Hard Rustler. B.J. Daniels
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the porch where Annabelle was pacing. The model looked cold, but no wonder, since she was inappropriately dressed for Montana weather. Mary Sue guessed that she wasn’t anxious to go back inside the house, either. “I found a couple of men who are willing to help for thirty dollars an hour.”
“Thirty dollars an hour? I’m not asking them to remodel the house.” Annabelle looked through the window with a shake of the head as if calculating how many hours work was in there. “Forget it,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll do the packing myself. Where can I find some boxes?”
“Behind the town recycling center. But you aren’t going to be able to get very many into that car of yours. Are you sure you don’t want—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, but once you get everything boxed up, you’re going to need a truck to take it either to the dump or a storage unit, if you decide to keep some of it.”
“Got it. I’ll deal with all that once it’s boxed up.”
“I have plans, otherwise...” Otherwise what? Did she really feel guilty about not offering to help? If Annabelle was too cheap to hire help, that was her problem.
With a wave of her hand, her former classmate dismissed her.
“All right, then let me know when the house is ready to go on the market,” Mary Sue said, not about to mention that the place would need to be cleaned. A nice coat of fresh paint in the rooms would also help. But she didn’t feel that Annabelle was up to hearing more bad news right now and Mary Sue wasn’t up to giving it.
Anyway, she was anxious to talk to her mother. As she walked to her car, her clipboard in hand, she tried to convince herself that she’d gotten the wrong floor plan from the courthouse.
Except she knew better. She prided herself on being thorough. Frannie had walled up the alcove. But why? And what was in the closed-up space?
* * *
“SHOULDN’T YOU BE ASLEEP?” the assisted-living nurse asked from his doorway.
Bernard “Bernie the Hawk” McDougal gave her the smile that had worked on women since he was a boy. Even at eighty-nine, the old mobster still could make a woman blush with no more than a wink and a grin. There might be snow on the roof, but it was still plenty hot down in the furnace.
“Just finishing up here,” he told her from his desk and waited until she moved on before he picked up the scissors again.
He pulled the newspaper clipping toward him, still shocked that he’d discovered it online while surfing for obits of women of a certain age. The moment he’d seen this one, he’d printed it out, but the resolution wasn’t good so he’d called the newspaper where it had run—the Milk River Courier—and had the paper overnighted to him.
It had arrived this afternoon while he was napping. When he’d awakened, he’d seen the envelope waiting for him on his desk and quickly torn into it. Inside he’d found the complete edition of that week’s Whitehorse, Montana, newspaper—all four pages of it.
Now he studied the face in the obituary mug shot. The photo didn’t do her justice. The one he’d seen on the internet had been much more flattering.
But no photo of his Baby Doll could hold a candle to the woman in the flesh—especially back when she was young. She’d been a blonde beauty. Tiny and gorgeous, she’d been exquisite. The kind of woman who stopped traffic and turned heads. She’d certainly turned his, he thought with a curse. And the things she’d put him through from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
That was something else about her that had attracted her to him. She wasn’t intimidated by him or any of his goons. Oh, that woman had a mouth on her. She could cut a man down to size as if her tongue was a switchblade.
He chuckled to himself. He’d wanted her and would have married her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She liked being mysterious. Hell, he’d never known her real name. That first night at the party, he’d seen right away that she and her friend had crashed his little get-together on the posh rooftop of his favorite New York City restaurant. He’d thought about booting the two of them, but there was something about her.
She’d flirted with him but refused to tell him who she was, as if she thought he’d call her daddy to have her picked up and taken home. A few minutes with her and that was the last thing he planned to do.
“Okay, you want to play it coy? You’ll just be my Baby Doll, then,” he’d said, knowing even then that he had to have her.
“Baby Doll? I like that,” she’d said, coming off older than she was. She hadn’t been more than seventeen. Jailbait. Like that had stopped him. He had a reputation for going after whatever he wanted—and getting it. But then, so did Baby Doll as it turned out.
Opening the scissors, he began to slice the paper around her mug shot. Bernie couldn’t stand sloppiness. He liked things done a certain way. It had saved his life more than once and kept him from being behind bars.
Now he found himself looking into her eyes, remembering. This was her. There was no doubt about it. He’d thought he found her before, but this time... He wished he had been able to find a photograph of her when she was younger but there was nothing on the internet. Francesca Marie Clementine had kept a low profile. Another reason he was convinced that this woman was his Baby Doll.
Oh, those blue eyes. The memories of her in his arms. Just being with her had felt like living on the edge, she’d been that kind of woman. She kept his blood revved up. He’d known he could never get enough of her. He’d asked her to marry him more times than he liked to remember. He shook his head. While he’d only known her a short while, he’d thought he could trust her with his life, his secrets—and his loot. His first mistake.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? he thought as he clipped the photo free from the newspaper. He’d trusted a woman who hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him her real name.
“Come on, Baby Doll, tell me your name,” he used to tease her. “We can’t get married until I know exactly who you are.”
“Oh, you know who I am.” She’d smiled that coy smile of hers and said, “I’m Bernie McDougal’s Baby Doll. That’s enough. For now.” Her look had been a promise of a lot more to come and he’d been a goner. Oh, the swanky parties they’d attended, the fur coats and fancy dresses he’d clothed her in, the expensive champagne they’d guzzled, the money they’d burned through. Nothing was too good for his Baby Doll.
His stomach roiled at the memory. She’d blindsided him from the beginning, he thought, able to admit it now, more than fifty years later. He’d thought she was young and naïve. He’d never seen it coming.
The obit was short, but it did provide some useful information, such as where she’d been all these years—and that she was survived by her three granddaughters, Annabelle Clementine, Tessa Jane Clementine (TJ St. Clair) and Chloe Clementine. No husband. That didn’t surprise him.
He’d had to look up the town on the internet. Whitehorse, Montana. It surprised him that she’d disappeared to some wide spot out West. He’d always thought of her living it up in Paris or London, or even New York City where it had all begun. It was why he’d looked for her in the faces of every woman he’d passed all these years.
But Baby Doll had always been full of surprises, hadn’t she? He still couldn’t believe that she’d evaded him. He’d had his men looking for her as well as his associates. He’d put a price on her pretty head. And still nothing. It was as if she’d stepped off the face of the earth.
But he’d finally found her. The problem was, it seemed too late. She was dead. Which meant that she’d probably taken their secret to the grave. It filled him with regret. He would have loved to look into her eyes one last time before he killed her.
He took her photo, stuck a pin between her eyes and put it up on the bulletin board next to his desk. As he started to throw