“Where did you find the wallet?”
“Same place on Sunday. Both were together.”
Harmony Hardt had died years before Lily Green. Those pieces shouldn’t have been together.
Unless Lily Green had kept a purse like Harmony Hardt’s. I’d assumed at first that the H monogram had been for Harmony but maybe it was the designer’s logo. When I’d gone to identify the purse, I’d started with Harmony’s mother. When she’d recognized it, I hadn’t cross-checked it with Melina Green.
I’d be making a stop after taking Briggs home. And doing more research on the origin of this purse.
“Did you find the purse or wallet first?” I asked.
“The wallet. It was right in the middle of my usual trail. Nearly stepped on it.”
“Where was the purse?”
“In a bush about thirty feet away.”
“On the trail?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
My mind was racing, possibilities and scenarios flashing like a strobe light. There was no reason that he should have found both articles so close together.
Briggs could be lying, though his admission only made it more suspicious. A more believable lie would be that he’d found the purse years ago and the wallet more recently, both on completely different trails.
Assuming it was the truth, why had they been together?
Could this be part of the suicide pattern? Maybe one of the kids had started it as a symbol, to leave something behind. But that didn’t make sense at all. The purse was in too good condition if it truly was Harmony’s.
And after Lily, we’d all gone around the area, looking for evidence. I’d spent hours up there searching for her shoes. The reason I hadn’t found them was likely because Briggs had beaten me to it. But I hadn’t found the purse or wallet either.
Who else had been up on that ridge?
“Is your trail well known?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Did you find the boots in the same area?”
“No. They were closer to my cabin in a field. I probably would have missed them except they were by a cluster of wildflowers and I stopped to pick a bundle.”
I’d have to scout both locations. Maybe there was something else left behind. Maybe there was more. “The trail where you found these.” I gestured to the purse and wallet. “Is it the trail that leads to the cliff? The one from the road?”
“No, they’re separate. You can get to the cliff from my trail, but it’s the long way around. There’s a cut across to the one you’re talking about that’s about two hundred yards from the cliff. I rarely take it because I head up higher.”
Paths swirled like spaghetti noodles in my head as I tried to visualize what he was talking about. “Is there a map that shows any of this?”
“No, but I could sketch one out.”
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a notepad and a pencil, then slid them over to Briggs.
While he went about drawing the map, I studied his face.
Was he guilty? Did he do this?
I’d asked those questions before, in different interrogation settings.
Once, I’d questioned a man who’d been accused of raping a woman in an alley behind a downtown bar in Bozeman. He’d been so cooperative. Seemingly so innocent. So distraught over what had happened because the victim had been an acquaintance from college. Yet he’d done it. He’d looked me in the face and sworn to me that he’d had nothing to do with it.
It was my nature to believe there was good in most people, but I hadn’t believed that son of a bitch for a moment. DNA had confirmed my instincts.
Did he do this?
In that bastard’s case, yes.
With Briggs? No. Maybe. I don’t know.
If there wasn’t a doubt about his mental capacity, it would be a lot easier to decide. But what if he’d done something terrible and couldn’t even remember doing it? What if he’d gone out hiking and run into a girl on the wrong path? What if he’d gotten violent with her?
What if he’d gotten violent with his wife and Frank had been right, that he’d driven her away? Or what if Griffin was right about Frank and this was all just gossip spewed in a small town by enemies?
The truth was probably somewhere in the middle, hidden for me to find.
Briggs finished his sketch and handed me the notepad. The map was simple and concise. He’d circled the area where he’d found the purse and wallet. He’d marked where he’d found the boots. From how he’d drawn the map, there really was no reason that the girls would have gone on his trail. If they’d parked on the road and taken the same trail that I’d taken to look over the area, they shouldn’t have even gotten close to where Briggs had found the purse and wallet.
Unless he was lying.
He’d had that wallet for days, allegedly. He’d heard about Lily Green’s death. Why hadn’t he immediately brought it in?
“Did you look through the wallet?” I asked.
“No, I, um . . . I was going to. Then I sort of forgot about it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “After the fire.”
“The purse is in good condition.” I pointed to the handbag. “It doesn’t look like it’s been outside long.”
“Probably hasn’t. Leather like that would be ruined in a spring rainstorm.”
Either he’d had it longer than he’d claimed. Or someone had put that purse on the mountain along with the wallet. Yes, both could be Lily’s. But even then, she’d died early last month. We’d had rain showers since her death. That purse and the wallet should be in worse condition if they’d been outside since June.
There was a chance they’d been sheltered from the worst of the elements, maybe shaded under a tree. Assuming the purse was Lily’s. Assuming she had taken the wrong trail. Assuming that she’d tossed the purse and wallet aside before going to the cliff.
Too many assumptions.
“Have you seen anyone hiking in that area lately?”
Briggs shook his head. “It’s private property. Only person who regularly goes there is me.”
“You’re sure?”
He locked his eyes with mine and understanding crept into his gaze.
If there was evidence of anything sinister, he’d be my primary suspect. He had the means. The opportunity. The only solid element missing—the key element—was motive.
Trespassing was weak but a possibility. Maybe he’d seen someone on his ranch and he’d gone into a rage.
It was thin.
I hated thin. It usually meant I was missing something.
The uneasy noise in my head was beginning to scream so loud I wanted to plug my ears.
What the fuck was going on? If Lily really had committed suicide, someone might have been with her that night. She’d had sex with someone.
Briggs?
That would explain why none of her friends had noticed a boyfriend. Maybe she’d been sneaking up to the mountains for an affair with a much older man.
Maybe . . .
There were too many maybes. But if he’d had her boots up there, it made sense why her feet hadn’t been shredded. She’d been wearing them until, what? He’d pushed her? He’d tossed her over the edge?
“Can you tell me where you were the night of June first?” I asked, hating the way his shoulders slumped.