Leland put down the rolling pin and wiped his hands on the front of his flour-dusted apron. “Now, what would you like for breakfast? A cheese-baked egg perhaps? On a cold day like this, that’s what’s called for—something hot from the oven. That’s why I decided today was just the day to make pasties.”
Ali turned away from the TV set as the coverage switched over to images of a multivehicle pileup that had occurred in Texas an hour or so earlier. In her days as a television reporter in Chicago, Ali had covered plenty of those kinds of incidents. Other than the exact death toll, she already knew too much about what would come next.
“Cheese-baked eggs sound wonderful,” she said. “Will you join me?”
Leland shook his head. “No, thanks. I had my breakfast hours ago.”
“How long before the eggs will be ready?” Ali asked.
“Twenty-five minutes from start to finish, and I’ll have a new pot of coffee for you by then, too.”
“All right,” she said, abandoning her almost empty cup and grabbing her phone off the counter. “I’ll go shower and get ready to meet the day.”
By the time she returned to the kitchen—showered, dressed, blow-dried, and reasonably made up—a single place had been set for her at the kitchen table. A small plate held a still steaming ramekin full of Leland Brooks’s crusty-topped egg concoction. There was toast and jam and freshly squeezed orange juice as well as an empty cup and saucer, which was filled with coffee the moment she sat down. As soon as she did so, Bella abandoned her bed and came over to sit on the floor beside her in hopes that a treat or two might come her way.
“You do spoil me,” Ali said as Leland returned to the counter to finish making the pasties.
“Isn’t that why you keep me on?” he asked. “To spoil you?”
Ali nodded. For years Leland Brooks’s presence in Ali’s life had been an ongoing blessing, but she also understood that the only reason—the real reason—he was still toiling away in her kitchen was that he needed something to do. Leland was a man who required a purpose in his life. For right now, spoiling Ali Reynolds was it.
Other than a month-long vacation earlier in the year when his long-lost friend, Thomas Blackfield, had flown over from England to tour the U.S., Leland hardly ever took any time off. By the time the visit was over and Thomas flew back home, Leland had been eager to get back to work. Ali hadn’t the slightest doubt that putting him out to pasture permanently would be the end of him. Leland Brooks was someone who wouldn’t do well in retirement.
“I talked to Sister Anselm briefly while I was getting out of the shower,” Ali said, cutting through the cheesy crust on top of the dish and sticking her spoon into the whole hard-cooked egg hiding underneath. “She asked if I could come by the hospital to see her later today. I told her that would depend on road conditions. The Cayenne is four-wheel drive, but just because it’s roadworthy doesn’t mean everybody else’s vehicles are ready for winter driving.”
“Jesus has already cleared and sanded our driveway,” Leland said, referring to Jesus Gonzales, someone Ali had hired to handle the heavier outdoor work that was, in Ali’s opinion, beyond Leland’s physical capabilities. “He says that once you get down off Manzanita, the roads are fine.”
“All right, then,” Ali said. “As soon as I’ve finished breakfast and made a few more calls, I’ll head out.”
Stuart Ramey called before she managed to finish the last bite of egg. “I understand you spoke to B.,” he said. “He mentioned that I was cleared to dispatch Joe as far as he’s concerned, but not until I get the go-ahead from you. The thing is, Joe has a clear spot in his schedule today and tomorrow, so if you’d like him to handle this now, we need to get the ball rolling.”
“Sorry,” Ali said. “I’m afraid I overslept. I can’t give you the all clear until I talk it over with Betsy Peterson. I’ll get back to you as soon as I do.”
That was what Ali had been thinking about the whole time she was showering and getting dressed—about how she should approach Betsy Peterson and what she should or shouldn’t say. Ali would, in effect, be casting suspicion on Betsy’s nearest and dearest, and Ali wasn’t at all sure how that conversation was going to go.
Leaving the table, she poured another cup of coffee and took it with her into the library, clearing her mind as she went. The gas-log fire in the library was already burning. Her newspaper and yesterday’s mail, both brought up the driveway by Jesus, were laid out on the nearest end table. Settling into her chair, she sorted through the mail, setting the bills aside for B. to handle when he was home and consigning the advertising circulars to the recycle bin. After all, how many 20-percent-off Bed Bath & Beyond coupons did one household need?
Finally, taking her phone in hand, Ali located Betsy Peterson’s number and pushed the Send button. Betsy answered after the second ring and before the third.
“Good morning, Ali,” Betsy said at once. “I hope you don’t mind my addressing you by your first name. That’s how you showed up in my caller ID.”
“Of course not. Calling me Ali is fine.”
Betsy might be in her eighties, but she clearly wasn’t flummoxed by using a cell phone.
“And you can call me Betsy. Now tell me, what have you found out?”
“We’re working on it,” Ali answered. “First off, have you heard anything at all from the local authorities?”
“Yes,” Betsy said. “From what I’ve been told, they’ve determined that whatever happened the other night was an accident of some kind. As far as they’re concerned, I’m nothing but a dotty old woman who needs to have her head examined.”
“When was the last time you spoke to Athena?”
“Just a little while ago, during her planning period.”
“Did she mention my husband’s firm to you?”
“As a matter of fact she did, a security firm of some kind—an old TV show, maybe—Gunsmoke, Have Gun Will Travel, something like that.”
“A movie rather than a TV show,” Ali corrected. “High Noon. It’s a security firm with clients all over the world. We mostly specialize in computer security issues, but we can do other kinds of personal security work as well.”
“You work for them, too?” Betsy asked. “Does that mean you’re some kind of private investigator?”
“I’m more PR than PI,” Ali admitted, “but occasionally I do some investigative work as well. With that in mind, are you interested in having High Noon launch an investigation on your behalf?”
“Absolutely,” Betsy declared without a moment’s hesitation. “Since Donald Olson, our illustrious sheriff, is being such a piker about all this, I need all the help I can get. In fact, I barely slept last night. I was too busy worrying about who might be coming in and out of my house without my knowledge.”
“All right, then,” Ali said. “Here’s what we’d like to do. High Noon wants to send out one of our associates. His name is Joe Friday, and he’s located in Minneapolis. He’ll come to your place there in Bemidji and set up a surveillance system that will keep your whole house under observation.”
“My whole house?” Betsy repeated. “Even the bathroom and bedroom?”
“Those rooms especially,” Ali responded.
“But . . .”
“Just wait,” Ali hurried on. “Before you object, let me explain. Joe will record images of both you and your dog. The cameras will all be set to recognize your images. Those will not trigger alarms, and they will not be recorded, but everyone else who sets foot inside your house will be.”
Betsy sighed. “I suppose,” she said. “If you think it’s necessary, but does it have to be so intrusive?”
“Yes, it does,” Ali answered. “At least that’s our assessment of your current situation.”