Paula Graves - Cowboy Alibi

Jane looked away from his hard gaze, her chest tight with tension. Why had she gone to such obvious trouble to change her identity? What kind of woman was she?

“The man you saw at your apartment-did he seem familiar to you?” Joe asked.

“No. But he knew me.” She forced herself to look at him. “Do you know who he is?”

Joe shook his head. “No. I don’t.”

“Maybe he’s the one who killed your brother.”

“Maybe that’s what you’d like me to believe.”

“And you won’t even entertain the possibility that I wasn’t the one who killed him.”

“You disappeared the day he died. You were gone by the time the neighbor found Tommy’s body.” He stumbled over the words, his gaze dropping away.

Jane felt the ridiculous urge to reach across the table and put her hand over his, to lend him what little strength and comfort she had.

He took a deep breath and continued, his voice threaded with steel. “Your bags were gone. Your clothes. Everything. It was like you’d never been there in the first place.”

“That was eight months ago, right?”

Joe nodded.

“So, where was I between then and this past December when I showed up here in Trinity?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“How’d you find me?”

“I got a fax from the Trinity Police Department, seeking information on a Jane Doe.”

The door to the interview room opened, and Chief Trent walked in before Jane could respond. “All set. I’m afraid we have to keep the bag we found packed in your living room. For evidence.”

“What do I do for clothes?” she asked.

“My sister Erica runs clothing drives for one of the local churches. She’s agreed to raid their stash for a few things your size,” Chief Trent answered. “She’s left it for us at the hotel.”

“Ready to go, then?” Joe asked.

She frowned at the impatience in his voice but gave a swift nod, falling in step in front of him as they followed the police chief out of the room.

BY THE TIME Joe led Jane from the police station, the sun had dipped behind the Sawtooth Mountains, leaving only a faint orange glow in the western sky. Streetlamps along the town’s main streets had already come on, battling the chilly gloom of twilight.

Joe motioned toward his truck, parked in a visitor slot in front of the station. Jane managed a weak smile. “Did you drive over from Wyoming or did you rent that truck at the Boise airport?”

“I drove,” he answered tersely.

Her forehead creased. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No.” He couldn’t exactly tell her that she used to tease him about his truck and his Stetson and everything that went with being a Wyoming cowboy. Back then, she’d said it with such affection he found himself laughing with her. Now he wondered if it had all been an act, all the smiles and the jokes and the easy charm. He hated not knowing what was real and what was a lie.

Maybe the smartest way to deal with her was to assume everything that came out of her mouth was some sort of lie.

“Could we stop by the River Lodge Diner?” she asked as she climbed into the passenger seat of the Silverado.

“Why?” he asked as he settled behind the wheel.

“I want to let my friend Doris at the diner know I’m okay.” She buckled her seat belt and looked across at him. “She’ll know about Angie by now, and she’ll probably be worried about me.”

There was a hint of wonder in her voice, as if she was surprised to know someone cared about what happened to her. He recognized the look. He’d seen it on her face when he first met her almost two years ago, as she told him about the way Tommy had taken her in, no questions asked, when she showed up on his doorstep needing help.

Tommy should’ve asked questions.

They all should’ve.

He started the truck and gave a brief nod. “The River Lodge Diner it is.”

“OH, JANIE!” Doris Bradley engulfed her in a bear hug as soon as Jane entered the diner, drawing the curious gazes of the handful of customers who’d opted for the diner’s home cooking rather than the lodge restaurant’s more cosmopolitan fare. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying. “I’ve been worried sick about you ever since we heard the news about Angie.”

“I’m okay, Doris,” Jane assured her. “But I’m not going to be able to work for a while. Boyd’s going to have to find two new waitresses, I’m afraid.”

“You can’t work? Why not?” Doris stepped back, holding Jane by the shoulders. She looked her up and down. “You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No, I’m fine!” Jane glanced at Joe, who stood a few paces away, watching her with hard gray eyes. She’d asked him not to tell anyone at the diner about her involvement in the case, and he’d agreed, but she didn’t know if she could really trust him to keep his word.

He’d lied to her more than once already, however good his reasons might have been.

“Is Boyd here?” she asked Doris. “I guess I should really tell him myself.”

“Sorry, hon. Boyd hasn’t been here all afternoon. He got a call from his sister a little after one.” Doris lowered her voice to a half whisper. “I think maybe she’s having another one of her episodes. You know he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“I guess I’ll just have to drop by tomorrow sometime. I’ll need to pick up my last paycheck anyway.” She gave Doris another hug and turned to look at Joe again.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

She felt Doris’s curious gaze on her, but she didn’t stop to explain. She could hardly tell her co-worker that she was basically under house arrest at the Buena Vista Hotel under the watchful eye of Cowboy Joe. Word about her situation would get around soon enough as it was.

“Episodes?” Joe asked as they headed away from the diner toward the Buena Vista.

“What?”

“Your boss’s sister has episodes?”

“Oh. She’s a paranoid schizophrenic. She does well when she stays on her medication, but she doesn’t always stay on it. Boyd’s all she has in the world, and as big a jerk as he can be, he works himself to the ground to help her have some sort of normal life. So when she calls-”

“He goes running,” Joe finished for her.

She glanced at his profile, outlined by the yellow glow of streetlamps lining Main Street. “Family, I guess.”

He cut his eyes her way. “Family,” he agreed.

The well-lit facade of the Buena Vista Hotel shimmered against the dark blue backdrop of the Sawtooth Mountains as Joe pulled the truck into the guest parking lot. He unbuckled his seat belt and turned to look at her. “I know I’ve made it pretty clear that I don’t think you’re telling me the truth. About your memory or about what happened a year ago or six hours ago.”

“No! Really?”

“But I don’t believe you were the one who killed Angela Carlyle. The evidence argues against it.”

She felt a ripple of relief. “So you believe me about the man?”

“I believe a man killed your roommate. Who or what he is to you is still a question.”

“For me, too.”

He shot her a sidelong look. “My point is, the man is still at large, and if you’re the only witness to his murder of your friend, he might want to shut you up.”

She tamped down a shudder. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you need a reminder. I know firsthand that you have a tendency to run.”

She opened her car door and stepped out, turning to look at him through the open door. “I’m not stupid. I know I’m not safe out there on my own. That’s why I agreed to this setup.”

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

She closed the door a little harder than necessary. “We’ll never be on the same page, cowboy,” she muttered.