Part 33 (1/2)

”I recognized Velda's car,” Martine stressed. ”I was too scared to identify anybody, notice eye color or height or anything like that. I just wanted to give the robber whatever he wanted so he'd get out of here-without shooting me.”

Steven nodded. ”Any customers in the store right before your break?” Steven asked moderately.

But Martine shook her head. ”As I said, it was quiet. Everybody in town was over at the dance.” She paused, gave a husky, rueful chuckle. ”Everybody except George and me, anyhow.”

George, Steven a.s.sumed, was the boyfriend, the one she'd been on the outs with on the night in question. He didn't pursue the subject. ”No strangers came in? Say, early in your s.h.i.+ft?”

Another shake of the head. ”Last strangers I recall seeing were an older couple traveling in an RV, and that was at least a couple of days before-before it happened.”

Steven didn't respond directly. Since he hadn't gotten around to having cards printed yet, he helped himself to a stenographer's notebook resting on the countertop, along with the accompanying pen, and wrote down his cell and office numbers. ”I'd appreciate a call if you remember anything else,” he said. He started to turn away, but Martine stopped him with a remark meant to sound offhand, most likely, but falling a ways short.

”I hear you're serving as Byron Cahill's lawyer.”

”Not exactly,” Steven said, after an inaudible sigh. ”As you know, Byron is no longer a suspect. I'm just trying to help out in whatever way I can.”

”It was good of Tom to take the boy in for a while,” Martine said. ”Byron and Velda haven't had it easy, that's for sure. Do you think they'll catch Nathan Carter anytime soon?” She stopped for a breath, shuddered slightly. ”It gives me the heebie-jeebies, knowing he's still out there. What if he comes back and tries again, since he didn't get to keep the money last time?”

”I don't think he will,” Steven said in parting.

It wasn't much, but at the moment, it was all he had to offer.

Feeling as if he'd made no progress at all-what else was new?-Steven left the Stop & Shop and drove to his office, pa.s.sing the Sunflower Cafe on the way. The place was doing a brisk business, as usual, the parking lot packed with cars, motorcycles and pickup trucks.

Steven cruised on past the courthouse next, casually stealing a glance in that direction, as he did every time he came into town for any reason. Melissa's roadster was parked in its usual place, with the top up and a reflective s.h.i.+eld across the inside of the winds.h.i.+eld.

He considered stopping by to say h.e.l.lo-h.e.l.lo?-but soon discarded the idea.

What was there to say? Melissa had made up her mind about him, and about what he did for a living. She was an intelligent woman, a practicing attorney; at least in principle, she definitely understood that under the American judicial system, faulty though it was, everyone-guilty or innocent-has the right to counsel.

It seemed more probable that she was merely using that difference of opinion as an excuse to avoid anything remotely resembling a lifetime commitment. She'd admitted to caring a lot for Dan Guthrie, once upon a time, and Steven had seen what could only be called regret in her eyes when she spoke of Dan's children, the two boys she'd expected to raise as her own.

She was clearly fond of Matt-a point in her favor, of course. Unless she'd been attracted to Steven because because of the child, and only because of him. of the child, and only because of him.

He parked alongside his building, got out of the truck and almost forgot Zeke in the backseat. A cheerful yip reminded him that he wasn't alone, so he retraced his steps, hooked a leash to Zeke's collar, and lifted the dog out of the truck, setting him on the ground. Waiting.

Zeke sniffed the gravel for a while, checked out various thatches of weeds at the edges of the lot, then lifted a hind leg in front of the weathered log marking the boundary of the property on the Main Street side. Steven was still stumbling around in his own thoughts, too distracted, by his own reckoning, to be good for anything much-that day, at least.

He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, remembering the wild time he and Melissa had shared in his bed. Male egotism aside, he knew she hadn't been faking her responses-he'd felt the subtle flexing of her body as she'd reached one o.r.g.a.s.m and then another, felt the moisture of exertion on her silky skin and thrilled to her uninhibited cries of pleasure.

Steven s.h.i.+fted uncomfortably. Tried to turn his thoughts in another direction.

Zeke finished up and they headed for the side door.

Inside, Steven unsnapped the leash and left the dog to wander around the inner and outer offices until he'd found just the right place to curl up for a morning snooze. This involved some circling, some pawing at the carpet, and a couple of big sighs, but Zeke finally settled himself in a patch of sunlight in front of the window to the street, dropped off to sleep and began to snore.

