Callie's Cowboy (20 page)

It fit perfectly.

“Hah, one problem solved,” she said aloud as she gingerly stepped out of the dress. She folded it gently and returned it to the box. Now she would have to go to the mall to find some ecru satin pumps, and she would be set.

Callie finished up by watering the plants, which were indeed looking a bit droopy. She returned the watering can to the back porch and gave one final look around before heading out. That's when she noticed the office door ajar.

Had the cleaning service come? she wondered. Had they done a good job? She couldn't resist taking a quick peek.

The office was practically sterile in its cleanliness. No unpleasant odor lingered, just the aroma of furniture polish and glass cleaner. The desk chair was gone, she noticed—probably unsalvageable. She was about to
withdraw when an overwhelming temptation overtook her.

Johnny's computer. The suicide note. Would the police have left it on the hard drive, or erased it?

In moments the machine was humming. It was identical to the one she had at home, so she had no trouble cranking up the file management program. All she had to do was ask for word-processing files by date, starting with the most recent.

And there it was, a file titled simply “note.” She opened it, took a deep breath, and started reading:

My Dearest Family,

I don't see how I can go on. I'm exhausted from the constant struggle. Once I'm gone, you'll never have to worry again. I love you all. Please forgive me and remember me fondly.

Yours, now God's,

Johnny Sanger

The first thing that struck her was that the language wasn't Johnny's. He'd been a plain man of plain words.
My Dearest Family
and
remember me fondly
sounded like phrases out of a Victorian diary. But even as she was contemplating whether Sloan would entertain her suspicions, she noticed something else. Upon closing the file, she was back in file management, where the date of the note's creation was clearly listed.

A date that was two days after Johnny's death.

It took a few seconds for the full implication to hit her. Johnny hadn't written this note. A murderer had.

Good heavens, how could the police be so incompetent?
Whoever Sloan had brought over to log onto Johnny's computer obviously hadn't known what to look for. Once again, they'd been anxious to grab onto any clue—even a cleverly manufactured one—in order to close the case quickly.

Callie heard a car engine coming up the driveway. Her hands shaking, she quickly closed the file, then shut down the computer. It wouldn't do for anyone to catch her in here. She had to get away, then she had to contact Sloan. There was no doubt in her mind that Johnny had been murdered, and the murderer had taken the opportunity to create some handy evidence once all eyes were off the death scene.

But who? Any number of people had been at the house after the death, to pay their respects. And the family had all been here, of course.

She hightailed it out of Johnny's office just as the front door opened. Wheeling around the corner, she came face-to-face with Will Sanger.

“Oh, you startled me,” she said breathlessly. Another ten seconds, and he'd have seen her coming out of that office.

“Same here. What are you—”

She held up Beverly's wedding dress as evidence of her innocent intentions. “Your mom said I could try on her wedding dress. It fits, so I'm borrowing it.”

“Oh. Uh-huh.” He looked uncomfortable, tunneling his fingers through his short brown hair. Would he be able to tell she'd been snooping? Had she left some trail behind her? She wasn't a computer expert by any means.

“Well, guess I'll be going. I watered the plants.”

“Oh. Good. Mom asked me to, but I forgot, what with all the other stuff there is to do around here.”

Like manufacturing evidence?
“Um, I'll just be on my way.”

“Okay. By the way, congratulations to you and Sam.”

“Thanks.” She couldn't get out of there fast enough.

As soon as she was a good mile away from the Sanger place, she pulled over and used her cellular phone to call Sloan. Amazingly, she caught him in his squad car.

“I just pulled up to the mall to handle a shoplifting incident, and I'm kind of in a hurry,” Sloan said.

“It's important.”

“All right, all right. Meet me in the food court at the mall in twenty minutes. I'm almost off duty anyway.”

“But, Sloan—” It was too late. He'd disconnected.

She didn't really want to go to the mall right now. Sam and Deana were driving in from D/FW Airport, due in a half hour or so, and she'd told Sam she would be home when they arrived. But she supposed her absence couldn't be helped. She had proof—
proof
—that Johnny had been murdered. This wasn't something she could sweep under the rug.

And Will had seen her at the house. She might actually be in danger.

She made it to the mall with ten minutes to spare. Which store had Sloan been called to? she wondered. She walked from one end of the mall to the other but didn't see him. Now she wished she hadn't left: her cellular in the car. If Sloan was detained, he might try to call her and let her know not to wait for him.

By the time she reached the food court, it had been almost twenty minutes. She sat down to wait, something she wasn't very good at. She fidgeted, feeling definitely paranoid.

That's when she saw Tamra, walking briskly toward the food court as if she were on some important mission. Callie started to wave and call out to her future sister-in-law, then abruptly shrank back when she saw the table toward which Tamra was headed.

Nicole Johnson was already sitting there, waiting.

Now, what kind of business did those two have?

Intrigued, Callie moved to a table that was mostly concealed from the rest of the food court by a potted tree, then peered between the leaves at the two women. Neither of them had bought anything to eat or drink, which made Callie suspect this wasn't exactly a social meeting.

Callie couldn't stand it. She was dying to know what those two women were talking about. You can take the girl out of the newspaper, but you can't take the newspaper out of the girl, she caught herself thinking.

Before long, it became apparent that Tamra and Nicole were arguing. Although Callie couldn't understand the words, she could hear the shrill tones drifting across to her every so often. And Nicole's body language, especially, was telling. She was leaning forward aggressively, her attractive face spoiled with an ugly scowl. From time to time she shook a finger at Tamra.

