Bitter Roots Read online

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “Riley must have told me, but I don’t remember. Connor was into drugs and drinking, stuff Riley hadn’t been interested in before. Soon she was going to classes stoned and staying out all night with Connor. My parents saw what was happening. We were all worried about her. But when Mom and Dad tried to set some strict rules, Riley moved out.”

  “Did she stay in college?”

  “No. Her boyfriend wanted her to work, so she got a job waitressing at a real dive. I pretty much lost track of her then.” Emily paused, then added softly, “I should have made more of an effort. She was a good person, she really was.”

  “Did you and your parents know she was still using your home as her permanent address?”

  “I’m not surprised. We still get mail addressed to her sometimes. Mostly junk from the college. My mom has kept it all somewhere.”

  Zak made a note to follow up. “Do you remember the name of the bar where she worked?”

  “Yeah, Jack’s Cellar. I drive past it every now and then and it always makes me think of Riley. I can’t believe she’s dead...”

  Minutes after the call with Emily ended, Zak was still taking notes. They needed to reach out to the sheriff’s office in San Francisco. Get them to make inquiries at the bar and with the Blakes. This Connor fellow seemed like a promising lead, but without a surname locating him could be tough.

  A ping from his computer alerted him to an email from Deputy Black, subject line: Crime Scene Photos.

  The reality of what had happened truly sank in when he opened the attached images of the victim and the crime scene earlier that morning. Studying them grimly, Zak had flashbacks from his own past. Usually his dad landed his punches where people outside the family wouldn’t see them. But one time he’d given Mom a hell of a bruise on the side of her face.

  Zak, himself, had rarely been the victim. At a young age he’d mastered the talent of slinking out of a room, or being quiet and unobtrusive when no exit was possible.

  What he was looking at here though, exceeded by far anything that had happened in the Waller household. The left side of Riley’s face was so swollen and discolored she looked nothing like the photo in the driver’s license.

  Whoever had done this had been enraged. But what could Riley have done to engender such feelings? She’d been in Lost Trail for barely a month. Surely that wasn’t long enough to make this sort of an enemy?

  Around noon Butterfield came in with bagged evidence from the scene. His chest was puffed up with self-importance as he dropped the sealed plastic bags containing bits of trash, the victim’s phone and wallet, and an empty beer can onto Zak’s desk.

  “Label these will ya? And get them off to the lab ASAP.”

  Technically this was Butterfield’s job but there was nothing the paunchy lawman enjoyed more than barking orders to those he considered beneath him. And in this office that meant Zak.

  Zak honestly didn’t mind though. It amused him when people assumed his job as dispatcher was boring. While the sheriff and his deputies might have the more active roles in gathering evidence and interviewing witnesses, he, as the communication hub for the office, ended up with the best overall picture of the investigation.

  Since he did all the filing, there wasn’t a report in this office that didn’t wind up on his desk. He might have the mundane task of sending out the evidence to the crime lab in Missoula, but he was also the first person to find out lab results when they came in.

  Between all that and fielding calls, relaying messages, and listening to whatever conversations took place around him, there wasn’t much that went on here he didn’t know about.

  “Is this all of it?” he asked when he was finished with the last label.

  Butterfield didn’t lift his head from the report he was scratching out. “She had car keys in her pocket, but Black took those. She’s out trying to find the car.”

  “What model of vehicle did she drive?”

  “Why should you care?”

  Zak shrugged.

  After a few seconds Butterfield said, “It’s a Ford.”

  A cog turned over in Zak’s mind and he realized that he had, in fact, seen the victim before. He’d even spoken to her.

  For the past month or so an old blue Focus with California plates had been parked at the trailhead where he went for his morning run. After the first week, he’d approached the woman sleeping in the back, telling her she needed to find a proper campground. She’d assured him the situation was temporary. She’d seemed vulnerable and young and so he’d looked the other way.

  He picked up the phone and called Deputy Black. “I hear you’re looking for the victim’s car?”

  “Damn it, yes. I’ve been over this town twice, with no luck.”

  “Give the parking lot at the beginning of Tamarack Trail in Lost Creek Park a try.”

  Silence. And then: “Any particular reason for the suggestion?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  As he disconnected the call he felt a wave of sadness. If he’d reported Riley’s illegal camping earlier, would she still be alive?

  Chapter Three

  A vehicle parked haphazardly by the Mountain Side Cemetery caught Zak’s attention on his drive home from work. It was past seven o’clock and fully dark. Last to leave the office after an incredibly busy day, Zak craved a quiet evening in his cozy basement apartment, binge-watching a few more episodes of the X-Files with his cat Watson. He’d discovered the older series recently and was hooked.

  But something felt off here.

  Zak pulled his truck behind the small, unfamiliar SUV, then killed his lights. Beyond the glow from the streetlamps, the cemetery was unlit so he grabbed a small flashlight from the glove compartment.

  Last night pretty much every residential street in town had been swarming with ghosts, goblins, and superheroes, but tonight the sidewalks and roads were quiet, especially on Winding Down Way, where mostly senior citizens lived in the small bungalows that faced the expansive cemetery.

