The extra-long shower not only washed away lake water and the smell of smoke, but gave Heather an opportunity to organize her thoughts. After blow drying her hair, she replaced the fluffy white robe she'd purchased in the hotel's gift shop with a football jersey and sleep shorts. The first thing she reconsidered was Steve's silence on the boat ride back to the marina. He rode in a seat near the bow with the full force of the wind pinning back his hair. He must have been so deep in thought he forgot to turn his hat around. It flew into the darkening waters and he hollered to not go back for it.
What did his seeing pink at the spot Charley Voss died mean? Perhaps Steve wasn't standing close enough to the site. Maybe it wasn't murder, but manslaughter. After all, Charley had an explosive temper. If so, who could be the suspect? Rance? Try as she might, she couldn't see him killing his father.
She kept pondering, allowing her imagination to run free. The only other person who should have been at the ranch when Charley died was Hector. She whispered the name aloud. Why not? All the Voss children said Charley had a mean streak in him, wider than the lake was long. Did Hector receive his wrath too? Heather stood looking at clothes hanging in the closet but not seeing them. Her theory of Hector being the killer didn't match the descriptions they'd received of a gentle soul with a happy-go-lucky disposition. She'd spent enough time as a cop and detective in Boston to see plenty of cruel husbands, and the occasional violent wife, who didn't live up to their peaceful reputations. After all, everyone has their breaking point. Did Charley find Hector's and then pay the price?
Her training as an attorney kicked in and she argued the case from the standpoint of the defense. She remembered Steve saying he called Sheriff Blake and asked about the alibis of all the suspects. According to Rance, he and Hector were making their bi-weekly rounds of working cattle on some more remote tracts of land in the county. For three days and two nights they'd slept under the stars on bedrolls, much like cowboys of old. Each gave the other an alibi. Unless they'd agreed to a conspiracy, or someone came forward that had seen them on or near the main property, no proof of opportunity existed.
One other thing bothered her. Why hadn't the forensic report shown traces of the murder weapon in the wound? Heather had to admit her imagination couldn't stretch far enough to come up with a single answer, so she reached for her phone.
"Where do you want to eat supper?" she asked.
Steve's answer came after a yawn. "I'm beat. I'll call room service tonight."
"Are you sure? I thought we might talk about the possibility of Hector killing Charley."
"He didn't kill Charley."
Heather plopped on the bed. "Are you positive? I know there's no evidence, but—"
"Listen to me. Hector did not kill Charley. Focus on who killed Hector."
It wasn't like Steve to border on being combative, and it didn't sit well with her. "I can see you'd not be fit company tonight."
"You're right. I need to think, eat and sleep, but not in that order."
"Fine. Eat, think and sleep all you want, you grumpy old man."
The phone had already clicked off before she finished saying fine, which was just as well. Her temper had a nasty habit of keeping her apologies coming at a steady pace.
With one theory dashed against the rocks, Heather focused on other aspects of the case. She corrected herself and said, "Cases. Two deaths. Two cases. I don't care what Steve says."
She found the menu to J's Restaurant and Bar on the hotel's website and called down her order to room service. She chose the grilled Scottish salmon, which came with braised crispy potatoes, grilled asparagus and a selection of breads she had every intention of eating to the last crumb. With that chore out of the way, she fluffed her pillows and sat with legs crossed in quasi yoga style and put her mind to work again. If Steve was so sure about Hector's innocence in Charley's death, she'd focus on two people who were anything but innocent. Patrick and the future Mrs. Mae Shaw.
She spoke the name again, followed by a giggle. "Does that poor man have any idea what grief awaits him?" She concluded they deserved each other.
Uncrossing her legs, she wiggled her toes and realized Mae and Patrick's alibi was like Rance and Hector's as it related to Charley's murder. Two people giving each other an alibi. Mae and Patrick told police they were in their rented condo at the time of Hector's murder and when the fires consumed the dwellings at the ranch. That didn't mean they didn't lie or pay someone to commit either crime, or both. In fact, they had the most to gain. No, that wasn't right. Mae didn't know who would get the land. Charley had seen to that by making her and Roy play a high stakes game of poker.
Heather separated Patrick from Mae in her mind and once again let her imagination take off with possibilities. Patrick knew about the land and that the only things standing between him having excellent chances of getting his hands on it was a wedding ring and an old rancher. He'd put off the wedding part of the plan until after Steve announced Mae the big winner. Patrick played fast and loose with truth. Hector DeLeon's murder and the burning of the homes at the ranch made sense if you twisted your mind enough to think like a man who wanted to score big and didn't mind how he achieved his goal.
Mae popped up next. She spent her life hating her father. Her looks were fading, and she had little to show for her life. Behind her lay shipwrecked marriages. Ahead was an uncertain future, trending toward wrinkles and sags that surgery couldn't solve, and loneliness that her personality all but ensured. It was easy to see how the land could be a way to a brighter future, and payment for years of physical and mental abuse. She'd said as much. She'd also counted Hector as something less than warranting full status as a fellow human being. Who would miss an old Mexican cowboy?
Heather shook her head. Being inside Mae's thoughts wasn't a pleasant experience. She needed to get back to the three basics of any investigation: motive, means and opportunity. She'd concentrate on those after she finished her meal. In the meantime, she switched on the television and spent an indeterminate amount of time searching in vain for something that interested her.
