Night of Shadows (10 page)

Mac took his foot off the rail. "Maybe
I've said way too much. Let's change the subject. Come on. I'll give you a tour
of the place."

"Thanks," Melinda said. "I'd
like that."

She walked over to retrieve her
drawing materials from the bale of hay. Mac followed, looking over her shoulder
at the sketch of Black Gold.

"Looks amazing," he said.
"I didn't know you were an artist."

"Oh, I draw a little and paint
some, too. But I'm not nearly as good as your mother was — "

Melinda stopped herself.

Mac just smiled. But Melinda
thought it looked forced. "Been doing some investigating, have you? Finding
out all the family secrets?"

"I just happened to see the
painting in your room — "  Again, Melinda stopped herself.

"You've been in my room?"

"Just to look at the painting.
I swear I wasn't — snooping."

"Of course not." Mac's
tone was cool.

He started walking, and Melinda hurried
to catch up with him. She took his arm to slow him down.

"Okay," Melinda said. "So
maybe I was snooping — a little. But don't tell me you wouldn't do the same
thing if you were me. Especially if it involved Preston. And you thought he was
in some kind of danger."

Mac stopped suddenly, and looked
down at her, frowning. "Is that why you were checking out my room? Because
you think I've put your sister in danger?"

"I think someone here
has," Melinda said firmly.

"Terrific. So what were you
doing? Going through my pants pockets? My wallet?"

"I would never do that! What
do you take me for? I told you, I was just curious about the painting. And I
saw the photograph of your parents. Gosh, they are — were — a handsome
couple."

"They were at that."

Mac took her arm and began leading
her in the direction of a hill overlooking the McClure home.

"So, do you think they passed
it on?" he asked.

"Passed what on?"

"Their good looks."

"Well, that's a matter of
opinion — and taste."

Mac chuckled. "Taste, eh? I
suppose yours runs to slick Southern gentlemen. Someone like Perry
whatchamacallit."

"Perry?" Melinda stumbled
slightly on a loose rock, and Mac tightened his grip on her arm to brace her. "I
can manage fine without your help, thank you. How did you know about Perry? Oh,
I remember. You got the name from that letter you mailed for me. I guess I'm
not the only one in this household who can be called a snoop."

This time, Mac laughed out loud. Then,
he took her hand and pulled her up to the crest of the hill. Melinda didn't
expect to see the serene meadow and the tiny, neatly groomed cemetery
surrounded by wrought iron fencing with spiked points. A small spring bubbled
on lower ground near several hand-carved tombstones.

Mac abandoned his teasing manner,
replacing it with one of reverence as he opened the gate and held it for
Melinda to pass through. He followed her inside. He pointed out one gravesite
nearest the bushes laden with red and yellow roses. Part of the spring water
had been diverted to provide permanent watering for the delightful oasis.

"This was my mother's favorite
place," Mac said quietly. "She's the one who planted the roses. It's
the only thing I have left of her. I think of her every time I see these
flowers, or hear a mockingbird — or smell fresh rain. She loved that
sentimental stuff, loved the outdoors. 'Must have been the Indian in her."

Next to his mother's headstone was
the grave of Michael John McClure, his father. And a third headstone carried
the name of Baby Patricia Ann McClure. The dates indicated the baby girl, who
lived only a few months, was the first offspring of the McClure family.

"Let's sit a minute," Mac
said in a hushed tone.

They selected a nearby boulder and
sat, in shoulder-to-shoulder intimacy, as though they had been
friends for a lifetime. Finally, Mac broke the silence.

"Preston and I grew up kind of
wild around here, even though Harriet tried her best. We needed a mother's
touch, I suppose. I can be ornery sometimes, Melinda. I know I've stepped on
your feelings at times and I'm sorry. I'd like to make up for it. I guess I'm learning
to like you — in spite of myself."

Melinda felt her heart swell as she
became acutely aware of his nearness. This couldn't be happening to her. Not
with him. Not now. She looked up, immediately feeling weak as his dark,
searching eyes gazed back. He began to lower his head toward her as his arm
slipped behind her waist.

"Mac!  Are you up here?"

Mac jumped up as though he had sat
on a burr. Preston's head popped above the hill as his chest heaved with the
exertion of the climb.

