With a Vengeance (6 page)

“How much did Bud soak you for repairs this time?”

Feigning indignation, she jutted her jaw. “None of your business.”

Pete chuckled. “That much, huh? You need to start thinking about trading it in. Get something smaller. With better gas mileage.”

Trade in her Chevy? “I need my truck. I can’t haul a horse trailer with something
smaller
that gets
better gas mileage
.” She added air quotes.

“You don’t own a horse trailer.”

She sputtered. “I can borrow one as long as I keep my truck.”

“When was the last time you hauled your horse anywhere?”

“I took him on a trail ride over in Ohio this summer.”

“You didn’t haul him. One of your boarders at the farm did. When was the last time you hauled
anything
with your truck?”

She hated it when he was right. The truth of the matter was she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a trailer—horse or otherwise—hitched to the back of her Chevy.

“That’s what I thought.” Pete made no effort to disguise his grin. “Trade it in for a smaller car. Or even a little SUV. You’d make up the expense with the money you’d save on gas, not to mention the money you wouldn’t be paying to Bud Kramer.”

She fumed in silence.

“You can’t count on free rent from Rose forever, you know.”

If Pete kept pointing out the painfully obvious, she might be getting free rent from the county jail for assaulting a law enforcement officer.

He traced a circle on the tabletop with his finger. “Of course, you could always move in with me. I still have a spare room.”

She glared hard at him, hoping he might mistake the flush in her cheeks for anger. The slight upward tilt of one corner of his mouth told her he wasn’t fooled. She reached over and punched him playfully. “We said we were gonna take it slow. Living under the same roof, separate rooms or not, isn’t slow.” Climbing to her feet, she added, “And I’ll keep my truck, thank you very much. I may need to sleep in it once Logan comes home and reclaims his room.”

Pete stood as well, towering over her. He caught her hand, preventing her from backing away. Struggling to catch her breath, she let him intertwine his fingers with hers. Let him draw her closer. Felt the heat radiating from him. She lifted her gaze from the front of his shirt to his mouth. Remembered what it was like to be kissed by those lips.

She slipped her free arm around his waist, ignoring the gadgets on his duty belt digging into her, and raised onto her tiptoes.

“Chief, I—oh!” Nancy stuttered from the doorway. “Excuse me.”

Pulling free of Pete’s hand, Zoe stumbled backwards, almost falling over the chair she’d been sitting in.

“I’m so sorry.” Nancy flapped a sheet of paper at them. “I need your signature—I—can get it later.” She vanished down the hall still sputtering apologies.

“Damn it,” Pete muttered.

Zoe danced an awkward jig to keep from ending up on the floor. In the process she swung the chair between them. “I have to go anyhow. I need to run out to the farm before my shift. And then get a shower. And, well, I’ll talk to you later.”

She made it to the hall before he called to her, “Wait.”

Zoe stopped. Turned. “Pete—” A subtle change in his expression silenced her. No longer teasing. Or lustful. He looked…

Worried. “Be careful.”

She pictured Medic Two in the middle of the cuts last night, Barry Dickson’s dead body next to it, and shivered. “I will.” She started to turn away, but paused, meeting Pete’s gaze again. “You too.”

Six

The old Chevy jounced up the rutted farm lane. Only the seatbelt kept Zoe from being flung around inside the cab. On her left, the burned wreckage of the mid-nineteenth-century farmhouse had been bulldozed and buried, leaving only a patch of barren dirt as its footprint.

Zoe topped the hill and rolled down the other side toward the barn. She braked to a stop next to a familiar white pickup, slid down from the driver’s seat, and entered the large barn. Two dozen box stalls lined both sides of the structure, opening into a center riding arena. At the moment, only one horse stood tied outside its stall, its owner tightening the cinch.

“Going for a ride?” Zoe said.

Patsy Greene looked up. “Yeah. Care to join me?” Patsy was Zoe’s cousin, friend, and right-hand woman where managing the barn was concerned.

“I wish. I’m on duty tonight.”

“That’s too bad. Windstar’s getting fat. His owner never exercises him anymore.” Patsy’s expression turned somber. “I saw the news this morning. Horrible. For a minute, I was afraid it might have been you. How well did you know the guys who got shot?”

“Very.”

Patsy gave one last heave on the cinch strap and flopped the stirrup down from where it had been hooked over the saddle horn. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s like, doing what you do. And then to have someone shooting at you.” She shook her head.

Zoe considered making light of it.
Just doing our job. All in the line of duty
. But there wasn’t anything routine about coworkers being gunned down.

Patsy planted her fists on her hips. “If I were you, I’d call off sick tonight. Saddle up Windstar and let’s play hooky.”

