Odd Man Out

Maggie smiled. “I wish he had, honey. But you know Max. He couldn’t have kept that a secret from us.”

Denver ran her fingers along the edge of the kitchen counter. “He could if it was too dangerous or confidential or...” The word illegal sprang into her mind. Surely Maggie had heard the rumors.

“The last time he mentioned a case, he was tailing a husband whose wife thought he was having an affair,” Maggie said. “I remember because Max was keeping odd hours. He wouldn’t get in until the wee hours of the morning.” She laughed. “I asked him if he was having an affair.”

“How did the case turn out?” Denver asked.

“He never told me.” Maggie looked past Denver, her gaze clouded. “There is one thing, though. A few days before he was...before he died, he brought some file folders home from the office. Old ones.”

“Where are they now?” Denver asked as she sat down across from Maggie.

“He burned them.”

“He what?” Denver couldn’t believe her ears.

“That night we were sitting by the fireplace. He was sorting through some things. That’s when I saw the folders—right before he tossed them into the fire.”

“Did you see what they were?”

Maggie frowned. “I wasn’t paying much attention, but a newspaper clipping fell out of one of the files. I don’t even remember what it was about, just that it was old. I’m sure that’s why Max was throwing the files away.”

“Still, that doesn’t sound like Max. He never threw anything away.”

“I didn’t think it was strange at the time....” Maggie’s voice trailed off. “You know, he did keep one of those files. I guess he took it back to his office.”

“There are too many strange things. Like Max’s will. Not even his lawyer’s seen it. It seems Max drew it up himself and said he’d put it in a safe place.” Denver shook her head. “I wonder what Max would consider a safe place? Probably the middle of his kitchen table.”

Maggie laughed softly, her eyes misty with private memories of Max. “The police didn’t find it in either Max’s apartment or office. Do you think he could have left it at your cabin?”

“I haven’t looked yet,” Denver said. “And Max’s gun is missing, too. Deputy Cline says the killer must have taken it when he took Max’s wallet. But you know Max hardly ever carried a gun.”

Maggie brushed at her tears. “Max would have given that hitchhiker money before the guy could even ask, and given him his shirt and shoes, as well. Even his car.”

“That’s just it, Maggie. Why didn’t the guy take Max’s car? The keys were in it.” Denver turned and was startled to find Pete standing just inside the kitchen doorway. She wondered how long he’d been there, listening.

“I thought we’d already settled this.” He glared at her, his gaze hard with anger. “You were going to stay out of the murder investigation and let Cline do his job.”

Denver drew in a deep breath. Obviously she hadn’t made herself clear when they’d argued about this earlier. “I can’t stay out of it. How is the killer ever going to be caught when Cline isn’t even looking into Max’s cases?”

“What cases?” Pete demanded. “Come on, Denver. You’re clutching at straws. It was a hitchhiker. You know how bad Max was about picking up strays.”

No one knew better than she did just how Max was about helping people in trouble, she thought as she fingered her mother’s gold locket at her neck. Fortunately, Max McCallahan had been that kind of man.

“No, it simply doesn’t make sense,” Denver said, standing her ground. “Maggie said he burned some old files right before he was killed. Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?”

Pete raked his fingers through his hair, not bothering to hide his exasperation. “So what are you going to do? Go after this murderer by yourself?”

“Pete’s right,” Maggie interrupted, surprising them both, since she seldom agreed with Pete on anything. “Listen, honey, Max wouldn’t have wanted you getting involved in this. Obviously it’s dangerous. I think you’d better leave it to the deputy sheriff.”

Denver stared at her. It wasn’t like Maggie to tell her to run from trouble; Maggie had always encouraged her to join Max in the investigation business. It had been Max who wouldn’t hear of it, who had insisted she stick to photography, even though she’d helped him by taking photos on some of his cases.

“I’d better get back to my guests,” Maggie said, slipping past Pete.

The tension in the kitchen dropped a notch or two in the moments after Maggie left; Denver knew it was because Pete thought he might be able to dissuade her. She looked out the window. The day had slipped away into dusk.

“I’m sorry,” Pete said, crossing the kitchen to put his arms around her. “I know you’re upset about Max. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

The worry in his eyes startled her. If he believed Max had been killed by some stranger passing through town, why would he be so afraid for her? Clearly he didn’t believe it any more than she did.

