Death on Heels (9 page)

Lacey fought to keep her eyes from rolling, while Cherise giggled.

“I’ll keep your father up-to-date on you every day while he’s in Taiwan,” Rose threatened.

“Thailand,” her husband corrected her evenly.

“Thailand sounds wonderful, Dad.” Lacey changed the subject. “Have a great time. If you get a chance, pick me up some silk. Any color, any pattern, the older the better. But not shattered silk. That means—”

“I’ll put it on my list,” Steven said, reaching for a small notebook to jot down her request. “Silk.”

Lacey seized the opportunity to run for her rental car. Her father put her suitcase in the trunk. Rose pushed a paper bag through the driver’s side window. “It’s a snack. Organic dried fruit and an organic power bar,” Rose said. “Keep your energy up. And hydrate!”

“Call me,” Cherise said. “Tell me everything! I want to hear about Cole!”

Lacey hit the gas.

Never say never
.

Her vow never to return to Sagebrush mocked her as she headed west across Denver toward the Front Range, under an unforgiving blue sky, in an unfamiliar little rental car. She missed her vintage green BMW, Vic’s Christmas present to her. And she had the switchbacks of Berthoud Pass to negotiate, cresting over eleven thousand feet above sea level at the Continental Divide.

The mountains in the East, pretty and green though they were, couldn’t hold a candle to the Rockies, that beautiful, treacherous, and heartbreaking mountain range at the backbone of North America, still hiding the skeletons of ancient prospectors, gold seekers, and outlaws. More than bones, the Rockies held stories, and secrets.

Colorado’s famous cannibal, Alferd Packer, killed and ate his companions during a disastrous prospecting expedition in the mountains in the winter of 1874. The beautiful and scandalous Baby Doe Tabor, who was married to a US senator at the Willard Hotel in Washington, D.C., later froze to death, penniless, at the Matchless Mine in Leadville, Colorado. And there was always Molly Brown, who everybody knew was unsinkable. Lacey told herself she was too.

Her luck was holding and the weather was bright and sunny, but she could feel the air temperature drop as the car climbed up the Front Range and over the Divide. The temperature was in the sixties when she left Denver. It must have been thirty degrees colder at Winter
Park, on the other side of the pass. She turned up the heat and kept her eyes on the road and the sky. March was the snowiest month along Colorado’s Front Range. Despite the brilliant sunshine, she dreaded this trip more with every mile, her stomach knotting tighter and tighter.

The highway was relatively clear of snow, which was a blessing. But dirty snow remained piled high along the side of the road. Back in Alexandria, Virginia, the trees were already beginning to bud, but Lacey tried not to dwell on that. The slopes of Winter Park were full of skiers, no doubt marveling at the
balmy
weather.

What am I doing here? Really?

She told herself there was only one thing she could do: what she always did. Talk to people. Ask questions. Write the story. It wasn’t going to be objective, of course. The article would have to be subjective, her own take on a story she’d played some small part in herself. As Mac said, that was what features were for.

First, Lacey needed to find out how Cole Tucker had gotten himself into such a stupid fix. But maybe, she admitted only to herself, she also wanted to make sure that any feelings she’d had long ago for that long, lean cowboy were long gone.

Vic said Sagebrush had changed, and he was right. It simply hadn’t changed enough to suit Lacey Smithsonian. The buildings downtown were still one- and two-story brick cubes lacking any attempt at ornamentation, save for the old movie theatre with its tiled entrance and oversized marquee, and the town was still shabby around the edges.

She’d spent an hour in Steamboat Springs along the way, grabbing a latte and having her bootheel repaired. Steamboat was full of chic skiers and rich hippies, a very different world from Sagebrush. While waiting, she had wandered through F. M. Light & Sons, the famous Western wear store. Lacey half expected to run into Vic’s ex at every turn, but Montana stayed out of sight, and Lacey’s boots came back to her polished and good as new.

When she pulled into Sagebrush at twilight and cruised down Sundance Way, the main drag through town, everything seemed to be closed. There were limited options for dining even on a Saturday night, but her choices on the Lord’s Day looked positively grim. There might be some cafés tucked into a corner here and there, places only the locals knew about, but Lacey didn’t know those corners anymore. She stopped at a pancake restaurant across from the Wal-Mart. It didn’t have to be very good and it wasn’t, but the eggs were warm and the decaf was hot. Lacey picked up the weekend copy of
The Sagebrush Daily Press
that she found lying on a
bench. The front-page story about Tucker told her nothing she didn’t already know.

