Had the killer taken them, and then changed his mind about taking the truck? Or had he wanted something from inside the vehicle? Or maybe to leave something in the pickup?

  “Hopefully Rowdy’s in the truck,” Jaden suggested. “You need me to open it for you? I’ve got my slim jim in my rig.”

  “No, you stay here and help Kitty look for Rowdy,” the sheriff said. “I can get into the pickup.”

  Chapter Three

  Molly couldn’t believe it took this long to rent a car—let alone how many hours she’d already been traveling since getting the news about her father. She’d taken the last flight out of New York City and after two stops, had spent a restless short night in an airport hotel in Kalispell. This morning she’d taken an Uber to the car rental agency since being informed of the distance she still had to travel. Now all she had to do was get the car and drive to Fortune Creek, wherever that was.

  She was thinking that it might have been easier to buy a car, when the clerk at the rental desk finally found the car she’d ordered online from the hotel.

  “How long do you want the car?” the clerk inquired.

  “I don’t know at this point. Make it a week. Can I extend it if I need it longer?”

  “Yes, but you will be charged at a last-minute day rate.”

  Molly sighed, telling herself this shouldn’t take more than a week. “Fine, a week.” She noticed another woman waiting. Auburn-haired, about her own age, the woman was dressed much like she was, suit, heels and clearly just as impatient.

  “I would suggest a larger SUV,” the clerk said. “This is Montana—our weather is unpredictable, but this time of year it can snow.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Clearly the woman was. “It’s spring.”

  “In some places,” the clerk said and laughed. “Just not Montana.”

  “Fine.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Fortune Creek.”

  The clerk’s eyebrows rose. “If you’re going that far north, you definitely want the larger SUV. That’s almost to the Canadian boarder.”

  Great. She sighed and looked over again at the woman waiting. She saw the surprise on her face as well—also her sudden interest.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said as she approached. “Did you say Fortune Creek?”

  Molly held her tongue for a moment. The woman didn’t look like a journalist, but you could never tell. “Yes.”

  “That’s where I’m going.”

  “What are the chances you’re both going to Fortune Creek,” the clerk said with a cheerful chuckle.

  Yes, Molly thought. “Journalist?”

  The attractive brunette laughed. Molly caught the hint of a southern drawl in her voice. “No, I’m an insurance agent, Georgia Eden.”

  “Molly Lockhart, financial analyst. What takes you to Fortune Creek, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “One of my clients passed away.”

  “Really?” Molly said. How many people could have died in Fortune Creek recently? She had no idea. Was it possible her client was Clay Wheaton? She couldn’t imagine him buying an insurance policy on himself. With a start, she realized who he would buy a policy for though. Her heart began to hammer wildly. “Let me guess. Your client is Clay Wheaton.”

  Georgia looked startled. “How did you—”

  “And the policy isn’t on Mr. Wheaton, but on Rowdy the Rodeo Cowboy.”

  The woman was more than startled now. “I’m sorry, how—”

  “I’m Clay Wheaton’s daughter.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be,” Molly said. “My father and I have been estranged for years.”

  “Do you want the extra insurance?” the car rental clerk interrupted. “We recommend it since your insurance—”

  “Sure, whatever,” Molly said and signed the form the woman put in front of her.

  “That could explain then why we’re both going to Fortune Creek. I didn’t realize Clay had any family let alone a daughter,” Georgia said.

  “He had Rowdy,” she said. “That’s all he needed.”

  “Yes, he was quite attached,” Georgia said and chuckled at her joke, but quickly sobered at her inappropriate choice of words.

  Molly laughed but was unable to hide the bitterness in it. “Rowdy was like a son to him.”

  Georgia nodded sagely. “I never saw him without Rowdy. Is it true that Rowdy is missing?” Molly nodded and they both fell silent as Molly signed more forms and was finally given a key fob to the rental car. “I understand he was murdered.”

  “I have an alibi,” Molly said flippantly. “I wasn’t even in the state.”

  Georgia seemed startled at first, then realizing it was a joke, chuckled. “Clay was quite the character. Not father material I take it?”

  “I guess not, unless you’re a dummy.”

  The clerk explained where she could find her SUV and Molly started to roll her suitcase out to the rental lot as Georgia stepped up to the rental agency desk.

  But Molly hadn’t gone but a few feet when she turned back impulsively. “I’ve just rented the car for a week. I don’t know how long I’ll be staying, but since we’re going to the same place for the same reason...”

  Georgia seemed surprised. “I appreciate the offer and would jump at it, but it shouldn’t take you very long to handle your father’s affairs. I might be forced to stay longer than a week. I can’t leave until Rowdy is found. So it makes it difficult since we aren’t going for the same reason.”

  “I suspect we are going for the exact same reason.”

  “Yes, but...”

  “I could have handled my father’s...affairs by phone. I’ve come all this way because of Rowdy as well.”

  “Of course. I can understand why he has sentimental value for you—”

  Molly’s laugh was the first real one she’d had since getting the call about her father’s murder. “Sentimental? That old puppet is nothing more to me than a piece of wood with some metal and cowboy clothing.”

