She had laughed as well since it was as if he’d read her mind. “Sorry, it is just in such an out-of-the-way place.”

  “We get tourists in the summer—some people get lost and end up here for the night,” he’d admitted with a chuckle. “With the latest publicity, more will be coming, thanks to your father.”

  She’d frowned. “Him dying in your hotel?”

  He’d shaken his head. “No, sorry, the dummy. The older couple who was in the nearby room swore they heard Rowdy singing after...you know.”

  “That’s not possible. You do know the dummy doesn’t talk without the ventrioloquist, right? So with Clay dead, Rowdy wasn’t singing.”

  Ash had shrugged. “Just telling you what they said they heard. Since they went to the press with the story, it will probably be like last time.”

  “What happened last time?”

  “Rumors of the hotel being haunted brought ghost hunters out of the woodwork,” he’d said and smiled. “I can see that you’re a skeptic. Me too. I’ve had this place for over a year. Haven’t seen a ghost yet.”

  “That’s...comforting,” she’d said. “Though it is interesting what the older couple in the next room said they’d heard. It could mean that the killer was still in the room manipulating the dummy.”

  He’d frowned. “Wouldn’t the killer also have to be an impersonator? Seems unlikely.”

  “As unlikely as a dummy coming to life and singing because his master was dead?”

  “You have a point,” he’d said with another chuckle. He had a great smile and was handsome, if you liked that big brawny good-looking type. She preferred a leaner solid look. Like the sheriff. The thought had made her realize just how tired she was.

  She’d said good night and gone up to bed, before falling dead asleep. But her slumber was haunted by weird dreams that left her feeling uneasy even in the light of day.

  * * *

  MOLLY SMELLED LIKE SUNSHINE, the sheriff thought as he led her into his office and closed the door. Her hair, long and blond, was tucked up into a rather messy ball at the nape of her slim neck. He thought that was the style nowadays. But he also thought she might have hurried after her morning shower because her hair appeared to still be damp. He feared he’d awakened her, which only made him wonder when she’d gotten to bed last night. From his upstairs apartment, he’d seen her wandering down the street toward the bar last night.

  “Please have a seat,” he said as he took his chair behind the desk. He couldn’t help thinking about everything Coroner JP Brown had told him. There’d been so much off about this case right from the get-go.

  “Peculiar case,” the coroner had said earlier on the phone, once he knew he had the sheriff’s attention. “Like the ink.” JP had cleared his voice. “It was all over the fingers of the deceased’s right hand.”

  “And this is important how?” Brandt had to ask.

  “He was writing something with a leaky pen before he died.”

  The sheriff had chuckled. “He left a note on the hotel stationery with two names and phone numbers to be called in an emergency it said. There were ink drops on it and a smudge.”

  “Before he was murdered? As if he knew he was about to die?”

  “Maybe. Maybe it was something the man did on a regular basis, traveling alone and being of an age.” He remembered something that hadn’t struck him as terribly odd before. “Neither the leaky pen nor any of the hotel stationery that Ash supplies to the rooms was found.”

  “Can’t imagine why the killer would have taken a leaky pen, let alone the stationery,” JP said. “Maybe simply because it was free.”

  “I guess, but why would the killer leave the note Clay had written? Because the killer had wanted the next of kin notified? Or because it didn’t matter?”

  “Interesting,” the coroner had said. “Didn’t you tell me that the man’s daughter is in town?”

  JP’s question had rattled him. If there was even a chance that the killer had wanted her to come to Fortune Creek, then Molly Lockhart could be in danger.

  “Anyway, you’re probably more interested in the DNA,” the coroner had said and dropped the real bombshell.

  As Molly took a chair across from him, Brandt met her gaze. This morning her eyes were like a tropical sea of blues and greens. “You were right about your father.” Hadn’t she told him that she thought Clay was a phony? She raised a brow. “Clay Wheaton wasn’t his real name. When his DNA was run, it brought up his military service record. Did you know your father was in the military?” From her expression she hadn’t. “He enlisted at seventeen with the name he was born with, Seth Crandell. According to the information he provided at that time, he was the son of Irma and Cecil Crandell with a rural address outside of Eureka, Montana.”

  “Crandell? From the ranch where we went yesterday?”

  He nodded. “I believe that elderly man who came out with the shotgun is Cecil, his father. Did you see the name Seth carved in the tree?”

  Her eyes widened. “Seth. I saw the name carved into the tree trunk.” He could see her putting the pieces together. “The story he told through Rowdy about the pocketknife and the tree hadn’t been something he made up.”

  She hugged herself as if feeling a chill. “If that’s the case then...then maybe the other stories were true too.” She looked at him with a kind of wonder. She had a heart-shaped face with bow lips, her skin porcelain smooth. In the shaft of sunlight pouring into his office from the front windows he wondered how he hadn’t noticed before how beautiful she was.

  He blinked, realizing that she’d asked him a question. “Sorry?”

  “Couldn’t that explain what he was doing here if those people are his family?”

