Burn on the Western Slope (Crimson Romance) (19 page)

Naomi wasn’t even going to tell Chayton good-bye.

“I don’t remember you coming here with this much luggage,” Reagan said as she hefted two large cases into the airport taxi. Naomi lugged several more, a carry-on, and her purse.

“I didn’t. It’s all that extra stuff I bought while I was here. I had to buy extra suitcases.”

“They’ll charge you a hefty fee for this.”

Naomi shrugged. “It’s all worth it.”

With promises she’d call as soon as she arrived home, they hugged and kissed. Then Naomi was gone, leaving Reagan lost and alone.

Which wasn’t unusual. If she really thought about it, she’d felt lost and alone most of her life.

Reagan contemplated what to do next as she rode the elevator back to the condo. Maybe it was a good thing Naomi left. Now Reagan had no excuses. She’d stay a few more weeks until she knew for sure what to do with the rest of her life, but she would never return to safe and mundane. She had the money now, she could travel, freelance her work, and take crazy lessons such as rock climbing or skiing or …

No, nothing that extreme. She’d rather open her own harem than do anything that crazy. Giggling at the thought, she entered the condo and locked herself in.

Grabbing her sketchpad, she sat at a table near the windows in her bedroom and propped the moose on the other side of her. She’d discovered Chayton’s business card the other day. His very plain and very boring business card. Air Dog stretched across the top in black letters, his name and address on the bottom. It offered no style and no revelation of the club’s personality.

Chayton needed a logo, and his business was a perfect excuse for Reagan to get creative again. She missed her graphic design.

The moose watched, mounting her energy and excitement as she scrawled her pencil across the page in search for the perfect symbol that could describe Chayton and his business. She remembered one conversation with him that “air dog” meant a snowboarder most interested in aerial tricks. Grasping that idea, Reagan drew a two-legged dog on a snowboard, with stubby arms, long ears, and wearing a snowsuit. Ray’s moose resembled a dog in a way, with its floppy ears, so she drew the dog to resemble a moose, a dog, and a man with its moose like nose, floppy dog ears, and manlike body.

After several tries, she made it appear as if the animal twisted and turned through the air.

Satisfied with her work, she sat back and breathed heartily. Nothing was more exciting than finishing a project she’d set out to do, especially one she did of her own free will and her own creativity without anyone telling her how it should be done. Though part of her feared Chayton would laugh, she couldn’t wait to show him. She wanted to convince him to replace his business cards, and she’d do it all free of charge.

After all, once people asked him where he got his, he’d tell them. Free advertising. If business flourished for her, she’d have no reason to leave.

She closed her sketchpad and hugged the moose. Why should she leave? She was happier than ever and didn’t have a relationship, a plan, or a purpose for her existence. Part of her remained unsettled, which wasn’t unusual, but the other acknowledged she was more comfortable than ever.

Finding the dead body had been difficult. As much as it hurt her to close her eyes and think about, she couldn’t imagine how it must be for Garret and Chayton. They were friends. They’d known him, fished with him, drank beers with him. Reagan only remembered his lifeless eyes, but the brothers remembered his life.

As she twirled the moose, she glanced at his eyes, mostly hidden by fuzz. She’d collected stuffed animals in her toddler years, but baby dolls had been her fetish. She piled them all on the bed and taught them how to read and color and they’d taught her how to solve arithmetic problems. Even still, she’d never had a connection with an inanimate object before.

Feeling silly, she tossed the animal on the bed but overestimated her force. The moose slid across the bed and pinged to the floor.

Odd. Nothing on the moose should make that noise. At least, not that she knew of. She slid to her hands and knees and peeked under the bed, reaching for the stuffed animal.

As she came up to sit, she gazed into his eyes and urged herself not to see the moose as anything but a toy. Toys didn’t have a soul that once had verve. Toys didn’t retain memories. Toys didn’t feel, live, or die. He couldn’t tell her of his past with Ray. He couldn’t even tell her if he belonged to Ray.