For a real blast from the past, Lacey toyed with the idea of staying in one of the old down-at-the-heels motels at the edge of town. But the idea’s very thin amusement value (and thinner blankets) wasn’t worth the low price. A newer chain motel offered modern amenities and a connecting room for Vic when he returned from Wyoming.

Lacey made it an early night, but not before calling Tucker’s attorney. Her name was Karen Quilby and she sounded young and unusually helpful for a lawyer, especially considering that Lacey was calling her outside of business hours and she wasn’t related to Tucker.

“I can try to get you a visit a few minutes before court, but no guarantees,” Karen Quilby told Lacey. She sounded doubtful. “That is, of course, if Cole wants to see you.”

“He’ll want to see me.” This was sheer reporter’s bravado.
What if he doesn’t want to see me?

“Can you tell me anything that bears on this case, anything that might help with his defense?” Quilby asked.

“Nothing, other than I know he couldn’t have done it,” Lacey said. “I knew him pretty well.”

“Pretty well, huh? I heard you were involved with him. Romantically.”

“Years ago.”

“I’ll try to get you ten minutes, but I don’t want to piss off the judge,” Quilby said. It wasn’t exactly the usual protocol, but Sagebrush wasn’t a usual-protocol kind of place.

“Nobody wants to piss off a judge,” Lacey said. “Especially not me.”

On Monday morning the Colorado sun blasted through the cracks in the motel curtains, merciless as always. Again Lacey’s sleep had been elusive, as the blue circles under her eyes testified. Looking her best, one of her prime defenses against the unknown, would be tricky this morning.

Who am I dressing to impress?
she wondered.
Sagebrush?
The judge? The world?
The answer, as always, was herself.

She would be an object of curiosity no matter how she dressed. But clothing was a kind of armor for Lacey, a way of being—and projecting—her best self, so she chose her “new” vintage outfit, the moss green skirt and matching sweater, with the shot-through-velvet bolero jacket that shimmered green and gold. It was appropriate in the late 1930s, and it would darn well be appropriate now. She added her cupid pendant, Vic’s Valentine’s Day gift to her, stopping to appreciate both the imp and the impulse that made him give it to her.

Tights for warmth, her cowboy boots for bravado, and a large tote bag/purse with a shoulder strap for all the extras: sunscreen and Chapstick to protect her skin, lotion for her hands, makeup to hide the circles and her lack of sleep, hand sanitizer and towelettes, cell phone, notebook, wallet, and plenty of pens. The ensemble was a bit eccentric, she decided. Annie Oakley via Hollywood, but it would do. In D.C., Lacey would have worn heels or high-heeled boots. Not cowboy boots. But here?
What the heck
.
Ride ’em, cowgirl.
On her way out, she grabbed her leather jacket with the faux-fur lining. It was cold out there.

With more than an hour before her appointment to see Tucker, Lacey drove down Sundance Way. She parked her car and strolled past the courthouse and the newspaper office to Cassidy Avenue, where the three whole blocks of downtown Sagebrush resided.

It was nothing like Washington, where Lacey was used to the rhythm of the big city, the hum and the heartbeat. She even enjoyed the lunchtime crowds in D.C. She missed the great green grassy Mall and the endless marble monuments of long-gone war heroes. What Sagebrush did have in abundance: taxidermy shops. Dozens of them, all proudly displaying their stuffed and mounted elk, bears, mountain lions, deer, and pronghorns, all in dramatic poses. Even,
yes
, the damn, annoying, fictional, jumbled-together-out-of-spare-body-parts jackalope. Big-game taxidermy seemed to be a growth industry
here in the Elk Hunting Capital of Northwest Colorado. But despite the cars and pickups parked along the streets, Sagebrush felt nearly abandoned.

Where are the people? In D.C., there would be crowds.

The town looked slightly better than she remembered. The trees downtown had grown tall and leafy since Lacey was a green reporter, and almost an entire city block of tumbling-down old buildings had been bulldozed and turned into a small park. A change in the town’s leadership and a huge influx of money from energy companies, coal and natural gas, had apparently brought with it swimming pools, parks, a community college, and a new hospital. Improvements had been made, Lacey was willing to admit, but Sagebrush was still scruffy to its bones.