Zoe gazed out the doors to the hills and woods beyond the pasture. She loved nothing more than a leisurely trail ride on a clear early autumn day. The flies wouldn’t be biting. It wasn’t too hot or too cold. And yet, tempting though the invitation might be, running away from her job wasn’t an option. “Tomorrow. The weather’s supposed to hold. You gonna be around?”

“Of course.”

“I get off at eight in the morning.”

“All right.” Patsy slipped the halter from the Arabian’s head and gathered the reins. “I’ll meet you here at nine. Pack a lunch.” She grabbed the saddle horn and swung onto the horse’s back.

The idea of a day aboard Windstar soothed Zoe’s frayed nerves. She knew better than anyone how unexpectedly life could take a turn—or be snuffed out. “You’re on.” A thought occurred to her. “Mind if I bring Allison along?”

“She’s back? Of course I don’t mind. She’s a great kid. And don’t worry about the barn chores. I’ll make sure everyone’s fed when I get back this evening.”

“Thanks.” At least this time of year there wasn’t a lot to do. The horses stayed out in the pasture around the clock, coming in only to be grained. “Have a good ride. And be careful.”

“You too. Git up, Jazzel.” Patsy spun the feisty Arabian toward the open doors at the rear of the barn and booted the mare into a lope, kicking up dust in their wake.

Zoe choked, turning away until the cloud settled.

Once the air cleared, she crossed the arena, intending to walk the perimeter, peering into stalls to check for loose boards or exposed nails. Anything that might result in a nosy horse getting injured. As she strolled stall to stall, Pete’s words of warning echoed in her head. The same words she’d tossed back at him. The same words she’d said to Patsy.

Be careful.
Two little words that felt like lead weighing on her heart. Any other day, she wouldn’t have given them a second thought. Be careful. Simply another phrase to be lumped with
see you later
. Or
have a good day
…

Except today, with Barry Dickson dead and Curtis Knox unconscious in a hospital bed, those words left her uneasy.

Be careful. Of what? More importantly, of whom?

Pete’s SUV crunched up the gravel driveway to a small craftsman-style bungalow, home to Hector and Lucy Livingston. Massive maples formed a canopy over the yard letting only dapples of sunshine through. A row of pines blocked the view from the road. A detached garage with its doors yawning open listed precariously to the right. Two vehicles, an older Dodge pickup, dents marring a flat blue paint job that hadn’t seen a coat of wax in years, and a silver Hyundai Accent with what looked like Mardi Gras beads hanging from the rearview mirror, sat in front. Pete wondered if the Livingstons feared the dilapidated structure might collapse on their vehicles or if they kept other things stored in there.

An ATV perhaps.

Pete parked at the top of the narrow driveway before it widened in front of the garage. If anyone wanted to leave in either the car or the truck, they would have to go through the yard to get around his Explorer.

He climbed out. There was no movement from the house. No subtle stirring of curtains or blinds. Other than a few bird chirps from the maples, all was still. Keeping alert, Pete edged around the blue pickup toward the open garage. He paused at the entrance. Thanks to the heavy shade, he didn’t have to wait long for his eyes to adjust to the dark interior.

The Hyundai might have squeezed into the teetering structure, but not the pickup. The place looked like part storage shed, part workshop. Sheets of plywood darkened by age occupied part of one bay along with a rickety picnic table stacked with an assortment of poorly kept hand tools. A canoe had been shoved against the back wall. A workbench sported reloading supplies on one end, an array of fishing tackle boxes on the other. Assorted duck and turkey decoys lay scattered about. A massive generator on wheels sat off to one side. But no ATV.

“Looking for something?”

Pete turned cautiously to find Livingston standing next to the pickup. Dressed in camo, the man blended into his wooded surroundings. The fact Pete hadn’t heard him approach was unnerving. “Hector. I need to speak to your daughter.”

Livingston leaned against the truck’s bed, appearing relaxed, although Pete suspected he could spring into action with the speed of a cat if he wanted. “What about?” Livingston asked.

Pete mirrored the man’s laidback posture, resting his arms on the other side of the Ram’s bed. “I have some questions about the shooting last night. I understand she broke up with a guy before she started dating Curtis Knox, and the guy didn’t take it very well.” Pete wasn’t about to reveal his interest in Lucy as a suspect.

Livingston grunted what Pete took as a confirmation. “Lucille’s in the house.” He tipped his head in that direction. “Go on in.” Without another word, he pushed away from the truck and ambled into the leaning garage.

Pete offered his thanks. He passed behind the pickup and almost whacked his shin on the hitch of a low flatbed trailer sticking out from beside the garage. With a quick sidestep to avoid an inevitable bruise, he headed down the fieldstone path to the back porch. The door swung open before he had a chance to knock.

