“It makes as much sense as anything else I’ve been able to come up with,” Eli said, thoroughly discouraged. He’d thought of all those possibilities himself, but he still had to wonder where Jane Doe’s coat or jacket was—among other questions.
It was January in Montana, and thus it was bitterly cold. Nobody went around coatless in weather like that, not even young women too foolish—or too desperate—to realize that clandestine meetings in isolated places could go south in a heartbeat.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, when neither Sam nor the Doc offered further comment. They wanted to get on with their grisly work, hurry home for a holiday dinner.
Once again, Eli’s stomach rolled.
“I’ll be in touch the moment we have anything solid,” Alec told him, not unkindly. “The specimens are tagged and ready to go to the lab in Kalispell tomorrow—Sam will drive them up there himself.” A brief silence fell. “Oh, and Russ Schafer called about twenty minutes ago, said he’d be in Marisol’s office tomorrow to have a swab taken.”
Eli nodded again, and left.
He’d accomplished nothing by this visit—wondered, in fact, what in the hell he’d expected to accomplish.
He was irritated with himself, spinning his metaphorical wheels.
And Eli Garrett hated wasting time.
He climbed into his SUV and radioed Melba.
“Have you spoken to Shallie?” he asked without preamble the instant she answered.
“Yes,” Melba replied, sounding as discouraged as Eli felt. “The last Shallie heard, Bethanne was in rehab, on her third or fourth go-round. She did time for drug-and alcohol-related crimes—was married at least once—Shallie doesn’t think there were any children, but there are some pretty big gaps in Bethanne’s history, so who knows?”
“Nothing on social media?”
“I’ve scoured all the major sites, and the answer is basically no.”
“‘Basically’ no?”
“Bethanne was pretty active online, back in the Myspace days, but she’s nowhere on the Book of Faces. Same with Twitter and Instagram and all the other virtual hangouts.”
“Helpful,” Eli said.
“Don’t kill the messenger,” Melba answered lightly.
Eli chuckled, but it was a grim sound, lacking even a trace of humor. “Sorry.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Dan says you’re planning to run against me,” Eli said, wishing in the moment that she would run for sheriff, come the next election year—and win.
Melba didn’t miss a beat. “Dan Summers is full of sheep-dip. If you haven’t figured that out, Sheriff, maybe I should give you a run for your money.”
“Today, I would hand you this job on the fabled silver platter.”
“Fortunately for me, you can’t,” came the crisp reply.
Eli laughed again. Still no amusement. “Damn it,” he half growled.
“What’s the next step?” Melba wanted to know. She wasn’t much for light banter, though she could certainly hold her own in that—or any other—arena.
“In your campaign for sheriff?”
Melba made an eloquent sound of dismissal. “That’s two years away, Eli, and you’re still a pretty popular guy in this county. I meant what’s the next step in the investigation?”
Eli sighed heavily. “I’m headed out to the Painted Pony Creek Motel to ask Russ Schafer a few questions. Make sure he doesn’t forget to go in for a swab.”
“Yesterday,” Melba reflected aloud, “that poor girl was still alive.”
“Maybe,” Eli allowed. “She could have been out there for a day or two, though. Weather this cold keeps a body pretty fresh.”
“Where was her coat?” Melba asked, still musing aloud rather than seeking an answer.
“I’ve been wondering that, too. If she drove out to that lot, she could have left her coat or jacket in the car. She might have been in a hurry to confront whomever she was meeting.” He paused. “Of course, that begs the question, what happened to the car?”
“Exactly,” Melba said. Then, after drawing in an audible breath, she asked, “Why don’t you call it a day after you talk to Russ? Go over to your sister’s house and enjoy a nice dinner with your family.”
“I’m planning on doing that,” Eli answered.
“Brynne’s there,” Melba informed him.
Had everyone in the whole damn town seen him kiss Bailey the night before and drawn their own conclusions?
Evidently.
“So is Dan,” Eli retorted. “Join us? At Sara’s place, there’s always room for one more.”
While waiting for an answer, he shifted the SUV into Reverse, checked his mirrors and backed out of his parking space in the funeral home’s parking lot.
“Sara invited me,” Melba admitted.
“Bring the kids,” Eli suggested generously.
“They’re at my mom’s, over in Silver Hills. She’ll bring them to school in the morning.”
Eli was rolling toward the edge of town, and the highway that would take him to Schafer’s run-down motel. The place always made him think of Norman Bates, of Psycho fame, sitting in a rocking chair, dressed up in his mother’s clothes.
“All the more reason to get out of the house,” Eli said.
“I’m not in the house, Sheriff. I’m in your office, trying to find some trace of Bethanne Schafer.”
“Go home, Deputy. Swap the uniform out for civvies and head on over to Sara’s place.”
Melba said nothing, but the space between them was charged with—what? Annoyance? Challenge?
“What’s the matter, Summers?” Eli chided. “Are you chicken?”
Melba huffed. “Schoolyard tactics, Sheriff,” she accused. “I expected more from you.”
“You are chicken,” Eli pressed, with a chuckle.
“You know damn well I’m not,” Melba replied coldly.
“Not when it comes to muggers and bank robbers and druggies, maybe, but you are sure as hell one hundred percent scared of Dan Summers.”
Melba sputtered, clearly on the verge of telling Eli—boss or not—what he could do with his taunts, but not quite able to bring herself to do it.
“Or are you afraid of yourself, Deputy?”