Gypsy King (Tin Gypsy, #1)(13)

Clifton Forge didn’t get the enormous influx of tourists that other small Montana towns saw each summer. Tourism here was nothing like it was in Bozeman, where I’d grown up. Our town was too far off the interstate to get much notice. The millions of visitors who poured into the state each summer to visit Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks passed us by.

Our town’s main influx of outsiders came in the fall, when hunters made Clifton Forge their home base before setting off into the wilderness with guides and horses to hunt elk, bears and deer.

Most of the locals liked it that way, forgoing added business traffic for peace and seclusion. When you walked into the café or the coffee shop, nine out of ten faces were familiar.

Except mine wasn’t. Yet.

I hadn’t spent enough time out and about town. Now that summer was here, that was going to change. I’d spent enough years in Seattle being recognized for my face—if I was recognized at all. For the most part, I was just another anonymous person going about their daily lives.

But here, I wanted to settle in and settle deep. I wanted people to know I was Lane and Tessa Ryan’s daughter, because belonging to them made me proud. I wanted people to think of me when they thought of the newspaper, because reading my stories was a highlight of their week.

“Good morning,” I said as I entered the coffee shop.

The barista sat behind a counter next to an espresso machine. Her mouth was hanging open as she stared at my newspaper between her hands. “Did you hear? A woman was murdered at the motel.”

I nodded. “I heard. It’s awful. At least they caught the guy.”

“I can’t believe it. Draven? He’s such a nice guy. Leaves good tips. Always friendly. I just . . . wow.” She folded up the paper and put it on the counter, the shocked look on her face remaining. “What can I get you?”

“Cappuccino, please.” I smiled politely, even though I was irritated that Draven had seemed to fool so many.

“For here or to go?”

“To go. I’m just out for a morning walk.”

Any other morning, I would have introduced myself, but as she made my coffee, she kept stealing glances at the paper. I doubted that if I told her my name, she’d remember it today. She seemed distraught. And not by a woman’s murder, but because Draven was the primary suspect.

How does he have everyone fooled?

She made my coffee and I left her with a wave. I crossed the road, heading for the newspaper but perusing the businesses on the opposite side of the street this time. When I reached my car, I got inside but home was not my destination.

The Evergreen Motel had been swarmed with activity over the past two days, the police barricade sending a very clear go the hell away message to anyone driving by. But the murder was two days old and my questions would only wait so long.

It was a risk going so soon but one I was willing to take. With luck, the owners might have some information they’d be willing to share about the victim. Or Draven himself. Information they might have been too flustered to give to the cops.

The motel was on the other edge of town, away from the river. The drive took only minutes, the streets nearly empty. It was appropriately named; the tops of the evergreens that surrounded the motel on three sides seemed to brush the clouds.

The building itself was only a single story, built when the style was for each room to have an exterior door. The metal keys were no doubt attached to red oval disks with the room numbers stamped in white letters. The motel was a U shape, all twelve rooms facing the kiosk in the center that was the office.

Had the owners not taken such good care of the Evergreen, it might have reminded me of some seedier areas of Seattle where motel rooms like these were rented by the hour. But as it was, this place was clean and charming.

The siding was a freshly painted sage green. Flower baskets hung on posts outside each room, overflowing with red, white and pink petunias. The parking lot had recently been restriped.

Definitely not a place I would have expected a murder.

A man about my age sat behind the front desk in the office, the small room built solely for function. There was no waiting area for coffee in the mornings or a cookie plate in the evenings. There was just enough space to stand by the counter to collect your key—all of which hung on a pegboard on the wall. I’d guessed red oval disks. These were green.

“Morning, ma’am,” he greeted.

“Good morning.” I flashed my brightest, friendliest smile.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No, I’m actually from here.” I extended my hand across the counter. “Bryce Ryan. I work at the Tribune.”

“Oh.” He hesitated before taking my hand. “Cody. Cody Pruitt.”

“Nice to meet you, Cody.”

“You’re here about what happened in 114?”

I nodded. “Yes. I’d like to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t know anything more than I already told the police.”

“That’s okay.” I reached into my purse for a small notepad and a pen. “Would you mind if I took a few notes as we talked? You can always say no. And you can always say something is off the record if you want to keep it between you and me.”

“That’s fine. But like I said, I don’t have much to report.” His jaw was tense. His eyes narrowed. Cody was seconds away from shoving me out the door.