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She couldn’t argue the point. He’d done his time for his disappearing act. “Okay, but first clean your room.”
He seemed about to argue, but wisely held his tongue and washed down whatever words he was about to utter with a big gulp of milk.
“Who’re you going with?” she asked, hoping he hadn’t made plans with Miles Dean.
“Sam.”
She didn’t bother hiding her relief. “Okay. So who’s driving?”
“Sam’s older brother, Seth. Is that okay?”
She decided to trust him. Seth was almost twenty and worked at one of the mills around town. He seemed to be a straight arrow. “Just come home right after the movie, okay?”
“Yeah. No problem.”
She only hoped so. It hadn’t been that long ago that the police had been questioning him about Isaac Wells’s disappearance, though she hadn’t heard a word since the interrogation at the police station. She had tried to convince herself that the police had found other leads, other suspects, but she still shuddered every time the phone rang, fearing that the long arm of the law was about to reach out and grab her son.
But that was crazy. She believed Stephen. Surely if he knew more about the old man’s disappearance, he would confide in her. Or would he?
Trust him, Tiffany. He’s your son.
* * *
Jarrod Smith looked as frustrated as a barking dog who’d treed a raccoon and couldn’t get anyone’s attention. He paced back and forth in his office and gave J.D. a quick update on the Isaac Wells case. “The police have had several leads, none of which amounted to anything. Originally, they thought some of Isaac’s relatives or friends were involved. They were convinced the old man had been the victim of foul play—murder, kidnapping, you name it. But nothing seems to fit.” He offered J.D. a sheepish look. “I hate to say it, but it beats me what happened to Isaac. It almost looks as if he just got up and walked away.”
“Why would he do that?” J.D. asked.
“That’s the question that keeps everyone coming back to square one—that he must’ve been forced to leave or lost his marbles. Every day in this business, you hear about old men and women snapping and just wandering off.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose as if to clear his head. “But I’ve talked to a lot of people who knew Isaac better than I did. A lot. None of them think he was suffering from some kind of dementia or paranoia or schizophrenia, or anything else. Supposedly the old guy was sharp as a tack. Spent his time running that ranch and babying the classic cars in his barn. Other than that, he kept to himself.” Jarrod settled on the corner of his desk, one leg swinging in agitation. “I even thought that he might have staged the whole thing in hopes of somehow getting the life-insurance money. I thought whoever was the beneficiary of his policies might be in on the con, but nope. All he had in life insurance was enough to bury him. So if he left, he walked away from a ranch worth about a hundred and fifty, maybe two hundred thousand dollars—though it was mortgaged for quite a bit—and his old cars, which he supposedly loved more than his half-breed bloodhound that died a month or so before he disappeared.”
Jarrod picked up his coffee mug, saw that it was empty and scowled. With a thump, he set the mug on to the desk. “How about a beer?” he asked. “I’ll buy.”
J.D. nodded. “Sounds good.” He liked Smith, who seemed to be a straight shooter. Everyone he’d met in this small town was starting to appeal to him—which was odd. He’d never thought he would like anything to do with a tiny burg and the small minds he always assumed would occupy it. He’d been wrong. Not that he would ever live here. No way. He was making tracks as soon as possible.
Once they were outside the office building, Jarrod showed him a shortcut through a couple of back alleys that he’d used for years. “An escape route when I was a kid,” he explained. “Believe me, I had my own share of trouble back then, but not half as much as my brothers. Trevor and Nathan gave my mother more gray hairs than she’d ever like to admit.” The late-afternoon sun was still warm, but a cool breeze shot between the buildings.
They walked through a back door to the Wooden Nickel Saloon and slid into a booth. The interior of the restaurant/bar was decorated with Western memorabilia—everything from two-handled saws, wagon wheels and saddles, to lanterns, mining picks and the heads of stuffed animals, their glassy eyes surveying the premises from high above the bar. Embedded in the thick, clear plastic of each tabletop were genuine plug nickels surrounded by glitter that, J.D. assumed, was supposed to represent fool’s gold.
They ordered a pitcher of beer distributed by a Portland microbrewery that J.D., as a VP of Santini Brothers Vineyards and Winery, had personally inspected.
The bar was nearly empty, with only a few stools occupied and one pool table in use. Above the barkeep, mounted on its own angled platform, was a television tuned in to an all-sports network where the scores of the previous day’s baseball games were being flashed. Over the click of billiard balls, the clink of glasses and the whisper of conversation, country-and-western music drifted from hidden speakers. J.D. didn’t recognize the song or the singer and really didn’t give a damn. The music just added to the backwoods, rural America atmosphere that was beginning to appeal to him.
A buxom blonde waitress clad in tight jeans, boots, checkered shirt and a cowboy hat deposited a frosty pitcher of beer and a bowl of some kind of party mix, then poured two glasses. “Anything else?” Her smile was genuine; her green eyes actually held a spark of interest.
“Naw, Nora. This is fine. Thanks.”
“Just let me know if you want something.” She winked at Jarrod, then sauntered back to the bar.
Jarrod took a long swallow, let out a deep breath and set his glass on the table as Nora swung over to another table, deftly scooping up her tip as she swiped away rings made by the half-full glasses. “Went to school with her older sister, April,” he explained, glancing at Nora’s backside as she
leaned over the table. “I dated April for a few months, took her to my senior prom. Nora was just a little kid at the time.”
“All grown up now,” J.D. observed as Nora, smiling at several customers, hurried back to the bar.
“Yep.” Jarrod glanced over his shoulder and watched as she wiped the bar with a thick white towel, then cleared his throat and turned back to J.D. “If you’re asking what Stephen knows about Wells’s disappearance, I really can’t tell you. You’d be better off getting the facts from him, but I doubt that he’s involved. He might have some ideas—kids are always telling tales—and he probably swiped the old man’s keys as a prank that nearly blew up in his face, but no one—not me or the police—really suspects that he did anything. They’re just interested in what he’s heard. The strong-arm tactics down at the station were just to scare him into telling them what he knows.”
J.D. should have felt relieved, but he didn’t. He still suspected that Stephen was holding back, hiding something important, though what, he couldn’t imagine.
As he and Jarrod finished the beer, they talked about the baseball season, the past NBA draft and everything and nothing. J.D. learned that Smith had been with the police before breaking out on his own and becoming a private investigator.