Fumbling with the sweater, she glanced under it to see if it came apart or if another part of the animal existed she hadn’t noticed before. She discovered a small zipper, half undone and barely perceptible, on his back. This toy, obviously, held something. A secret? Inserting her finger through the cavity, she rummaged through the fabric but found nothing. She peeked under the bed, fishing along the floor for whatever could have fallen out of that zipper.

She spotted a key under the bed and reached for it. Her arm wasn’t long enough and there wasn’t enough crawl space. She used a magazine but couldn’t get a grip so finally she used a clothes hanger and managed to slide the key toward her.

Sitting crossed legged on the floor, she examined the key, the stuffed moose, the key again.

Could it be the key to Ray’s past? A safety deposit box? A storage shed?

She glanced at the drawer, where the necklace remained hidden. She had no idea what to do with a necklace of that caliber. She hadn’t checked it after she thought she’d heard someone break in, but the drawers had remained closed and everything had been undisturbed. Just looking at the necklace creeped her out, so she’d rather forget it was there. Ray kept it hidden among socks and as weird as that was, she figured it was best to keep it there, hidden, for now. That’s how Ray wanted it, and maybe he knew best.

Sparkly socks, a necklace that could rival the Hope Diamond, and now a key hidden in a stuffed moose. She had lived with a cop, but felt stupid when it came to real danger. It was easier to remain nonchalant.

Yet, a sense of wanting to know more consumed her. Something was off.

She dropped the key in her purse, determined to find out where it belonged. A key hidden in a stuffed animal could only mean one thing.

Ray hadn’t wanted just anyone to find it.

• • •

Reagan spent the rest of the day wandering through town. She visited the bank and tried to discuss Ray’s accounts, but though they were friendly, they wouldn’t tell her anything.

“I just want to know if he had a safety deposit box,” Reagan said. She sat across the desk of a woman whose glasses were as thick rimmed as the snow she’d seen on the neighbor’s cars that morning. Her name was Katherine, she had pleasant blue eyes and the lining around her mouth indicated she’d been addicted to cigarettes most her life.

“We can’t release any information to you unless you’re a signer or the executor of his will,” she said with more patience than Reagan deserved. Reagan hadn’t exactly been diplomatic.

Reagan knew she wasn’t the executor. Ray had given that title to an attorney Reagan met the day she’d found out about her inheritance. But Ray had left a lot of his money in her name only. She wasn’t sure how he’d done it, but he had. “Maybe I am a signer. Can you check?”

“We checked. You’re not.”

“That must mean he has other accounts.”

Katherine shrugged one shoulder, the top of her bulky sweater covering her neck as a strand of honey blonde hair slipped behind her back.

“But I have this key.” Reagan held up the key she’d found in the moose that morning. She’d been desperate to find out more, but so far it hadn’t fit anything she’d come across. Though it didn’t look like a door key, she’d tried every door. It looked more like a safe key, but nothing had been hiding behind the pictures on the wall.

“That isn’t one of our keys,” Katherine said.

“Do you know where it might belong?”

Katherine took the key and turned it over in her hand, leaning forward as she eyed it. Glancing back at Reagan, she shook her head.

“He left me a lot of money in an inheritance,” Reagan said as she took back the key.

“We’d love to discuss you moving your money here but can’t discuss your uncle’s estate with you. He trusted us enough to keep his accounts with this bank for years, and we hope you’ll do the same.”

“But I just want to know if he even had any accounts. Or where I may find where this key goes.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. McKinney. I wish I could help.”

Reagan appreciated the woman’s sincerity, even if she wasn’t helpful. She didn’t plan on moving all the money from the bank she’d been with for years, but a local account would help. Naomi was right. She needed to stay. Figure things out for herself. She had a post office box. Her next step was a bank account.

“You’re right. Let’s open me an account.”

As she filled out the paperwork, Katherine tapped on her computer. Reagan completed the paperwork and waited for Katherine to finish her end.

Glancing at Reagan, her face perplexed, she pushed her chair back. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”

Reagan drummed her fingers on the desk and looked around. The bank was decorated with green for St. Patrick’s Day. Three tellers, a receptionist, and this desk occupied the front room. A hall led to more in the back. A platter of green cookies and punch sat in the middle of a table near another table that she assumed held blank deposit slips and pens. A coffee maker and water fountain sat near the hallway.