  Georgia’s mouth opened and closed like Rowdy’s did. “That old puppet you’re referring to is insured for a whole lot of money.”

  Molly blinked. “I know my father thought Rowdy was priceless, but worth a whole lot of money? You have to be kidding.”

  The woman shook her head. “It’s why I’m here. Rowdy has to be found. Once he is, I have a museum interested in purchasing him for a long-term exhibit, so if it’s money you’re—”

  “I don’t care what that dummy is worth,” Molly said waving away even the thought. “I plan to chop that piece of wood into kindling,” she supplied. “So how about that ride to Fortune Creek?”

  * * *

  THE SHERIFF USED his own lockout tool, a thin strip of spring steel, to open the older-model pickup. Newer cars had more technology built in and were harder to get into. The crime scene techs had gone to breakfast. He didn’t want to wait for them. If the dummy was in the pickup, it would save him a lot of headaches—two in particular who could be arriving in Fortune Creek at any time.

  He popped the lock, pulled on gloves and opened the pickup door. It groaned and he caught a familiar smell. Huckleberries.

  For a moment, he stood frowning as the scent dissipated and he wondered if he’d only imagined it. A quick search of the pickup brought him no closer to finding Rowdy. The dummy wasn’t here. Nor was there anything of interest in the glove box, or under or behind the seat.

  The only thing he found was a takeout container that had been jammed in the passenger-side-door cubby. He took a photo before pulling it out, wondering who had put it there. Someone Clay had given a ride to? He bagged it and the plastic spoon sticking out of it for prints, again catching a whiff of huckleberries and noticing a dark smear on the small white box.

  The sheriff smiled. If a piece of huckleberry pie had been in the box, he had his first lead. Alice Weatherbee at the café made the best huckleberry pie in the county. But who had eaten it? He hoped the crime techs could get DNA off the plastic spoon. Whoever it was hadn’t wanted to litter so had stuffed the container into the cubbyhole in the door? After bagging it, he put the evidence back.

  Satisfied he wasn’t going to find anything else of interest in the pickup, he locked the doors. Once the forensic team was finished, the truck would be stored down in Kalispell until the investigation was over. He’d let the crime techs take the evidence to the lab. The truck as well as the take-out box would be tested for prints and DNA. He felt as if he was making headway. If only he’d found the damned dummy.

  * * *

  FROM A SPOT in the woods on the side of the mountain overlooking town, gloved fingers tightened on the binoculars now trained on the young sheriff searching the ventriloquist’s truck. Clay Wheaton was dead. The news had already rocked the town. Murder had a way of doing that. But the worry was the repercussions.

  The young sheriff moved away from the ventriloquist’s pickup, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Troubling was the evidence bag the lawman had been holding earlier. He had found something in the pickup?

  A curse erupted in the pines, sending a bald eagle airborne and making a squirrel chatter angrily from a bough overhead.

  The gloved hands slowly lowered the binoculars. A foolish mistake had been made, but with luck it wouldn’t amount to anything. It was always the little things that got missed. The little things that put a person behind bars.

  But not this time. The only one who should have to pay was Clay Wheaton.

  And now he had.

  * * *

  THE SHERIFF WAS at his office that late afternoon when the rental car pulled up out front. He saw a slim blonde climb out from behind the wheel. She wore a navy suit, white blouse and heels and a look of all business on her pretty face. The whole outfit serving as armor, as she headed for the door.

  From the other side of the car, a woman also in a suit climbed out, removed a suitcase from the back of the SUV and headed across the street to the hotel.

  A gust of spring air wafted in as the blonde entered the small sheriff’s department building. It smelled of pine and water and fresh green grass. Even before she was close enough for him to see the intent in her blue eyes, he knew she must be the daughter of the deceased.

  “I’m Molly Lockhart,” she announced to Helen.

  “I’m Sheriff Brandt Parker,” he said behind her, making her turn to face him.

  “Have you found my father’s dummy yet?”

  “Why don’t you step into my office, Miss Lockhart.”

  “I assume that’s a no,” she said without moving. “Sheriff, I can’t imagine that we have anything to talk about until Rowdy is found.”

  “That’s not quite the case. We have murder to talk about. Please. My office.”

  She sighed and entered but didn’t take a seat.

  He followed, closing the door behind him before going behind his desk. As he sat down, he took her in. He doubted the woman had shed a tear for her father. “Sit down, Miss Lockhart. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. I need to ask you a few questions if you can make the time.”

  * * *

  MOLLY HEARD THE contempt in the sheriff’s tone. She’d already seen it in his narrowed pale blue eyes as she’d looked around his tiny office from his Stetson hanging by the door to a photo of him riding a bronc on his desk. The cowboy didn’t like her, and she resented being judged by this small-town sheriff. She didn’t want to deal with any of this and found herself almost wishing that she had just taken care of it on the phone.

  But then again, there was Rowdy. She’d always promised herself that one day that dummy would be at her mercy. She pulled out the plastic chair he offered, sitting rigidly, her purse in her lap. Furious that she’d been forced to come here and be judged, she also felt shame warm her face.

