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“Whipped or ice cream?”
“I
ce cream.” I give her the look that says, “Come on, who would want it any other way?” Breakfast with pie, not my usual, but again she’ll take note and remember me.
158
Lisa Jackson
“Hey, Sandi. How ’bout a refill?” a tinny male voice asks from a booth on the other side of a row of tables, over by the window.
“Right with ya, Manny,” Sandi calls over her shoulder and I feel my insides tighten. Manny Douglas is a weasel-faced writer for the Mountain Reporter, a local two-bit rag. He first coined the phrase Bitterroot Killer, which was renamed by the national press as the Star-Crossed Killer, which is only slightly better. I huddle over my coffee and open the complimentary paper, the very rag he works for, then ignore him as he chats up Sandi. God, would I love to give him a taste of what the “Bitterroot Killer” is really like. Manny’s made it his personal quest to try and unmask me, not that he could. But he aggravates me just the same.
Loser, I think, perusing the paper as Manny’s reed-thin voice reaches me.
“No, not yet,” he’s saying in that puffed-up braggart way of his. “But I’ve got some ideas. I knew all along that the cops were on a wild-goose chase to Spokane. The killer, he’s from around here, knows these parts like the back of his hand. He won’t be traveling too far.”
You can bet on that, Weasel-Face, I think, but just sip my coffee and pretend interest in the sports page. I would love to shut him up permanently, but he’s not part of the plan. So he’s safe. If he had any idea how long I’ve worked, how I’ve planned to find just the right women . . .
“. . . as a matter of fact, I think I’m on to him.”
That pricks my attention. I flip the page.
“Is that so?” Sandi pretends interest as she refills the cups of Manny and some woman he’s trying to impress, a brunette I don’t recognize.
CHOSEN TO DIE
159
I take another swallow of my coffee, slide a glance in his direction and find him staring at me. Does he know? Can he guess? I tense, but hide it and manage a quick nod of acknowledgment, a friendly lifting of my chin, but his lips twist into a stoatlike sneer and he turns back to his breakfast partner, the unfamiliar brunette.
A blaze of embarrassment crawls up the back of my neck. Snubbed by the reporter. It’s all I can do to control myself, pretend that his brush-off doesn’t offend me.
By the time Sandi brings me the oval platter, I’m in control again. “Here ya go,” she says grinning.
“And I’ll bring the pie when you’re about done with this.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re going to love that trout!” she predicts loudly as if she’s trying to ply the fish on other customers. She leaves and I dig in, but I barely taste the food. I’m too keyed up. As much as I’ve tried to calm down, the run-in with the old man up at Brady Long’s place, Sandi’s remarks about my cheek, and the cold shoulder from the reporter remind me that I have to be careful. Now more than ever. Despite the fact that I left Brady Long bleeding to death and Regan Pescoli is now my captive, there’s much to do. No time to sit back. It’s time, I decide, as Sandi, ever diligent, tops off my coffee, to ratchet things up a notch. Give old needle-nose something to write about.
The stars aren’t in quite the right position, but I can’t afford to wait.
I have to leave a message for the cops. Soon.
160
Lisa Jackson
Sandi deposits the slab of pie with its glob of melting ice cream. “Here ya go,” she says before bouncing off to another table to refill a near-empty cup.
Yeah, I think, picking up my fork. Real soon. Chapter Twelve
Something was off.
Out of synch.
Santana was about to drive past the main house on his way to his cabin when he noticed that the lights in the den were blazing and the back door, the one connecting the house to the carport, was wide open. Clementine’s red Volkswagen Rabbit wasn’t parked in its usual spot, though Ross’s beatup 4x4 was tucked by the garage, six inches or more of snow piling over the roof and hood.
