Dark Paradise (53 page)

there's been a few, but see here in this area?
 
Looks to me more like

two people maybe scuffling around. Don't see these kind of tracks

anywhere else along the bank."

"Still don't mean nothing," Quinn said, tipping his hat back to scratch

through his wheat-colored hair. "Could have been two people milling

around, digging through their tackle boxes, for all we know. Besides,"

he said, standing and stretching out his bad knee, "looks to me like ol'

Miller had himself a heart attack and fell in. You see the way he was

clutching his chest?"

They walked around to the far side of the pool, where Bardwell and

Peters were struggling with Daggrepont's lifeless body. Rigor mortis had

yet to set in, and the lawyer's massive weight and rotund shape made

their task as much fun as moving a stranded whale.

"Jesus, Bardwell!" Quinn barked. "Don't be pulling on his arm that way!

Get your legs under him and push!"

Groaning with the effort, the deputies hauled the dead man onto the

bank.

"Man." Bardwell heaved a sigh and sat himself down half a foot from the

body. "My daddy always said the only good lawyer was a dead lawyer.

Guess he never had to move one."

"See here?" Quinn said, crouching down by Daggrepont. He pointed to the

right hand that was frozen in a death grip over the dead man's sternum,

clutching a wad of his brown madras plaid western shirt and the ends of

his bolo tie. "That's called a cadaveric spasm. Means he was hanging on

that way when he died. Had a bum ticker, you know, Miller did."

"Ain't no wonder," Peters commented. He had his face behind a 35mm

camera and was clicking off photos of the corpse. "You ever see that man

eat?
 
I've had feeder cattle couldn't pack it away the way Miller

could."

"He'd ate them too if he had a chance," Bardwell said as he pulled his

boots off and dumped the water out of them.

J.D. let their banter roll off him. He knelt beside the body, studying

every detail. A dark uneasiness had settled over him as he waited for

Quinn to arrive after calling from Daggrepont's car phone. Daggrepont

had been Lucy's lawyer. Marilee had it in her head that there was

something fishy about Lucy's death. His own take on that scenario had

been to let dead dogs lie. Bryce's pal had taken the blame, which was a

hell of a lot better than Del taking the blame. But now Daggrepont was

dead, and J.D.'s gut told him there was more to it than a bum ticker.

He glanced up at the wooded slopes beyond the valley.

Del knew those hills like the back of his hand.

"Look here," he said, pushing the half-formed questions from his mind.

He pointed to splotches of discoloration that marred the folds of

Daggrepont's fat neck.

"Looks to me like somebody had him by the throat."

"I can think of only twenty or thirty people woulda liked to choke

Miller," Bardwell said. "You think of more than that, Pete?"

"You countin' old ladies or just the men?"

Quinn frowned as he turned the lawyer's head to the side. "Rigor's just

starting to set in in the 'jaw," he mumbled. "He hasn't been in here

long."

He fingered the dead man's jowls, noting the way the discoloration

remained when he applied pressure, indicating bruising rather than any

strange kind of lividit. He hummed a little to himself, as if he were

trying to come up with a list of viable suspects when he was really just

wishing the whole damned mess away. Lucy MacAdam's lawyer was dead under

suspicious circumstances.

He'd have Marilee Jennings camped out on his doorstep, trying to sell

him her conspiracy theory. Blasted outsiders. Nothing could ever be

simple with them.

"Well," he said, rising and wiping his hands off on his pants, "we'll

ship him up to Bozeman and have them take a look."

"Slice 'em and dice 'em," Bardwell commented.

Quinn scowled at him. "Bardwell, shut up and get the body bag." He

turned back to J.D. "Guess I'll have to go break the news to Inez that

she's out a boss. He didn't have any family that I know of. Can you think

of anyone else ought to know right away?"

"Yeah," J.D. said on a sigh. He started for his horse with anticipation

and dread pushing against each other in his chest. "I'll tell her

myself."

He didn't like the idea of her being caught in the middle of this mess.

He liked her propensity for sticking her nose in where it didn't belong

even less. The prospect of seeing her again, despite any arguments he

would have made to the contrary, he liked a little too well.

Drew's trio played from seven till one in the lounge at the Moose.

Marilee joined them, alternating two songs for every two played by the

group. They offered the affluent crowd an eclectic mix of jazz, folk,

country, and crossover rock. She drew heavily on her soft and bluesy

repertoire, as always, her music reflecting her mood. She called on old

favorites from Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt, and newer tunes from

Rosanne Cash and Shawn Colvin, throwing in some of her own creations

when the mood struck her. When the band members knew the song, they

joined in and backed her up. It was one of those fine, rare instances

where musicians' styles and instincts meshed immediately, resulting in

magic.

The audience, who had come into the lounge to socialize with friends,

abandoned their conversations or toned them down to whispers as the

music captivated them.

The small dance floor was never empty. The applause was always

enthusiastic.

At the start of the first break, Marilee slid onto the piano bench

beside Drew. The other two members of the band waded out into the crowd

in search of drinks and friends.

The noise level of the conversations rose to compensate for the lack of

music.

