Chirp(65)

“Yeah, Seth became a father and got another woman to agree to marry him.” Rance broke into laughter. “And I thought I was a player. You two are outplaying me on every level. You proposed to Tiffany yet?”

“Not yet.”

Rance pulled his brows together. “You say that like you plan on it.”

Nicky turned up his bowl and slurped the remaining milk, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I sure like her. Could turn into love.”

Rance shook his head. “What’s gotten into you and Seth? Leave the city, come to Podunk, USA, and fall for country girls. Crazy.”

“You’re one to talk. You have a bed partner. Last I heard, you weren’t even speaking.”

Rance didn’t want to risk another love lecture, so he changed the subject. “What you got going today? Back to your new honey’s house?”

“Later. I thought I’d go with you to move the pony. You get the fence fixed?”

“Yeah, and there’s enough water in the pond to hold him for a while. Mr. Henderson has a trailer we can use, so if you’re ready, we’ll go.”

“Lead the way. I’m right behind you.”





Tom Fraser


Tom Fraser had been in the detective business long enough to know local watering holes were a wealth of information. As he came to a stop in front of The Roost, he figured it wouldn’t be any different. Bartenders kept their ears to the ground.

One good thing about private practice was he no longer had to wear standard black suits. In a country town, jeans, knit shirts, and cowboy boots filled the bill.

He sauntered in and slid onto the stool at the end of the bar. Too early for happy hour, the place was empty except for three old guys at a corner table.

The bartender approached. “What can I get you?”

“You got Atrial Rubicite?”

“Sure ’nuf.”

“Give me a bottle of that.” Tom placed a twenty on the counter.

The barkeep delivered the tall boy and a pilsner. He stepped to the register, then returned with Tom’s change. “You passing through?”

“Yeah. Looking for an old friend. Thought I might stop by her place and catch up. Lost touch. Dessie Bishop. You know her?”

“Yeah, but sorry to tell you, she died a while ago.”

Tom tilted the glass, poured in the brew, and gave his best fake expression of concern. “Sorry to hear that. They sell her place?”

“Naw. Left it to her grandson. Rance Keller. Ever meet him?”

“No.” Tom gulped, then smacked. “Damn, I don’t know if it’s the well water or the raspberries, but that’s good beer. He living there?”

“Yeah. A few months now. Got an early release from prison.”

Tom’s stomach clenched at the thought of an ex-con visiting the reward site. “Dessie never mentioned a troublemaker in the family.”

“I don’t think he is. Never caused a problem in here.”

“So he’s a regular?”

“Was for a while. I think he was catching up, if you get my drift. Left most nights with a woman on his arm.”

Tom chuckled. “Maybe one caught him. Happens when we least expect it.” He thought about Helga and how he’d already fallen for her.

“So, what line of work you in?”

“Retired FBI.”

“Cool.”

“Take my word, the job isn’t as sexy as they make it on TV. So, how was the festival? I remember Dessie looked forward to it every year.” Tom remembered no such thing, but he’d done his homework. Lying was an art form and if you wanted to master it, you had to have your intel in place. Which meant learning what the area was famous for and reading past issues of the local paper. Didn’t take much to find out Dessie helped to get bluebird houses mounted on all the county roads.

Within fifteen minutes, Tom had extracted all the information he needed. And thanks to Google, he located the house and learned all about Rance Keller.





Rance


Rance put the last plate in the dishwasher and stared out the kitchen window at the dust kicking up. “I don’t recognize this car pulling into the drive, so stay out of sight.”

Chirp busied herself wiping the table while Muttly searched underneath for stray crumbs.

Rance dried his hands on the cup towel, then stepped onto the porch as a middle-aged stranger got out of his silver Chevy Equinox. “You lost?”

The guy shaded his eyes against the setting sun. “No. Looking for Rance Keller.”

“You found him.”

Rance eyed him. Dark hair graying at the temples, he looked to be in his mid-fifties. About six foot. Still in good shape, but getting a little paunch around his middle.

The stranger narrowed his steely gray eyes and stuck out his business card. “Tom Fraser.”

Rance read it, then focused on the investigator “How can I help you?”

“I’m working a missing person case, and my investigation has led me here.”

“Me? Missing? Case solved.”

“Not you. A young woman. Wren Montgomery.”

From the moment of his arrest, Rance discovered law enforcement didn’t want the truth; they only wanted to be right. Lying with a straight face became second nature—and to be good at it, he never said more than necessary or defended his answers. “Sorry, can’t help you.”