A petite raven-haired bombshell greeted him with a scowl as dark as her hair. “What do you want?”

Her so-called fiancé had been shot less than twenty-four hours previous. Pete would have thought her initial reaction to seeing a cop on her doorstep might be to ask if a suspect had been caught. Unless she already knew the answer. “Lucy Livingston? I’m Chief Pete Adams, Vance Township Police.”

“Yeah?”

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” When she didn’t respond, he added, “About your ex-boyfriend.”

“Curtis isn’t my ex,” she said. “We’re engaged to be married.”

Pete feigned ignorance of anything to the contrary. “I realize that. I’m referring to the man you were seeing prior to Curtis.”

Her face softened. “Oh.” She moved clear of the door. “Come in.”

The kitchen he stepped into was far from modern, but neat and clean. An off-white refrigerator bore a few hand-scrawled memos attached by an odd assortment of promotional magnets. Steam rose from a pot on an avocado green range. A box of store-brand pasta and a jar of pasta sauce sat on a spotless Formica countertop. “Sorry if I’m interrupting your supper. I won’t take up much of your time.”

Lucy flipped a chrome dial on the stove. “What do you wanna know?”

Pete eased his notebook from his pocket. “A name would be a good place to start.”

Her dark eyes shifted. “A name?”

“Your ex-boyfriend’s name.”

“Why?”

Okay. They were going to play this game. “I’ve been told he was upset when you broke up with him to see Curtis. Is that true?”

She caught a lip between her teeth. “Yeah. He was upset.”

“Upset enough to want to get payback?”

The girl’s face transitioned through a series of expressions. “Payback? You mean like trying to hurt me?”

Was she really that dense? Pete suspected not. “Possibly. Or Curtis.”

Her eyes widened. “You think
he
was the one who tried to kill Curtis?”

Pete wasn’t buying her act. “And succeeded in killing Barry Dickson.”

“Yes, of course. Poor Barry.”

“What do you think? Would your ex be capable of such a thing?”

Gazing downward, she shook her head. “He might have been. But I’m afraid you’re looking in the wrong direction.”

“What makes you say that?”

Lucy lifted her face, her dark eyes unreadable. “Because he’s got about the best alibi possible. His name was Rick Brown, and he’s been dead for six months.”

Something about the name Rick Brown nagged Pete as he made his way back to his SUV. According to Lucy, her ex-boyfriend had indeed been upset when she’d dumped him, and after a night of drowning his sorrows, he’d run his motorcycle into a tree.

Pete didn’t remember such an accident, but that wasn’t why the name set off his inner alarm.

Hector Livingston stepped out from between the blue pickup and the silver Hyundai before Pete reached his Explorer. “Did you get what you needed from my daughter?”

More or less. “What can you tell me about Rick Brown?”

Hector looked at Pete, puzzled. “Brown? Why are you asking about him?”

“Your daughter used to date him?”

“Yeah.”

“And he died six months ago in a motorcycle crash?”

Hector nodded slowly. “About that, yeah. But it didn’t happen around here. Why are you investigating it?”

“I’m not. Not really. Where did it happen?”

“Out in Ohio, I think. Kid wasn’t from around here.”

“Oh? The name sounded familiar to me.”

“Brown?” Hector came close to grinning. “Can’t imagine why, being such a unique last name and all. Kinda like Adams.”

Pete chuckled. “You may be right.”

“If you aren’t investigating the kid, why are you asking about him after all this time?”

Since Hector seemed willing to chat, Pete decided to go with it. “Curtis’s shooting last night. Someone suggested Lucy’s ex-boyfriend was angry about the breakup and might be a potential suspect.” Pete shrugged. “But he’s dead, so I guess that clears him.”

Hector’s face grew dark, and he fixed Pete with a cold stare. “That girl of mine is quite a looker, don’t you think?”

Pete studied the man. Where was he going with this? “She’s a pretty girl. You should be proud.”

Hector snorted. “I’ll tell you a little trick I’ve learned. You know how you can tell when she’s lying?”

Pete’s mind stilled. “No. How?”

“Her lips move.”

Another time, Pete might have laughed. But he had a feeling Hector wasn’t trying to be funny.

“Yeah, Lucille used to date Rick Brown. And, yeah, Brown smashed his bike into an oak tree.” Hector shook his head. “But he’s not the one your source was talking about. That girl of mine goes through men the way most folks go through toilet paper. And they get about the same treatment.”

Pete wasn’t sure how to respond to that comment, so he asked, “Lucy dated someone between Rick Brown and Curtis Knox?”

“Yeah.” Hector made a sour face. “Some jackass. Calls himself Snake.”