  Did the seniors mind looking out their front windows at their most likely next—and final—real estate purchase? Or did they appreciate the proximity to family and friends already gone?

  As Zak left his truck he shone the flashlight in a wide arc. Trees—some spruce, some bare-limbed weeping willows—stood guard over the array of grave markers and tombstones. Zak searched for signs of movement among them but saw none. Next he checked the parked vehicle. No passengers, just a duffel bag and purse in the front passenger seat and a large suitcase in the open cargo area.

  An out-of-town guest? If so, why stop here?

  He turned and followed the path leading to the graveyard. A keening wind from the Bitterroot Mountains drowned out the sound of his boots on the gravel and dried leaves as he moved up the hill. Over his shoulder he noticed the half-moon momentarily break through the cloud cover, before disappearing again. He walked for almost a minute without seeing anything unusual. Then a silhouette emerged from the shadows: a tall, slim woman—her body encased in a wraparound red wool coat—standing a mere twenty feet in front of him.

  He heard her suck in a startled breath, obviously noticing him at the same time. She pulled her hand from the tombstone where it had been resting and took a step away from him.

  He was about to identify himself and explain he worked at the sheriff’s office, when he recognized her. “Tiff Masterson?”

  Her quiet voice was barely audible over the wind. “Is that you, Zak?”

  “This is a surprise.” He moved closer. “Saw your car and thought some kids might be up to no good.”

  He hadn’t seen Tiff in Lost Trail for years, at least five, maybe more. They’d been childhood friends, going to school together in town from kindergarten until Dewbury Academy had been dissolved and the students parceled out to the bigger regional schools in Hamilton.

  Their friendship had survived and grown stronger during those high school years. But they’d drifted
apart since she’d left for college.

  Seemed like she’d grown taller since her last visit, which wasn’t likely. Probably she’d just lost weight. The gauntness in her face emphasized her high cheekbones and her large, wide-set eyes.

  “It’s good to see you. Your mom must be happy you’re visiting.” Rosemary Masterson still lived with her older sister Marsha Holmes in the large house on the Raven Christmas Tree Farm, about a mile out of town.

  Tiff’s gaze shifted sideways. “Not so sure this is only a visit. And Mom doesn’t know I’m here, yet.”

  “Oh?” He glanced at the engraving on the slab of granite she’d been touching. Casey Masterson, beloved son of Irving and Rosemary. Tiff’s brother had been just twelve years old when he’d died from complications of his congenital heart condition.

  Zak didn’t need to read the inscription on the adjoining marker. Tiff’s father Irving had passed away in a car accident scant months after his son’s death. Her mother—also in the car, as well as the aunt—had escaped serious physical injury but had suffered some sort of nervous breakdown and hadn’t been the same since.

  “Yeah, I know it’s weird I stopped here first,” Tiff acknowledged.

  “They were your family. You’ll never forget them. But you’re doing well, right? Still enjoying your job at that big CPA firm in Seattle?”

  She shifted her gaze. “I was. Now, not so much.”

  He waited, then finally had to say, “There has to be more to the story.”

  “I’ll tell you sometime over beers at the Dew Drop.”

  “Let’s make it soon.” He took a closer look at the older model SUV she was driving. The plates were Bitterroot County, Montana, not a rental.

  “Is that a borrowed car?”

  “Nope. Mine.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “Just bought it today.”

  “So you’re here to stay?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Don’t sound so excited.”

  “I didn’t mean to put down Lost Trail, Zak. It’s just...” She shrugged again. “Coming back is hard. I still feel so angry...”

  They’d talked about this lots when they were younger. Tiff blamed the cardiologist for not operating on Casey soon enough. And she blamed her father for his accident, believing he’d taken the easy way out, leaving her and her mother alone to deal with Casey’s death.

  It seemed the more Tiff’s mother retreated into her own little world on the Christmas tree farm, the more Tiff’s anger had grown, until finally, moving away had seemed like the smartest—and perhaps only—option for all of them.

  As Tiff ran her hand over the grave markers one more time, Zak turned away. “Sorry. I should let you have some privacy.”

  “That’s okay. I was just about to leave anyway.” She pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat and ducked her head against the wind. “You’re looking very fit—still into running?”

  In high school they’d both been into track. “Training for another marathon in the spring.” At his last one, in Sacramento, he’d placed in the top ten of his age group. But no one in his life—none of his friends, certainly no one in his family—knew this. “Maybe you can join me on a trail run one day?”

  “Not likely. I’ve been doing some hiking but the running has totally fallen off.” She pulled her keys from her pocket, then gave him a closer look.

  “So. What else is new, Zak? Mom told me your dad’s hardware store closed and you’re working at the sheriff’s office now.”

  The liquidation of Waller Hardware had been, in many ways, a positive turning point in his life. Mostly because his parents and three older brothers had decided to blame the citizens of the county for the failure, and leave not just the county but the state of Montana as well.

  He alone of the Wallers had opted to stay, to rent a small basement apartment and to find a new job for himself.

