Murder At Granite Falls. Roxanne Rustand
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Carrie stared at the phone, hesitated, then lifted it to her ear and said hello.
Seconds ticked by. Three. Four. Five.
In disgust, she lowered the phone and poised her forefinger over the end button.
“Don’t hang up.” The harsh, low whisper effectively masked the caller’s voice. “Not yet.”
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“Don’t matter.” His low, venomous laugh grated against her skin and raised the hair at the back of her neck. “Not yet.”
“Billy?”
He ignored her question. “You look pretty tonight.”
Her hand shook and she nearly dropped the phone. “What?”
“Real pretty.”
“Who is this?”
“I’d be more careful in the future if I was you. The night isn’t all that safe.”
“Maybe not for you, either,” she snapped. She jammed a shaking finger onto the keypad of the phone to end the call. He’d been watching her….
ROXANNE RUSTAND
lives in the country with her husband and a menagerie of pets, many of whom find their way into her books. She works part-time as a registered dietitian at a psychiatric facility, but otherwise you’ll find her writing at home in her jammies, surrounded by three dogs begging for treats, or out in the barn with the horses. Her favorite time of all is when her kids are home—though all three are now busy with college and jobs.
This is her twenty-fifth novel. RT Book Reviews nominated her for a Career Achievement Award in 2005, and she won the magazine’s award for Best Superromance of 2006.
She loves to hear from readers! Her snail-mail address is P.O. Box 2550, Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 52406-2550. You can also contact her at: www.roxannerustand.com, www.shoutlife.com/roxannerustand, or at her blog, where readers and writers talk about their pets: www.roxannerustand.blogspot.com.
Murder at Granite Falls
Roxanne Rustand
Even though I walk through the valley of the
shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou are
with me, Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.
—Psalms 23:4
With love to my dear mother, Arline,
and brother Glen; and to Larry, who has been
so supportive during my writing journey.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LETTER TO READER
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Tightening her grip on the steering wheel, Carrie Randall glanced again in her rearview mirror. The vehicle was still behind her. Billy? It couldn’t be. She’d been so very, very careful.
She’d caught a better glimpse of the car while negotiating a set of hairpin turns at a higher elevation. Not close enough to identify the make and model. But close enough to be fairly certain it was the same one that had tailed her for the past two hours.
She palmed her cell phone, checking the number of reception bars on the screen. Zero. No surprise in this isolated part of the Montana Rockies, where bears probably outnumbered the two-footed residents three-to-one.
She frowned at the odometer. Ten miles to the town of Granite Falls. The lane leading to her new home should be coming up in less than a mile. But if her ex-husband was following her, the last thing she wanted was to lead him right to her door.
An earsplitting yowl erupted from the cage on the seat behind her, followed by the frantic scrabbling of paws. “It’s okay, Harley. Just hang on.”
She stepped on the gas and rocketed past the little gravel lane that wound into the pines off to the left. Then she headed straight for town.
Granite Falls was as picturesque as its tourism website claimed.
The mountain highway widened into a charming six-block-long main street flanked on both sides by historic storefronts, boardwalks and hitching rails straight out of an old Western movie. The center of town was filled with upscale shops and quaint restaurants geared to the tourist trade, while the dusty pickups nosed up to the feed store and café on the far edge of town revealed where the locals gathered. Would that be a safe place to stop?
A maroon Lawler County sheriff’s deputy patrol car parked face-out in front of the café made her decision easy.
She checked in her rearview mirror once more, turned sharply into the parking lot and pulled up along the cruiser. Over her shoulder, she saw the dark sedan slow down, then speed past. Good riddance.
If she lingered in town long enough, the driver might give up, or get careless and not see her leave. Though if it was Billy, he’d be back, restraining order or not. “Howdy, ma’am.”
She turned to find a burly deputy behind her, a foam coffee cup in his hand, waiting to get into his car. The silver name badge pinned to his khaki uniform breast pocket identified him as Vance Munson.
Perhaps in his late thirties, he’d probably been hot stuff in high school in an Elvis sort of way, until he’d put on some years and packed on an extra fifty pounds. With an affable smile on his face, a rumpled uniform and a cellophane bag of cookies in his hand, he reminded her of a genial teddy bear.
“Sorry.” She stepped back to give him space. “I…was a little distracted. I thought someone was following me on the highway.”
The deputy’s full lips quirked into a smile. “You’ll find a lot of tourists in these parts, headin’ into town just like yourself. No cause for worry.”
“I’m actually moving here.” She extended her arm, and he juggled his coffee cup into his other hand to accept the handshake. “Carrie Randall.”
He rocked back on his heels, taking her measure. “Welcome, then.”
“A dark sedan followed me for the past hundred miles then right into town.” She looked up the empty Main Street. “Though I couldn’t tell you the license plate or even the make of the car.”
“Like I said, you’ll find a lot of travelers out here on long trips. Destinations are few and far between. People go sightseeing, and you might run into the same folks time and again. No call