"There you are!" he
gasped, as he finally topped the hill. He stopped outside the cemetery gate and
surveyed them.

"What are you two up to?"
he asked curiously.

"Nothing!" Mac took a few
hasty steps away from Melinda, who still sat on the boulder.

Preston grinned. "Romantic
little spot, isn't it?"

"No, it is not," Mac
answered irritably. "I was just taking Melinda on a little tour of the
place."

"Yep," Preston said
amiably, looking around. "If I was going to take a pretty girl on a tour
of the place, this would be the first place I'd bring her."

"Will you kindly shut up,
Preston?" Mac snapped. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

"Well, while you've been
conducting your — tour — some of us have been busy working," Preston said.
"I've got those papers you wanted ready. They're back at the office. The
last I'd heard, you were in some big all-fired hurry for them. But maybe I was
mistaken."

"Good. That's fine," Mac
said, trying to sound in control. "That was the next place I was going to
show Melinda anyway."

Preston continued grinning as the
three of them made their way back down the hill. Inside the office, Preston
handed over the papers. Mac inspected them, grunting his approval.

"You did a good job on this,
Preston," Mac said.

Preston draped himself into a
nearby chair. "Well, you don't have to sound so surprised."

At that moment, Rod walked into the
office. "There you are, Mac. I wanted to tell you, I took a look at
Dancer's leg. She's healing nicely, and I think she's got a good chance of
making it in the trials. Preston, could you check on her, too? I need a second
opinion."

Preston's jaunty attitude seemed to
dissolve. He stayed seated in the chair, seemingly reluctant to move. Mac
looked up, eyeing Preston impatiently.

"Well, go on," Mac said. "You're
finished up here, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Preston mumbled. "All
finished up."

Mac frowned as the two of them
walked out the door. "I don't know what good all that fancy college did
him. You wouldn't know he was the veterinarian around here, the way he lets Rod
do all the work for him."

Sighing, Mac laid the papers down
on the desk. "Anyway, I promised you a tour. Just leave your pencils and
stuff here. We'll get them when we come back."

Mac now seemed distant, preoccupied,
and edgy as they walked around the grounds. When they returned to the office,
Melinda paused to examine the walls covered with photographs of horses and
jockeys in the winner's circle. Black Gold was displayed in different scenes
from his racing years. She also glanced at the racks of deer and elk antlers
displayed next to the photographs.

Mac followed her look. "The
hunting is good up here. That's about 20 years' worth of trophies."

Melinda wasn't much of a hunting
fan, so she said nothing. When she reached down to recover her drawing
materials from Mac's desk, she spotted the proof sheet and photographs that
clearly had been laid out for a full-page magazine advertising display in a
horse journal. Melinda picked up the ad.

"Who put all this
together?" she asked.

"I did," Mac said proudly.
"Like it?"

"Well," Melinda said. "I
do this sort of thing for a living, and…"

She bit off her next words, as she
looked over at him.

"What's wrong?" he
demanded.

"Well — everything."

"So now you're an expert on
horses?" he asked.

"I didn't say that. You're the
expert on horses. But I happen to know what I'm talking about in this field. I
have some very prestigious accounts. I give lots of advice on marketing. For
example, you have far too many words for the size of your ad."

"Well, why shouldn't I use a
lot of words? I'm paying enough for it!"

"White space sells an ad. Not
— all this clutter. It affects people psychologically."

"So now you're a psychiatrist,
too?"

Melinda slammed the ad layout on
the table and retrieved her drawing materials.

"Forget it!"

"No, no — tell me more."

His edgy tone should have been a
warning. But now, more than ever, she was determined to prove she was right. She
picked up the page and pointed to a photograph.

"See this?" she asked. "Who
took this picture?"

"I did," Mac answered
testily. "And I happen to think it's pretty darned good."

"Well, it's not," Melinda
answered crisply, as though she were back in her Atlanta office. "It was
taken with a low resolution digital camera. It's grainy. It's dark. I wouldn't
recommend this for a confession magazine. Maybe you shouldn't try doing
everything yourself. And maybe if you delegated a little responsibility, you
would have a little more time for yourself."

Mac dropped both hands on the desk
and leaned forward.

"This has been good enough for
the horse publications for years. So
maybe
we don't need your Madison
Avenue approach out here."

