Backcountry Page 14

Blake arrived home with one bag of handmade mushroom raviolis and one of various greens he’d no doubt “pruned” from plants in the greenhouse where he worked. Walking into the living room, he bent and briefly kissed the top of her head. “So I haven’t inherited the house after all?”

  “Not yet.”

  “No Chase?”

  “Nope. No Claude?”

  “Non. Il...went...a Montréal.”

  “Conjugation got you down?”

  Her housemate snorted. “In more ways than one, cherie.”

  “I sympathize. Your Frenglish is as bad as my Spanglish. Fortunately, tonight we have no need of either; we can speak our native tongue.”

  “Deal.” He pointed to Simon. “And he nests in your hair tonight.”

  Blake whipped up a creamy sun-dried tomato and cheese sauce for the raviolis while she put together a salad. They shared a bottle of wine and commiserated about relationships with teenagers and missing lovers.

  As he poured them both a second glass of merlot, she said, “You know something, Blake? You are my rock.”

  He handed her the glass and picked up his own. “Ditto, Sam.” He took a sip. “It’s kinda sad and wonderful at the same time, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 11

  The next day, when she should have spent time in front of her computer, trying to line up contract work after the expedition, she called the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Office and asked for Detective Greene.

  “She’s out. Want her voice mail?”

  Sam left the detective a message, asking if they could meet and discuss the Quintana-Johnson case. She didn’t have a lot of confidence that she’d hear back. Then she drove to Christopher Rawlins’ address. Maybe he could fill in some details.

  When she pulled up at nine a.m. in the driveway of the small rental house he had shared with Kyla, she parked alongside a dark sedan with a Snohomish County Sheriff logo, and next to a cruiser from Whatcom County.

  The front door of the house was standing open. Chris was slumped morosely in a plastic chair on the sagging porch, sucking on a can of beer.

  She slipped into the vacant chair beside him. “What’s going on?”

  “Search warrant.” He motioned to the pages he was holding down with his left boot.

  A loud thump from the wall behind them caused Sam to turn toward the house. Whoever was in there was dumping out a box or emptying a bookshelf. “What do they expect to find?”

  He shook his head. “God only knows. The missing guns? Bloodstains on the carpet? A skeleton crammed up the chimney?” Crumpling the beer can, he tossed it into the bushes, where it landed beside another. She didn’t blame him for being upset, but this couldn’t make a good impression on the law officers. Was it normal for Chris to drink so early in the day? Could Kyla have fallen for an alcoholic?

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “You know anything?”

  “I was hoping you’d update me.”

  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the interior of the house. “Update: they think I killed my girlfriend and her mother. And oh, by the way, they also think you and Troy may be in on the conspiracy.”

  “What are our motives?”

  “I can only guess. Mine, to get hot and heavy with you.”

  “Yeesh, Chris, I’m nearly old enough to be your mother.” She did a quick calculation. He was probably nearing thirty, and she was rapidly approaching the big four-oh. Nope, only around ten to twelve years between them. “Well, your older sister, for sure.”

  “Your motive is to get Kyla’s job.”

  “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to babysit a bunch of delinquents for minimum wage.” Then she remembered that Troy promised to pay her triple the usual amount, and her cheeks flushed.

  “And Troy?” Chris stared at the driveway. “Who knows? I haven’t figured that one out yet.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t have any motive. Chris, do you know anything about a guy called Erik Heigler, nickname of Klapton?”

  “Klapton.” Chris grimaced. “He’s a cousin, I guess. Major druggie, according to everyone. He contacted Kyla, right before... He hasn’t been around for a long time, but he was going to be up here and wanted to see her.” He shook his head. “She was actually considering meeting up with him. I told her no way should she respond at all. You never want to even pretend to be friendly to a junkie.” His brows came together, and he turned toward her and said, “You don’t think that guy could have...”

  Sam returned his questioning look. “I don’t really know anything about their history or the guy. His name just came up.”