After about five minutes of this Nicole stood up, shoved her purse strap over her shoulder, and flounced away.

Tamra sat very still, her head in her hands, the picture
of dejection. But slowly her head came up. She stared after Nicole's retreating form, as if mesmerized. Then, suddenly, she stood up herself, and with a sense of purpose etched into every line of her small, dainty face, she followed.

And Callie was right behind, her heart beating like a drum from a Sousa march. She had a feeling something important was going on here. She wanted to wait for Sloan, but if she did, she would lose her quarry. From a safe distance she followed, praying that both women were focused enough on their own problems that they wouldn't notice her.

Nicole went to her car, an older but well-maintained Cadillac—red, of course. Tamra lost herself in a crowd of teenagers, looking around furtively, ducking behind vans and lampposts like a third-rate secret agent.

Geez, Callie thought, why didn't the woman simply announce her presence with a bullhorn?

Callie kept the other two cars in sight as she unlocked her door, grateful they'd all three parked in the same lot. She started the engine, screeched out of her parking place, and stomped on the gas.

Tamra had turned right onto Revere Parkway, but now her beige Escort was out of sight. Callie chanced a look at her watch. Shoot, Sam was due to arrive any minute at her house.

Well, he'd just have to wait a bit.

She caught sight of Tamra's Escort again, stuck at a light. There was the red Cadillac too. Good. Callie pulled the cellular phone out of its case, lifted the hand-set, and dialed her home number. She got her answering machine.

“Sam? Sam, if you're there, please pick up.” He didn't, so she continued. “I've been, um, unavoidably detained. Please just make yourself at home, raid the refrigerator, and I'll get there when I can.” Impulsively she added, “I love you, Sam.” The words, still so new and fresh, gave her a thrill.

She hung up, feeling guilty for making him wait. But if Tamra or Nicole was somehow involved in his father's murder, he would want someone to find out about it. He'd once said so, anyway.

Next she dialed the number of Sloan's cellular, but got no answer there. So she dialed the police station. She'd memorized both numbers during the last few weeks.

“I think Officer Bennett's off duty now,” the operator said. “Did you try his cellular number?”

“No luck. How about Danny Fowler?” Callie asked.

“I'm sorry, he's off today.”

Damn. “Okay, thanks.” She disconnected, then dialed one last number—Sloan's answering machine at home. If he headed there after getting off duty, he might pick up the message.

“Hello, Sloan? It's Callie. Sorry I missed you at the mall. I saw Tamra Sanger and Nicole Johnson arguing. Now Tamra is following Nicole and I'm following Tamra. Please, if you get this, call me on my cellular.” She gave him the number, her approximate location, and the direction she was headed. “Oh, and Sloan? I have proof that Johnny Sanger was murdered.” There. If that didn't prompt him to call her back in a hurry, nothing would.

Sam pulled into the driveway and all the way back to Callie's carriage house. This last week without her had been pure hell, and he felt like a kid about to ride the roller coaster at the thought of seeing her again—excited, happy, and a little scared.

Their engagement had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it almost didn't seem real. They'd had only a few days to come to terms with it before Callie was boarding a plane for home so she could plan the wedding. They'd spoken several times on the phone, and Callie had sounded excited and not the slightest bit unsure about their upcoming marriage. Still, he wouldn't lose the slightly queasy feeling in his stomach until he laid eyes on her again and knew for sure that all of their plans were still on.

She'd told him she was out of the running for the job at
The Washington Post.
He wasn't sure whether he was grateful about that or not. More than anything he'd wanted Callie to be sure of her decision to marry him and live on Roundrock, and if she still wanted to after a stint in D.C., then he would feel pretty confident that she knew what she was doing.

Then again, he didn't want to wait six months or a year for her. He wanted her back at the ranch with him and Deana. He wanted to start living the rest of their lives. He wanted to devote himself to making her happy. So from a purely selfish perspective, he was overjoyed at her continued unemployment.

“Daddy, I haffa go potty,” Deana said.

“Soon as we get inside.” Leaving his luggage for
later, he went to the front door and rang. It didn't surprise him when Callie didn't answer. She was always late. He found the extra key she left under a pot of geraniums, unlocked the door, and carried Deana up the stairs.

On the way to the bathroom with Deana, he noticed Callie's answering-machine light blinking. It occurred to him that the message might be for him. If she was running late, she would call to let him know. But he nixed the idea of listening to the message. Though he and Callie were soon to be husband and wife, she still had her privacy.

With potty chores taken care of, Sam went into the kitchen to see if he might find something to drink. The phone rang, and he resisted answering it. Let the machine get it, he thought. If it was for him, he'd know soon enough.

He heard Callie's voice on the outgoing message, and smiled. Even that tiny, impersonal bit of his fiancée warmed his heart.

“Hello, Callie, this is Gloria Reames from
The Washington Post
,” the caller said into the machine.

Sam froze.

“I hadn't heard from you. Forgive me for being too anxious, but we hit it off so well when you interviewed that I'm really excited about the prospect of working with you. I hope you'll decide to come on board. Please call me at your earliest convenience.” She recited the number. “Oh, and I received the fax you sent regarding the Greenhorn at the Ranch story, and I think it's fantastic. I'm looking forward to talking with you more about it.”

The call disconnected—and so did Sam's heart. What in holy hell was going on? Callie'd been offered the reporter's job at the
Post
, that much was obvious. And she hadn't told him.