He regarded her for an extra beat, as if he sensed her unspoken words. “Yes.”
Out of the vehicle, she hurried around the front of his car while he waited for her, and then together they entered the glass-paned front door. The Classy Cat was a tony shop fashioned after an Old West saloon. The shop was chock-full of all kinds of fancy Western wear, such as rhinestone belts, turquoise jewelry, and leather vests and skirts. Fashion had never been Ann’s bailiwick, and whenever she had dressed up, she’d always felt a little self-conscious. As she ran her fingers over a soft, buttery leather vest, she wondered if her new single status required an edgier look.
Saloon doors separating the back office from the front swung open, and a woman dressed in a prairie dress, a silver concha belt, and boots appeared. Dark hair was swept back in a sleek ponytail.
Her gaze flickered to Bryce but then zeroed in on Ann, as if in a glance she had categorized them as a couple. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“I was looking for a pair of boots,” Ann said quickly as she pulled her phone from her back pocket. “Dana Riley posted this pair in July, and I love them. I’m hoping you still have them in stock.”
“Sure thing. May I?”
Ann handed her the phone, watching the recognition flicker on the woman’s features as she nodded.
“That’s a specialty pair. We didn’t have too many of those. I do remember Dana. She was a live wire.”
“You remember her?”
“Mid-July. It was a slow weekday, and when she showed up, I figured she was a tourist who was just looking. Then before I knew it, she bought herself a whole outfit, including the boots. Turned out to be a good day after all. I took pictures of her and posted them on my site.”
On her phone, Ann searched the store and pulled up the July posts. She immediately spotted the boots. The woman had dipped her head and pulled her cowboy hat forward, successfully obscuring her face. It was dated three days after Dana was killed. “Did you post these the same day you took them?”
“Yes. Like I said, it was a slow day.”
“Was she alone?” Ann asked.
“She commented she was with a guy, but she never said who. Why are you asking about Dana?” the woman asked.
Bryce approached and showed the woman his badge. “I’m Sergeant Bryce McCabe with Montana Highway Patrol. This is Dr. Ann Bailey. You are?”
The clerk looked a little confused. “Betsy Davis. Look, those boots had to have been bought by Dana. I asked for her ID, considering the purchase was so large. I’ve been burned before. And she produced a driver’s license. She looked like her picture.”
“Ms. Davis, Dana was murdered several days before that purchase was made, but her body was not found immediately. Without a body or missing-person report, there’d been no reason to red-flag the credit card account,” Bryce said.
“I had no idea,” Ms. Davis said.
“Are you sure she didn’t say anything about the man she was with?” Ann asked.
“She said she was getting dressed for a date with him. Said they’d not seen each other in a while, and she was excited to be with him.”
“And you never saw him?” Bryce asked.
“I didn’t. He never came into the store.”
“Did she mention if they were staying in town?” Bryce asked.
“She said they were moving back to California soon. Said they were meeting a friend there.”
“Did she mention a specific location or a name?” Bryce kept his gaze trained on Betsy.
“No.”
“Did she appear nervous or distressed?” Ann asked.
“No.”
Bryce pulled up the Polaroid picture of Jane Doe. “Was this Dana Riley?”
Ms. Davis studied the picture. “Yes, that’s her. Blond hair.” She looked up at them both. “This isn’t Dana?”
“No, ma’am,” Bryce said.
“Did she kill Dana?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Bryce said as he pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything that might be of help, would you call?”
She flicked the edge of the card with a manicured finger. “Sure, I will.”
Neither Ann nor Bryce spoke until they were outside. Both were silent as they considered what Ms. Davis had said.
“Our third victim was posing as Dana Riley?” Ann asked. “The killer gave her Dana’s credit card.”
“Looks like it.”
“If Jane Doe was a Firefly, it’s not hard to assume who the man manipulating her is,” she said.
“Elijah Weston.”
Elijah arrived at Ann’s former home and found Maura in the kitchen, singing to a song on a beat-up brown radio. She was wearing an apron dotted with small blue handprints and handwritten letters reading HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY. She had cinched the strands at her narrow waist, knotting it at the base of her back in a neat bow. The apron was another Ann remnant picked off the trash pile, and the handprints were Nate’s.
“You look very domestic,” he said.
She jolted at the sound of his voice and whirled around, wide eyed with hints of fear and then relief. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
He knew how to move quietly or announce his presence with heavy footfalls. Prison had called for both skills, and if he was anything, he was an adept student. “What are you doing here today?”
“Last day on the job. Ann comes by this afternoon to pay me, and then my work here is done.”
The freshly scrubbed air smelled of a melody of cleaners. The dirt and grime were gone, but like all houses, the walls were infused with laughter, tears, shouting, and quiet conversations. He was glad Nate was not living here. The past could be a heavy weight to carry.
She peeled off her yellow rubber gloves and draped them carefully over the sink. “Don’t you have volunteer work today?”
“Later,” he said, moving toward her until only inches separated them.
“Why did you come by?”
“To see you,” he lied.
She captured one of his buttons and gently twisted it between her fingers. “I’m finished here. This place can’t get any cleaner. I have time to kill.”
“Really?”
“The bedrooms are still staged.”
He refused to fuck in the family bed and certainly not on Nate’s old bed. He backed her up until she bumped into the counter. “What’s wrong with here in the kitchen?”
“Nothing.”
He traced a blue handprint. “Take the apron off.”
She arched her breasts toward him as she reached behind her and undid the bow. She loosened the apron and bunched it in her hand, ready to drop it. He took it from her, neatly folded it, and placed it on the table behind them.
“You’re very sentimental,” she said curiously.
He hefted her up on the counter and slid his hands up her naked legs to the edges of her shorts. Her skin was smooth, soft, and nicely tanned.
She pulled the band from her hair, letting light-brown tresses fall around her shoulders. He gathered a lock of it in his hand. It smelled of flowers and sunshine. She reached for the snap of her pants, pushed open the folds, and wiggled out of them. He undid his top pants button, then the zipper.