B.J. Daniels - Odd Man Out

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?”

“Legwork?” Cal shook his head. His gaze took her in as if he realized for the first time she was a woman and certainly no threat. “Speaking of legs, yours aren’t half-bad,” he said, making her feel as if he’d just peeled off her black slacks.

This had been a mistake. “Well, I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Max did talk a lot about you,” he said.

She found that more unlikely than their being drinking buddies. “If you’ll excuse me, Pete is waiting for me.” She tried to get past him, but he blocked her way.

“I don’t think so. I saw Pete leave.” He was close now. She could feel his breath on her face, smell the reek of beer.

Pete wouldn’t leave without telling her, would he?

Cal leaned his hands on either side of her, trapping her. “I’m afraid Pete’s thrown you to the wolves, darlin’.” His eyes traveled over her with a crudeness that turned her stomach. “How about a little kiss for old Cal?”

“No, and if you touch me—”

He moved closer. “I like feisty girls.” He bent to kiss her. Denver dived under his arm, shooting for the space between his body and the counter. He caught her, swung her into him and gave her a smelly, slobbery kiss that made her gag. “How’d you like that?” he asked, leering. “Better than that pansy boyfriend of yours, huh?”

She jerked her arm free and slapped him with a force that drove him back a step.

He rubbed his jaw; a meanness came into his eyes. “You shouldn’t have done that. All I wanted was a little kiss.”

Denver grabbed the first thing she could find as Cal moved toward her. A pottery pitcher.

“Denver?” Cal turned at the sound of the voice behind him, and Denver looked past him to see Max’s old friend, Taylor Reynolds, standing in the doorway. “Is there a problem here?”

Denver set down the pitcher and pushed past Cal to step into the big man’s arms.

“It’s okay,” Taylor said, holding her awkwardly. The old bachelor wasn’t a man used to a physical display of sentiment. “Buddy, don’t you think you’d better get back to the party?”

Denver heard Cal leave but she didn’t look up; she found herself crying, crying for Max, for herself.

“Hey, easy. This is my best suit,” Taylor kidded, then pulled back to look at her. “What was going on in here? If he’s bothering you—”

She stepped from the shelter of his arms, trying to regain control. “Cal was just being Cal.”

Taylor pushed out a chair for her at the table and pulled down some towels from a roll. He handed them to her and joined her at the table.

Denver took a deep breath, wiped her eyes with a towel and looked at the man before her. She remembered Max talking about his buddies from the army, but she’d never met this one before. Taylor Reynolds was a powerful-looking man much like Max had been. Only unlike Max, Taylor was soft-spoken and shy. He’d shown up right after Max’s murder.

“Max saved my life in the army—I owe him,” Taylor had said, standing with his hat in his hands on Maggie’s porch. “I’ll be staying at the Three Bears if you need anything.”

Denver had taken to him immediately, and so had Maggie. Denver knew it was because he and Max had been so close; in Taylor a small part of Max still lived.

“It’s tough, but we’re all going to get through this,” Taylor said now. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his big hands. He took a toothpick and spun it between two fingers.

“Who do you think killed him?”

Taylor’s face clouded. “A damned fool.”

“Do you think it was the hitchhiker Deputy Cline’s looking for?” She had a sudden flash of Max, the flicker of sunlight on the water behind him, the gentle lap of water against the side of the boat, the sound of his laugh floating across the lake. When she looked up, she realized Taylor had been talking to her.

“Denver?” He studied her, his eyes dark with concern. “You’re having a rough time with this, aren’t you, kid? Be careful. Don’t let Max’s death become more important than living.”

Denver looked away. The noise of the party seemed at odds with the silence of the darkness outside.