Sandra Marton - Raising The Stakes

Gray took one hand off the wheel, dug in his pocket and took out the map his travel agent had faxed him. She’d booked him into a place called the Drop-On Inn for the night. That was the only place available in the vicinity of Queen City, she’d written, and he’d visualized how her elegant eyebrows must have lifted at the news that he was going to such a hole in the wall. She’d also included the names of a couple of resort hotels between Flagstaff and Queen City, along with a polite note saying he might prefer one of them to the Drop-On Inn.

Gray knew she was probably right but he figured it would be simpler to stay near Queen City for the night. With luck, he’d meet with Kitteridge in the morning, and how long could a conversation with the man possibly take? An hour? Two? After that, he might just check out some of those hotels his agent had mentioned. This was beautiful country, high, rugged and untouched. A little time off here could be just what he needed.

He turned on the radio, searched for a station that played the kind of cool jazz he liked and settled instead for some guy singing about a love gone wrong. A couple of songs later, he was humming along with the melody. Yessir, making this trip had been a fine idea.

The Drop-On Inn dimmed his enthusiasm only a little. The sign out front said Motel but it was just ten small rooms strung together like links of sausage. Still, the place was clean, his room had a TV that received two channels, and there was even a caf;aae next door. Gray and a trucker who apparently owned the eighteen-wheeler parked at the other end of the motel were the only customers. He ordered a steak that overflowed the plate and mashed potatoes floating in enough butter to make him feel guilty so he passed on dessert, had a cup of coffee, went back to his room and slept as well as a man could when his feet hung off the end of the mattress.

He awoke to sunshine but by the time he’d finished off a stack of pancakes and three cups of coffee at the caf;aae, a bank of charcoal clouds had rolled in. Clouds or not, he felt pretty good when he set off for Queen City. He’d definitely make a short vacation out of this trip. If there was a camping equipment store in Queen City, he’d stop there after he finished with Kitteridge, buy himself some boots and some simple gear, use one of the hotels his agent had recommended as a base and head into the mountains. Gray liked the isolation of hiking but he also liked hot tubs, soft beds and the company of beautiful women. A few days in the wilderness, followed by another few days in a luxury resort, would feel just fine.

He found the station that played country love songs again and tapped his fingers against the steering wheel in rhythm with the music. It was hard to believe he’d wasted time the other night, sitting in his apartment, looking at a picture of a dead woman and speculating about what kind of life she’d have led, or what life she’d have wanted for her granddaughter.

The first fat drops of rain hit the windshield as he passed a sign welcoming him to Queen City, population 3,400 and home of the Patriots Regional High School Championship Football Team. Jack Ballard had given him a phone number for Harman Kitteridge. Gray had laughed and jokingly expressed surprise that the cabin would have a phone and electricity. Now, slowing for the first of the two traffic lights Ballard had mentioned, he thought the same thing again. This time, he meant it.

To call this place a city was not just an overstatement, it was a pathetic dream.

Queen City had seen better times. At least half of the shops on Main Street were vacant. The only living creature in sight was a dog relieving himself on a teetering pile of boxes in front of a boarded-up store. If it was a comment on the town, Gray agreed with it. Even the mountains that ringed Queen City were depressing. Their colors were sullen and their looming presence made him feel claustrophobic.

He drove into the only gas station in sight and stopped beside a self-service pump. While he gassed up, he dialed Kitteridge on his cell phone. It was Sunday and he figured the odds on finding the man at home were good. He hadn’t called in advance because the less time he gave him to think about this visit, the better. In fact, the less Kitteridge knew about the real purpose of this visit, the better.

Kitteridge answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”

“Harman Kitteridge?”

“What’s it to you?”

So much for the social niceties. Gray tucked the phone against his shoulder as he pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and hung up the hose.

“My name is Gray Baron.”

“I don’t want none.”

“Excuse me?”

“Whatever it is you’re sellin’, I don’t want it.”

“I’m not a salesman, mister—”

Gray winced as the phone slammed in his ear. He got into the car and hit Redial. Again, Kitteridge answered immediately.

“Mr. Kitteridge,” he said quickly, “don’t hang up. I’m not selling anything.”

“You think I’m an idiot? Of course you are. What is it? In-surance? Home repairs?” Kitteridge’s voice took on a nasty edge. “Or maybe this is about that there loan you bastards give me last year.”

“It’s nothing like that. This is about your wife.”

“My what?”

“Your wife. Dawn Lincoln Kitteridge.”

There was a long silence. “Who is this?” Kitteridge finally said, so slowly that Gray could feel his suspicion through the phone.

“I told you. My name is Baron. Gray Baron.”

“What do you want with my wife?”

“I’d like to talk with her.”

“So did that other guy, couple of weeks ago, folks tell me. Or are you gonna claim you and he don’t know about each other?”

Gray thought about playing dumb and decided it would only heighten Kitteridge’s mistrust. “No,” he said, “I’m not. He worked for me.”

“And the both of you want to talk to my wife? Well, anything you got to say to her, you can say to me.”

“I’m afraid not,” Gray said politely. “This is a legal matter. I can only discuss it with her.”

“She don’t talk to nobody unless I say she… What kind of legal matter?”

Kitteridge’s tone had gone from hostile to sly. So far, so good. A horn tapped behind Gray. He glanced in the mirror, put the car in gear and pulled away from the pump.

“Well,” he said, as if saying more would violate his code of ethics, “I suppose I could explain it to you… But not over the phone.”

“You a cop? ‘Cause if the bitch got herself in trouble, I ain’t interested in hearin’ about it.”

“No trouble,” Gray said easily. “I’m not a cop, I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer? An’ you want to see Dawn?”

“Yes. I’m trying to find her for a client.”

“What in hell for?”

“I really can’t say too much, Mr. Kitteridge, but since you’re her husband, I suppose it’s all right to tell you that this involves settling the estate of your wife’s grandfather.”

“That’s nuts. Dawn ain’t got no…”

Kitteridge stopped in midsentence. Bingo, Gray thought, and waited.

“Are you sayin’ somebody left my wife money?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kitteridge,” Gray said politely. “I have to meet with your wife.”

“Yeah. Okay. Uh, where are you? I mean, are you comin’ to town?”

“Actually I’m already here. I’m in a gas station on the corner of Main and Liberty.”

“Uh-huh. Ah, there’s a diner across the way. See it?”

Gray peered out the window. A red neon sign blinked the words Victory Diner through diagonal sheets of rain. “Yes, I see it.”

“Go on in, get us a booth. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Be sure your wife is with you,” Gray said, as if he had no idea Dawn Kitteridge had flown the coop.