Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

O N HIS WAY out to talk to Jay Erickson, the sheriff swung by Ralph Jones’s place since the two ranch properties adjoined. Stuart needed to ask Ralph why he’d followed Bailey on the road to Billings—not once, but twice. He also wanted to talk to Ralph’s wife, Norma, about her award-winning peanut butter fudge.

When he drove up, he saw Ralph standing in the doorway of a large old shed across from the main house. The rancher was in sunlight, but quickly stepped back as if trying to hide in the shadows behind him.

The sheriff parked, got out and walked toward the shed. He couldn’t see the rancher but knew he was still there. “Ralph?” he called as he approached the doorway, suddenly on alert. From inside, he heard what sounded like a wrench hit the wood floor, following by a rustling of movement.

Cautiously, he stepped to the doorway and waited for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness. A dark figure moved from the back of the shed, stepping in a shaft of light from a crack in the wall. “Back here.”

Like the men not crossed off Bailey’s list, Ralph Jones was a large, solid man. Twelve years ago, he would have been forty-three, a man in his prime. He’d been invited to the barbecue, but had he gone? Maybe not, and that was why Bailey had crossed him off her list.

Jones held what appeared to be a heavy-looking piece of machinery, the rancher’s arms bulging with the weight of it. He watched Jones carry it over to the workbench, put it down, then wipe his hands on the coveralls he wore. “What brings you out here, Sheriff?” he said as if realizing this was an official visit.

Stuart reminded himself that Ralph was the one who had found Willow’s body. “I need to ask why you followed Bailey out of town on the road to Billings.” Even from a distance, he saw the man start before picking up a hammer. He seemed to weigh it in his hand for a moment before putting it back on a hook on the wall behind the workbench.

With a sigh, he moved, empty-handed, toward Stuart. “I was worried about her.” The sheriff raised a brow but said nothing before Jones rushed on. “After finding Willow Branson in the river like that...” His voice broke. “They just look so much like each other. I got to thinking. What if the killer came after her next?”

“So you followed her. Had you planned to follow her all the way to Billings or stop her somewhere along the way?”

“That’s just it,” the rancher said, sounding flustered. “I didn’t have a plan. It was just impulsive. I saw her leaving town, alone, and I... It sounds bad, but it’s the truth.”

“It doesn’t sound impulsive since you followed her twice.”

Behind Stuart, a screen door slammed, and a woman’s voice called, “Ralph?”

“I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between the two of us,” the rancher said quickly, clearly nervous as the sound of footfalls on the hard-packed earth grew closer. “Norma’s worried about me. I haven’t been the same since...since I found that girl in the river.”

He would imagine it had been a shock, especially when Ralph had thought the body was Bailey’s. Stuart realized now why Ralph had mentioned that to him. Because everyone in the Powder River Basin probably knew about the two of them—at least, what they thought was going on when they saw Bailey’s rig parked outside Stuart’s house at all hours.

“Sheriff?” Norma Jones said directly behind him. Turning, he smiled, tipping his Stetson to her.

“Good to see you, Norma,” he said, still surprised that he hadn’t realized people knew about him and Bailey. “I wanted to see if you had any of your peanut butter fudge.”

A small, demure woman, she put on a scolding expression. “Now, Stuart, you know darned well that I only make that for the county fair and at Christmas.” She had for years. Hers always took the blue ribbon, angering a lot of the other wives. Her recipe was a secret and her fudge her pride and joy.

“I missed buying any at the fair this year. I thought you might still have some,” the sheriff said. There was no way she’d remember who all bought it from her stand on the last day of the fair. “Was it wrapped in silver foiled paper as usual?”

“You know it was,” she said, chuckling. “It’s my trademark.” She dropped her voice conspiratorially. “Martha Warren’s taken to wrapping hers like mine. But don’t be fooled. It’s not anywhere near as good as mine,” she finished proudly.

He laughed. “I don’t doubt it.” He suddenly had a craving for peanut butter fudge. It had been one of his favorites as a boy. His father used to buy him a piece even though his mother said it would rot his teeth and would hide it from him if he tried to save some of it for later.

“You didn’t drive all the way out here for fudge, I hope,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

“No,” he said. “I wanted to talk to Ralph, make sure there weren’t any more problems with your neighbor.”

“That darned Jay Erickson,” she said, shaking her head. “That man’s like a mean dog that can’t wait to get off his chain and bite someone.”

“He hasn’t been around lately,” the rancher said from deep in the shed. “If he bothers us again, I’ll handle it.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Stuart said almost in unison with Norma. They smiled at each other. “Call me, Ralph, if there’s a problem. Let me handle it.”

The rancher nodded from the shadows, knowing that Jay Erickson wasn’t the only thing Stuart was talking about. “You got it, Sheriff.”