"So do it your own way,"
Melinda sniffed. "You obviously know everything."

With that, she began walking toward
the exit. Mac moved quickly around the desk to the door, and opened it for her.

"I'll walk you to the
house."

"Don't bother."

"I insist."

As they walked, a thick silence
hung over them until Melinda spotted several horses frolicking in the pasture. She
envied them their freedom. She herself had been feeling trapped. Stifled, in
fact.

And then she realized that having
access to a horse might give her more freedom of movement, more of a chance to
explore. Besides, she had an idea hatching in the back of her mind.

"I was wondering — Would it be
possible to ride one of your horses?"

"Absolutely not," he
answered. "No amateur rides these horses. Ever."

"I am not an amateur. And
surely on what is defined as a ranch there is a four-legged animal
somewhere that could be saddled up and ridden."

Melinda almost could have sworn she
heard a low growl coming from Mac's direction. But when she sneaked a sideways
look at him, his face was impassive.

"Okay. Fine," he answered.
"Ask Harriet's husband — Carl. That's my foreman. He can find you a horse.
But when you decide to go riding, check with me first. I'd like to know where
you're going."

"I'm a grown woman."

"Maybe. But I don't want you
disappearing on me, too."

When they reached the house, Mac
turned toward the barn and strode off without another word.

Fuming, Melinda went straight to her
room, sat on the bed, and absent-mindedly began to flip through the pages of
her drawing pad. What she saw took her mind immediately off any petty
disagreements she might have with Mac. Someone had written her a note, using
one of the charcoal pencils to form large block letters:

YOUR SISTER IS FINE. GO BACK TO
ATLANTA. ALL WILL BE EXPLAINED LATER.

Ruidoso's specialty shops, motels,
and restaurants stretched for several miles along both sides of a major highway
that brought a diversity of visitors to the mountain playland. It was an
isolated resort community, and tourists attracted here made the long drive
primarily from sprawling, arid west Texas cities such as El Paso or Lubbock.

In the winter, skiers sought out the
glistening white slopes of the landmark Sierra Blanca mountain peak. In the
summer, gamblers embraced the cool delight of the horse racing track or indulged
in a little casino action at the track or on the nearby Mescalero Apache Indian
Reservation.

From the backseat of Mac's spacious SUV,
Melinda stared in contemplation at both the town and the tall pines surrounding
it. Marking a drastic change in elevation, these majestic trees dwarfed the squatty
pinons and desert brush that populated the McClure ranch from where they had
departed early that morning.

It had been a quiet trip to their
destination. Mac was driving. At Melinda's insistence, Preston rode with him up
front. She preferred the greater privacy of the backseat, where she could be
alone with her thoughts. Then she looked up to notice Mac's searching, dark
eyes peering at her from the rearview mirror.

"You haven't said more than
three sentences all morning," he observed. "You mad about
something?"

She knew he was referring to their
argument over the ad layout, which in retrospect now seemed childish and
stupid. On her part as much as his.

"Not at all," Melinda said,
as she thoughtfully twirled a strand of her hair. "I was just admiring the
scenery. And thinking — about Connie and Debbie. What they might know."

Preston broke in. "You're
wasting your time trying to talk to those two. I told you they were the first
people I contacted after Joan went missing."

When Melinda said nothing in
response, Mac spoke up. "Leave her be, Preston. The girls might confide
something to Melinda they might not have wanted to tell you."

"I seriously doubt that."

Melinda was surprised at how surly
Preston sounded today. And she was equally surprised that he more than Mac seemed
most intent on convincing her that she could accomplish nothing here on Joan's
behalf.

She shot a sharp look at the back of
her brother-in-law's head. Had it been Preston who sneaked into Mac's office to
leave her the note telling her to go back home to Atlanta?

The words had not sounded ominous. But
they definitely had been written by someone who didn't want her around — and
who at least pretended to have some knowledge about Joan's current whereabouts.

So far, Melinda had chosen not to
mention the note until she could figure out who was responsible for it.

"Tell you what," Mac said.
"I have a lot of business to take care of before tomorrow's races. So we'll
have some lunch, then drop you off at our cabin. That will give you a chance to
rest and make your arrangements with Joan's friends. Preston will check back
later this afternoon and give you a ride, if you need to go anyplace. Maybe
you'd like to do some shopping while you're here."

