Ms. Calculation Read online

  He pulled the car to the side of the road, just around a bend and out of view from the nosy neighbor. “Here, let me show you.”

  He unbuckled his seat belt and, leaning over, reached up and cupped her face in his hands. In a slow, meticulous move he ran his thumbs over her cheekbones, rounding the motion into a smooth, small circle. Then he let his right thumb move down lower...toward those pink lips he hoped were just for him.

  She leaned into his touch and pulled the thumb into her mouth, sucking on the tip in a way that told him that she was just the kind of woman he wanted in his life.

  He moaned as she nibbled on the tip of his finger, and at the sound she leaned back, releasing him from her seductive hold. His body quaked to life and he tried to ignore the lust that pulsed through his veins.

  Was it possible that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her? Was it a direction he wanted to go in? She had rejected him yesterday, and everything had gone askew. If they took things down this kind of road, would it be as disastrous as they had both assumed? Or did it have a chance of not being as dead-ended as they thought?

  Maybe together they could build something off the connection they had once had, and both seemed to continue to feel. They could take this in a new direction, a direction leading to something far more real and meaningful than what they’d had in high school.

  But it was so risky. There were so many roadblocks. None of which was more real than the fact that if he went with this, there was more than a good chance he would get his heart broken again.

  She smiled, her lip brushing against his thumb. He traced the line of her lips and dropped his hand from her face.

  He wanted her. He wanted this. But now wasn’t the time or the place for them to make those kinds of choices. They still had to work together, and if everything went wrong again, he didn’t know if he could handle the tension that would come with their attempts at having a relationship.

  Besides, he was leaving. He’d be gone for about a week. A lot could happen in that time. She could remember something about him that she hated, or she could think of a new reason not to be with him. Or maybe she wouldn’t like the way he communicated when he was gone. They could make a relationship in the car work, but he wasn’t sure it would have a real chance when it was tested by the outside world.

  He let go of her and leaned back into his seat. She looked at him, her eyes full of a familiar heat...a heat and want that he had seen those many nights in the barn. He forced himself to look away or he knew he’d fall victim to those eyes and that face. And there would be no shielding his heart from the things that he wasn’t sure he was ready to feel.

  “Wyatt...” She said his name in a voice barely above a whisper, and the sound made his pulse quicken.

  He cleared his throat and gripped the steering wheel. He didn’t want to talk about what had just happened. He didn’t hold the answers. All he had was questions. And, maybe more than anything, he didn’t want to screw this up.

  She started to say something, but closed her mouth as if she had thought better of it. She wiped at the corners of her lips, fixing an invisible smear, then turned to him like she was ready to come back to reality—a reality in which their feelings for each other weren’t the priority.

  He didn’t know what to say, so he said the first thing that came to mind that didn’t involve her or them or the things he wanted to do to her. “You know what? I just had an idea. You know who drives a black Audi?”

  “Who?”

  The name rolled around in his mouth like a foul-tasting morsel. “Monica Poe.”

  “You’re kidding me.” The tightness in Gwen’s features that had come with his changing of the subject disappeared. “Everything seems to point at her. Doesn’t it?”

  “And sometimes, when the signs all point in one direction, it’s the answer we’re looking for.” There was a wiggle in his gut that told him he wasn’t sure if they were on the right track, but he ignored the feeling. Even if Monica wasn’t the one who had drugged Carla and been responsible for Bianca’s death, she had to have been involved.

  He pulled the car back onto the road. They weren’t far from the antiques shop. He glanced down at the clock. It was a little early, but it was possible Monica’s shop could be open.

  Even though he wasn’t sure about opening his heart, he reached over and opened his hand. Gwen held back for a moment, just looking at his open palm, but she finally laced her fingers with his. It wasn’t that he had wanted to reject her—far from it. Maybe she understood, or maybe she was even experiencing the same confusing rush of feelings.

  This time, she didn’t move her fingers in those sweet little circles he now loved so much, and he didn’t either.

  The closed sign was still up in the little antiques shop, but the lights were on inside as they parked out front.

  “Don’t say anything about our investigation or what happened to your mother. Let me see if I can feel her out a little bit first. Sound good?”

  Gwen nodded but didn’t say anything, and he couldn’t decide if he was in trouble with her again. Thankfully, as he came around her side of the car and opened the door, she looked up at him and gave him a soft smile, making some of his fears drift away.

  Maybe she did understand.

  As they made their way up to the front door of the shop they each kept their distance from one other.

  He tapped on the cold glass of the door, the hollow sound echoing down the empty Main Street.

  At the sound, Monica poked her head out from the back room of the shop and, seeing them, waved. “I’ll be right there, hold on a minute!”

  The nervous tone of her voice made him wonder if she was trying to hide something. He tried to control his need to just null his way inside uninvited. Sure, some of the clues in the case pointed toward her, but there wasn’t much that they could actually use to prove she was behind the murder.

  After a minute, Monica came out from the back room, carrying a towel as she dried her hands. She tossed the towel over her shoulder as she gave them a stiff nod and opened the door.