  His thought exactly. “Your family too.” He saw that she hadn’t made that leap yet. “And there’s more.” She seemed to brace herself, looking expectantly at him, but also wary. “I’m sorry, but your father had cancer at a stage where if he hadn’t been murdered, he would have had only weeks to live.”

  * * *

  MOLLY TOOK THE news like a blow. Now she knew what her father had been doing here in Fortune Creek. “He’d come here to see his family before he died.”

  The realization came with the familiar bitter taste. Her father had come here to see his other family—not her. He’d come to see the Crandells, those odd people she’d seen yesterday.

  It was as if the sheriff was thinking the same thing. “He might have had some loose ends to tie up here before he...”

  She shook her head. “Before he came to tell me goodbye?” She was on her feet, angry with herself for coming here. All of this was too much to take in. She’d told herself she was doing this because she needed closure and destroying Rowdy would give it to her. The more she learned about her father, the more she didn’t want to be here, the more she didn’t care what had happened to him or his dummy.

  “For whatever reason, he’d changed his name and became a ventriloquist,” the sheriff said. “Maybe there is something about him he needed to hide behind Rowdy—and hide from you.”

  “His whole life was a lie even if his silly cowboy stories were true,” she said. “So what if he was running from something? Hiding behind the dummy? Whatever it was, he’d come back here to...” She looked at him as if she expected him to fill in the blanks and remembered what Georgia had told her. “He’d been here before.”

  “Maybe,” the sheriff said. “He asked for room 401 next to the fire escape, but given what we now know...”

  “Someone could have told him to take that room,” she said with a start.

  “Maybe. There’s a chance he’d been expecting company. We suspect the killer used the fire escape to enter and exit the hotel. There’s no alarm on that door, but when closed, it’s locked. That night someone had propped the door open with a book. Your father wrote the note with your name and phone number on it, along with his insurance agent’s.”

  “He knew he was going to be killed. So basically, he was committing suicide by murder?”

  The sheriff shook his head. “You realize this is all conjecture. We have no proof.”

  “He changed his name. Doesn’t that sound like he had something to hide? Something to fear by staying Seth Crandell? If so, then he had to have known returning here would be dangerous. You don’t think one of the Crandells killed him? His own family?”

  “Not necessarily. But they might know who would want to harm him.”

  She groaned. “How could I not know this?” she demanded of herself more than the sheriff. “The clues were all there. That ridiculous brand on Rowdy’s case. I never dreamed it was any more real than his cowboy costume or my father’s.”

  A few moments ago, she’d wanted to walk away from all of this, regretting coming here. Now though, she knew she couldn’t leave without finding out the truth. She said as much to the sheriff and saw his expression change.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He seemed to hesitate before he continued. “The killer took the pen your father used to leave your phone number and the extra hotel stationery. But the killer left behind the note with your name and number and Georgia Eden’s.” She waited, not sure what he was getting at. “The killer might have wanted you to come to Fortune Creek.”

  Molly frowned. “Why?”

  “That’s what I don’t know. But you could be in danger.”

  She stared at him for a moment before shaking her head. “I’m not leaving until I know who killed my father—and why. I guess that means I’m going to have to go back out to the Crandell Ranch.”

  “Whoa!” He held up his hands, no doubt hearing the determination in her voice. “Way too dangerous. For all we know one of them killed your father.”

  “You’re planning to go back out there, aren’t you?”

  “On official business this time.”

  She met his gaze. “Take me with you.”

  “Bad idea.”

  “Then I’ll go alone.”

  “That is an even worse idea. Maybe you didn’t pick up on the tension out there the other day. You could be shot as a trespasser. In Montana, that is definitely not unheard of.”

  “If you’re trying to tell me that things are different here, I’ve already figured that out.” She gave him an impatient look. “If they have the answers, then I need to talk to them. Seth was their son. That makes me their granddaughter.”

  “If they killed one of their own, I doubt you being Seth’s daughter will hold much sway with them,” he said, trying to reason with her.

  She dug in, seeing that it didn’t really surprise him. “I’m going, one way or the other.”

  He swore under his breath. “Promise me you won’t go alone...” He rushed on before she could speak. “And I’ll let you ride along with me. But you have to do what I tell you. The Crandells could be dangerous.”

  “I have to know why my father changed his name, why he left here, why he came back and why he kept it all a secret to his death,” she said. “Those people back at that ranch know.”

  “I suspect they might,” he said, though sounding reluctant. “But that doesn’t mean that they’re going to tell me. Keep in mind, we’re dealing with possible murderers.”

  “And kidnappers. Let’s not forget Rowdy.”

  “Yes,” he said with a groan. “Let’s not forget Rowdy.”

  Chapter Eight

  With time to kill before the sheriff could make the trip out to the Crandell Ranch again, he suggested Molly get some breakfast. “You wouldn’t leave without me,” she said, stopping in his office doorway to look back at him.

  “No,” he said, not appearing happy about it. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  She nodded and left to walk down to the Fortune Creek Café. Along the way she passed several empty lots and the empty stone building that she’d noticed last night. The structure appeared to have been a bank. It was small with large windows across the front.