B ACK IN TOWN , Bailey parked in front of the Belle Creek Hotel. The yellow-and-white wood structure was a historic landmark with a wide front porch and peaked roof. Inside was an old-fashioned lobby complete with leather chairs and a fireplace. A wide wooden staircase rose to the second floor, this side of the ancient elevator.

The hotel dining room wasn’t used except for weddings, holidays and other local events. The lounge though with its long mahogany bar and mirror on the back of the bar highlighting all the different bottle of alcohol was a popular place.

Bailey headed toward the back of the hotel, knowing that the housekeepers were probably still at work. She could hear the murmur of voices over the rhythmic hum of the washing machines in the hotel laundry. An older woman named Sylvia Day was busy pulling towels from a large clothes dryer as her younger companion, Nicky Browning, folded them onto their carts for the next day.

They both turned, looking surprised but not concerned as Bailey stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “I’m trying to find out who killed Willow,” she said. Neither woman questioned why the daughter of a wealthy local rancher would be looking into the murder. “I was hoping you could help me.” When they said nothing, she continued, “Do you know if she had a date the night she was killed?”

Sylvia finished dragging out the last of the towels and closed the dryer door. “What makes you think we’d know anything?”

“You’re women. You notice things men do,” Bailey said simply. “Has anyone questioned you about Willow?” They both shook their heads. Just as she’d thought. They didn’t work in the same area, weren’t the same pay grade. But Powder Crossing was a small town, and there wasn’t a lot to do but speculate on other people and what they were up to. It was why she’d been able to get information so easily about everyone but the man she was looking for. People out here in the middle of nowhere made butting into other people’s business an Olympic sport. Every house had binoculars and usually at least one nosy occupant.

“She always wore this one perfume when she had a date after work,” Nicky said as she kept folding towels. “She had this look,” she said with a shrug. “Kinda smug.”

“Like it was an important date?” Bailey asked, and got a nod from Nicky. “Like the look of a woman in love?” Another shrug. “Any idea who he was?” There was a general shaking of heads. “Did some of her dates pick her up at the hotel?”

“Not this one,” Sylvia said, lips pursing. “She kept looking at her watch like she was going to be late meeting him. No idea where. But I got the impression he was older.”

“A rancher?” she asked feeling her pulse throb under her skin.

“Probably,” the old woman said, disapproving. “The men who flirted with her were all too old for her.”

“Like who?” Bailey asked.

Sylvia shook her head. “She never mentioned any names, and I never saw her go out of the hotel with anyone. I got the feeling she’d been hurt before she came here and was taking it slow. If she was seeing someone special, she liked her privacy, something hard to come by in this town.”

How had she kept her “dates” a secret? “She ever mention going to Miles City or Billings on one of these dates?”

The younger housekeeper ducked her head for a moment. Bailey kept her gaze on her. “Nicky?” she asked. “If you know something—”

“I know she went to Billings with him,” the woman said.

“Do you know where they might have stayed? Maybe the Northern?” A lot of ranchers stayed there because it was downtown and close to the airport.

Nicky shook her head. “They couldn’t stay there. That’s apparently where he always stayed with his wife. Heard her telling someone on the phone. Wasn’t happy about that.”

T HE SHERIFF SLOWED to turn in to the Erickson place. He’d been to the ranch last year when Jay and neighboring rancher Ralph Jones had gotten into a verbal argument that ended in a fistfight. Jay had gotten his wrist broken, and Jones lost a tooth.

The fight had to do with coalbed methane drilling. The Powder River Basin was the single largest source of coal mined in the US and contained one of the largest deposits of coal in the world. It had always been a matter of time before crews showed up to drill for coalbed methane.

Jay Erickson had a well drilled on his property and had been threatening to have one dug near Ralph’s.

Coming up the road to the ranch house, he saw Jay Erickson leaning against his pickup as if he’d been on his way somewhere before he’d spotted the patrol SUV coming up the lane.

“Jay,” Stuart said as he climbed out of his rig. “You headed somewhere?” Erickson wasn’t dressed for town. He looked as if he’d just stepped out of his blacksmith shop. He was a big man who owned a small ranch by eastern Montana standards. He’d always supplemented his income by working as a blacksmith.

Wearing a wifebeater T-shirt, he was muscled at forty-five. His biceps bulged. He’d always been strong and still was. He’d also always had an anger problem as far back as Stuart could remember. What the sheriff found most interesting was that Jay had made regular-sized branding irons for several people in the area. He definitely could make a small one.

Without answering the sheriff’s question, Erickson said, “That bastard call you again?”

“Which bastard would that be?” Stuart asked.

“Jones.”

Ralph Jones, his neighbor, Stuart assumed. “You two get into it again?”

The rancher-blacksmith shook his head and looked back down the road as if expecting someone else to drive up.

“I need to know where you were the past few nights—and mornings,” the sheriff said.

