It was all pure fabrication and gossip, she tried to convince herself as she rode the elevator car to the basement level where Northern General’s cafeteria was located. True, she’d been fascinated with the Grayson brothers when she was in high school, but she wasn’t the only girl who had dreams of dating any one of the good-looking hellions. All four boys had grown up without a mother, wild sons of Brett Grayson, a rodeo star in the sixties and seventies, who had not only inherited his ranch, but, with his success on the circuit and smart investments, had expanded his ranch land and his fortune.
The Grayson clan wasn’t Kennedy-rich by any means, but for a town the size of Grizzly Falls, they were royalty, if a bit tarnished. Hattie knew that her interest in them had nothing to do with money, but sure, she’d probably been looking for stability like a lot of young women of that age. Still, to be involved with three out of four of the brothers could be viewed as obsessive. She probably would have been interested in Zed, too; he was handsome enough. But there was a darker side to him, one that ran much deeper than Cade’s wild streak.
She walked through the cafeteria line, ordered a salad and bowl of tomato bisque, and feeling uncomfortable, carried her tray to a table where Zed was already chowing his way through the first of two pastrami sandwiches and the cop, Pescoli, had begun to pick at chicken strips and fries. She was an interesting woman, tall and rangy, athletic-looking with wild reddish hair and intense eyes that shifted from green to gold. She came off kind of folksy, and Hattie couldn’t determine if Pescoli really was all country-girl or if it was an act. One thing Hattie was sure of, Detective Pescoli hadn’t asked them to the cafeteria because she was lonely and wanted someone to join her for a meal. No, Hattie thought, the other woman was forever on the job, listening, asking questions, hoping to find some little nugget of information that would help the case.
Well, bring it on, Hattie thought. She had nothing to hide. The trouble was, she didn’t know if she could help. She really had no idea who would want to harm Dan Grayson.
As she took her seat, she said, “I know this is far-fetched, but”—she slid a glance toward Zed, who was studying her while chewing thoughtfully—“but, as you know, I don’t believe for a second that my husband took his life.”
“Ex-husband,” Zed clarified and grabbed his Coke for a long swallow.
Hattie ignored Zed. She’d always found him irritating. To Pescoli, she went on, “The point is that Bart’s dead from an apparent suicide, if you believe that nonsense, which I don’t and never have, and now someone’s tried to kill his older brother.” She looked from Pescoli to Zed. “What’re the chances of that?”
“As he’s the sheriff, putting scum away for years, pretty high, I’d say,” Zed muttered.
“I don’t think it’s some felon bent on revenge,” Hattie declared. “It’s something else, and maybe it even circles back to Bart’s murder.”
“Suicide,” Zed corrected.
“Whatever.”
Cade drove his pickup to the nearest bar, which was about two miles from the hospital; but then he just pulled into the parking lot, parked the vehicle, and sat with his hands on the steering wheel. He thought about his brother, hooked up to God knew how many monitors and IVs and shit, lying in distant twilight, part of his skull removed, his brain swelling, unconscious to the fact that he might never wake up.
“Son of a bitch,” Cade swore, his breath fogging the windshield. He’d already lost his youngest brother to a self-inflicted noose around his neck.
Cade was the one who’d discovered Bart and, now, the scene unfolded in his head yet again: walking into the barn on a wintry morning, the sun not yet up, snapping on the lights and noting that the cattle and horses seemed spooked by something, then spying the body of his brother hanging near the huge sliding door at the back of the barn.
“Noooo!” he’d yelled, his boots ringing on hundred-year-old floorboards, denial ripping through his body. In an instant he’d found the ladder that had bee
n kicked to one side and righted it. He’d frantically climbed the metal steps as he reached for his pocket knife in the front pocket of his jeans. “Bart! Bart! You son of a bitch,” he’d screamed, hoping to startle his brother into waking, which he’d known even then was impossible. “No, no! Oh, God damn . . . !!!”
The horses had kicked at their stalls whinnying nervously, the cattle had snorted and lowed as Cade sawed through that thick rope and his brother’s body fell, collapsing onto the floor with a mind-numbing thud.
“Help!” Cade had screamed at the top of his lungs as he’d jumped to the floor, feeling for a pulse in his brother’s neck. Nothing, no sign of life beneath the beard stubble. He’d listened for even the faintest of breath, but knew there was none. Bart’s skin was cold and losing color, his eyes fixed. He’d been dead for hours. Still, Cade had pounded on his brother’s chest, and with tears streaming down his face, he’d kept at it, his hard fist useless in reviving a brother who had already left this earth.
He’d finally given up, just as Zed, swearing, had thrown open the barn door and then bawled out his own grief at the sight of his dead brother.
Now, with Dan fighting for his life, what he couldn’t come to terms with, what he couldn’t deny, was the guilt that was eating him up inside. It invaded his heart, making it ache as if he were having a goddamn heart attack. He’d cried out, “Why?” when he’d found Bart swinging in the barn, but he knew the answer then, and he knew now why Bartholomew Carlson Grayson hadn’t been able to stand another day on this earth.
And Hattie, Bart’s ex-wife, knew why as well, no matter how hard she tried to convince those around her that Bart had been murdered.
She knew.
Chapter 8
Leaving a deputy to stand guard near the intensive care unit and Hattie Grayson still seated in a waiting area, Pescoli drove away from the hospital a little after eight. “There’s nothing more you can do,” Pescoli had said to Hattie, but the woman hadn’t budged, just nodded tightly and stared out the wide glass windows to the night. Grayson’s brothers, after a discussion about returning in the morning, had taken off as well.
Her Jeep’s headlights danced upon the glistening snow as she drove the country road that wound through the foothills toward Grizzly Falls and overhead, in a field of winking stars, a nearly full moon illuminated the night.
She thought about Grayson, about her job, about her kids, and of course, about Santana. The ring he’d given her—Lord, was it just last night?—was still in its box, tucked deep inside her underwear drawer, a reminder of the life she could have. If she wanted it badly enough.
As she drove over a small bridge, she saw the lights of Grizzly Falls glowing in the distance. She wouldn’t quit her job now, of course, not until Grayson was out of the hospital and recovering. Then she’d tackle that problem; Santana would understand.
“Ultimatum, shultimatum,” she muttered under her breath and resisted the urge to open her glove box to search for her emergency pack of cigarettes. A hit of nicotine was a crutch, nothing more. Instead, she listened to the police band crackle until her phone rang. With a glance at the screen, she recognized Alvarez’s number.
“What’s up?” she asked, squinting against the bright headlights of a pickup tearing by in the opposite direction.
“I’ve been reading Grayson’s will. If he doesn’t make it, his ex-wife inherits the bulk of his estate. That’s Cara, the first wife. She’s got an alibi, of course, her current hubby, and it’s unlikely she would actually try to kill Grayson herself, but I haven’t ruled out a murder-for-hire thing.”