  There was something about it that drew her closer. She stopped to peer in the windows. Inside, she was delighted to see an old tin ceiling, hardwood floors and oak cabinets that ran from floor to ceiling on one side. It appeared that after the bank closed, the building had been used as some kind of shop.

  She could imagine it as a place that sold unique handcrafted one-of-kind items. People would drive all the way to Fortune Creek just to buy them. Maybe. If not, there was always an online business using photographs of a shop for promo. She decided she would mention it to a couple of the investors who might be interested. She’d work up a cost analysis when she returned, she thought with excitement. She’d ask the sheriff who owned the building and how much they might want for it.

  Molly stopped herself. She needed to get breakfast so she’d be ready to leave when the sheriff was. But she couldn’t get the building and the potential shop out of her mind since once she’d seen it, she could now imagine it as if it was already a done deal.

  On down the street, she pushed open the café door to the smell of fried bacon and coffee. Her stomach rumbled as she started to step in and saw Georgia. She was sitting with a young woman with coal-black hair that had been plaited into one long braid. The two sat at a small table by the window.

  She put her head down, pretending not to have seen them, and started for another table at the back.

  “Molly,” Georgia called to her. “Come join us. There’s someone you need to meet.”

  She turned, pretending surprise to see the two of them sitting there, and headed for the table all smiles as if she and Georgia hadn’t argued yesterday.

  Georgia did the introductions as Molly took the free chair. “This is Jessica Woods. She’s camped down by the creek.”

  Molly had seen the camp last night. But she couldn’t imagine why Georgia thought she’d need to meet this woman with her hippie clothing and a little white furball of a dog in a basket beside her chair.

  “And this is Ghost,” Jessica said motioning to the dog. “She helps me with my research.”

  “Research?” Molly repeated.

  “I’m a parapsychologist,” Jessica said and smiled. “A ghost hunter and Ghost helps me.”

  “Guess why she’s in Fortune Creek,” Georgia said, then blurted out, “She’s here about Rowdy the Rodeo Cowboy.”

  Molly stared at Georgia, then at the woman. Jessica was younger than both she and Georgia but not by much. “What do you want with Rowdy?”

  “The singing,” Georgia said. “She wants to find out if Clay reached out to Rowdy from the other side or if Rowdy has always been the conduit for paranormal occurrences.”

  She stared at one woman, then the other, speechless. She’d thought she’d heard Rowdy singing last night. The memory came back so sharp and crisp that she would have sworn it had been real. But her father was dead so common sense told her that story was just part of this ongoing nightmare.

  “I really doubt—” But Georgia cut her off, asking about the woman’s dog’s abilities. Fortunately, a plump brown-haired woman came out of the kitchen with a full pot of coffee. She filled a cup for Molly and took her order. “I’d like an egg white omelet with—”

  “She’ll take bacon and those delicious pancakes, you make, Alice.”

  As the woman refilled Georgia’s coffee cup, she smiled. “You sure you don’t want another pancake or two, Georgia? You could use some meat on those bones.”

  Georgia laughed and said, “The pancakes were delicious, but I’m full as a tick.” The woman’s laugh followed her all the way to the kitchen.

  Jessica excused herself to leave for an appointment with Ash Hammond, the owner of the hotel. She scooped up the basket with the dog and left.

  “What was all that about?” Molly demanded, slightly annoyed that wherever Georgia went she seemed to make friends. It wasn’t a talent Molly had herself. “Ghost hunter? Pancakes and bacon?”

  “You’ll love the cakes,” Georgia said dismissing her complaint. “It’s also the special today so that’s really all Alice is set up to make. That’s why there aren’t menus.” She waved all that away and leaned conspiratorially across the table. “Do you believe this? Jessica is looking for Rowdy too. Who else is going to show up wanting the dummy?”

  “That’s the part you’re having trouble believing?” Molly asked and then laughed, Georgia joining her. She marveled at this woman. She seemed at home no matter where it was. Even here in this strange little town.

  “Maybe there’s something to it,” Georgia was saying. “Otherwise, how do you explain the dummy singing after your father was dead?”

  She shook her head. That was just it; she couldn’t explain any of this. Having just learned that Clay Wheaton was really Seth Crandell, the son of Cecil who’d almost shot her yesterday, she felt off-balance. That was enough to try to get her head around without attempting to understand why the elderly couple thought they’d heard Rowdy singing after her father had died. Clearly, they had been mistaken about the time.

  “How’d your trip go with the sheriff yesterday?” Georgia asked as Alice brought out her breakfast and refilled their coffee cups, commenting on the beautiful day and complimenting the blouse Georgia was wearing.

  Molly waited until Alice had gone back to the kitchen. Yesterday during their argument, she and Georgia had felt like adversaries. Which she now thought was silly. They both wanted the same thing. Kind of. Also, could she really blame Georgia for being suspicious of her given the million-dollar insurance policy?

  But mostly she needed someone to confide in since who knew how long they would be here. She needed Georgia’s down-home take on this mess.

  “Turns out Clay Wheaton wasn’t his real name.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently, he’d changed it after he got out of the military before he’d met my mother. It looks like he might be related to a ranch family from around here.”