"Thanks. I really would like
that."

Fifteen minutes later, Melinda found
herself inside the McClure version of a mountain cabin. While constructed of
the rustic wood she expected, theirs was an enormous, two-story dwelling that
was both immaculate and elegantly furnished.

The three of them had been met at
the door by a pleasant, middle-aged woman who, with her husband, lived
year-round in a small downstairs apartment. The woman's husband worked as an
accountant for one of the village resorts. In return for the free
accommodations, the couple served as caretakers for the place.

The woman guided Melinda to one of
the five upstairs guest bedrooms, where she immediately began to settle in. The
McClure brothers stayed only long enough to drop off their luggage. Then they left
to take care of last-minute preparations at the racetrack.

Melinda unpacked her clothes from
the travel bag Preston had loaned her, and vowed that it was time she visited
some stores to replenish personal items she sorely missed — makeup, for
instance.

But first, she had to take care of
more pressing business. Spying the telephone near her bed, she sat down and
opened up the directory where she spotted her sister's name. Joannie had rented
the apartment and paid the deposit on the utilities when she and her two
friends had moved here. After Joan married and moved in with Preston, her
roommates remained at the same location.

Melinda wrote down the address and
then dialed the number that was still listed under the name of Joan Bailey. She
immediately recognized Debbie's voice.

"Debbie? This is Melinda. Melinda
Bailey. Joan's sister?"

The silence on the other end of the
line seemed to last for an inappropriately long time. Finally, when Debbie did
speak again, her tone was guarded. After they exchanged a few pleasantries, Melinda
practically had to insist that Connie and Debbie make time in their busy
schedules to meet with her later that afternoon. After she hung up the phone, Melinda
was simmering. Those two self-centered girls hadn't changed. Not a bit.

Next, Melinda used her credit card to
make a long-distance call to Perry at the newspaper. He was working on
deadline, so had limited time. But he was solicitous and caring, even going so
far as to ask her if she would like him to fly out and join her. She was
tempted, but gently declined.

"I appreciate it, but there's
really nothing you could do here," Melinda said. "I'm even starting
to feel pretty useless myself."

Then she rang up Ruth in the research
department at her firm. Ruth, excited to hear from her, put Melinda on hold so
that she could leave the presence of the inquisitive eyes and ears of the main
office and speak confidentially on an extension in the file room.

"Paydirt, Melinda," Ruth
said in a low voice. "It took a while, but I was able to track some public
records related to the McClure Ranch. I found evidence that they were in
arrears on some outstanding loans. Did you know they even filed for bankruptcy
last year?"

"You can't be serious,"
Melinda said, shocked.

"Did your sister know anything
about this?"

"Apparently not. Or, at least,
she never said anything to me. Then does this mean they might have to sell the
ranch to get out of debt?"

"No, and that's the strange
part. In the last few weeks, they managed to pay off everything. From what I
can tell, they satisfied all their creditors and the bankruptcy proceedings
were dismissed."

"How odd. Do you have any idea
where they got the money?"

"Sorry. No."

Melinda was still pondering this
latest news, when Ruth changed the subject.

"By the way, where did you
come up with this Roy Finch name you gave me?"

"Oh. He's someone who owns a
ranch adjoining the McClure place. He seems to have some connection with
Preston. I've never met him — at least, not up close. But I don't think I like
the man."

"You have excellent
judgement."

Ruth then explained that her research
had uncovered some old newspaper files regarding a master sergeant named Roy
Finch, formerly attached with a U.S. special services force sent to Columbia on
some covert operation. He had been discharged from the service — dishonorably,
though nothing in the newspaper clips mentioned his specific sins. But his
recent activities back in the states helped provide some clues.

"You should see this guy's
police record," Ruth said. "Name a crime. Any crime."

"Uh — murder," Melinda
said.

"You got it. Bashed some guy's
head in a few years ago in Houston. Let's see. He plea-bargained. Got a
deferred sentence, no jail time. That's America for you." Ruth paused, as
though examining more notes. "Finch has spent a few months in prison,
though. He's been sent up on burglary charges, drug trafficking, fencing stolen
property. That sort of thing. Oh, and listen to this. He's even been charged
with operating an illegal gambling ring. 'Seems kind of minor, compared with
some of this stuff..."