  “How’s it going, guys? I’m surprised to see you again so soon.” She looked between him and Gwen, searching their faces for clues.

  Her black eye was looking a bit better. Some of the swelling had subsided and now there were places on her cheek where the bruise had started to turn a lighter shade of purple. She waved for them to come in and locked the door behind them.

  The shop was full of ranching knickknacks, the kinds of things that always seemed to fill the area above his mother’s kitchen cabinets—baskets and rolling pins, antique teapots and little dainty cups and saucers. In fact, he was sure his mother had a water pitcher and bowl with little blue flowers that matched the set on display in the front window.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Monica asked, making him aware he hadn’t really returned her greeting.

  He hadn’t done it on purpose, but now she seemed almost nervous with their presence.

  “Sorry, just browsing...” He motioned to the blue flowered tea set in the front window. “I think Gwen’s mom has something similar to that.” He looked at Gwen. “Doesn’t your mom have something like that?”

  Gwen frowned at him. “She has some china, but I couldn’t tell you what pattern it is. I think it has some pink flowers. Maybe it’s Noritake or something.”

  “Oh, Noritake china is very nice. I have several pieces here,” Monica said, walking across to the other side of the room and picking up a white teacup with dainty white flowers and a silver trim. “This is from the Lorelei collection, one of my favorites. Just the teapot in this pattern goes for around two hundred.”

  He had been baiting Monica for a reaction to talking openly about Carla, but instead of growing more upset, it was almost as if the conversation about dishes brought her back into her c
omfort zone. And if Monica was okay with talking about Gwen’s mother this soon after someone had drugged her, it was more than possible Monica didn’t have anything to do with the event—or she was a dang good liar.

  If she was like her husband, they could be dealing with the latter.

  Monica set the teacup back on the shelf and turned back to face them. As she moved, he noticed a hint of makeup masking her black eye. Maybe it hadn’t really gotten better, and she had just done her best to hide what had happened.

  “How’s your eye doing?” he asked.

  Monica reached up. “Oh, it’s fine. No big thing.”

  “What happened?” Gwen asked, her voice soft and full of concern.

  “Oh, it was nothing, just klutzy ol’ me.” Monica waved them off.

  He’d heard that one before. “Fall down the stairs or something?”

  Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “How did you know?”

  Monica was never going to tell them the truth. And she was never going to give them William as the guy who had placed the punch. She was the kind of woman who would consider it her fault if a man hit her. The thought made him hate William Poe even more.

  “Where’s William today?” he asked as he moved around the shop, careful never to take his eyes off her face as he searched it for tells.

  She stiffened at the sound of her husband’s name. “He had to head to Spokane for a few days for a conference. Why?”

  “Where was he on the evening of December third?”

  She looked from him to Gwen. “What does this have to do with?”

  “It’s nothing you have to worry about. Yet,” he said. “But it would be incredibly helpful if you could give me a better idea of where you and your husband have been over the last few days,” he said, his tone so sweet that he could almost taste it on his tongue.

  “You weren’t really talking to William about the Widow Maker’s taxes, were you?” Monica said, glaring at Gwen. “Does this have something to do with your sister? About her death?”

  Excitement coursed through Wyatt. They were getting somewhere.

  “How do you know about Bianca’s death?” Wyatt pressed.

  Monica’s eyes were full of anger and fear—a dangerous combination. “Everyone in the town knows about Bianca.”

  Did Monica fish around for information because she knew what kind of man her husband was? How much did she know about him, about what he was capable of?

  “And whatever you are thinking, you can stop now,” Monica continued. “William’s been out of town. He was only home for a couple of hours yesterday to get some clean clothes. He’d been in Bozeman, stopped in, and left for Spokane.”

  “What about you? Where were you on that evening?” Wyatt asked.

  “Me?” Her voice was high, so much so that it came out like a mousy squeak. “I...I was at your family’s ranch.”

  Wyatt tried to control his excitement at her revelation. “So let me get this right... You were at the site of Bianca’s murder...the night it took place?”

  Things just got a whole lot more interesting.

  Her gaze moved to the door, like she was thinking about running. He stepped in front of her.

  “I don’t know anything about your sister’s murder, Gwen. I swear,” she said, her voice edged on pleading.

  Wyatt stared at her. “If that’s right, Monica, then why do I have the feeling you’re not telling us the truth?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monica was in a stage-four meltdown by the time Wyatt pulled into the parking spot in front of his mother’s office at Dunrovin. She was sobbing in the back seat, the sound muted by the thick layer of Plexiglas that kept him from being hit, kicked and spit on by his normal class of back seat passengers. Though he had heard his fair share of crying—usually by men—from back there as well. Yet this time, he felt a touch of empathy.

  Though Monica was his prime suspect in Bianca’s murder, something about the whole thing didn’t fit. Most of the time, when someone was truly guilty of a crime, they either acted completely indifferent or they started rambling—and that chatter usually led to some type of admission. But this time, he had a feeling an admission of guilt wouldn’t be coming. Not from the hot mess that was currently Monica Poe.

