always carried it in his wallet,” Maggie said. “I saw it the day before he died. It was dog-eared and faded and I wanted to put it away for safekeeping, but Max wouldn’t hear of it.” She stopped; he watched her fight the painful memories. “When I went to hang up Pete’s coat, I saw a piece of the photograph sticking out of his pocket.”
“Didn’t Pete have a copy, too?”
She nodded. “But I’d written on the back of the one I gave Max. I could still make out the writing. It was the photo from his wallet. Only...it had been torn.” She met his gaze. “Someone had ripped you out of the picture.”
“That’s not enough evidence to convict a man of murder.”
“I know, especially since Pete has an alibi for the day of the murder. Supposedly he was in Missoula with his band. But I called to check. The Montana Country Club band was there, but when I described Pete to one of the cocktail waitresses, she didn’t remember him. If Pete’s good looks didn’t make an impression on her, that blue-eyed charm of his would have.”
“That’s pretty weak, Maggie.”
“Pete wasn’t in Missoula. I’d stake my life on it.”
“I hope you won’t have to do that.” J.D. tugged at his collar; he wasn’t used to this kind of weather anymore.
“I have to go,” Maggie said.
J.D. walked with her to her Land Rover parked along the edge of the road in the pines. “It still doesn’t make any sense,” he said. “Why would Pete want to kill Max?”
“Max wasn’t part of anything dishonest if that’s what you’re thinking.” She hugged herself against the cold wetness. “I’ll admit something was bothering him.”
“What?”
She shrugged and opened her car door. “If Pete finds out that I called you or that I suspect him—”
“Dammit, Maggie, tell me why you’re so frightened. It has to be more than a hunch and an old ripped photograph.”
She nodded, fighting more than grief. “That last week, Max was...afraid.”
J.D. had never known the man to be afraid of anything, or anybody—no matter how big or tough they were.
She slid into the front seat and shoved her hands into the pockets of Max’s hunting jacket. “He seemed to be looking over his shoulder as if—” She broke off and shivered. “As if something had come back to haunt him. He was obsessed with death and kept talking about his brother’s murder.”
J.D. fought the chill that stole up his spine. “Denny’s father?”
She nodded. “He felt responsible for encouraging Timothy to become a cop. He blamed himself for Timothy’s death.”
“Maggie, what does that have to do with Pete?” J.D. asked.
She shook her head as if to chase away the memories. “I haven’t told anyone this because I was afraid of what Pete would do,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The last time I saw Max, he was furious at Pete.” She bit her lip. “I’ve never seen Max like that. He said he had to stop Pete...before someone got killed.”
* * *
“I‘M SORRY ABOUT that reporter,” Pete said as they headed south toward the town of West Yellowstone. “Are you all right?”
Denver nodded, wondering if she’d ever be all right again. Leaning back in the seat, her hat in her lap, she watched the pines and snowfall blur by outside the window. Max dead. Murdered. It wasn’t possible. But worse yet were the rumors. She ran a finger through the water droplets beaded up on the brim of her hat, fighting the pain.
“You know, that woman was right...” Her voice broke. “People are saying that Max was dirty. That he’d gotten himself involved in something illegal.”
“Denver, why do you listen to it?” Pete demanded angrily. “You knew Max better than anyone. If your uncle had a fault, it was being too honest. Naively so.”
It wasn’t that she believed the rumors. She just couldn’t stand seeing Max’s named dragged through the dirt. But more than that, she knew the rumors were somehow tied in with the way Max had been acting the past few weeks. Secretive. Something had been bothering him. And Denver felt that if she knew what it was, she’d know who killed him.
“He’s gone, Denver,” Pete said, taking her hand as if he could read her thoughts. “As much as we both hate it, he’s gone. Leave it alone.”
Concentrating on the click-clack of the wipers, she closed her eyes. Now wasn’t the time to let grief blind her, not when there was something much more important that had to be done—no matter what Pete said.
“I think it would be a good idea if you stayed at my place and didn’t go back out to the cabin tonight,” he said.
Denver opened her eyes, tempted to take him up on it. Since Max’s death, she’d been having the nightmare again. “Thanks, but the cabin’s home and I need that right now.”
Pete’s look reflected a mixture of annoyance and worry. “I don’t like the idea of your being out there alone. It’s too deserted this time of year.”
“You know how I feel about the lake. I love this time of year because it’s quiet out there.” She touched his arm. “I’ll be fine.”
“I wish you’d change your mind.” He sounded angry.
And she wondered if he was talking about her staying at his place or about the argument they’d had earlier.
“I swear, sometimes you’re as stubborn as—”
“As Max?” she asked. Max McCallahan had given stubborn a new definition.
Pete’s smile faded. “Yeah. Max.” She could see him fighting painful emotions as he turned on the radio. Intermittent snow flurries, the newsman said. A slow, sad Western song came on. Pete took her hand. “I just worry about you.”
“I know.” She smiled, feeling the familiar tenderness she’d felt for him since they were kids. Pete, Denver and J.D. Max had called them the Terrible Trio because of all the trouble they’d gotten into. Pete and J.D. had been the older brothers she’d never had; now Pete was her best friend. She chastised herself for arguing with him earlier; he was just trying to protect her the way he always had.
She studied him, forgetting sometimes how good-looking he was—tall, handsome with his blue eyes and blond hair, and capable of being utterly charming. If only she’d fallen in love with him all those years ago. Instead of J.D.
Another song came on the radio. Denver saw Pete tense and her own heart lurched as it always did when J. D. Garrison’s voice filled the airways. “Number ten on the country and western chart and climbing,” the radio announcer cut in. “Our own J. D. Garrison with his latest hit, ‘Old Friends and Enemies.’”
Pete snapped off the radio. “I can’t believe he didn’t make the funeral.”
Just the thought
