Long Range (Joe Pickett Book 20)(61)

The importance of Dr. Arthur’s message didn’t hit home until Joe felt Marybeth’s hand grip his knee.

“. . . about an hour ago,” Arthur continued, “Sue Hewitt succumbed to her injuries . . . We did all we could.”

“My God,” Marybeth whispered to Joe. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. “Poor Sue . . .”

Joe was confused. He glanced to Dr. Arthur’s side. Judge Hewitt was covering his face with his hands. Apparently, he’d been trying to hold himself together, but Arthur’s announcement made it all very real to him. Duane Patterson had turned so his back was to the room. His shoulders shook as he cried silently to himself.

That explained their demeanor, Joe thought. The news overtook him and the implications of it were clear.

“If you haven’t figured it out yet,” Sheriff Kapelow said to the room, after gently shouldering the doctor from the podium, “instead of attempted murder, our suspect will now be charged with murder in the first degree of Sue Hewitt.”

“I’m heartsick,” Marybeth said to Joe. “I thought she was recovering.”

“I thought she was, too,” Joe said. He recalled Arthur’s talk of the bullet splintering inside and how unusual that was. He wondered if the judge was lamenting his decision to keep her close and not have her airlifted to Billings or Denver. And he wondered why Patterson seemed to be so overcome by the sudden turn of events.

Then something hit him. Two revelations at once.

The first was that he suddenly knew what motivated Sheriff Kapelow, and that answer put everything that had happened into perspective.

The second was something Stovepipe had said.





EIGHTEEN


IT WAS AN HOUR AFTER THE PRESS CONFERENCE HAD taken place in town and Candy Croswell was flustered.

She’d read the sheriff’s announcement on Facebook and at the time it had filled her with immense relief. They had a suspect in custody. The knot in her stomach about Tom was finally starting to unclench. It wasn’t until that moment when she read about the man in custody that she acknowledged her growing suspicions about Tom had likely been wrong. It was a huge burden off her shoulders. She rewarded herself with a third glass of wine.

But her joy and relief were short-lived when the annoying woman driving a pearl-colored Range Rover showed up and demanded to speak to Tom. Candy now regretted opening the door and letting the woman into the house.

“Call him,” the annoying older woman demanded of Candy. “Tell him Missy Hand is here to see him with a five thousand dollar check, as agreed. We have business.”

“Missy Hand?” Candy asked. She’d never heard the name before.

“He knows who I am,” Missy said with a sniff.

“I don’t,” Candy said.

Missy responded with a wave of her hand. “That doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m not here to see you. He’s expecting me.”

“He is? He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“Imagine that,” Missy said with a roll of her eyes.

Missy Hand was direct, determined, and dismissive. She knew what she wanted—whatever it was—and she was there to get it, Candy thought.

Through the peephole in the door, Missy had looked small and frail but well put together. Her clothes were fashionable and they fit perfectly, so she obviously wasn’t a transient or door-to-door salesperson. The Range Rover had Wyoming plates, but it was from a different county—number twenty-two. Candy was not yet familiar with the confusing numerical designations of various Wyoming counties. She assumed the woman was lost and that she needed directions somewhere.

But what did she want?

Candy asked her.

“Are you his wife or something?” Missy asked.

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t concern you. He never even mentioned you when I talked with him and you have no standing as far as I’m concerned. Anyone can shack up, believe me.”

Candy was speechless.

“I need to talk to him now,” Missy said. “I can’t wait around all day. Call him. I’m sure you can do that without messing up your nails. Call him and tell him I’m here.”

Without waiting for an invitation, Missy walked across the living room and poured the last of Candy’s wine into a glass. Missy lifted the glass and looked at it from below as if confirming from another angle that it was less than barely one-quarter full.

“You could have saved some for me,” she said.

“I don’t even know you,” Candy replied. She wanted to sound angrier, but the woman unnerved her. Missy acted as if she belonged there and Candy was the interloper.

“You do have a phone, don’t you?” Missy asked her.

“Look, lady . . .”

“Call me Mrs. Hand.”

“Look, please, Mrs. Hand,” Candy pleaded, “he’ll be home later tonight. Leave me your number and I’ll ask him to get in touch with you and you can figure it out from there.”

Missy simply shook her head no. “Where do you keep your wine?” she asked.

Candy didn’t reply, but she’d inadvertently cast a glance toward Tom’s under-the-counter wine storage. Missy caught it and opened the glass door. She chose a very expensive 2004 Joseph Phelps Insignia Cabernet that Candy knew Tom had been saving for a special occasion.