  A brown dog emerged from the side of the house, joining them on the porch. Short legs ended in large white paws. A long tail with a white tip wagged uncertainly. Its ears hung nearly to the ground. A mix of basset and something else, maybe beagle. Squatting on its short hind legs, the pooch watched them with huge soulful brown eyes that reminded Sam uncomfortably of someone.

  “Who is this?” Sam asked Chris.

  Chris lifted a shoulder. “Some stray. Kyla was feeding him.”

  She studied the dog carefully. “It’s a her, not a him.” Yeesh, those eyes reminded her of Kyla. “Who’s feeding her now?”

  Another shrug. “Sometimes I do.”

  “Sometimes?”

  “When I’m home. But he ... she’s not my dog. Kyla was trying to find out where she belongs, but nobody’s claimed her. I’m surprised the neighbors haven’t called Animal Control.”

  Sam leaned over to pat the dog’s head, and the pooch licked her hand with a soft tongue. Those eyes were so sad. She wore no collar. The dog seemed sweet, surely she hadn’t been dumped.

  A man in a Whatcom County Sheriff uniform preceded a woman out the front door. She was carrying a cardboard box. She stopped, staring at Sam. “And who do we have here?”

  The dog rose to her feet, wagging her tail uncertainly at the newcomers.

  Sam stood up too. “Sam, er, Summer Westin, Officer ...”

  The woman was not in uniform. The box she carried hid the shield that was no doubt hanging from the leather strap around her neck.

  “Detective Greene.”

  Ah, the elusive, persistent detective from the Snohomish County Sheriff’s Department.

  Greene handed the box and a sheet of lined notebook paper to Chris. “Compare the list and sign here.” She pointed to a space on the page and then stood in front of him, her feet spread apart, hooking her thumbs in her back pants pockets, her right elbow crooked over the pistol on her belt. Greene couldn’t have been more than five foot four.

  She swiveled toward Sam. “I was told you were up in the mountains.” Greene pushed a strand of dark brown hair into the bun at the nape of her neck.

  “I’m on a two-day break. I have to be back up there tomorrow afternoon.”

  Detective Greene eyed her. “I want to talk to you.”

  Chris rifled through the box in his lap, then looked up at the detective. “My family photos? Really?”

  “You’ll get them back.”

  “My timesheets from the boat? My laptop?”

  Greene turned to wave goodbye to the departing Whatcom County deputy and waited patiently until Chris had signed the list. “Mr. Rawlins, we’re done here. For now.”

  Chris disappeared into the house. With a sigh, the dog flopped down onto the porch.

  The detective turned to Sam. “My car. Let’s chat.”

  After depositing the box in the back of her county car, Greene opened the side door. A computer took up most of the passenger space, and radio equipment and a locked compartment occupied part of the floor.

  “Uh.” Sam eyed the cramped quarters. “I think my car has more space. At least we can slide the seats back.”

  “Good idea.” Greene slammed the door shut. “Let’s do yours.” When they walked to the Civic, the detective held up a hand. “Hold on a sec.” Jerking open the door, she bent her head inside, opened the glove compartment, scanned the area beneath the seats, then pulled her
head back. “Okay.”

  When Sam was in the driver’s seat and she was in the passenger’s, Detective Greene put her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. “Sorry. Had to check.”

  “I understand,” Sam said. “I could be a dangerous criminal.”

  Greene opened her eyes—they were hazel, with enviable long dark lashes—and looked at Sam. “Seems unlikely, but you never know. So,” she said, leaning back again. “Ask me whatever you want to, and then I’ll ask you my questions.”

  Why are you wasting your time investigating me and Troy and Chris when the real killer is out there somewhere? What makes you think I wanted this job?

  Instead, Sam said, “Kyla and Kim were my friends.”

  “I know. And you would normally have been hiking with them, but on that day, you weren’t.”

  Arrow right to the heart.

  Sam frowned. “True. I feel terrible about that, like if I’d been there, I might have been able to change things.”

  “Really?” Greene peered intently at her again. “What would you have been able to change?”