Katherine returned, her long strides halting near Reagan’s chair and not behind her desk. “Ms. McKinney. I’m sorry. The money wouldn’t transfer. We called your bank and they said the funds aren’t available.”

“What? That’s not possible.”

Katherine walked to the front of her desk but didn’t sit. Propping her hands on the desk, she leaned forward and tried to look as friendly as possible despite the bad news. “I’m sorry, but that’s what your bank said. Do you have other means of opening this account today, or should we hold off?”

Reagan continued to sit, shell-shocked, as the woman stared at her. She’d had her account at that bank forever. After inheriting the money, she’d talked to an attorney and knew it was all legitimate. There must be some mistake.

“No, no,” she finally said. She rose, grabbed her purse, and hesitated. “I guess we’ll have to wait.”

She didn’t waste any time getting home and pulling her account up on her computer, but it was as the lady said. Actually, it was worse. It showed she was overdrawn and a substantial sum of money had been withdrawn over the past few weeks. She immediately called the bank.

“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am,” the teller said after Reagan argued with her for several minutes. “I’m looking at your transactions as we speak.”

“I have over a hundred thousand dollars in your bank and I’m the only signer.”

“Yes, ma’am, but this account is overdrawn.” Reagan heard a few clicks of the teller’s mouse. “I see you have money in your savings account. We can transfer some of that money into this one.”

“No, ma’am,” Reagan said, using the same condescending tone as the woman used on her. “I want to know why I don’t have money in my account. Where did it go? What happened to it?”

“I’d be happy to send you a copy of your bank statement.”

“I don’t need a copy of my bank statement.” Reagan snapped her teeth together and repressed the urge to strangle this lady on the other end of the line. “Let me talk to someone in charge, please.”

“Ma’am,” the women said.

“Don’t ma’am me. Just give me Mr. Morrison.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morrison is not here today.”

“Okay, let me talk to Sheila, please.”

“Ma’am, Sheila is out as well.”

“Then give me your freaking supervisor.” Reagan balled her fists into her hair as she waited for someone else, anyone else, to get on the line. She couldn’t handle the woman’s insolence, especially right now, especially when her life kept falling apart just when she thought it was getting better.

She’d been with this bank for years. She’d formerly known every employee until they’d recently hired new ones. Mr. Morrison was her loan officer, and he was out today. Sheila was a teller she trusted, and she wasn’t in.

Another woman came on the phone. This one feigned niceties but as time wore on, her aggravation increased. As if Reagan was lying about something.

“It shows you’ve withdrawn a substantial amount of cash over the last few weeks,” the woman said.

“I’m in Montana! I’ve been in Montana for damn near two months.” She didn’t have a debit card on that account and hadn’t set up online access. It wasn’t her main account but it stored the bulk of her funds. She’d set it up that way to make her account more secure and because she didn’t want it to be easy even for her to withdraw.

“You withdrew money — ”

“No, I haven’t withdrawn any money.”

The woman sighed, and Reagan asked for her supervisor. She’d go up as far as necessary until this was corrected.

Another person, identifying himself as vice president of that branch, came on the phone and she gave him the same spiel.

“We’ll have to do some investigating on this, ma’am,” the VP said.

“Why don’t you start by checking your server’s security? Or viewing your cameras? Or maybe you should find out which teller did this and fire her. I’m in Montana. I’m the only person with access to that account. So whoever withdrew this money did not have my identification or signature, or my authority.”

“We’ll do what we can, ma’am.”

“What you can?” Oh, now she was hot. “You’ll replace my money and find out who committed this atrocious crime.”

“We’ll do what we can.”

“And while you’re doing what you can, I’ll be doing what I can. I’ll contact my lawyer, I’ll also go ahead and take the rest of my money so I can put it somewhere safe, which is obviously not at your bank, and you can expect a lawsuit.”

He quickly placed her on hold.

Reagan held, and she would hold as long as necessary until this matter was resolved. Finally, Mr. Morrison, someone she knew, came on the line.

“That rude woman told me you were not in today,” Reagan said.