It was also plain to see that this energy boomtown was no longer booming. Bust times were back. The only people who seemed to be out on the streets were a few of her kind—reporters who had crossed the Continental Divide or driven up from Grand Junction to write about that local rancher Cole Tucker, notorious alleged murderer of three attractive young women. A broadcast news crew with a camera truck was setting up outside the courthouse for news updates. The judge, according to Karen Quilby, had banned cameras in the courtroom. “This ain’t no reality show and we don’t play to your big-city cameras,” he had declared.

Lacey felt out of place.
The
Daily Press
staff must have turned over at least twice, except for its notorious editor and publisher, Dodd Muldoon, and a few ancient holdovers. But then, Muldoon never could keep staff, unless they were related to him, or paroled to the newspaper from the state penitentiary. She paused at the thought of Muldoon as a suspect in Rae Fowler’s murder. The man paid starvation wages and offered no benefits. The reporters used to joke that he was a sociopath, albeit a cheerful one.
But a killer?
She let the thought settle heavily on her shoulders.

The old café where Lacey used to buy her morning coffee had been razed to the ground.
So much for old times.
Ruby, the ancient, toothless, tubercular waitress
who hated reporters, was gone as well.
Good times? Not really
. Ruby had perfected the art of flinging coffee cups across the table just
so
, spilling coffee all over the saucer and the table and leaving only a spoonful or so of java for the customer.

It was odd Lacey even remembered Ruby, or found it unsettling that the ancient germ shack was erased from the landscape. Missing that awful place was something she’d never expected to do.

Lacey spied a new coffee shop that had taken refuge in an old brick building. She strolled in past the H
UNTERS
W
ELCOME
sign, left over from last fall’s big-game season. The waitress was young and healthy-looking. Not remotely tubercular. Maybe she wouldn’t hurtle the coffee at Lacey either. She wore a name tag that said “Jett.” The woman had long red hair and freckles, a nice smile and not a trace of makeup. Her outfit was likewise casual, a navy sweatshirt over jeans.

Stop it, Lacey. You’re not here to write about makeovers
.

The shop was warm and featured a large glass bakery cabinet with muffins and sweet rolls. Mismatched wooden chairs and tables added to the cozy décor, as did a couple of women who gossiped in the corner. They stopped for a moment to check out the stranger in their midst. Lacey bought coffee and sat down at a table with a view of the street. She still had time before her meeting with Tucker. Her cell phone rang and brought a smile to her face.

“Hey, sweetheart, everything okay?” he asked.

Lacey exhaled. She hadn’t realized how much she longed to hear Vic’s voice, even if it was a poor substitute for him in the flesh.

“Why wouldn’t it be? Here I am in gorgeous downtown Sagebrush, Colorado, last outpost of semi-civilization. The sun is shining and it’s twenty-eight degrees. In March.”

“That’s the spirit. Beautiful day in the neighborhood. Bracing.”

“Want to meet for coffee?”

“Love to, but I can’t, even though you’re a far sight
prettier than Brad,” Vic said. “I’m at his office. Going over a few things. I’ll see you at court.”

“Wait a minute, what did you find out in Wyoming? The missing girl. Any word?”

“Tucker’s cleared on this one. The girl showed up this morning about three a.m. Ran off with her boyfriend, but wouldn’t you know, they broke up instead. She’s in serious trouble with her parents.”

“Finally some good news. The kid’s in the doghouse, but not the morgue,” Lacey said, more relieved than she had imagined. “By the way, I miss you. You’re not going to pull another disappearing act, are you?”

“Me? Don’t be silly.” Vic chuckled. “Can’t wait to see you. Where are you?”

“Having coffee at a new place. Then I’m going to see Tucker.”

There was a brief moment of silence, heavy with disapproval. Vic’s voice dropped a notch. “Lacey, I don’t like it. And by the way, how’d you swing that one?”

“I asked nicely. His attorney might be a little new at this,” Lacey said. “Don’t worry. Tucker’ll be cuffed or restrained, or something. And we’re old friends, or we were last I checked. What’s wrong with that?”

She could hear him sigh deeply. “You think he’s going to talk to you? Give you an exclusive?”