  “Yup. Been there for over three years now, working dispatch.” The position, which was usually filled by a woman and viewed as entry level, suited him well, at least for now.

  Lost Trail—now that his family had left—was turning out to be the perfect place for him.

  “You answer 9-1-1 calls? I can’t imagine there are many of those in a small county like Bitterroot.”

  “You might be surprised. Besides there’s a lot more to the job than that, especially since we have only four of us in the office.”

  “Is Archie Ford still sheriff?”

  “Will be until the day he dies, I guess.”

  She nodded, then waited a moment before asking, “Do you see much of Derick?”

  Back in the day the three of them had hung together all the time. But after Tiff left for college, Derick got wrapped up in his family business, and then he’d fallen in love and married a pretty local girl, a few years younger than them. “Derick’s always busy. He’s practically running Sparks Construction since his dad had his heart attack last year. And just two months ago he and Aubrey adopted a baby boy. So he’s a father now, too.”

  “Yeah, I chat with him sometimes on Facebook.” She made a face at him, probably her way of giving him grief for not having a profile of his own.

  Zak didn’t have anything against Facebook per se. He just valued his privacy.

  Tiff’s gaze shifted to the nearest house on the other side of the cemetery. The pristine bungalow had a tidy yard, fresh paint on the siding, and a pretty autumnal-themed wreath on the front door. And an egg-smeared window.

  “Oh no. Looks like Miss Christensen was the target of a Halloween egging.”

  Damn, he’d forgotten to pass along those vandalism calls today. “Local kids hit her house every year.”

  “I don’t get it. She was such a great teacher and anyway, she’s been retired for over a decade.”

  During her years as a teacher and then principal of Dewbury Academy, Cora Christensen had chosen her favorite students. While Tiff had been one of them, Zak never had, and he understood why kids still targeted her house. Miss Christensen was sweet and caring on the outside, manipulative and mean on the inside. She had a talent for discovering and probing her students’ insecurities. She’d certainly homed in on his. But he knew he’d never convince Tiff of that.

  “You headed home now?” He shone his flashlight on the curb so Tiff could safely make it to the driver’s side of her car.

  “I guess. How about you? Do you still live in the same house?”

  “No, that was sold.” And good riddance. “I rent a basement apartment from Mr. Gruber, at the far end of this road.” He hesitated. “One piece of bad news I should probably fill you in on. A woman was killed sometime last night, possibly early morning. I understand she worked at Raven Farm.”

  “What?” Tiff’s eyes widened as she swung back to face him. “I don’t understand. Who was this woman and what happened to her?”

  “Her name was Riley Concurran. She moved to town about a month ago and started working at your family’s place at about the same time. Last night someone gave her a couple of hard hits to the head and she died. Her body was discovered outside the medi-clinic this morning.”

  “That’s dreadful.” Tiff shook her head, as if she could somehow negate the news. “Ed—he’s the manager—generally hires two or three employees every fall to help harvest the trees for the season. This year Riley must have been one of them. Poor woman. Do you know who did it?”

  “Not a clue so far,” he admitted. “Sorry to spring this on your first night home.”

  “I appreciate the heads-up. I’m sure Mom and Aunt Marsha are going to be beside themselves.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Tiff opened her car door, then looked back at him. “After my dad died I began to believe there was a dark cloud hanging over Raven Farm. I guess it’s still there.”

  Chapter Four

  Despite being allowed to eat several sweet treats from her Halloween stash after dinner, four-year-old Geneva Pittman was asleep minutes after Justin tucked the quilt up
to her sweet, pointed chin.

  He sat on the side of her bed, his hand resting lightly on the side of her face. Emotions most fathers would have had years to process were flooding over him, bringing him to the point of tears.

  This sweet girl was now his daughter. The official papers had arrived today.

  “You’re happy?”

  Willow—his wife, something else to get used to—was in the doorway. As always it was difficult to read the expression on her lovely face. When he was nineteen her father had backpacked around the world before returning to run the family ranch and he’d brought with him a bride from the Philippines. From her mother Willow had inherited beautiful café latte skin, smooth features, and a small but full-lipped mouth. Her parents were dead now after a terrible fire that had left Willow, in college at the time, with nothing but what she had in her dorm room.

  He considered her question. Was she worried he might regret his decision? Or stating a fact that seemed obvious to her?

  “Very happy.” He went to her, wrapping his arms around her slender waist. She was delicately built and with his height and broad shoulders he worried he must seem threatening. To compensate he tried to be especially gentle when he touched her.

  He was about to ask if she was happy, too, but she slipped out of his embrace at the exact moment he had the thought, and headed for the kitchen.

  She was on the step stool, reaching into the liquor cabinet over the fridge. “That documentary you wanted to watch is starting in ten minutes. I was going to pour a brandy. Would you like one too?”

  “Sure.” After receiving the all-clear from his oncologist in July he’d been allowing himself one, sometimes two drinks a night. Willow hadn’t been back in his life when he was undergoing chemo, and he hadn’t told her about the underlying disease for fear of scaring her away. He felt some guilt about this, but he pushed it aside just the way he’d trained himself to push away fears the cancer might come back.