Mercy Kill_ A Mystery - Lori Armstrong [31]
The same man Dawson snarled at for lurking around the crime scene in the wee hours.
A weird vibe rippled through me. “Who are you? And why do you seem to be everywhere?”
He shrugged. “Eagle River County is a small area.”
My gaze took in his long hair, fringed leather coat, plain black T-shirt, khakis, and steel-toed boots. “Are you from the rez?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Who are you?” I repeated.
He cocked his head. The move might’ve looked flirtatious, but it wasn’t. His assessing eyes weren’t quite threatening, but not friendly either.
My fingers curled into the metal bars of the shopping cart as I awaited his response.
Finally, he said, “My name is Shay Turnbull.”
“Should I know you?”
“No.” He passed me the bag from my runaway cart, quirking an eyebrow at the stuffed frog.
I didn’t explain the toy was for my niece. Let him think I planned to kiss the damn thing, hoping it’d turn into a prince. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I guess I’ll see you around.”
“Count on it.” He took about ten steps and stopped, turning to look at me. “The lady in the store was right.”
Jesus. Had this dude been stalking me in the store, too? “About what?”
“About your bad luck in finding dead bodies. Major Hawley won’t be the last one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You died, and your spirit is still drawn to death. Especially the newly dead. It’s the price you pay for your life.” Shay Turnbull climbed into a black Ford Explorer and drove away.
How could he know about that? And if I had the “I see dead people” vibe, why hadn’t the people around me, like John-John, Sophie, and Rollie, who believed in all that cosmic mumbo jumbo, warned me?
Because you haven’t told them what happened in Bali.
Halfway home it hit me: he’d called J-Hawk by his military rank.
Son of a bitch.
Groceries put away, dog fed, laundry sorted, I knew I had to quit stalling and make the damn list.
As I doodled in the margins of the notebook paper, I understood Dawson’s push for detailing the information ASAP. Even twelve hours later the faces weren’t as crystal clear as I expected.
I counted eight construction workers, all of whom I knew. Ditto for the pack of cowboys. Maybe a half-dozen women hung around those groups of guys. Four college kids. Lefty. Kit. Trey. Bill. Shay Turnbull. The fifteen or so campaign supporters. The two couples playing wife swap. Four two-person dart teams. Eight league pool players. With my quick calculation I’d already written down sixty possibilities.
Up front were at least ten bunco ladies. Vinnie and his six buddies. The Indian bikers, five strong, and their female companion, who’d darted in and out so I’d never gotten a good look at her. Several couples danced in front of the jukebox, but I wasn’t positive they weren’t part of other groups.
Plus the usual bar rats. Most of our regulars had vanished after one drink last night because “their” bar had been overrun. We’d also done a steady stream of sales with the package side. If I had to venture a guess? I’d say over 120 people partied in a building that’d been rated for a maximum occupancy of 80.
Lots of suspects.
Lots of suspects I didn’t know.
Hopefully Dawson had more to go on than I did, because looking at this incomplete list, I couldn’t fathom who hated Jason Hawley enough to kill him.
• • •
At Clementine’s I photocopied all three lists. The originals went into a Gunderson Ranch envelope, which I sealed. I shoved the extra copies in my messenger bag.
When I turned around, John-John was in the doorway. “You’re still here? Get those lists to the sheriff before he arrests us for obstruction of justice.”
“You’re probably safe. Although we both know he has no problem arresting me.”
John-John pierced me with his schoolmarm look. “Does volunteering to take those to Dawson mean you’re mending fences with him?”
“Not hardly after he took my damn gun.”
He sighed dramatically. “Mercy. Doll. Dawson’s not the type of guy to put up with this much longer.”
“Put up with what?”
“The shot to his ego. The fact you won’t publicly acknowledge