Dead Right. Brenda Novak

hiring a P.I.?” Elaine asked. “Because of the Montgomerys?”

      “That’s part of the reason.”

      “I don’t think this will help. All the circumstantial evidence points at them. Any investigator worth his salt would see that.” She lowered her voice. “And maybe next time Clay won’t get off.”

      Was she warning Madeline? For Clay’s sake? That didn’t make sense. For years, Elaine and her family had been dying to see the Montgomerys in jail, especially Clay. “At the very least, an investigator from somewhere else should have a more open mind,” Madeline said.

      “It doesn’t matter how open his mind is, the proof is the proof.”

      Madeline transferred her purse to her other shoulder. “There is no proof. Not so far. You said yourself that it’s all circumstantial.”

      Her aunt began to toy with the perpetual-motion skier on Madeline’s desk. It was a Christmas gift Kirk had used to invite Madeline skiing. But he’d been angry when she wouldn’t leave Stillwater to take the seven-day trip. Instead of heading off together, they’d broken up.

      Ironically, had they gone, she would’ve been out of town when the rescue workers found her father’s car. Which was precisely why she wouldn’t leave. She couldn’t risk missing something that would finally unravel the mystery.

      “You’re going to force me to say it, aren’t you?” Elaine murmured.

      Madeline put the skier inside her drawer. Things were difficult enough these days without such a vivid reminder of Kirk and how much more comfortable her life had been with him in it. She’d thought she might get a call from him once he heard the news about her father’s car. Lord knows everyone else had called. But he was obviously as determined as she was to make the split permanent. “Say what?” she replied.

      “That I think you might be right about the Montgomerys.”

      Madeline forgot about Kirk and the skier. “In what way?”

      “Maybe they aren’t to blame for…whatever happened.”

      Last summer, when the district attorney had dropped the charges against Clay, the Vincellis hadn’t hollered as loudly as Madeline had expected them to, but this was a complete reversal. “Are you serious?”

      “Would I joke about something like that?”

      Definitely not. Elaine Vincelli didn’t joke about anything. “Joe and Roger still think Clay’s guilty,” Madeline said.

      “Have they been causing trouble?”

      The ominous note in her aunt’s voice suggested there’d be repercussions for Joe and Roger if they had—and Elaine could definitely make good on such a threat. Although both men were in their early thirties, Roger lived at home, and Joe, divorced twice from the same woman, lived in a house near Stillwater Sand & Gravel, the business owned by his parents. Joe and Roger worked for mom and pop, too. Madeline doubted anyone else would hire them. They spent too much time drinking, gambling, fighting and chasing women.

      “They were pretty adamant at the quarry,” Madeline said.

      “I’ll talk to them,” she promised. “But I, for one, hate to see you disrupt your life yet again with all this business about your father. I’m your aunt.” She waved imperiously. “You should allow me to advise you. And I think it’s time we all moved on.”

      Now? When the Cadillac had just been found? This was the first break they’d had. “What about the things in his trunk?” Madeline asked. “We can’t shrug our shoulders and walk away.”

      “Let it go!” Elaine nearly shook a finger in Madeline’s face.

      “Why?” Madeline asked.

      Her aunt wrapped her coat tighter around her and headed for the door. “Just listen to me, for a change.”

       Let it go…

      Madeline tried to throw off the foreboding caused by her aunt’s words as she stood at the airport in Nashville, waiting for Hunter Solozano. She was late but, fortunately, so was his plane. The storm had been responsible for a lot of delays. She was surrounded by crowds of people, many of whom shifted restlessly, shook off their wet umbrellas or held up signs designating the name of the person or party they’d come to meet.

      She wished she’d taken the time to make a sign. She had no idea what Hunter looked like. From his grouchy voice, she imagined an overweight middle-aged man with a receding hairline, saggy jowls and thick, sausagelike fingers. But when Hunter’s plane finally arrived and the passengers streamed into the baggage claim area, the only person she saw who even remotely resembled that mental picture was immediately approached by someone else.

      As the passengers found their baggage and drifted away, Madeline began to worry that Hunter had missed his flight.

      It wasn’t a pleasant thought after driving three hours in the pouring rain.

      She got her cell phone from her purse, checked her signal strength and punched in his number. Who needed a cardboard sign in this day and age? She’d simply call him. If he’d actually arrived, she’d tell him to meet her at the fifth carousel. And if he hadn’t—

      For all her aunt’s dire warnings, she didn’t want to even think about the fact that he might not have come. She was counting on him to put an end to the doubt and conjecture.

      “I’ve got to catch a break eventually,” she grumbled and put the phone to her ear. But then she spotted a man striding purposefully toward her from the lost luggage counter and hung up. She’d seen this guy walk past her before but…He couldn’t be her investigator, could he?

      “Hunter Solozano?” she said tentatively.

      His eyes swept over her, his expression revealing little except annoyance. “That’s me.”

      He was carrying a guitar…A lot of country-star wannabes came through the Nashville airport, but he didn’t look anything like a cowboy. He was definitely West Coast.

      “Is that all your luggage?” she asked. Other than the guitar, he had a small carry-on bag that appeared to contain a computer.

      He raked his fingers through blond hair that was a bit too long and beginning to curl at the ends. “They lost the rest.”

      “You’re kidding, right?” He had to be kidding—about more than his luggage. He looked like a…a surfer. About six feet tall, he had icy blue eyes, a lean, rugged face and a great tan. Worse, the hint of beard covering his jaw made him appear too lazy to be cunning or perceptive. And his rock-hard body indicated he spent more time swimming in the ocean than sitting behind a desk.

      “No joke,” he said. “But they told me they’d drive it to Stillwater as soon as they find it. Hopefully, it’ll get here sometime tomorrow.”

      What have I done? She’d been expecting someone driven, maybe even ruthless. Someone capable of solving a mystery that had stumped Stillwater’s best and brightest for twenty years. Instead, she’d hired a beach bum with a guitar—for one thousand dollars a day!

      “Right.” She barely managed to stifle a groan. He was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt over another T-shirt, a pair of faded, holey jeans and…flip-flops.

      Flip-flops! Frowning, she rubbed her forehead.

      “I said they’d drive it out,” he repeated, watching her curiously.

      “I heard you.”

      He hiked up the computer bag he carried on one of his impressive shoulders. “So…what’s the problem?”

      Dropping her hand, she decided to be honest with him. “Tell me your father or your older brother is here somewhere.”

      One eyebrow, much darker than his sun-streaked hair, slid up.