"This is great," she murmured, giving Drew a soft smile. "Thanks for

inviting me."

"The pleasure is ours, luv. You've a rare talent." He picked up his

tonic and lime and took a slow sip, wincing a little as he reached to

set the glass aside.

"You okay?"

"Fine," he said absently, rolling his right shoulder back. "Strained a

muscle, that's all. Clumsy of me.

"You seem a bit subdued tonight," he said. His gaze was speculative

above freshly sun-kissed cheeks.

Marilee cringed. "God, do you think I'm depressing people?"

"Not at all," he said with a chuckle. "They're enraptured with you. It's

just there's something awfully sad in those lovely blue eyes. Anything I

can do to help?"

She shook her head, making a rueful comic face. "Got myself into

something I shouldn't have. Never fear. I'm a big girl; I can take it on

the chin with the best of them."

He frowned and reached up to tuck a rumpled strand of silver-blond hair

behind her ear. "What do you mean, something you shouldn't have gotten

into?
 
Does this have to do with Lucy?"

"No, why?
 
Do you know something I should know?"

He glanced away, across the sea of faces in the crowd, wishing he hadn't

said anything at all. "I know if there was trouble to he had, Lucy would

sniff it out, that's all."

"The kind of trouble that might have gotten her killed?"

"I didn't say that."

Marilee leaned into him and tugged sharply on the full sleeve of his

emerald silk shirt. "Dammit, Drew," she whispered harshly. "if you know

something, tell me. I don't think Lucy's death was an accident, but I

haven't been able to find a soul who gives a damn."

Scowling, he turned his attention to the sheet music stacked against the

piano's scrolled music desk, thumbing through the titles impatiently. "I

resent the implication, thank you very much. I know that Lucy was

involved with MacDonald Townsend in a way he wasn't entirely happy

about, that's all."

"Was she blackmailing him?"

"Perhaps," he said evasively. "Certainly he was footing part of the bill

for her lifestyle, but he couldn't have killed her."

"Couldn't he?"

He dropped his hands to the keyboard and stared at her.
 
"My God,

Marilee, the man's a judge!" he exclaimed under his breath. "Judges

don't go about shooting women."

"And plastic surgeons do?"

"It Was an accident. Sheffield had no reason to want Lucy dead."

"Which makes him a very convenient fall guy, don't you think?" Marilee

pressed on doggedly. "No motive, no murder indictment. He pleads guilty

to making a booboo with a high-powered rifle and gets a slap on the

hand. Ben Lucas is Sheffield's lawyer. Lucas and Townsend are old pals.

They all hang out together at Bryce's little hacienda. . . ."

Drew shook his head, exasperated. "You're grasping at straws."

Marilee spread her hands and shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. You think

Townsend is above reproach?
 
District court judges aren't supposed to

snort coke either, but I saw him nosing up to a line in Bryce's billiard

room. Makes me wonder what other nasty habits he has."

"I'd rather you didn't find out."

He turned back to the music. Marilee didn't think he was even looking at

the titles as he pretended to sort through them. He was merely using it

as an excuse not to meet her eyes. She sat there for a while, trying to

probe his brain like a psychic, trying to deduce by Holmesian logic what

secrets he knew. Her efforts met nothing but a stony expression and a

mind closed like a steel strongbox.

"What else do you know, Drew?" she asked at last.

"I can't shed any light on Lucy's death," he said, his voice low and

impatient. "I don't know that I would if I could. Sometimes it's best to

let sleeping dogs lie."

He wasn't the first to express that point of view; still, it made

Marilee furious. She was well aware Lucy hadn't been a model citizen in

life, but did that mean she didn't deserve justice in death?
 
Did her

flaws make her life any less valuable?
 
Did no one but Marilee remember

that she had possessed good qualities alongside the bad?

"Do these dogs have names?" she asked tightly.

He hissed a long sigh out through his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.

"Marilee."

"Fabulous music!"

Bryce's voice snapped the tension and took it to a different level.

Marilee swiveled around on the piano bench to face him, manufacturing a

polite smile. "Thanks."

He stood with a bottle of Pellegrino dangling from his bony hand, a

thousand-watt smile cutting across his tan face. Marilee wondered

uncharitably if the look was really just a grimace of pain with the

corners tucked up: his jeans looked tight enough to raise his blood

pressure into the danger zone. His arm was draped casually across the

shoulders of Samantha Rafferty.

The girl looked uncomfortable with the situation, her dark eyes darting

toward Drew and away, as if she were contemplating bolting from the

room. Disapproval rolled off Drew in waves. Marilee wondered if Samantha

had heard about Will's accident. The question was on the tip of her

tongue, but she bit it back. Hadn't she taken enough lumps for butting

into Rafferty business as it was?

"It's really too bad you didn't bring your guitar to the party the other

night," Bryce said, tilting his head and giving her a look of censure.

"Rob Gold from Columbia would have loved you. Now he's gone back to

L.A."

Marilee shrugged, her excitement at the prospect of meeting a record

exec tempered by the source of the information. "Some other time,