Still holding the phone to her ear, Melinda
leaned back on the bed and propped herself on some pillows. She gazed up at the
roughly hewn, wooden vigas of the slant-roofed ceiling. She was feeling a little
alarmed at the mention, once again, of gambling problems. This topic was bringing
Joannie back into the picture in an uncomfortable way.

"Preston was in the special
forces," Melinda said. "I'm sure that's where he met up with Roy
Finch."

"You're probably right. But I
didn't find anything on Preston. Or Michael."

Melinda felt a silly surge of
relief at the news that Mac, at least, did not appear to have some sinister,
hidden past. She and Ruth discussed other information that had been uncovered,
but nothing else seemed relevant. Ruth was openly disappointed when Melinda
said she couldn't think of anything else she needed investigated.

"Thanks, kiddo. You're a
regular detective," Melinda said. "I appreciate everything."

"No problem. But there's one
more thing you should know." Ruth hesitated a moment. "Your boss. He's
been antsy about you being gone, and he's starting to make some unflattering
comments about your lack of loyalty. He's been depending a lot on Murchison the
slimeball. Too much, if you get my drift."

Office politics.

Melinda sighed as she hung up the
phone. It was why she always worked so hard, knowing that the sharks were always
circling the water and waiting for her to slow down or slip up. At the first
sign of weakness, her competitors would devour her. She knew if she stayed here
much longer, she could say goodbye to her job and possibly her entire career.

Melinda slowly sat up, feeling
suddenly unreasonably angry with her sister. Maybe Joannie was involved in
something shameful, and she was merely hiding out. Maybe Joan herself had
arranged to get the note to Melinda, reassuring her sister that everything
would be fine. Maybe Melinda really should step on a plane and go back to
Atlanta, just as the writer of the note had suggested.

And maybe Melinda was just guilty of
wishful thinking.

By the time Preston arrived back at
the cabin, Melinda was through torturing herself with second thoughts. She needed
a diversion and was more than ready to take some extra time for a little shopping.

Her brother-in-law fortunately
seemed in a better mood now, and cheerfully took her to the downtown area where
he guided the SUV into a rare parking spot on the busy main street.

Preston settled at a shaded table
and occupied himself with some coffee and a newspaper at an outdoor pavilion.
This gave Melinda a chance to look around in some of the shops.

She selected a few items of clothing
to add to her limited wardrobe, and couldn't resist the purchase of a
turquoise-lined watch to replace one she had lost in the flood. Then, she took
some extra time for a visit to the beauty salon, where a facial and
professional hairdo erased the last vestiges of her misadventure with the
flood.

By the time she rejoined Preston,
Melinda felt more like the chic career woman who had left Atlanta days ago. Her
confidence soared when she saw her brother-in-law's approving smile.

"You look fantastic,"
Preston said as he stood to greet her. "Wait til Mac sees you."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, come on. You know what
I'm talking about. I haven't seen my big brother act this goofy over a woman
since he tangled with that feisty Anna Carrasco in the ninth grade."

They began walking toward the car.

"Don't be ridiculous,"
Melinda answered. "I haven't noticed any — odd — sort of behavior from Mac
toward me. Except for an occasional spell of bad manners."

Preston just laughed. "Don't
let it bother you. That's just his last defense. If you ask me, I'd say he's
finally met his match."

Melinda dared say nothing else as
Preston held open the vehicle door for her and she slid in. Minutes later, they
pulled up to a large apartment complex not too far away from the McClure cabin.

"They live in number
thirty-three — right there near the patio," Preston said doubtfully. "I
still think this is a waste of time, but good luck anyway. I'll be back for you
in about an hour."

It was Connie, not Debbie, who
greeted Melinda at the door. Her large green eyes were made more brilliant by
her deep olive complexion.

"Hello, Melinda," she
said cheerfully.

Connie stepped aside in an unspoken
invitation for Melinda to enter. When she walked inside, Melinda immediately
saw Debbie lying outstretched on the sofa.

Connie laughed. "Don't pay any
attention to her. She had a big date last night, and hasn't been able to get
any sleep today."

Melinda took the chair opposite
Debbie and searched her memory. The last she had heard, before Joan's marriage,
the three had worked together as cocktail waitresses at one of the resort
hotels.