  Was the woman waiting for Sam to reveal that she knew the killer and would have been able to stop him, or—? It was no wonder that Chase told her never to talk to law enforcement; she sucked at this. Every word that came out of her mouth sounded suspicious.

  “I know that I probably couldn’t have changed anything,” she admitted. “I feel guilty because I was having fun at a family reunion in Idaho with my boyfriend. Man friend. Oh, you know—” She waved a hand in exasperation.

  Greene rolled her shoulders as if they hurt, and then twisted her neck, stretching. “Awkward, isn’t it, how we still don’t have a term for any unmarried relationship over thirty?”

  “Yeah, it is. Lover sounds sort of sordid, and partner isn’t right, either, when we’re not even living together.” This conversation was going nowhere fast. “Do you know anything new?”

  “What counts as new?” Greene asked.

  Gad, the woman was cagey. “Why do you suspect Chris? He loved Kyla, and she loved him.”

  “Mostly looks that way,” the detective conceded. “I’ll bet you envied her. Good looking fiancé, good job, loving parents.”

  Sam weighed her words carefully. “I believed Kyla was happy, and Kim was, too. And so was I. The three of us always had a good time hiking together. And Kyla and I did line dancing together, too.”

  “You were happy even though you were unemployed?”

  Now that was annoying. “I’m not destitute, Detective.”

  “But Troy Johnson offered you triple the usual salary for taking Kyla’s place.”

  Sam had to admit that sounded bad. “That’s because I didn’t want to take the job, and he was desperate.”

  “So he says.” Detective Greene studied her for a minute more, then reached for the door handle. “Guess that’s it, for now.”

  “You didn’t tell me a single thing!” Sam protested.

  “You noticed.” Detective Greene slid out of the passenger seat, shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side. Leaning down to Sam’s level, she said, “I will tell you this. Your FBI guy, Perez, is a hunk. So you really have no excuse for lusting after Rawlins.”

  Greene waited a beat for a response. When none came, she said, “Have a nice day, Ms. Westin.”

  Sam’s mouth was still hanging open when the detective slid into her sedan. Then she jumped angrily out of her car and ran up to Greene’s vehicle. “Wait a minute!”

  The window slid down.

  “Did you get the word about Erik Heigler?”

  “I did,” the detective said. “We’re checking into him.”

  “And the Facebook messages?”

  The detective grimaced. “We already got the messages on Kyla’s phone, at least the ones that weren’t deleted. Harder to check an entire history and confirm ownership details, but we’ll get Facebook to cooperate. Eventually.” The window slid back up.

  Sam fumed for a few minutes before returning to her car. It was all so unsatisfying. And how the heck did Detective Greene know that Chase was attractive? Or was she simply fishing for information?

  That thought reminded Sam that she’d planned a fishing expedition of her own. She started the engine.

  On the porch, the dog stood up, watching. Her tail wagged, once.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She leaned over and opened the passenger door. “Come on!”

  The basset-beagle trotted over, floppy jowls and ears swinging. The dog paused for a minute in the doorway.

  “I said it was okay,” she told the pooch, and the dog awkwardly jumped onto the floor, scraping her belly on the door frame. “Stay down there.” She leaned across and closed the passenger door.

  The dog climbed onto the seat and checked the view out the window. When she turned her head, Sam could have sworn she was smiling.

  “Oh, whatever,” she said. “Just behave yourself.”

  With the dog riding shotgun, she drove to the address she’d found in the Whatcom County Assessor’s records, two blocks away from Kim and Troy’s home. While Kim and Troy’s neighborhood was modest but obviously maintained with pride, this block appeared worn. Older cars took up the lawn space in many of the patchy front yards, proving that the houses were most likely rentals occupied by university students from Western.

  Sam cracked a window for the dog, locked her car and then walked up the front steps of a small gray house. The welcome mat told her she was in the right place: The Callahan Clan.

  The woman who answered the door wore a headset with a tiny microphone poised in front of her lips. Into it, she said, “Your subscription should arrive within two weeks. Thank you, and have a nice day.” She crooked a finger and pulled down the microphone. “Yes?”