  This sheriff thought she couldn’t care less that her father had been murdered. He had no idea the years she’d hoped Clay Wheaton would someday want to be a father to her. Instead, she’d always been disappointed and hurt. Resentment and bitterness had formed a shell around her heart. It would take more than this cowboy’s condescending judgment to crack it open.

  The thought of how hardened she’d become because of her father brought tears of anger to her eyes. She hurriedly brushed them away. “You said you had questions?”

  “I’m trying to solve your father’s murder.” His tone softened a little as he said, “Do you have any idea what he was doing in Fortune Creek?”

  She shook her head. “My father and I haven’t been in contact in years.”

  That seemed to stop him. “May I ask why?”

  “You’d have to ask him. He left me and my mother when I was nine. All he took with him was Rowdy. Rowdy was his life, the son he never had. He had no interest in a daughter.”

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair, clearly taken aback. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. Sheriff, I’m only here to take care of arrangements for my father’s cremation and to pick up Rowdy.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to wait on both counts until the investigation is completed and the dummy is found,” he said. “I can’t promise you Rowdy will be found.” He held up his hand to stop her from replying. “We believe that the killer took Rowdy with him. So the sooner we find his killer, the sooner you might be able to get the dummy—if your father left it to you. Do you know if he left a will?”

  She shook her head, alarmed. She’d never considered he might have left the dummy to someone else. “Without a will, wouldn’t my father’s possessions, including Rowdy, go to his next of kin?”

  “I would assume so,” he said, clearly irritated with her again since the dummy seemed to be the least of the man’s worries. “Now do you want to help me find his killer or not?”

  She straightened in the uncomfortable chair as a tense silence filled the small room. She couldn’t help but wonder how many murders this sheriff had solved. He appeared to be about her age, maybe a little older. There was a confidence about him. He definitely spoke his mind. Under other circumstances, she would have admired that. Nor was he bad looking. Quite the opposite if you liked that rugged cowboy type. She did not.

  He studied her, curiosity in his intense blue eyes, clearly planning to wait her out. She didn’t like thinking about what he saw. His silent appraisal of her forced her to speak.

  “Like I said, I have no idea what Clay was doing here.” It wasn’t much of a town. A few buildings on a dead-end road back in the mountains, miles from anywhere. She couldn’t imagine why anyone would live here, let alone why her father would have come here. But she could see that the sheriff wasn’t going to let it go at that. “Was he scheduled for a performance?”

  “Not that we’re aware of.”

  “Did you find Rowdy’s case, the one he traveled in?” she asked.

  “No. Can you describe it?” He took notes as she described a metal case the size of a child’s suitcase with the brand and Rowdy the Rodeo Cowboy printed on the sides. He looked up to ask, “The dummy had his own brand? Can you describe it?”

  She silently questioned why that would be important just as she had with the case, but said, “The brand was burned into the side of the case under his name. I suppose I can describe it. I could probably draw it better.”

  He produced pen and paper, and shoved both across his desk to her. She noticed how clean his desktop was. Must not have a lot of crime. She also noticed his hands. Suntanned with numerous small scars. A working man’s hands. She wondered how long he’d been sheriff.

  She picked up the pen and began to draw. She was no artist, but finally satisfied that it was a close enough replica of the brand, she pushed the paper and pen back across his desk to him.

  “A backward C with a small r inside it.”

  “The whole thing appears to be on a rocker, if that makes sense.” She saw his expression change. “What?”

  “There’s a ranch not too far from here with that brand. You have any idea why your father would have chosen this particular brand?” She shook her head.

  “This is at least a lead.” He sounded extremely pleased. He even smiled, giving her a glimpse of the handsome rodeo cowboy that was much easier to take than an officious sheriff. Also, a lead meant that she wouldn’t be here long. She couldn’t help the relief she felt. Once she took care of Rowdy, she would be on her way back to New York City, back to her life.

  She would finally put her father and his dummy behind her for good.

  Chapter Four

  Ash Hammond had been watching from the front window of the hotel. He saw the young blonde go into the sheriff’s office while a young brunette got out of the passenger side of the SUV and walked across the street toward the hotel. As rare as murder was in Fortune Creek, two visitors who looked like these two women was even rarer.

  No longer on a major two-lane paved highway, let alone the interstate, Fortune Creek saw few visitors aside from the tourist months of summer. If someone showed up in town with out of state license plates any other time of the year, it was a good bet that they were lost.

  From what Ash could tell, these two women had come here intentionally so they had to be the two the sheriff had mentioned. They’d come about the murder. He tried to remember the last time he’d seen a woman in high heels crossing Main Street, let alone wearing a suit. Only the undertaker from Eureka, the closest town of any size, wore a suit.

  Ash hurriedly left the window to take his place behind the registration counter as she pushed open the door. She stopped just inside it to blink in the cool semidarkness of the hotel’s lobby. He saw her gaze take in the Western decor, much of it original, before she made a beeline for him.