Steven checked his messages.

Zip from Melissa, of course.

Two from Velda Cahill; she'd been calling regularly since her release from the clinic in Indian Rock a few days back, wanting to know what was being done to find Nathan Carter and making a lot of noise about how Byron ought to come back home ASAP.

Byron, on the other hand, seemed happy enough bunking with Tom Parker and Elvis-the kid did his share of the yard and household ch.o.r.es to earn his keep, according to the sheriff, and although not much was said, they all got along just fine. In his spare time, Byron helped out over at the animal shelter, and there was talk about his getting hired steady, bringing home a paycheck, however modest.

So far, so good.

Except that Carter was still at large, of course.

Settled at his desk, Steven booted up his computer, checked his email for the first time that day.

Conner was on his way, he learned, and Davis and Kim were coming along, too, bringing their RV. Everybody was up for a visit and a good old-fas.h.i.+oned rodeo, according to Conner's brief message.

Steven sighed. Brody was headed for Stone Creek, too, planning on competing in the bronc-riding events, both bareback and saddle.

His twin cousins were about to meet up, after all this time, though neither one of them knew it.

Once again, Steven wondered if he'd made the right decision by keeping the impending collision of Creed tempers under his hat, so to speak.

It was the hope-however frail it might be-that Brody and Conner would finally work things out and get on with being brothers that prevented Steven from issuing a storm warning. Those two were both stubborn to the bone, and if either found out that the other one was going to be in Stone Creek for the rodeo, neither neither of them would show up. of them would show up.

Therefore, Steven thought, as he tapped out a response to Conner's email, revealing nothing, the chips would have to fall where they may.

MELISSA WENT FOR A RUN on Friday morning-something she hadn't done for a few days-and took special care with her hair, makeup and clothes when she got back home. on Friday morning-something she hadn't done for a few days-and took special care with her hair, makeup and clothes when she got back home.

It wasn't wasn't because of that stupid ”intervention” Olivia, Ashley and Meg had sprung on her the evening before, though. No, sirree. She would be leaving her office early to put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the parade that would kick off Stone Creek Rodeo Days that night, and after that, the whole thing would be because of that stupid ”intervention” Olivia, Ashley and Meg had sprung on her the evening before, though. No, sirree. She would be leaving her office early to put the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the parade that would kick off Stone Creek Rodeo Days that night, and after that, the whole thing would be over. over.

Looking good was her way of celebrating, that was all.

The morning went by quickly, for once.

She skipped lunch, feeling too nervous to eat, and, conversely, loaded up on coffee. At three forty-five, leaving her a.s.sistant to hold down the fort for what little remained of the workday, Melissa headed out.

Ferociously hungry all of a sudden, and telling herself that relaxing her dietary standards a little didn't mean she was on a greased track to h.e.l.l, she downed a burger from the drive-through place and then, after steeling herself, drove over to the high school, where the Parade Committee had gathered, together with the parade partic.i.p.ants and their various floats.

Horses were arriving in trailers, all of them on loan from Stone Creek Ranch, since the sheriff's posse didn't actually ride much, except for occasions like this one. They definitely didn't saddle up and chase outlaws into the hills, as Sam O'Ballivan and his pals had back in those thrilling days of yesteryear.

Brad and several of his ranch hands were supervising, while members of the posse-all of them honorary deputies-argued over who'd put on the most weight since last year's parade.

Although some of the floats hadn't lumbered in yet, there were nearly a dozen crepe paperbedecked monstrosities in evidence. The standout float was the Chamber of Commerce's contribution-a ma.s.sive replica of a nearby ski slope, made almost entirely of toilet paper. It even had trees, the branches weighted down with white tissue ”snow,” and spangles of glitter made the whole shebang sparkle in the sun.

Adelaide Hillingsley and Bea Brady, both wearing their best polyester pants suits and sporting fresh perms, were already nose to nose.

”You're just mad because our float is better than yours!” Adelaide challenged.

Bea looked as though she might be getting ready to throw a punch, so Melissa maneuvered herself between the two women.

”Ladies,” she said, ”let's remember that we're all friends here.”

”Not anymore,” Bea scowled.