“Why?”

“Someone was murdered.”

“And you think I did it?” He laughed and looked away. “Jones put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Because he threatened to call the law on me.”

Stuart sighed. “I hate to even ask.”

Erickson shook his head. “Why else are you out here?”

“I told you. I’m investigating a murder.”

“Well, I didn’t kill no one.” He started to get into his pickup.

“Don’t you want to know who died?”

The rancher grunted and turned back to him.

“Willow Branson,” Stuart said.

“Who?” Something flashed in Erickson’s eyes before he looked away.

“The young woman who worked at the hotel in town. She sometimes filled in at the hotel bar.” Stuart knew that Erickson more than likely drank at the Wild Horse Bar rather than the hotel. Maybe he didn’t “know” Willow, but he would have seen her around. He definitely knew who she was.

Also, Jay was at Holden McKenna’s barbecue twelve years ago shortly before he’d married his long-time girlfriend, Angie Durham, and inherited the Erickson ranch.

At a dripping sound, Stuart realized the noise appeared to be coming from pickup bed. He stepped closer. The truck bed had been recently washed out and was still wet.

With a shudder, he realized that the rancher might be not only the killer, but the man who’d assaulted Bailey. He felt heat rush to his chest and cramp his stomach. When he spoke, his voice sounded stilted, each breath a struggle.

“There a reason you washed out your pickup bed?” When Erickson hesitated, the sheriff said, “I’m going to need you to come into town and make a statement under oath about where you were the night Willow was abducted and the morning she was dumped in the river.”

Erickson swore and took a threatening step toward him. There was that instant when Stuart welcomed it. His hand went to the gun strapped at his hip. “Don’t make me do something you’re going to regret.”

As the front door of the house swung open with a bang, Erickson stopped coming at him and raised both palms. A woman as wide as she was tall yelled, “Somethin’ wrong, Sheriff?”

“Just need a moment with your husband, Angie.” His pulse hammered so loudly in his ears, he could barely hear. He stared at Jay Erickson, trying to picture him twelve years younger, dressed up at the McKenna barbecue, then later in that old cabin, stripped down. He’d have the scars to prove it—including where Bailey had gotten him with the small branding iron.

Angie came out to the edge of the porch. “Don’t say nothin’ to him, Jay. You got a warrant?”

“It isn’t that kind of visit,” Stuart said.

Her gaze went to her husband and back to the sheriff. “It sure looks like that kind of visit,” she said, crossing her arms on her ample chest.

Stuart looked at the rancher. He seemed more afraid of her than even the armed lawman.

“What did he want to know?” Angie demanded. When her husband didn’t answer, she picked up an old iron rake leaning against the porch and descended the steps.

Stuart tried to keep both Jay and Angie in his sights as she lumbered toward them. He could see how this could go south real fast. “I asked Jay where he was the night Willow was taken and the morning her body turned up in the river.”

“Where do you think he was?” she snapped. “Home with me.”

“You’ll swear to that under oath?” Stuart asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “You betcha. But what’s it to you?”

“She was murdered.”

Her brows shot up as she stepped closer. “You think my husband had somethin’ to do with it?”

The sheriff hoped like hell that this didn’t escalate. He dropped his hand to the butt of his gun, afraid drawing it and trying to take Jay in right now would only make things worse. Clearly neither Jay nor his wife had any respect for the star he was wearing or the gun on his hip.

He studied the two of them, reminding himself that this was another reason why he’d typed up his resignation with the best intentions. He’d learned quickly why domestic disputes were so ugly and dangerous for law enforcement.

“I think you better get off our property,” Erickson blustered.

“Jay, I need you to come in to my office. You’re welcome to bring your lawyer.”

“And if he don’t?” Angie demanded, brandishing the rake.

“Right now, he’s only wanted for questioning. I’d hate to have to come back out here and escort him in handcuffs.” He looked at Jay. “Don’t make me come after you.”

With that, Stuart tipped his hat and walked past Jay’s pickup toward his patrol car. All the time, his ears were tuned in to movement behind him as if there were two rabid dogs foaming at the mouth who could be nipping at his heels at any moment.

He told himself that if Jay Erickson was guilty of the murder, then he’d tried to wash away any evidence.

But the pickup was an older model, and Stuart was betting that if Willow Branson had been in the bed of that truck, the crime team techs would find evidence of it—even if the bed was dry by the time Jay Erickson reached town.

Had he found the killer? The man who had assaulted Bailey? If so, it should be easy to prove given the marks Bailey said she left on him. As he climbed behind the wheel, his hands were shaking. Was it possible this would be over so quickly?

He started the patrol SUV, thinking about what Bailey had said about the man who attacked her. Someone would have had to help him cover it up. Pulling away, he glanced back to see the Ericksons, grim-faced, standing together, watching him go.