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Innocent until proved guilty, remember?
She made a face, wondering about her at least somewhat untrustworthy niece.
* * *
Nate Santana wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but he was worried. Though he’d told Bianca the night before that nothing was out of the ordinary, it had been a lie. And now, on his way to the feed store in Grizzly Falls, he drove to the Long property and went through the ranch house, room by room once more. Last night he’d done a quick scan, discovered Bianca, and left. This morning he’d headed over to the house to give it more than a quick once-over. And, so far, as was the case last night, nothing inside appeared out of the ordinary, nothing was disturbed. Unlike what he’d told Bianca, the housekeeper had sworn she hadn’t left any lights on the night before, and yet a table lamp in the den had been lit and there was just the feel that the air had been disturbed, almost as if the house smelled different.
Or was that just his imagination running away with him?
He walked through the living area, kitchen, and den, then down the hallway to the bedrooms, the master that Brady had claimed once his old man had passed away and the other three rooms, one for his sister Padgett, who had moved away years before, and still bore a few reminders of its occupant, an old corsage pinned to a bulletin board, a few dresses that looked over ten years old, a couple pairs of shoes, and the same pink striped bedspread over the canopied double bed, faded now, the canopy threadbare and showing a few rips, vacuum cleaner tracks visible on the aging carpet.
The same was true for Brady’s original bedroom, the one where he and Santana had played early versions of video games, talked girls and sports, flipped through Playboy magazines, and smoked cigarettes on the sly. It still had sports paraphernalia resting on shelves and tacked to the paneled walls, just as Santana had remembered, though one tack had given way and a once maroon and silver banner for the University of Montana Grizzlies was threatening to fall.
The other bedroom, always a guest room, was clean and neat, looked as if it was ready and waiting for anyone who wanted to visit the Long family.
The furnace, which he kept on low to hold the house above freezing, rumbled softly, and through the few windows that weren’t shuttered, he saw the snow was falling again.
Everything was fine.
And yet . . .
Feeling as if he were wasting his time, he drove into town, to the cliff overlooking the river, where some of the original settlers had homesteaded over a century and a half before. Those acres had been cut up into city blocks as the town had grown, but the Long property occupied several of those blocks. The Victorian house, a massive five-thousand-square-foot stone and brick structure complete with turret, had been restored. The original carriage house, guest house, and laundry house occupied over three acres of tended lawn shaded by ancient larch, aspen, and pine. All of the property had been
donated to the town by the Long family, whose riches from mining and logging in the area were legendary. This house was now owned by the historical society.
Santana had driven here because he remembered spending time here, where Brady’s mother spent most of her winters, when he was younger. Of course that was years ago.
Maybe he was jumping at shadows.
First his wife’s sister and husband were murdered.
Then Brindel’s daughter showed up at their door.
About the same time some yahoo blew into town claiming to be Brady Long’s long-lost son.
Then someone left a light on at the ranch....
Did it all add up to something?
He parked along the street and stared at the old house. The museum was closed today and no one was about.
Just like no one had been in the ranch house.
He looked in his rearview mirror to pull out onto the street when he saw a familiar car round the corner.
His jaw tightened and he felt the same dark fury he always experienced whenever he was face to face with his wife’s lowlife of an ex, Bianca’s biological father, Luke “Lucky” Pescoli.
For some reason Lucky’s Mustang was now heading this way and the bastard himself was at the wheel, driving slowly, his gaze fixed on the Long Museum, his head turned away from Santana, who was parked on the opposite side of the street. If he’d caught a glimpse of his ex-wife’s current husband, Lucky gave no indication, and the way his gaze was locked onto the museum it seemed doubtful that he noticed anything other than the three stories of brick and natural stone of the house; the other buildings that were part of the vast estate didn’t interest him.
No, Lucky Pescoli just kept his eyes on the manor.
What the hell was that all about?
The Mustang cruised past, drove to the end of the street, turned around in another stately drive, then, once more, rolled past the grounds so slowly that Lucky nearly stopped in front of the now-closed wrought-iron gates before driving on.
Using his side-view mirror, Santana watched the Mustang reach the corner again and then drive down the hillside toward the heart of the old city sprawled on the shores of the Grizzly River.
So what was Lucky doing here?
