Shadows Reel (Joe Pickett #22)(21)
When Marybeth arrived, Lola was drinking Dixie cups of peppermint schnapps and watching her soaps on television. Before leaving, Marybeth invited the woman to Thanksgiving dinner with them, and although Lola demurred at first, she agreed to come if no one minded that she left early.
Which meant they had to plan for an additional seat at the table, even though Marybeth doubted that Lola ate much.
But after unpacking the groceries in her kitchen, Marybeth felt the photo album pulling at her. She assured herself that she’d devote only a few minutes to it. That had been three hours before.
Only the arrival of the vehicle outside broke her trance.
* * *
—
She pushed the album and laptop to the side of the dining room table and tossed a spare apron over the top of them so neither could be seen. The subject matter of the materials was too disturbing to be viewed without context. The album exuded a malignant evil. If it was able to penetrate and infect her, no doubt it would have the same effect on others.
Nevertheless, she couldn’t wait to show it to Joe, tell him what she’d learned about the original owner, and what she was starting to discover about how it might have found its way to rural Wyoming. She was obsessed with it.
But when she parted the kitchen curtains she noticed that the headlights in the drive weren’t from Joe’s pickup. They were narrower and the beams were less focused from the headlamps.
Someone was coming, and she didn’t recognize who it was.
* * *
—
Although there was a small wooden sign out on the county road indicating the turnoff through the timber to the Saddlestring District Game Warden Station—which was what their house was officially called, since it was owned by the state agency—it was always interesting and sometimes alarming to see who showed up after dusk.
Since it was in the latter part of the big-game seasons, it could be hunters arriving to turn themselves in for violations or to report others for transgressions. Occasionally, local landowners who couldn’t contact Joe by either cell phone or via the dispatcher would simply show up to report trespassers or make their case against changing regulations or opener dates.
The Pickett house had always been quasi-public. Only in larger communities like Cheyenne, Casper, Jackson, or Lander were there dedicated office buildings for Game and Fish personnel.
Marybeth was used to handling situations on the fly, and when people showed up, she no longer had the added worry about their daughters in the house. Not that being completely alone was that much better. But there was no doubt having a woman open the door instead of the game warden himself sometimes defused tense situations.
As agreed between them long ago, she snatched her cell phone from the counter and texted Joe.
Someone coming down the road.
Seconds after she sent it, she saw the word balloon go active on her screen as Joe typed out his reply.
On my way.
Marybeth smoothed her pants with the palms of her hands and strode through the kitchen into the dining room. She checked to make sure the front door was bolted—it was—and the twenty-gauge pump-action shotgun was leaning upright in the corner near the door. Joe had insisted on it, and it was times like these when she remembered it was there and she was grateful. No hunter or fisherman had ever showed up and threatened her, but over the years she’d had to deal with inebriated men who wanted to come in and wait for Joe. She wouldn’t let them.
She paused at the door and leaned into the peephole. The lens distorted what she could see.
An older-model Toyota Tundra with dealer plate tags drove up to the front gate and stopped. She couldn’t yet see who was driving or how many men were inside.
Not until the driver’s door opened and the dome light came on. Then Marybeth cried out, threw back the bolt, and stepped outside.
A tall, flinty-looking female swung out of the cab and her cowboy boots dropped to the gravel. She stepped away from the open door and stretched. The light from inside the cab illuminated the side of her angular face and one almond-shaped eye. Her hair was dirty blond, streaked with pink and violet highlights.
“April,” Marybeth said. “I didn’t expect you until much later tonight.”
“I figured I’d just drive straight through from Montana.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“My cell phone died,” April said. “I forgot to bring my charger.”
That was not unusual when it came to April, Marybeth thought but didn’t say. April operated in her own universe and Marybeth knew how much that distressed Joe. One of his daughters driving alone at night without a working cell phone would make him crazy. But this was April, after all. She could be a tough customer.
“Well, come on in,” Marybeth said, stepping aside. “Do you need any help with your things?”
“Nope,” April said, reaching into the bed of her pickup for a duffel bag. “This is all I’ve got. Except for my new dog. Can I let him come in?”
“You got a dog?”
“I got a dog.”
That’s when Marybeth saw the massive head of a jowly bull mastiff rise from the front seat and almost fill the passenger side of the windshield. Twin ropes of drool strung down from the sides of its mouth.
“Goodness, April.”