  Sam introduced herself. “Sorry for dropping in like this, but I wanted to know if there was some special snack Aidan particularly likes. I want to take treats back for my peer counselors as well as the crew kids.”

  “I’m working, but come on in.” The woman waved her into a small kitchen. On the table was an open laptop with a form on the screen. She pulled off her headset and tossed it on the tabletop. “I’ve had some crappy jobs in the past, but this one is the worst.”

  “I know what you mean,” Sam said.

  Mrs. Callahan tossed her a doubtful look. With light brown hair and freckles, there was no mistaking the family resemblance between the mother and her son.

  “I’ve done mostly contract work,” Sam told her. “Unpredictable, isn’t it?”

  “You can say that again. And no benefits.”

  Sam knew that song all too well, but she wasn’t here to commiserate about the job market. “I want to tell you that Aidan’s doing a wonderful job. He’s really helping me out.”

  His mother put her hands on her hips. “You know this is his third year with Wilderness Quest?”

  Sam nodded. “He’s an excellent peer counselor.”

  “We were sure he’d be promoted to field guide this summer, which would have meant more money and been a great plus for his resume, but noooo.” She stretched the negative out into three syllables. “Of course, Kim gave that job to Kyla.” She folded her arms across her chest. “We should have expected that. Keep it all in the family, right?”

  The woman sounded bitter. Did Aidan feel he’d been cheated out of a job when Kyla came on board? Had he resented Kim and Kyla?

  “And now, here you are,” Mrs. Callahan added, her blue eyes fiery.

  That sounded like a challenge. Was it possible that Aidan expected to get Kyla’s job if she was no longer around?

  Sam pressed her lips together, trying to keep her mental meanderings from showing on her face. “I don’t know anything about the way jobs are assigned. I’m sure Aidan would make a good field guide.”

  Motive, means, opportunity: the trinity necessary for proving guilt in any crime. Aidan and Kyla would have been between expeditions at the same time. So Aidan had opp
ortunity. Maybe he had a motive in wanting Kyla’s job. Did he have the means? “Does Aidan know anything about guns?”

  Mrs. Callahan stiffened. “What does that have to do with being a field guide? Why are you asking that?”

  Sam had never been fluent in chit-chat; she clearly needed to work on her segues. She dismissively flapped a hand. “It’s not really important. It’s just that we ran across a hunter up there, and Aidan was trying to identify the guy’s rifle,” she lied. “So I was curious.”

  The woman uncrossed her arms and fingered the headset on the table. “I guess that makes sense. We don’t own guns, but Aidan’s gone hunting a couple of times with friends. I don’t think he enjoyed it much. He’s an animal lover.”

  So Aidan had at least a passing familiarity with guns. A twinge of anxiety for Maya’s safety zipped through her head. Had Detective Greene thoroughly checked the background of all the WWQ staff? Could Aidan have a gun at the summer staff house?

  She struggled to re-focus on the task at hand. “I understand that you’ve known the Johnson family for a long time?”

  “Years. But I can’t say I really know them. The connection was Aidan. He mowed the neighbors’ lawns, and he knew everyone, but he especially liked the Johnsons. Kyla was a few years older, but he was infatuated with her when they were teenagers.”

  Sam had never heard Kyla mention Aidan, so that attraction had to be one-sided. “Do you think he still is infatuated?”

  “How can he be?” The woman’s expression went rigid again. “Kyla’s dead.”

  At least she could say it. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, Sam asked, “How’s Aidan taking it?”

  “He doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. But I haven’t seen him much since then.” Mrs. Callahan clucked her tongue. “Such a horrible thing to happen. Do they know anything yet?”

  “Not that I’m aware of, but the police don’t really talk to me. Mrs. Callahan—”

  “Judy.”

  “Judy, do you remember the Johnsons’ nephew who lived with them for a while when Kyla was a teenager?”

  Judy nodded. “I don’t remember his name, but I met him once on the street. He seemed like a nice boy. But he wasn’t with them for very long.”