The knock on the door came as a welcome interruption. Room service wheeled in a cart, bringing with it a bouquet of pleasant aromas.
Eating at a table wasn’t an option. Boxes of files related to the gold mine, notes pertaining to the murder cases, electronic devices, and personal items covered all surfaces. Despite being a stickler for order, after the better part of a week in a hotel room, it didn't seem as large as when she arrived. Options were to clear the small desk or balance a plate on her lap in bed. Hunger won out. She took the cover off the plate and settled against several pillows.
The quality of the meal lived up to expectations, but the atmosphere brought the dining experience down to a lament over what could have been. She'd expected to be sitting with Steve at a table with muted lights and soft jazz playing in the background. She also wanted to get Steve's thoughts on him seeing pink. Instead of the new dress she'd picked up in the hotel gift shop, she dined wearing what she would sleep in. A disappointing evening all the way around.
Halfway through the meal, she reached for her glass of white wine. She hadn't consulted the wine list, but expected the hotel to provide a quality house wine. Instead, it must have been something that came in a box. The Lambrusco wasn't that bad, but she'd set her palate on something not so bright and sweet. A shiver coursed through her body, causing her to lose her grip on the glass. The potatoes softened the stemware's landing, but chilled wine filled her plate and cascaded onto her shorts, legs and bedding. The surprise of cold vino on her bare thighs caused her knees to jerk upward, tossing her plate upside down on her chest. Invectives followed.
After scraping the remnants of soggy fish, potatoes and asparagus off her t-shirt, she put the serving cart back in the hall and padded her way to her second shower of the night. Steaming water helped calm her jangled nerves, but she didn't look forward to a night of vapors rising from the food-stained side of the king bed.
Back in the bedroom, she took stock of the condition of her room and decided she was overdue in bringing order back into her life. First, she gathered all her clothes that needed washing and filled a plastic laundry bag. Next, she emptied her suitcase and placed all the remaining clean clothes into a dresser. Items related to the gold mine came next. On her way to fill the remaining drawers, the yellow legal pad she'd made notes on in Montana caught her eye. She noticed something she hadn't told her father. Perhaps one more item might be enough to persuade him to delay the purchase.
She found her phone under a pillow and placed the call. It rang five times before the clipped voice of her father answered.
"Father, I was going through my notes and remembered something else about the mine."
His voice still had that condescending ring to it. "I'll listen, but it doesn't matter now."
"Did you sign the contract despite my warning?"
"I told you time was of the essence." He paused. "What is it you wanted to tell me?"
"If you've already signed the contract, it doesn't matter now."
"Tell me, child."
Why was it that after thirty seconds with him she was a little girl, seeking her Father's approval and never quite measuring up?
"All right, I'll tell you." She gathered the top of the robe tight in her fist. "My copilot went to a bar and met a woman who works in the company payroll office. She told him the company president wanted payroll projections for a fifty percent cut in personnel for all workers at the mine."
After a long sigh, her father’s condescending tone and words returned. "Am I to understand you base business decisions on rumors picked up in a bar?"
The haughty attitude that drove her away from her father after she graduated from Princeton reignited a desire to flee. "I use every source available, and I've been quite successful because I look beyond traditional sources and don't take for granted what I hear from people who live in ivory towers."
"Business doesn't run on rumors, especially those picked up by untrustworthy sources in a bar somewhere in Montana."
Heather's frustration matched her anger. "Of course you're right, Father. You always are."
Heather took in a full breath and continued. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I’ll wire the funds for the airplane to you tomorrow and I’ll inform my staff they’re to send everything pertaining to McBlythe Enterprises back to your office in Boston."
His voice held its own edge. "I thought you had sown your wild oats after wasting ten years as a police officer. I should have known you haven't changed your bohemian ways."
The words stung.
"Father, I see no use in carrying on this conversation. Give my love to Mother." She paused. "I hope you and Webster enjoy a long and prosperous relationship. After all, he's the son you wanted instead of a daughter."
She pushed the disconnect icon on her phone before he could respond and tossed her phone on the bed. Then, she dressed in her workout clothes and went to the hotel's recreation facility, only to find it closed. Off she went into the night, hoping to sweat more than she cried. Running mile after mile brought a measure of release. She returned thoroughly winded and glowing from more exertion than she’d expended since running a half-marathon.
After the third shower of the night, she needed to talk to a friendly voice, someone she trusted. Grabbing her phone, she placed the call.
"Hello," came back the enthusiastic sound of a woman's voice.
"Uh... is Jack there?"
She giggled. "He's in the shower. Can I take a message?"
It was the straw that broke the proverbial back. Instead of a camel's, it was the oak rod of emotions that held Heather erect. She fell face first on the clean side of the bed and dampened the pillow with tears. The man she'd been dating longer than anyone else, the only man she'd ever seriously considered spending her life with, was back in Conroe, taking a shower while a woman with a perky voice answered the phone like she belonged there.
The flood of tears gave way to anger, an emotion which allowed self-pity and irresponsibility to join the party. She grabbed the house phone. "Send two bottles of champagne to my room... It doesn't matter what vintage. I'm after quantity, not quality."