  “I swear. When I was at the ranch, I was with Christina Bell the whole time,” Monica said between heaving sobs. “She and I... We were playing with Winnie. I wouldn’t. I’d never. I barely even knew Bianca.”

  Gwen turned around in the seat to look at Monica. “What’s your take on red boots?”

  Monica’s inhaled and wiped away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “Red boots? What are you talking about?” Her voice was hoarse from her ugly crying.

  “Do you own a pair?” Gwen asked, making Wyatt proud as she passively interrogated the woman. That was his girl.

  Monica shook her head. “No, I don’t wear boots.”

  “At all?”

  “No. They hurt my feet, I have high arches.” She lifted her foot for them to see her shoes. They were high heels, black with a red sole, and they looked expensive, but they definitely were about as different from a pair of cowboy boots as a person could get.

  “Christian Louboutins? Wow.” Gwen stared at the shoes like they were made of gold. “I’ve only seen those on the internet. They’re beautiful.”

  Monica put her foot down and sat up a bit in the plastic hard-shell seat as she regained a bit of her composure.

  Gwen pointed to the back. “Those are at least a thousand dollars,” she whispered.

  “Thirteen hundred, but I got them on sale when I was in Vegas,” Monica said, reaching for her purse and taking out a small makeup compact. She dabbed at the last bit of wetness on her face before reapplying her makeup.

  Something about her sudden shift in demeanor struck Wyatt as strange, but then again, nothing about the woman or her husband was completely normal. Here she was, sitting in the back of his patrol unit, wearing a pair of shoes that cost more than his first beater pickup and reapplying her makeup like she was on a trip to the mall instead of being questioned for her involvement in a murder.

  Maybe she wasn’t as innocent as he had begun to think. She was just as much of an enigma as Gwen, but in an entirely different way.

  He got out of the car and made his way over to Gwen’s door, then Monica’s to let her out. As Monica stepped out of the car and into the snow, she had to carefully maneuver around some horse droppings. He chuckled, enjoying the juxtaposition between the high-end woman’s ideals and the Montana reality.

  They walked into Dunrovin’s main office. His mother wasn’t there, and the phone was ringing. Hopefully it was for reservations, and not for someone wanting to cancel after they heard about this week’s events.

  Christina came out from the back of the office, chewing on an apple as she walked toward the phone. She didn’t notice them. “Dunrovin Guest Ranch. This is Christina, how may I help you?”

  He stood there in the door, watching as the dark-haired woman put something in the computer and, after a couple of minutes, hung up the phone. Normally this kind of thing was their receptionist’s job, but Whitney was nowhere to be seen.

  Christina turned around and nearly jumped as she finally saw them standing there. “Holy crap!” She clutched at her chest, apple still in hand. “Where did you guys come from?”

  Monica stepped between her and Wyatt. “I need you to tell Wyatt we were together the whole night when Bianca was murdered.”

  Christina frowned at him. “Are you kidding me, Wyatt? Are you seriously coming down on my Monica?” She dumped her apple in the trash and came over and wrapped her arms around Monica, as though she were shielding her from any of his accusations.

  “I’m not saying or assuming Monica had anything to do with Bian
ca’s death,” he lied. “I just need to make sure I go down the list and clear everyone who could have been involved with this.”

  Christina let go of Monica and motioned for her to take a seat on the other side of his mother’s desk. Monica sat down, gracefully crossing her legs at the ankle.

  “Monica wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Christina waved toward her friend like she was completely affronted by the fact that he would question her.

  “What about William?” Gwen asked as she leaned against the doorjamb.

  Christina passed a look to Monica that told him Christina had a clue about William’s reputation.

  “William wasn’t here. I don’t know anything about him or his dealings,” Christina said, still staring at Monica. “He was out of town on the night they found Bianca’s body, wasn’t he?”

  “Could anyone account for him at that time?” Wyatt pressed.

  Monica turned to him. “Look, if you think it’s him, do whatever you need to do. Track his phone... Whatever. But I’m telling you he was out of town. He wasn’t behind this.” Anger coursed through her voice.

  “How are you so sure?” Wyatt asked.

  “Because...” Some of Monica’s self-assurance seemed to slip away and her shoulders and back relaxed. “Look...” She sighed. “I’m tired of playing the dance-around-it game. Let’s all acknowledge the elephant in the room. I know about William and Bianca. I’m not stupid. I know he likes other women.”

  Wyatt tried to keep his jaw from falling open.

  “Did he do that to your face?” Gwen asked, motioning to her eye.

  “It’s why he’s gone. After you left the other day... I confronted him about Bianca. And about you.”

  “Me? He and I? No,” Gwen scoffed.

  “If you knew my husband as well as I do, you wouldn’t put it past him. No offense, but he’ll screw anything that walks.”

  “Is he going to be coming back anytime soon?” Wyatt asked.

  Monica shrugged. “I have no idea. The last time something like this happened—when I found out about one of his mistresses—he stayed on the road for a couple of weeks. But with his name and reputation somewhat tied to Bianca’s murder, he may come back sooner.”