“Just promise me you’ll stay out of this,” Pete whispered into her hair. “I want to help you get through it, if you’ll let me.”

Denver buried her face in his shoulder. She felt protected in his arms. Maybe Pete was right. She was a photographer—not an investigator. But that knowledge did little to cool the fever burning deep within her. She had to see Max’s murderer behind bars; she owed Max at least that. And after all those years of hanging around him, she’d picked up a little something about investigative work. She wasn’t going after the killer blind; she knew of the danger. But the danger didn’t scare her as much as the thought that her uncle’s murderer might get away.

“I’m sorry, Pete,” she said, lifting her cheek from his shoulder. “I can’t make that promise.” She felt him tense. He dropped his arms and stepped back, his expression one of disappointment and anger. “I’m going to find Max’s killer if it’s the last thing I do.”

Pete nodded. “It just might be.”

* * *

J.D. COULDN’T SHAKE the feeling that Denver was already in trouble, more trouble than just being involved with Pete—a possible killer.

He picked up the phone and dialed Maggie’s number. Someone pretty well sloshed answered. A moment later, Maggie came on the line. “Is Denny all right?” he asked, feeling foolish.

“She’s fine,” Maggie said. “She’s here and Pete just left.” Her voice sounded muffled as if coming from inside a closet. From the party noise in the background, he guessed she probably was.

“Good. I won’t worry about her for the moment anyway.” He hung up and reached for his coat, trying to shake off the ominous feeling he had.

His options were limited. Confront Pete with what little “evidence” Maggie had against him and have Pete just deny it? Or try to talk to Denver about him. Maggie hadn’t taken that route for two good reasons. One was that Denver knew Maggie had never liked Pete, and adding suspicion of murder to that list would only alienate her. The other was that the Denver he remembered would fight to the death to defend a friend, let alone a lover. And it was obvious she and Pete were very close.

J.D. cursed the thought. Nor did he doubt what Denver would do if he told her his suspicions. She’d go straight to Pete. Head-on. That was the way she operated. He assured himself Pete would never hurt her. At least, not the Pete he used to know. He considered Maggie’s evidence against Pete flimsy at best. But Maggie’s obvious fear for Denver made him think twice about dismissing it. If for some reason Pete had killed Max, then what would he do if he thought Denver suspected him? It wasn’t a chance J.D. was willing to take with Denver’s safety. And sitting around a motel room wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed.

* * *

AFTER PETE LEFT HER ALONE in the kitchen, Denver stood staring at the snow falling in the darkness outside, thinking of Max. The need to avenge his death tore at her insides, holding her grief at bay most of the time. Except tonight. Tonight she felt alone and frightened.

As a girl, when she’d been afraid, she’d fantasized about J.D. rescuing her. Nothing quite as dramatic as being tied to the railroad tracks with the train coming—but close enough. Always at the last minute, J.D. would appear and save her. But this wasn’t a fantasy now. Max was dead. Not even Pete was on her side this time. And J.D. certainly wasn’t coming to her rescue.

The noise from the other room had reached a rowdy pitch, music blasting. Denver heard the kitchen door open behind her only because it increased the volume. At first, she thought it might be Pete coming back.

Cal Dalton closed the door behind him and leaned against it. “I hear you’ve been looking for me.”

He reminded her of a coyote, a wild look in his eyes, his body poised for flight. And instantly she wondered what he had to be afraid of; he frightened her much more than she ever could him. Everything about him was cold, from his graying pale blond hair to his icy blue eyes. He had to be hugging fifty but he hung around the bars with men half his age. Cal was known in town as a womanizer and a mean drunk, always getting into fights. One jealous husband had even shot him, and Cal liked to show off the scar, according to local scuttlebutt.

“I’m trying to find out what cases Max was working on,” she said. For reasons Denver could not fathom, Max had befriended Cal in the weeks before his death, something she could only assume meant Max was on a case.

“You think I hired your uncle?” Cal scratched his neck. “What would I need with a private eye?” Good question. “Max and I were just drinking buddies.”

“He didn’t mention a case he might have been working on?” she asked. “Or maybe hire you to do some legwork for him?”