A Lasting Proposal. C.J. Carmichael
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McLean had been the number-one suspect. Then later, when James Strongman ran off to Mexico rather than submit to police questioning regarding the subsequent murder of Rose Strongman, James was seen as the most likely villain. But his guilt remained unproved. Also unknown was whether Jilly had been an accidental target. Most people assumed that the shooter had been aiming for her father and missed.
Jilly’s death had been such a senseless act of violence. Who could have guessed that the barbecue would get so wildly out of control? What kind of monster brought out a gun at an event where a young girl was present?
Rubbing her eyes, Maureen sighed. Just the prospect of walking up the stairs and preparing for bed exhausted her. Some days it seemed such a struggle to put one foot in front of the other. She could almost understand how Conrad had felt….
Out of habit, she placed her mug inside the dishwasher and then set about getting ready for bed. As she brushed her teeth, she avoided her reflection in the mirror, just as she knew she’d avoided the truth about her daughter for months.
Physically, Maureen still had Holly by her side. But emotionally, they’d lost contact years ago. And Maureen had no idea how to go about regaining it.
Kelly thought Maureen needed to work less, be home more. They’d discussed this before today’s phone call. Given the demands of her law firm, Maureen knew that if she wanted to work less, the only option was to quit.
But then what would she do? Without her six-figure income, they couldn’t afford to stay in this neighborhood. They’d have to move—but where?
Only one place made sense. The mountain town where she’d grown up—and left to go to university—where her two sisters and their husbands now lived: Canmore.
She could start her own legal practice there. It would be much smaller and less stressful than her work here in Calgary. Equating to more time spent at home with Holly.
But Holly didn’t want to spend time with her mother. She’d probably hate the idea of moving. And surely an upheaval, just when she was beginning to adjust to junior high, would be a mistake.
Maureen left the bathroom and collapsed on her bed. God help her, she didn’t know what to do. All night, she tossed and turned. Finally, just before dawn, she dropped off. Her last thought was a prayer.
Send me a sign. Tell me the right thing to do for my daughter.
CHAPTER TWO
“YOUR PROFITS HAVE BEEN very healthy, Jake,” Harvey Tomchuk said between sips of his coffee. “But given the capital outlays you want to make this year, you could use a cash infusion.”
Jake Hartman liked the sound of the phrase. Sort of New Age—like a vitamin or herbal infusion. “Are you talking about a bank loan, Harvey? You know I’m not keen on debt.”
“No debt.” His accountant helped himself to another cup of coffee from the machine on the counter, next to the Dutch oven that Jake hadn’t gotten around to putting away after dinner. “I’m thinking of equity here, as in cash provided to the business by a new investor. Simple enough for you yet?”
“Oh, sure. Now I get it. You want me to find someone with half a mil to invest in my heli-skiing business. That should be a snap.”
“You could always ask Patricia.”
Jake snorted. He’d rather see his business fold than go into partnership with his mother. Not that he didn’t sympathize with her. She’d lost her husband when she was only thirty, and been left to raise on her own a rowdy boy she’d never been able to understand.
That had been tough for her, especially since she’d been determined to shape and mold that boy, who’d happened to be him, in the image of her late, idealized husband. And she’d never let her son forget what a terrible disappointment he’d turned out to be. He’d demonstrated no head for business, hated cities and was awkward and disagreeable at the society functions his mother planned her life around. For all his growing-up years, Jake had resented his mother’s efforts to control what he wore, how he spoke, the way he cut his hair.
The only times he felt free and happy were on his summer and Christmas holidays, which he’d spent with his uncle Bud McLean’s family, on the Thunder Bar M in Alberta. So it was no surprise he’d moved out here the day he’d finished high school.
His mother was furious and refused to so much as visit him. Out of guilt more than affection, he made an annual pilgrimage east so she could frown at him and heave great sighs of disappointment. Once a week he called to assure her he hadn’t killed himself on some godforsaken mountain.
Ask his mother for money? No way.
“I guess I’ll think of something,” he said. “How much, exactly, should I be looking for?”
Harvey circled the bottom number in a long line of figures. Jake winced.
“Of course,” Harvey pointed out, “you could avoid all this by lowering your standards just a tad. No one expects real linen in a remote mountain lodge.”
“Not a chance.” Jake wouldn’t even consider that option. Grizzly Peaks was his baby, his life. Already clients came from all over the world, willing to pay thousands of dollars for the opportunity to ski in the backcountry wilderness of the Rocky Mountains.
But he wanted more. Not necessarily bigger—in fact, definitely not bigger—but the best of everything. One day Grizzly Peaks would be the premier heli-skiing operation in North America.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You always do. By the way, planning any mountain climbing this summer?”
“My knees have really been bothering me lately.” A reminder that he was closing in on forty. Now he needed the four-month summer break from skiing to rest his old ligaments and joints.
Compounding the problem with his knees was his difficulty in finding a buddy to climb with these days. Slowly but surely his friends had gotten married and started families. A day off for climbing was a luxury they could rarely afford.
“You talk like you’re old, Jake. Wait until you’re in your seventies like me!”
“At least you picked a good profession. You’ll be able to keep running your business as long as your mind remains capable of adding and subtracting.”
“Yeah, but the question is, will I want to?” Harvey finished off his coffee. “Well, I guess we’re done here. I’ll put together the final financial proposal, then you can go out and try to find your money.”
Harvey gathered the papers into his briefcase, leaving a copy of the statements on the table for Jake. After a warm handshake, he shuffled out the door. Jake thought he’d left, but moments later the older man poked his head back inside.
“You forgot to take in your newspapers.”
There were two in the box. Jake subscribed to the Calgary Herald as well as the Canmore Leader. After waving off his friend, he took them both to the living room.
The headline in the Herald startled the hell out of him. Conrad Beckett had killed himself? God, what a nightmare that whole episode was turning out to be. Jake read the print on page one, then followed the story to page three. Most of it was old history; he knew the case well. In fact, he’d even started a scrapbook.
Now he went to the kitchen to get the scissors and tape, then to his desk, where he pulled out the binder he’d used to collect articles such as this one.
It wasn’t morbid fascination that drew him, but a combination of personal interest and family obligations. At one time popular opinion around Canmore had it that his cousin, Dylan McLean, was responsible for Jilly Beckett’s death. Now almost everyone thought James Strongman had done it.
James’s father, Max, was the current mayor of Canmore. He’d married Dylan’s widowed mother, Rose, a long time ago. After Jilly’s death, he’d convinced Rose to make out her will entirely to him, cheating