Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(51)

Then, slowly, she ambled away into the trees and he continued on.

On the slow curve to his home, he winced and felt the air go out of him. A gleaming pearl-colored 4 × 4 Range Rover was parked in his usual spot. It had county twenty-two license plates, which meant Teton County.

It was a new vehicle, but it meant one thing: Missy was there.

He fought against an urge to slam on the brakes, shift into reverse, and back away. Instead, though, he rolled on and parked next to the Range Rover. As he did, Daisy stirred and sat up. It was dinnertime.

Joe’s phone burred in his breast pocket and he drew it out. Anything, he thought, to delay the inevitable. The display read MIKE MARTIN.

“Hey, buddy,” Joe said. “Please tell me you’re driving my truck over here.”

“Tomorrow,” Martin said. “I think I can shake free in the afternoon. Eddie needs to pick up a box of tranquilizer darts for a problem bear in Cody—so he can drive his truck and then take me back.”

“Thank you,” Joe said with relief. “I really appreciate it. I owe you dinner and drinks.”

“You’ll owe me more than that,” Martin said with characteristic gruffness. “But that’ll be good. I’ll be able to catch you up on our grizzly case. It’s getting more and more interesting.”

Joe wanted to know more, but he looked up to see Marybeth glaring at him through the front window. She had her hands on her hips and he knew what that meant. She was impatient for him to come in. Marybeth didn’t like spending any more time with Missy than Joe did. Thus the emoji she’d sent him with steam coming out of its ears.

“I’m anxious to hear about it,” Joe said and punched off.

“Come on,” he said to Daisy as he opened his door. “Remember to growl and bite her if I give you the signal.”

Instead, his dog bounded for the door with her tail wagging back and forth like a metronome.

*

AS HE ENTERED the house, Missy looked up at Joe from their high-backed wicker chair in the living room. Her mouth pursed with contempt, but then instantaneously returned to a well-practiced half smile that was equal parts amusement and disdain. Her lacquered fingernails wrapped around the stem of a wineglass that rested on the arm of the chair.

She wore a high-collared jacket that looked Scandinavian, a soft turtleneck sweater, shiny black slacks, and knee-length high-heeled boots. Her heart-shaped face looked sculpted out of flawless ivory with the exception of an almost invisible web of wrinkles around the corners of her mouth. Missy, Joe thought, was remarkably ageless, although he had seen her once or twice without makeup where she almost looked her age.

She said, “I bet you thought I’d never get back.”

“A man can dream,” Joe said. What he’d dreamed about was her cruise ship hitting an iceberg. Or the vessel being boarded by murderous Somali pirates.

Missy didn’t respond to him. She seemed distracted, although when Daisy padded up to her with her tail wagging, Missy froze the Labrador in her tracks with a withering Don’t come any closer glare. Daisy turned away in mid-stride and sulked past Marybeth toward the kitchen.

Marybeth watched the exchange between her mother and Joe with caution. He noted that there were no place settings on the table or any food warming up on the stove. That was a positive sign, he thought. Marybeth had made no preparations for dinner and therefore there was no reason for Missy to stay. The wine was no surprise. His wife probably needed it to get through the evening.

Marybeth said to Joe, “I was catching Mom up on what the girls are doing. Somehow, she didn’t realize they were all out of the house.”

“Imagine that,” Joe said.

Joe wagered that Missy, if put on the spot, would be unable to say how old Sheridan, April, or Lucy was. She’d never really kept track of her growing granddaughters, although for a few years she’d sent Lucy a card on her birthday because she’d thought, erroneously, that their youngest daughter was the most like her. Sheridan and April had been onto Missy’s act and therefore hadn’t been gifted with her attention.

“One minute they’re babies,” Missy said wistfully, “and the next minute they’re grown.”

“Not really,” Marybeth said.

Again, there was no pushback from Missy. To Joe, that was uncharacteristic of his mother-in-law.

“So,” Joe asked as he passed by Missy, bound for the bourbon in the pantry, “what brings you here?”

“I really can’t say,” she replied.

He paused. “You mean you don’t know?”

“She means she won’t tell us,” Marybeth said. “I’ve asked. She’s being inscrutable.”

“I have my reasons,” Missy sniffed. She changed the subject by looking around the house. “This house is so empty and cold without the girls in it. I find it ironic that they moved you to a nicer and larger place once the girls were gone.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Marybeth said to her mother. “I told you what happened.”

“Oh, yes, your house was burned down,” Missy said with a roll of her eyes, like she didn’t really believe it.

Joe flushed with anger and embarrassment as he poured himself a drink over ice. Missy had a way of putting things that made him feel embarrassed for the life they lived. And he noted that she referred to his daughters as “the girls” because she couldn’t bear to call them her granddaughters. That would suggest she was old enough to be a grandmother, which she was.