.”
She could handle this. If only she weren’t so alone. If only it weren’t so damned dark. In town, it wouldn’t be so dark. The storm wouldn’t seem so…eerie. So otherworldly. But she knew better.
Tiny pellets of hail scurried against her windshield. “Drive, Dearborn. Drive, damn you.” She eased her foot off the brake and pressed on the gas. The car inched forward through the deluge. Her wipers barely cleared the glass enough to enable her to see the path illuminated by her headlights and Mother Nature’s electrical show.
She crested the final hill and envisioned the valley floor the way she’d seen it this afternoon from Lorilee’s studio window. Pastoral. Picturesque. Amazing what a difference a few hours, a little pitch-blackness, and Mother Nature’s ire could make.
She squinted into the darkness, spotted the comforting lights of the farmhouse and the outbuildings in the distance. The rain and wind increased, but the hail stopped. Lightning and thunder followed one another in rapid succession now, matching the staccato rhythm of her pulse.
Sweat rolled down her neck and dampened her bra. She didn’t dare release the steering wheel to adjust the temperature on the defroster. Her palms slipped and she tightened her grip even more. Lightning struck the ground nearby, and a whimper escaped her lips. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end; she smelled something burning. Too close. Too dangerous. “Show-off.”
Her bravado didn’t help.
The wind whistled around her closed doors as she pulled to a stop in front of the big white house at last. It looked more like the haunted house at an amusement park than the pastoral scene she’d viewed earlier today. She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat, but that didn’t stop the tremor that had taken hold. She shook like a human vibrator from head to toe, and she knew it wouldn’t stop until the storm had passed.
Lightning flashed again. Again. Again. The hot, burning stench filled her nostrils. Panic swarmed around her. Raindrops pummeled her car, sounding like a semiautomatic battering a metal coffin. Terror and heat crowded the cramped interior. She released the clutch while the car was still in gear and it lurched forward, sputtered, and died. She groped in the dark for the door handle and wrenched it open, but the seat belt held her captive.
Like an animal caught in a steel trap, she struggled to free herself. An inhuman sound rumbled from somewhere deep inside her until, finally, she broke loose and bolted for the front door. The house was dark now. Damn!
Rain soaked her within two steps of her car. By the time she lurched onto the porch she was drenched.
Terror ripped at her. Shelter. She had to escape. Hide. Run. She pounded and clawed at the front door, pounded again. It swung open and she stumbled. Beth plunged forward into the Malones’ foyer. Her screwup registered just as a new kind of fear closed in on her.
Please don’t hit me again.
Crushing pain slammed into her face before she fell with a sickening thud.
Don’t hit—
Then blessed blackness saved her ass.